#making m&ms | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

grison-in-space · 11 months ago

Text

you know, I think a lot about this in the context of dog training, too: my limbic system is like a dog in my head, and a lot of the things that work to support and shape the reactions of the dogs outside my head also work for the one that lives inside me. I have been doing a fair bit of support and work on canine reactivity lately, and there's... a surprising amount of carryover.

For example: that fight-or-flight reflex, the sympathetic nervous system, has a directly opposing parasympathetic nervous system. As Pip helpfully lays out here, you can help yourself regulate your emotional reactions by stimulating that parasympathetic nervous system response. We call it the "rest-and-digest" response when we're talking about it, yeah?

Well. You can help stimulate that rest reaction in a couple of ways. Your stress response and your digestive response are intimately tied in opposing ways--even the glucocorticoid hormones that encode stress in the short to medium term are also intensely metabolic hormones that help coordinate hunger, digestion, and insulin function. So one of the easiest things I do when I'm trying to teach a dog to calm down and self-regulate its big emotions is try to get that dog eating--and, if possible, to get that dog tasting its food; to get rhythmic licking or chewing happening, to keep the dog from swallowing a treat so quickly it coughs it back up again in a moment. When we activate hedonic sensory input--that is, when we focus on sensations that bring us pleasure and enjoyment--we stimulate that parasympathetic response.

When I'm working with the dog in my head, I use M&Ms as my reward and I suck on them or let them melt in my mouth. The longer the yummy taste is in your mouth, the better it works. You could probably also chew gum if you liked--hey, it's a common coping mechanism for a reason!--or lick ice cream (another favorite of mine), or do any number of other pleasant things. Find something you genuinely enjoy, and spend some time practicing focusing on that sensation and centering it in your mind. Food works for a lot of people, but if you're too amped up to take food--and that fight or flight sympathetic reaction actively makes food less appealing--you can use other calming inputs, too. Smell works well if you have a reliably comforting scent on tap (and it'll stimulate appetite well, too), and so does touch, and so does rhythmic movement. Pip's right: sensory grounding works well on neurodivergent people because it works well on all animals!

I wanted to make a bonsai kitten recovery post that outlines some of the stuff that I've been doing. Because I don't think that you need to ✨see a therapist✨ to start dealing with a lot of this stuff and I get really frustrated when that is the answer that everyone is constantly giving. Firstly a disclaimer, because I know what website I am on: this is a guide for things that have worked for me! I am not everyone and if there are things on here that do not work for you or even that you think are stupid, that is fine, but please do not make it my problem. If you are reading it and you're like "that sounds like it would actually be detrimental to my specific mental health because of my specific issues" then please disregard it. Use your critical thinking skills and do what you think is right for you!

My second disclaimer is that I didn't make any of this up myself; most of these are collected from various places either in therapeutic guide books or various websites about emotional regulation etc. Some of it is stuff that I have extrapolated from those places based on experience with what works for me or does not work for me. A lot of the way that I treat myself when I need to get my body and brain into a place where I can think about stuff productively is actually directly from gentle parenting guides, because frankly cptsd recovery stuff is very often like parenting a toddler. And the toddler is you. ALL THAT SAID,

The first skill that I had to get good at, that many of the other skills depend on, is to learn how to understand when I am Reacting to something. If I am Reacting it is extremely likely that that's going to only escalate the situation and make it much worse. I HAVE to be able to tell if I am Reacting emotionally to something in a way that is coming from a place of fear and panic. This is important because it involves not being prescriptive about your emotions. You could be Reacting to something that you do not logically feel is at all justified in making you feel that way and that doesn't matter! You can't be doing math equations to try to come to the answer of how you SHOULD be feeling; you have to be observing your mind and body to see how you factually ARE feeling and then respond to THAT. This can be really hard to learn how to do especially if you were abused as a child. (If you cannot think of yourself as someone who is abused as a child perhaps it would help to think of yourself as someone who simply was not taught various emotional regulation skills for mysterious reasons that have nothing to do with your parents' inadequacies.) I need to be able to glance inward and see what the physiological reaction that I'm having is and identify whether or not I feel like this is the biggest emergency in the world that needs to be addressed right now immediately! That is a sure sign that Mr Fight and Mr Flight are in the building and it is bad to make declarative statements or important decisions when that is the case. So, I have to work on dismissing them first. That is literally the first step to any of this. One of my friends calls this "fire mittens," which is to say, if you are wearing mittens that are on fire and you try to touch stuff, the stuff will also become on fire. You have to put the fire out first before you can touch other things.

Once I have determined that I am indeed Reacting and in a physiological state of fear, I have a document in my notes app that is a "what to do when you are in fight or flight mode" guide and it has several helpful things that I will try to outline here.

Firstly, the really important thing for me for trying to get back into an emotional state where I'm capable of making decisions and being thoughtful is to feel safe and comfortable. So I actually have some stuff in my document that is straight up just like "go in the blankie nest. put on this specific music album. light this specific scented candle." etc. You might want to have a specific food or drink that is comforting to you or some other sort of stim toy that helps you regulate. If there's any calming medication or supplements for anxiety that you take as needed, now is also the time to do that. Physical sensory grounding is really important for this. This is probably especially true if, like me, you are neurodivergent, but I think it is also true for everyone because we are animals! And you can't just think about it, you have to actually do it. Which sounds obvious but is the thing that has often tripped me up in the past. Once you start getting into the habit of actually physically doing this it DOES become easier though.

One of my rules is that if I want to respond to something but I am in fight or flight mode, I don't get to respond to it for at least 24 hours. I'm only allowed to respond once I've gotten myself out of fear mode. If it is some kind of comment on Facebook that has set me off, often this means that 24 hours later I realize that I actually don't want to get into it to begin with, which is great. If it's something that is pretty serious and interpersonal with a friend, sometimes that means I have to communicate to them that I'm going to take a while to process it and then get back to them. IMPORTANT: You CANNOT do this passive aggressively or else it undermines the whole thing. You can't phrase it in a way that will make your friends think that you are guilt tripping them for "making" you feel a way. It is VERY tempting to do this when you are in the first stages of trying to form this habit and you simply need to resist the urge because it will render this step worthless. I know. It sucks.

If I am feeling fearful and insecure about friends or loved ones, I also usually try to spend some time thinking about the people that I love and care about. Because often this stuff manifest for me as insecurity that the people that I care about do not care about me, or that they think that I'm being annoying, or that they are secretly thinking mean things about me. It's obviously not good for me to constantly be imagining that the people in my life who I care about are actually avatars of my own insecurity who are here to tell me that I'm secretly fundamentally unlovable! But crucially also it's ALSO not fair to those people to imagine them as that. They are not that guy, they are their own complex human beings with their own lives and experiences and interiority. So sometimes I do thought exercises where I will imagine my friends or loved ones doing things in their everyday lives and I will think about them as people and I will think about the things that they like to do and the things that they say and the places that they go, and I will try to imagine them fondly in those circumstances. This helps to remind me that they are just people and that the scary puppet wearing their faces is not real. To this end I sometimes will have a document of screenshots of things that they have said to me that I can use to reality check myself. I personally find reality checks to be essential for a lot of this. Things can feel true when they are not true at all. Things can feel wrong when they are actually true. The point of most of these exercises is to gently remind myself that those feelings are normal for me to be having, but that I do not need to let them dictate my responses.

It is crucial throughout all of this that you are nice to yourself. You can't talk to yourself in a mean way while you're doing this, or you will not get to a point where you are feeling safe enough to react from a place of not-fear. You can't make yourself feel ashamed or defensive for your emotional reactions. This is the particular area where I find gentle parenting protocols helpful. You HAVE to be patient with yourself.

Ok that's all for now bc I ran out of steam but I will try to think of more to add on another day maybe. Godspeed everyone

779 notes · View notes

trashmouth-richie · 2 years ago

Note

If you could make Eddie x Fem!Reader where Eddie makes reader say this, I would be your best friend. Oh, wait, I already am hahahahaha pls write it

xoxoxo @munson-blurbs 💚

*part 2*

eddie x female! reader

W.C 2.3k

Warning: no minors, p in v unprotected sex, oral f receiving—mentioned m receiving, corruption kink if you squint

The itchy pink tufts of your dress are bunched up to your waist, matching pastel heels are hanging on for dear life. The dainty baby’s breath in your corsage was smashed and wilting. The ribbon surrounding the rose was now bowless and hanging on by threads. The once white petals of the delicate rose your boyfriend and his mother had picked out were now brown and tattered, petals falling loosely on the stained floor of the girls bathroom. Hours had been spent on your perfect hairdo, curls falling heavily down your back and pinned on one side, showcasing the slope of your pretty neck and the gentle dangle of your dainty necklace.

“I—mmm—fuck, oh my god…”

Nobody had any idea, no idea about your affair with Eddie Munson. A secret between lovers. Classified information. You were faithful to him, and he was to you. But your poor boyfriend— you couldn’t say the same.

Eddie was everything your boyfriend was not. Rough around the edges but incredibly charming, a gentle lover when you needed and a rough brat tamer when you were being a bitch on purpose. No girl at school was any the wiser of the absolute hog he had behind the black denim. Felt like you were being split in half every single time. Your boyfriend was a safe option; someone to bring home to mom and dad, Christmas at the cabin, or the annual church picnic. To him you were pristine, all holy and white with a satin veil and a promise to him to save your virginity until marriage. He was naive to your vixen ways, truly going to the dark side when you and Eddie had first gotten together. That first night Eddie had called it how he saw it, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Your boyfriend was delighted when he saw his initial carved into a pretty necklace around your neck, white gold and close to your heart, where he intended to stay. It was of sheer mockery that his initials were also ‘E’. And when Eddie had given you the necklace, branding you as his, promising that you would forever be his, he couldn’t help but smirk and roll a chuckle out of his throat when he overheard poor Ethan noticing the necklace in the cafeteria and kissing your cheek in admiration. That night he had parked his van outside of Ethan’s perfectly poised and polished house, stuffed up next to the Harrington’s, and ate your pussy for hours in the back, making you come again and again until you were red, raw and achy, voice hoarse from yelling out his name as you only wore the necklace.

For Eddie, this situation started off by simply enjoying making the preacher's daughter squirm under his tongue in the church parking lot. Reveling in the fact that you had fallen from grace—for him. The town satanist. And he had to admit, the fact that you had a boyfriend who didn’t know you the way he did, made this all the better. It was innocent at first, a friendly gesture by you helping Eddie to study for Ms. O’Donnell’s class. A literal charity case helping the poor Munson boy pass. Whether that was to ensure he would never taint the halls of Hawkins High again, or to be a “good Christian” he didn’t care, he wanted to corrupt you, wanted to make your pretty little mouth murmur around his cock as you kneeled before him. But now it was much more than that.

You had changed, you weren’t the pretty little church girl anymore, you were his. Your parents had no idea that you sat on his guitar amps on Tuesday nights at the Hideout, grinding your pussy with the vibrations, getting yourself off watching him sing and play his guitar. Or that you had gotten higher than a kite with Eddie in his trailer after church every Sunday as your father kissed babies and shook farmers hands praying for rain this Spring and your mother served cake and coffee in the church hall. He just had to play along until graduation— when you would finally tell your parents to get bent and break up with the human purity ring.

Tonight wasn’t any different. Except it was the senior prom. Pressed cheek to cheek for Polaroids and the special ‘kodak moment’ with Ethan you ran the conversation you had with Eddie in your head a million times. “Do you want me to go?” He had you pinned down on his mattress, chest flush with the hideous patterned sheets, hands in cuffs straight ahead of you threaded in the rails of the headboard, ass angled upward as he pounded into your soft weeping pussy, “if you want me there baby, I’ll go, I’ll rent a fucking tux and be the suavest mother fucker there.”

You had already declined his offer, knowing you had already matched your dress with Ethan’s bow tie. “Eddie,” you protested and moaned as his dick curved into your g spot, “I’m going with E-,” he fucks into you harder, spreading his hatred through his entire body for when you spilled that disgusting name while he was inside you, “—him. I c-can’t. I want you to go— I’d rather have you come.. oh fuck.. I’m gonna come—” he wiggled his fingers beneath you and rubbed at your clit as he thrusted his dick into you, slamming hard against you as you unraveled at the seams for him.

It wasn’t until you were laying naked in his arms after he made you come a 4th time that night that he spoke of it again, “can I show up to the Grand March—watch you try not to tumble in some ridiculous heels in front of the whole town?” You had agreed to that. You wanted Eddie there, you wanted him to take you to your stupid prom, and be done with the bullshit. Wanted to be done with Ethan. But you were stunned when you didn’t see him anywhere. Not in the crowd, not holding up a door frame with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, he was nowhere.

So you did what any other normal senior girl did at a prom, you danced, drank cheap punch, did the goddamn limbo. But when it was time to announce the King and Queen of 1986 Prom Extravaganza, a hand over your mouth and a slight drag of your hips pulled you off the dance floor and into the girls bathroom. Of course it was Eddie. He was wearing an expensive looking black velvet suit jacket and black slacks, a deep red button up shirt underneath, two silver chains adorned his neck, one with the smallest of your initials engraved on the side, and his signature black boots and rings. “Eddie? I thought you were only coming to Grand March— I looked but couldn’t find you.” His eyes rake over your body taking you in, the swell of your chest prominent in the sweetheart neckline of your pastel bubblegum dress, cinching at the waist and poofing out indefinitely like you were a true Disney Princess.

He was right, he was the suavest looking mother fucker at the prom, his long hair was freshly washed, curls still slightly damp and bouncing around his face. “You really think I’d miss seeing my girl all fancy and gussied up just so her boyfriend can masturbate and cry to the thought of what her boobs looks like?” he tuts, running a ringed hand along your chin, fingers dancing along your neck and the necklace he gave you. “That idiot wouldn’t know the first thing about how to make you come, how to make you feel good, I bet he doesn’t even know that you wear turtlenecks only because your neck is so hickied up by me that you look like your neck is broken.” His eyes are blown wide with rage and lust as he lowers his head, fringe of his bangs tickling your nose as he dives into your neck, lips plump beneath your ear, “his pure little saint and my devilish vixen, are the same girl and he has no fuck-ing clue.”

He lifts you up and hauls you into the nearest stall, kissing you deeply as you clung onto his neck. In seconds you are consumed by him, his mouth devouring every inch of your skin. Brushing your lips with his as he works on the many layers of your dress, hiking them up to find your pretty panties. He rips them off and gives them a good sniff before stuffing them into his jacket pocket. He kneels before you and spits harshly into your pussy, rubbing the saliva around with the pad of his thumb, circling your clit as your hands are buried in his hair, head thrown against the painted blue metal of the bathroom stall. He stands quickly and unzips his pants pooling them down around his feet. He hikes one of your legs around to sit on the toilet paper holder as he slots his cock between your folds, rubbing your slick and his spit against his girthy length.

And now for your Hawkins High 1986 Prom King!

The wavering sounds of the asshole behind the microphone crane into the stall of the bathrooms. Eddie shoves his fat cock up into your tight dripping hole, not giving you time to adjust as his mouth falls slack and his eyes roll back into his skull like billiard balls rolling into the correct pocket. “Fuck, swear this pussy gets tighter and tighter each time, Jesus Christ sweetheart.” Your fingers grip into the velvet of his suit as he pushes all the way into you, steadily moving his hips and grazing over that spongey spot, perfect ruddy tip of his cock poking and prodding as it feels like your guts will explode.

You whimper as he stretches your walls, the pressure of his cock filling you up making you cry out as he pumps relentlessly into you. “Mmm, fuck, I— oh my god.”

“What did you say baby?” Eddie smirks as his head is buried into your neck, sucking a wine colored bruise into your skin. He loves the way he can fuck you senseless, breaking you down to mush as you scream his name. Think your stupid boyfriend could do that? Try again.

“S—so good Eddie.” You’re already a blubbering mess, mascara spilling from your lashes as tears trickle down your face, the bliss of Eddie’s hips rocking into you sends you spiraling. Your belly- coiling and hot, ready to come undone.

“Fuck baby, you’re so fucking perfect,” Eddie is the one whining now has his hips start to stutter, bangs stuck to his forehead as he licks his lips, “my perfect girl, secret vixen all for me.” He pumps harder now, hand pressing against your neck, the bottom of the ‘E’ from your necklace poking out beneath the heel of his hand. “Tell me you’re mine baby, fuck— tell me, tell me you’ll end it with him.”

“I— ”

For you it should have been a no brainer. He let it slip one night when your parents went out of town for the weekend. You told Ethan you had gone with them, relishing in two whole nights with Eddie all to yourself in the comfort of your own home. You were riding him in the living room, skin slick with sweat, both of you stark naked as you looked deep into his dark chocolate eyes. You rolled your hips around him, foreheads pressed together as you moaned into eachothers mouths. “Fuck, I love you,” Eddie breathed as you had both finished, shuttering around eachother as you fell forward into his chest. Pulling back and staring at him quizzically he continued,

“I mean it, you’re it for me babe.” You hadn’t said it back yet, still gathering your feelings for him, trying to decide what you were going to do.

Your fingernails dig at his chest, legs now wrapped around his lower back as he leans you against the wall. The heat of Eddie’s breath against your ear is what makes your orgasm snap. He rubs and slaps at your clit as you come.

Ladies and gentleman, it’s time to name the Hawkins High 1986 Prom Queen!

Your first and last name is blasted through the speakers of the gymnasium, filling up the echoing halls as you come hard on Eddie’s dick, “it’s over! mmm fuck— Eddie! Fuck— I’ll end it!” Eddie’s high hits him as your words flutter through his mind, ropes of hot cum spill into you and down your legs as relief washes over him. Your name is said again over the speakers.

Eddie lowers you to the ground, and zips up his slacks. He kisses you deeply before you break away, “I love you.” You confess to him, holding his face in your hands. He smiles shyly, wrapping you into his arms as he kisses your head, squeezing you tight.

“Come on,” he says, pulling you by the hand to the gymnasium smiling wildly, “go get your crown, and then we can leave.”

Eddie watches as the twinkling tiara is placed on your freshly fucked hair. The emcee announces you and captain douche Ethan as the 1986 King & Queen of Hawkins High. A dance is supposed to commence between the two royalties but you bail as you kick off your heels and run into Eddie’s arms. Both of you displaying middle fingers as a parting “fuck you”, he carries you out of the side door of the gym to his van. You spend the rest of the night wearing your crown as Eddie teases your clit with his tongue, reveling in the pretty noises rolling of your lips, his Queen.

#eddie munson #eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson smut #stranger things #eddie x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x y/n #eddie smut #eddie munson blurb #corruption kink!#corruptionkink!#eddie x you smut

596 notes · View notes

anniesocsandgeneralstore · 2 years ago

Note

what if ronnie and bradley were vampires but they suck at it? (ha)

But like seriously, they're both in their sixties or something when they meet Jake and they are still constantly having to move because one of them messes up in front of the humans. Jake is like "the evidence points to vampire, but that can't possibly be true, because they're throwing m&ms at each other in this diner."

omg i freaking love this 😂 the sheer comedy of errors, the tomfoolery, the what we do in the shadows level of ridiculous.

Ronnie: "I think we're doing an okay job at blending in this time. I think we'll get to stay in this town for a good few years before we have to move on."

Cut to Brad just casually turning into a bat in front of a bunch of teenagers after asking them: "wanna see a cool trick?"

Brad started the pornstache trend in the 80s and is trying to bring it back now.

But also....for your consideration....something that got away from me:

"God, you're a sweet one aren't ya?" Ronnie asked as she pressed her nose into his neck, smelling the coppery scent of his blood - hearing the rush of it in her ears.

Jake thought, when he took this girl out into the alley behind the club, that he would at the least get a nice makeout session with her. Maybe he would get to take her back to the hotel he was staying in. But she wasn't anything like he anticipated. As soon as they were alone she had him pinned against the brick wall by a strength that surprised him and also had his cock twitching in his jeans.

"Darlin', I ain't sweet," he replied, slightly breathless - overwhelmed as she licked a slow stripe up his neck.

"Oh, but you are." Her teeth grazed his pulse point, where his jugular flowed free and strong. "You're like sunshine."

He was all tan skin and golden hair and Southern charm. Not her usual type. But he was so inviting, and so wanting as he talked her up in the club and danced with her to the beat of some song with no words. But she had to admit, she liked the contrast of her skin against this own. Pale as porcelain, hair dark like the night. It made a pretty picture, one she wanted to keep around for a while.

So she amped up the charm, flashed him that smile with canines just a bit too long, and suddenly he was tilting his head to the side. Exposing that pretty pulsing vein. Jake felt so calm, and he didn't even know why. At that moment, he would let her do anything she wanted to him.

Then he felt her teeth rip into his neck. Reality slammed back into him for a moment. He squirmed, but it felt...Good. And soon, he was relaxed again. Slumped against the wall as she hummed into the meat of his neck.

Ronnie drank greedily from him, hand curling around the back of his neck. He tasted like sunshine too. And as she drank, he just became more pliant in her hands. The venom coursing through his veins making him want it, want her. She could feel him, already hard and aching against her abdomen as he squeezed her sides.

"What's...?" he slurred, trying to think straight.

But he found that he couldn't once she slotted her thigh between his own, allowing him to rut against her freely. He groaned as she finally released his neck from her teeth. Ronnie wiped at her chin, grinning at him with fangs pointed like knives.

"You seem nice," she told him as he continued to work himself against her, unable to stop. "So I'll let you live. Just don't come crawling back for more. Okay, Sunshine?"

Jake didn't know if he could ever not want more of this.

#annie answers #oc: ronnie bradshaw #vampire au #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin #hangman #jake hangman seresin x oc #jake seresin x oc #hangman x oc #jake hangman sersin imagine #jake seresin imagine #hangman imagine #would people want...more....of this?

17 notes · View notes

ms-m-astrologer · 4 years ago

Text

Transiting Mercury enters Scorpio

November 5 - 24, 2021

Just short of exactly three weeks, but still (after 10 weeks in Libra!) speedier than we're used to! Life is already pretty intense, with the Sun, Mars, and Vesta already in Scorpio; Mercury will amp that right on up.

Input - we aren't really interested in frivolous pursuits; we want to learn some survival skills. We're a little more skeptical than usual. (Which is going to make Ms M 110% mistrustful.)

Process - Scorpio is a broody sign, and with Mercury passing on through we're all apt to be much broodier than usual. We'll have to be careful to keep our thoughts neutral, instead of obsessing over how unhappy we are.

Output - not in general a chatty sign, Scorpio is more given to the succinct and pithy. This can degenerate into destructive sarcasm when we feel we've been cornered. People are going to remember what you say for a long, long time, so watch your words.

Days to watch out for, and be careful during, in particular:

Wednesday, November 10 - Mercury will be conjunct Mars, early; and both will go on to square Saturn/Aquarius. The Moon will be in Aquarius, too, conjunct Saturn.

Thursday, November 11 - Mercury is the apex of a Yod, today: it is inconjunct both Chiron Rx/Aries and Ceres Rx/Gemini.

Saturday, November 13 - Mercury opposes Uranus Rx/Taurus.

Saturday, November 20 - Mercury squares Jupiter/Aquarius. This is the day after a lunar eclipse.

#Astrology #Transiting Mercury enters Scorpio #Ms M astrologer

29 notes · View notes

ultramaga · 2 years ago

Text

She was pushed hard by Marvel as a diverse female, and never succeeded in the way that they hoped given the investment. When Leftists claim that Marvel never tried to have female main characters, it's a lie - from memory, she led the Avengers and was on the cover of the box for the RPG. She has a few fans but was d tier. Her costume was actually a pretty good one - but it had to be sanitised for "a modern audience".

Can't have a sexy woman - that's misogyny!

I don't think she was ever as interesting as Carol Danvers Ms Marvel. She has her fans though.

That character - to the left of Thor - her outfit had to be totally castrated for the Leftists when they took over - was one of the sexiest and most sexually orientated of the Marvel universe. She was always waking up in someone else's bed with a hangover and regrets. She had relationships with Mar Vell (sp?), the man who was the original Captain Marvel. I vaguely recall reading his stories but he is mostly remembered for his death nowadays. e.g. "Carol ... asks about Mar-Vell and finds out that he is dead, she transforms into Binary and flies away. She looks for Mar-Vell's grave, and when she finds it, she mourns not for the fact that he's gone, but that she feels no emotion for his passing.

She recalls how they met and how they fell for each other. She leaves his grave, and afterwards, Logan finds her watching the sunset over the ocean. She tells him of her emotional detachment caused by Rogue..."

https://marvel.fandom.com/wiki/Marvel_Fanfare_Vol_1_24 Again, removing the X-Men from her story makes her characterisation empty. She's much more interesting with Rogue and shouldn't have been included unless they were willing to have the X-Men in the main universe. She also had relationships with many other superheroes e.g. https://www.marvel.com/amp/articles/comics/captain-marvel-carol-danvers-war-machine-james-rhodes-relationship-timeline She was a lot like Tony Stark in that respect, and he did try to help, but she wasn't interested. She was traumatised and had to cope with having her powers largely stolen by Rogue to the point of near death. I'd still rank that as a C tier. She never really carried stories by herself but was a good side character. https://www.writeups.org/ms-marvel-warbird/

The current versions of both are F tier. As in, they fail; Wandavision created Monica as a boring character who just affirmed Wanda's terrible choices. The Marvels shows all three in a horrible light, but most seem to agree the psuedo-Muslim Ms Marvel - who is totally different in the comics - was the star of a movie that was supposed to be about Brie Larson. Iman Vellani seems to have some charisma, and only time will tell if she comes out and starts ruining her future like Brie did, by pissing on her own fanbase. Making her character an obsessed fangirl is a weird move. Why would she even know who Captain Marvel was? She was almost completely absent from the series, and most of her action was light years away. It's just a projection of the writers wishes for fans to be obsessed with how cool their characters are.

I saw a review of the show which said "every woman is gay in the M She U" and I'd have to agree that the Muslim girl here doesn't seem to be straight. And I would have thought her parents would have something to say about her shrine to a false god, but whatever. Come to think of it, how does she even know what Captain Marvel looks like? I don't remember any place where someone would have photographed or filmed her. Her absence from Earth is explicitly a part of her background. The audience knows because we watched the movies. Is she extra-dimensionally aware?

By the way, here's typical examples of how an actual Muslim girl would decorate their bedroom.

https://www.etsy.com/au/market/muslim_girl_bedroom

She is this weird Leftist vision of a Muslim, who worships an openly Lesbian atheist, and never wears hijab. Yes, the MCU version of Captain Marvel is a lesbian, because "put a chick in it, make it gay, make it lame" is all they know how to do.

102 notes · View notes

isgrow · 6 years ago

Photo

Pastry Chef Attempts to Make Gourmet M&M's | Gourmet Makes | Bon Appétit

being published on http://mybecause.com/pastry-chef-attempts-to-make-gourmet-mms-gourmet-makes-bon-appetit/

0 notes

imposterogers · 4 years ago

Note

Oh boy another article on Steve's bad ending and it’s been 2 years and hundreds of articles and the Russos and M&Ms can’t make their minds up on what timeline or branch of reality Steve was in. amp./cinemablend(./com)/news/2562878/avengers-endgame-director-joe-russo-clarifies-captain-americas-time-travel-trip

the fucking mess the russos and m&m made........... and the fact that neither set of them agree....... like y’all should have figure this shit out BEFORE the movie came out

#anti endgame

40 notes · View notes

jangofctts · 5 years ago

Text

Tough Luck (Boba Fett x reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: Smut, violence, language, dry humping, oral (m), sex with binders, vaginal fingering, mildly dubious consent, mild cumplay, more sexual favors (jfc), vaginal sex, consensual loss of virginity,

Chapter (1)

a/n: howdy hey bucket fuckers. welcome to the second chapter!!! thank you so much for ms. @bobafctts for helping me THOT and help with the process of this bad boy in addition to @djxrxn whom ALSO encourages all these DISguSTAnG thots. love you, whores 🤠💖❤️

It’s a grueling ride to Coruscant. Even with a midway stop to refuel, it takes more than a couple weeks to arrive.

You wish Boba Fett had thrown you into the carbon freezer.

It’s...boring down here.

The bounty hunter had left you alone, preferring to lock himself away inside the cockpit. Not like you’d want him anywhere but there, that is. He’s not some circus clown meant to entertain an impartial audience—you’re his quarry. A quarry worth a quarter million credits.

The rare occasion you do see him is humiliating as is. Monitored refresher brakes and the singular hellacious shower incident. True, all he had done was wrestle your kicking and screaming self into the little cubicle then proceed to lock you in—and yet…Never in the entirety of your existence had you encountered anything more glacial than that water.

Stars—you swear he has a direct pipeline to Hoth.

With fingers frozen and teeth chattering so hard they rattled your skull, you made quick work of scrubbing at your hair and body. It’s a miracle you survived certain death by hypothermia, even more so you haven’t caught a cold in the following hours.

There are limited chances to protest and rebel, close to zero in fact. He’s proven to be stronger on more than one occasion, man-handling and knocking you around like some squeaky toy left to be chewed on for some oversized loth-cat.

He’s taken away the sole thing you’ve craved since coming aboard this ship; ripped it from your fingers and shattered it upon a duracrete floor. You’ve never chosen the petty undertaking after flustered nerves and lost arguments in life; it festers and twists into malice like a weight over your chest. But you’re no longer there.

Here, after the first meal bar landed in your lap, you surrendered your pride and tore into that idle act of revenge.

The meal bars thrown at your feet now begin to pile up; the one small defiance you can spare. It’s either this or throw your head against the wall until you pass out. Tragically and against your own volition, the imagery your brain provides for it forms a bubble of unease in the pit of your stomach. The sight of your own blood makes you queasy anyhow.

It’s not ideal. You’re knifing hungry, but your act of defiance works. Faster than you’d originally thought as the second sleep cycle rolls around.

Boba Fett’s spurs chink against the front of his boots, the glare of the shiny metal catching against the dim lighting. He doesn’t carry a meal bar this time. Instead all he brings is an ion storm filled with buzzing irritation you can feel crackle against your skin. Your eyes sweep up his figure as he plants himself before you, his head tipped down to meet your half-hearted glare.

With a long sigh, squats and lifts up one the meal bars, the shiny wrapper crinkling under the pressure as he points it in your direction. “I’m not interested in delivering a corpse.”

“I’m not hungry,” you quip, turning your head to glower into the murky darkness of the ship.

You jump, a pitiful squeak escaping your vocal cords as he throws the bar at your feet and lunges. His hand clamps around the binders, the roar of your heart deafening against your eardrums as he yanks you in close.

“What is it you want?” He snarls, “A deal?”

“I see how you treat your deals,” you bite back, straining against his grip. “You’re a liar and a cheat.”

Boba wrenches you forward, the tip of your nose skimming the edge of the tinted visor from how close he leans in. “Careful, Rabbit. If I recall correctly, you offered me a favor not a contract.”

Despite the inky blackness of the visor, you could easily mistake it with the intensity of a dying star. You’re caught in that same familiar, lecherous pull from before. It feels wrong to be brought so close; like dancing over the serrated edge of a blade, not meant for a mortal soul to be wandering along.

“I’ll ask again.” He states, the leather squeaking as his fingers clench tighter. “What is it you want?”

There’s no bargaining for a merciful death. You’ve seen how that would play out. All your cards are exhausted and spent and the only thing you’re left to bargain for are simple accommodation before you’re appointment with a firing squad.

“No more binders. At least for more than a couple hours.” You rush out, afraid if you don’t speak with haste he’ll cut you off. “And...and I want a blanket. It’s—it’s cold.”

He considers this, each second like a poorly wired hyperdrive—seconds from imploding. You let out a shaky breath as you catch the near imperceptible nod. “Is that all?”

“Yes...I-I think.”

He snorts. “You think? What else do you require, Rabbit?”

You ignore the sarcasm dripping through the syllables like melted sugar. Be it intimidation or your own hormones betraying your rational mind, your eyes dip down. You curse yourself for his perceptiveness.

It comes with the job you suppose. No one becomes the best bounty hunter in the parsec using untrained eyes.

“You know, girl,” he chuckles, a gravelly rasp against the vocoder. “I could...return the favor.”

If you had it your way, wielding an iron grip of control on your own body, you’d stop the tidal wave of crackling arousal from licking at your heels and settling in the pit of your stomach. It’s a rush of electricity guilt yet you’re able to reign in your tongue and speak; as shaky and unsure as it is. “What makes you think I want anything more to do with you?”

“There’s no harm changing your mind,” he says. Boba cocks his head to the side and rocks forward, capturing and twirling a lock of your hair around his fingers. “As you said—you’ll die soon anyhow.”

With a goading tug on your hair he sits up, the tinkle of his spurs filling the space as he saunters a couple paces away. He smooths a hand over a large cargo crate, the leather glove rasping against the wood and with a sigh, he sits. He settles his back against it, your eyes not once leaving his figure, entranced by each subtle movement and swish of his cloak that bunches beneath him.

“Come claim your favor, Rabbit,” Boba purrs, crossing his legs and leaning further into the cargo crate. He’s awfully nonchalant—like a loth-cat furled out in the sun. Though you know, behind the undisturbed facade, one wrong move and he’ll pounce; sink those razor sharp talons into exposed flesh.

“Anything?”

If you could see his eyes, you imagine he’d be rolling them. He pats his thigh. “Why don’t you sit on my lap and then we’ll talk.”

You don’t think about the fact that this is worse than before. That you’re letting yourself clamber over his crossed legs and into his lap. You hate that the crackling fire, greedy and dark, burns through your core as if it had never had a taste of pleasure before.

His hands skim up your thighs, covered and impersonal. You don’t let that kernel of disappointment wiggle into your thoughts—it’s bad enough you’re here. In spite of this, you think, fuck it. You might as well. Your life is such a shit show anyhow might as well indulge.

You hiss in surprise as your crotch meets the unforgiving metal codpiece. “Take it off?”

“You take it off, Rabbit.”

Your teeth clamp down into the inside of your cheek. Bastard. Cocky, smug, asshole—

The list could go on forever and despite the irritation snapping inside your chest like a cut wire, your fingers find the latches to the dark green codpiece. You’re rough taking the blasted thing off, delighting in the bounty hunter’s little chagrined grunt as you tug and pull without much caution.

“Careful.”

You shoot the best glare you can muster and stick your tongue out, jolting as his fingers dig into the flesh of your ass in retaliation. With a clatter the codpiece falls off; the thick swell of his cock creating an attractive line against the white fabric.

The same trepidation returns. You’re digging your own grave here, shoveling through dirt and tough layers of gravel in order to toss yourself in. It shouldn’t be this easy to convince yourself to fall into those greedy claws of arousal.

“Well?” Boba challenges, snaking a hand around the swell of your waist. “Get moving before I change my mind.”

“What do you suggest I do then?” You snip, exasperated by his indignant shrug.

With a low hum he anchors his hold over your hips and yanks you further over his crotch. “You could be a good girl and get yourself off.”

You swallow, chewing on the edge of your lip. “Like this? Nothing else?”

“I don’t know, Rabbit,” he sighs, “but it feels good, doesn’t it?”

Before you can ask, he rolls his hips up, pressing the firmness of his cock against your covered cunt. You gasp and rock into him, a hand shooting out to grab at his shoulder pauldron. His snort of amusement only encourages your spiral into madness as he allows you to set your own pace; a timid and shallow undulation of you hips that only serves to amp up the craving and not sate it in the slightest.

Stars, it’s hard to think like this. Every spark of pleasure is a catalyst to the inferno that tears through the fabrics of your being. It’s an effortless process to forget who you’re using to get off; easy to tumble into that pit of pleasure with each buck of your hips.

Your cries are harsh, an incoherent string of curses and his name all thrown into one. Fuck—it’s blinding. The catch and pull of the fabric against your clit and the hardness of his cock that presses against your inner thigh; pitching quite an impressive tent in those creamy white trousers.

It rushes up, searing and white-hot that’s got your whole figure into stiffening and catapulting into bliss. With a groan your head dips onto his shoulder, the scent of plasma and an undercurrent of smoke lingering on the fabric of his cowl. Your hips still rock into his lap, riding out the last dregs of pleasure.

In retrospect you should have known. Deduced that this favor claimed as yours would shift into something completely his. He’s never satisfied with the terms unless he gets the larger cut.

Just as your hips begin to slow, he readjusts his grip and grinds his straining cock against your sensitive pussy.

Boba’s hands, one cradling your spine while the other clamps down over you ass is an anchor so unyielding it’d take a ship cutter to brake; he’s heaving your body into they jerky and erratic roll of his hips, too far gone to care about technique or poise. Just a means to an end—desperate for release. His breathy grunts reverberate through the vocoder, near deafening this close to your ear as the hand resting between your shoulder blades, latches onto the back of your neck.

If not for the intensity of your orgasm, devastating and still wracking through your body in tiny jolts of lingering pleasure, you’d have fought his hold. Instead, you allow Boba to urge you forward, the cool metal a shocking contrast against your forehead in comparison to your flushed state. His own head is bowed against yours, playing into that foreign sense of intimacy as he finds his release.

With a stuttered groan, his fingers harpoon into your flesh and cums.

His chest heaves, fervent gulps of air harsh and distorted by the vocoder as he winds down from his high. You’re no better; your breath fans across the visor, the humidity painting a foggy layer of perspiration over the visor as your body still quivers with the aftershocks of pleasure. He’s the first one to part; jerks his head away as if you've burned him.

In the following seconds, it’s as if your eyes are glued to that visor. There’s no telling wether you’re moments away from being slaughtered or allowed to sustain this little charade he’s put you through.

“Oh, Rabbit…” A shiver tears down your spine as he glances between your bodies. There’s a wet patch, the fabric dampened by both your combined releases staining the front of his trousers. “What a waste.”

You gasp as his hand curls around the column of your throat, your cunt clenching as the pressure tightens. With once last, teasing squeeze his fingers move to tangle into your hair. “Clean up your mess.”

With a not so gentle yank on the strands you’re coerced into clambering off Boba’s lap. He guides your head forward, uncrossing his muscled legs to let you crawl up and settle between his thighs.

Your hand quivers, somehow able to pop open the button and pull down the wet fabric. Smeared globs of his release stain the soft, dark skin, his cock still thick and swollen even after orgasm. Your tongue passes over your bottom lip as you lean in, a new, fresh wave of arousal carving through your frame.

The taste isn’t horrid, still warm and mildly salty as you tongue laves at the crease of his thigh. Your tongue leaves a wet trail of saliva down to his balls, the skin velvety soft against your mouth. Boba jerks as you suckle them into the wet heat of you mouth, carefully swirling your tongue over them then tracing up to his softening cock. He grunts as you lick along his shaft, the flesh twitching as you lap up the rest of the sticky substance.

Boba’s hand nudges at your forehead, then shifts and maneuvers himself out of your hold. Not a word is spoken as he pulls up his trousers and thumbs the button closed. He snatches up the codpiece laying pathetically on the ground and reattaches it around his groin.

You don’t mean to flinch as he dips down—force of habit—even if all he does is reach for one of the abandoned meal bars. He pushes it into your hand; no room for arguments and perches himself against the cargo crate, one ankle crossed over the other as his arms fold over his cuirass. He dips his head, the message loud and clear to hold up your end of the deal.

“You don't have to watch me eat,” you mutter, biting off the corner of the foil with your teeth to open it. You roll a piece of the pasty food into a crumbly ball between your fingertips then pop it into your mouth. You grimace at the taste. Bland. A bit like dirt.

Except…dirt has flavor.

Not to mention the fact that he won’t stop staring. Tracking every move—unsettling and curbing your appetite into a mess of anxious knots. You don’t like being analyzed and monitored like an ill-tempered child. It’s a long shot to ask and receive an answer, but you’re desperate for anything to fill the silence.

“How did…um…you find me?”

Kriff, you can’t even ask about anything normal, can you?

Boba cocks his head to the side, letting that unnerving quiet draw out until you’re sure he won’t respond. And then; “People leave trails. Even you, clever rabbit”

You force yourself to choke down another bite of the bar. “What was my trail then?”

You’re split between the desire to know what you did to ensure your capture while battling your queasy surprise that he’s chosen to indulge your questionings. “The pilot.”

A knife of dread, so sharp and swift it cuts through the layers of cartilage and bone; the blade lodging itself into your heart. “W-what?”

“The Imperial one.”

Elliria Beren. Elli—

No. No—that’s…he’s toying with you.

Dantooine is the last place you saw her. Alive. Wild, auburn hair blown from her braids caused by the windstorm that swept up through the grassy plains; the clouds, colossal and dark, swallowed up the sun as they rolled across the horizon. Her flight suit was hastily thrown on, rumpled and against regulations in the rush to help you. She told you to run—stole the TIE fighter to give you one last, undeserved chance.

It feels like a broken promise stapled to the roof of your mouth as your mind dregs up the remnants of that day. She’d thrown her arms around you, crushing you to her chest, smelling like oncoming rain, and that contraband perfume she’d bought on Alderaan; a delicate sweetness you can hardly remember.

With Elliria, there was no fear; cradled in her arms and severed off from the world. There, you've done nothing wrong, you are not being chased by some relentless terror. You could sleep inside that moment. You could live inside that string of seconds. It would be fine. It would be perfect. You could escape and mend you fragmented heart strings.

But you’re not there.

You’re here.

Here on a bounty hunter’s ship. Here there is fear. There is great sorrow. There is a litany of sins and a throng of terrors devouring at your soul. You led her straight to her death. Right into the very jaws of the man who sits before you. You hadn’t even considered she’d be caught.

Your stomach churns and coils as bile pricks at your throat. What have you done.

“I found her on Tatooine,” Boba continues, either enjoying your obvious horror or unabashedly oblivious.

No. Stop fucking talking. You bite back a choked sob as he raises a finger, tracing it across his cuirass. There—alongside the braided pieces of hair mounted as trophies, sits a red and blue ribbon. How haven’t you seen it before? You were there when Elli was awarded the Imperial Medal of Valor—it’d been the first time you’d seen her smile in months.

And now…now it hangs upon the pauldron of a bounty hunter as a conquest won. “She was a good shot—but I was better.”

Your chest is a wall of fire; the air you breath constricted and hot as your throat mimics that of a too tight collar on a fancy suit. You don’t care that stinging tears spring from your eyes and carve burning paths down your cheeks. Grief and wrath spin inside your chest with the fierceness of a vortex all-consuming. You shouldn’t have asked. Shouldn’t have forced his hand into revealing that all you ever do is leave a wake of destruction behind you.

The abrupt, sharp, buzz throughout the ship slices through your despair. The comm system is flashing, attempting to patch in a call. The moment he stands, your mind races with plots of vengeance. You have nothing but your fists, your sharp teeth and bitten off nails. You don’t care.

He turns his back, his cloak rasping against the floor.

A momentary lapse in judgment on his part to leave himself vulnerable to a quarry free from their binders.

With a cry you launch yourself across the small space, hooking your arms around his neck. He shouts out a curse, the weight of your body causing his own to pitch backwards. All air punches out of your lungs as the back of your head cracks against the ground, the full weight of beskar platting slamming into your chest and stomach.

Your hold around his vulnerable throat loosens, giving him more than enough wiggle room to spring up. Your fist snaps out, the skin over your knuckles splitting open as it connects with the sharp edges of his helmet. He scrabbles to contain your flailing hands, eventually ensnaring your writs between his fingers with ease.

Bucking your hips and kicking your legs out does nothing to save you from Boba wrestling you onto your stomach, straddling your thrashing body, wrench up your arms, and snap out a new pair of binders. Boba snarls as your elbow manages to stab into a vulnerable gap in his armor, forcing him to throw his entire weight over you.

You don’t mean to slam the side of your face into his helmet—hurts you more than it would ever him. But it’s satisfying to feel him jerk and hiss out a curse.

“Stop this.” He barks, digging his forearm harder into the flesh of your shoulders. “You’re only hurting yourself.”

The blooming mark forming over your left eye socket is proof enough. The most damage, if any, would show up as bruise from where his own beskar had brutalized the skin or where your elbow had connected on his ribs.

You want to fight—tear into his flesh until he feels even an ounce of the kind of pain he’s caused. Instead, he chooses something different.

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

Friend doesn’t sound right. And lover too bold. Feels overly simplistic; shallow to what you had with Elli. Like glossing over a three hundred page holonovel. “I hate you.”

There’s no malice, no gloating. Just...sincerity. “Truly, I am.”

You don’t know what’s worse; the fact that there’s nothing to latch onto, bare your teeth and spit out words more jagged than broken glass or if it’s the hollow void that carves out the cavity in your chest. The frigid vacancy that follows after a forest burns; charred skeletons of a once lush forest. Everything in your life has been burned, flipped and torn inside out more than you care to think about.

Stuck in that strange limbo between the devouring vortex of agony and revenge. Flirting with dull edged apathy that blankets the pain with buzzing static.

You choose the latter.

It’s easier.

It’s not fair Elli is dead. But there’s nothing you can do to change what happened.

Some of that pressure bearing down on your spine eases as your body goes lax. You’re not sure how much time ticks away as you lie there against the dirty floor. Enough time to count the screws connecting the durasteel walls and the individual planks making up a cargo crate. You don’t care that Boba Fett continues to maintain his precarious position seated on your thighs, or the inquisitive touch between your shoulder blades. He isn’t the one to hate in this situation. You are.

That gentle, uncharacteristic touch smooths down the line of your spine, disappearing once it reaches your bound hands.

“You’re such a tiny creature...” You don’t think it’s meant for your ears, more of an observation he lets slip than a conversation starter. Regardless, it sends a shiver from the base of your skull and down.

With a curious hum, Boba shifts, slotting his hips against your ass. The added weight is uncomfortable, it digs your hip bones into the durasteel flooring. Yet, unlike the beskar codpiece supposed to be strapped to his groin, all you can feel is a different sort of hardness present.

“There’s still fight in you yet, Rabbit.”

Your fingers curl into fists so tight the bite of your fingernails leave crescent shaped indents. His hands smooth along the waistband of your trousers, the soft leather tickling the sliver of exposed skin where you shirt became rumpled. “Does that surprise you?”

He huffs. “No. But you could put it to better use instead of attacking me.”

“Like what? Fucking you?” Bitter resentment builds like ash over you tongue, even if the idea of it sends a charged volt of interest down to your lower belly.

Boba’s fingers crawl down your thighs. “I didn’t say that, but if you insist.”

You scoff and wriggle. “You’re deplorable.”

“Is that a yes, Rabbit?”

Maybe, you think as you nod your head, this will fill that torn void with temporary gratification. Steal away your thoughts and loose yourself something akin to the mind numbing affects of alcohol.

Boba hums in acknowledgment, hooks his fingers around the elastic and yanks down, underwear included. You can feel the weight of his stare wracking down the newly exposed skin, pliable and wanton—and all for him.

You squeak as he takes two, plentiful handfuls of your ass, spreading and massaging the flesh. It’s as if the only reason he exists is to torment you. Pull from you the embarrassed flushes and ashamed squeaks. You’re relieved once he retreats.

Though it’s not a moment later his hands are back over you. Gloveless. It’s a shock to your system feeling the scrape of calloused fingertips trail over the curve of your spine. A curious touch, one unfamiliar with the softness of skin, yet the fleeting presses rapidly turn into the only thing he knows.

Your sharp inhale echoes into the ship as his fingers trail down the slit of your cunt, gliding through the slick, already leaking from your core, with ease. You jolt as his fingertip catches against the tiny bundle of nerves, the pressure teasing and light. Never enough to satisfy, just a cruel reminder just how easy it is to get you worked up. With a muted whimper, your hips twitch, silently begging for anything more. Anything to fill your clenching cunt.

He obliges with a smug chuckle, lazily pushing a finger into the ring of velvety muscle. You whine as he slips in another digit, scissoring and shallowly thrusting in out, thoroughly coating his hand with your arousal. Just as the buzzing strings of pleasure begin to build up, he extracts them. Frustration pierces through your sternum, your teeth clamping down over your tongue in order to quell your irritation.

There’s a rustle of fabric and a harsh inhale from the man behind you as he closes the space between you. Your pussy clenches as the tip of him touches against your clit, the flesh searing and painfully hard. You shudder and exhale a long, stuttered breath.

“I can tell you haven’t been fucked right,” he purrs, dragging the flushed head of his cock through your folds. “Why don’t we fix that?”

Boba gives your thigh a swat and shifts, ready to align himself and sink into your clenching core. That heavy haze of pleasure is abruptly yanked out from beneath your feet, panic piercing through your heart with an alarming jolt. You seize up and jerk away.

“W-wait!” You gasp, hands wiggling against the binders. “I-I...uhm—“

“Don’t tell me you haven’t done this before, Rabbit.” He thinks it’s a joke. It is a bit silly considering the circumstances—yet here you are. Bent over and telling Boba Fett you're a kriffing virgin.

Your shamed silence and the heated flush that follows answers his question with crystalline clarity.

“You’re serious.”

“I’ve never been fucked, ok?” Your eyes squeeze shut as you let out a long exhale. “I just...never…”

Your piss-poor explanation tapers off into a gaping fissure of terse silence. Maker, you should just throw yourself into a trash compactor—

“I can change that,” he offers, trailing his palm over the globe of your ass. “If you’d like.”

You swallow. Maybe in a different version of reality you’d consider a better option, but fuck it. You’re already here. “O-ok.”

“As you wish, Rabbit,” Boba complies. If not for the helmet you’re sure you’d see a smile curl across his face. “Just know—I don’t do gentle.”

You would never expect him to. Whatever civilized temperament he holds in not saved for anything but hunting and aiming a blaster. You tense as your walls begin to stretch and accept the tip of his cock—alarm bells blare inside your head, terrified that it won’t fit. His hand smooths over your hip as he encourages you to relax, let him sink in the rest of the way. His fingers find your clit, rubbing jerky patterns into the nerves as your cunt flutters and stitches wider for him. The sharp outline of his hips touch your ass, a sharp hiss of breath crackling out of the vocoder as he finally bottoms out.

You’re so achingly full. No amount of fingers thrust up inside your cunt could compare to what you feel in this exact moment. Simultaneously split open and burning with white hot ecstasy with each involuntary jerk from the man inside you. There’s a minuscule pinch and ache as he pulls his hips back, the drag of his cock catching against each ridge and fold as you clench around him.

“Fuck,” Boba swears, sheathing himself back inside with a forceful thrust. You squeak and pull against the binders. “You take it well.”

There’s not much time between your next inhale and his hands anchoring around your hips, before he sets the pace; harsh and unyielding. Just as he promised, there is no buildup, just the violent roll and abrasive push inside you.

There’s no time to familiarize yourself with this newfound sensation, just a frightening buildup that seizes you by surprise. It begins in belly, spreading through your bloodstream like the most virile poison. With another, devastating, surge of his cock into your pussy, you’re cast into that gaping bit of burning pleasure.

Your vision whites out, your body arching and stiffening as you cry out. The fact that you’re squeezed so, fucking tight around him, holds no hinderance to his pace. Just encourages him to go faster. There’s no mercy as he fucks you through orgasm, overworking those sensitive nerves and pushing them past your limit.

With a hiss of air the binders fall to the ground with a clatter; the noise barely heard in comparison to your stuttered cries and the obscene sounds of his cock burying itself into your cunt. Your shoulders burn as your hands slip beneath you, shaky and unsure of themselves, stabilizing yourself against the greedy pull of his hands.

The rough callous of his palm sweeps up your back and forms a fist in your hair, urging your spine to arch as his thrusts take on a sharper rhythm.

Your core is a mess of knots, pulled tight and more pressurized than a airlock. Your nails scrabble against the metal flooring, your knees rubbed raw from the vicious momentum he’s achieving. Fuck—this should’ve been your favor from the very start.

Those burning nerves, flooded with acute overstimulation, throws your body off that haphazard edge of another scorching orgasm. One that drags it’s sharpened nails down the curve of your spine, all the way done to your toes.

“Fuck—fuck you’re tight,” he snarls, his hands squeezing your hips with vicious strength. “Keep squeezing me like that, Rabbit—good girl.”

The top half of you buckles under the weight of ecstasy, weakened and unbothered by the new angle; his cock reaching deep. Your fluttering cunt and the high-pitched whines of his name are it takes for him to reach his end.

He pulls out, ropes of his release landing over your ass in hot gushes. “Shit.”

Boba’s cock still jumps and twitches as he drags it over your ass, rubbing his cum into the skin until the last dribble of his release dips above your tailbone. Quicker than you’d have liked he pulls away. Not far; just seats himself to your right and pulls up his trousers with a sigh. Eventually you’re able to trick yourself into moving; curling yourself into a little quivering ball as the aftershocks of pleasure prickle beneath your skin.

You were right. It did fill whatever grasping numbness inside your chest, but now you’re left to deal with it all over again. You’re glad your back is to him as lonesome tears trickle down your nose and into you mouth, filling it with the taste of salt and pain.

“I didn’t kill her. If that makes a difference.”

It’s muttered and hard to catch, but you hear it just the same as if he had yelled it into your ear with an amplifier. You crush that flicker of hope with an iron fist as it flutters inside your stomach. “But?”

“But your Empire made sure that she was.”

It doesn’t make a difference.

#the last favor series #boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #reader insert #star wars #smut #fanfic #boba fett #this BITCH DONE #YEET #my brain GONE #my writting

417 notes · View notes

sulfurousdreamscapes · 4 years ago

Text

Their plan was to make the corporation sentient. To this end, they were driven in armoured vehicles deep into the desert while they spoke on conference calls and shared giddy excitement.

A crashed military transport aircraft had been converted into a home for the corporation's servers. Armed security patrolled the perimeter with perfect precision. Three watchtowers had been erected, and two more were on the way. Up on the cliff, a large satellite dish provided uninterrupted connectivity to an in-house-developed satellite.

The top brass wore suits and pencil skirts. They'd brought their expensive wristwatches and their pockets sagged with smartphones.

Each board member stood in front the face scanner, which only took mere milliseconds to identify them. They strode confidently into the Server Centre, where their pods awaited them. The security staff saluted.

Inside, the company provided drinks and snacks. A little pre-integration party. The CFO liked to think of it as 'The Last Supper'. For the past four weeks, he had gazed at a copy of that painting that he had hung in his spacious bedroom.

"We are going to become myth," he whispered each time he gazed upon it.

Now, he said it louder, brasher, drunker. Glasses were raised, cheers sounded.

The President arrived fashionably late. An older woman, somewhat hunched and wearing a modest suit like some modern-day queen, she shook each board member's hand.

"It's a pity you won't join us, ma'am." Mr Garfield said. "It would've been the greatest honour I can think of."

"We'll do our best," Ms Patil said. "But our genius will only ever be an approximation of your impeccable vision."

"We give up our lives now, in pursuit of the greater good," Mr Okon said. "The company is family. Family is above all."

The President nodded at each of these prepared speeches. "Godspeed," she said after each one.

When it was time, the board members approached the pods. Their industrial design bore the hallmark of the company's own products. This is was no purchased or outsourced garbage—it was the marvel of the company's own R&D department.

Emblazoned along the sides of the pods, the company logo. Proud. Stately. Domineering.

Most of the company members caressed the logo before the stepped into the pods. Operators closed the pod doors, and a soothing gas soon put the board members to sleep.

The President turned to the Tech Chief, who had never interacted with someone of her position before. With the nudge of an executive, he cleared his throat and explained the procedure in layman's terms.

"Their neurons will essentially be linked to form one big brain—the company brain. The corporation will see, feel, hear—it will be a lifeform in every sense of the term. It will grow. It will reproduce. It will survive."

"And it will take our stock value to the greatest of heights," the executive added. "We already project fiscal turnover to—"

The President held up her hand to shut him up and stepped closer to the Tech Chief. Her eyes searched his console, and she finally looked at the man operating it.

"Terminate them all, please," she said.

The Tech Chief and the Executive looked at each other.

"The Board needs new members. I'm sure you can join, what with the promotion you will soon receive," the President said.

The Tech Chief tapped on the button to terminate the neuron sources. A message appeared, asking him to confirm his choice. The President tapped on the 'Yes' button.

Their plan had been to make the company sentient.

42 notes · View notes

saintmeghanmarkle · 2 years ago

Text

Two neo-nazi podcasters have been convicted of terror offences in the UK including inciting hate and violence against H&M and Archie. This may well fuel the Sugars and it is clearly wrong but they need to keep a sense of reality and proportion before exploiting this news for their own objectives. by u/Coffee_cake_101

Two neo-nazi podcasters have been convicted of terror offences in the UK, including inciting hate and violence against H&M and Archie. This may well fuel the Sugars and it is clearly wrong, but they need to keep a sense of reality and proportion before exploiting this news for their own objectives. Here is a Sky news report about it. https://ift.tt/xDN50Xy says:Both men aired homophobic, racist, antisemitic, Islamaphobic and misogynistic opinions - on some occasions encouraging their listeners to commit violence. So they basically targeted just about every target group they could think of - well over 50% of the population. Every day there are people of colour, Jews, Muslims and other religions, people in biracial relationships, non-heterosexuals and women targeted somewhere by prejudiced, bigoted people. Thankfully the UK is a far more tolerant, liberal country than most with a well-established multi-racial, multi-faith society, and the number of vile nutters is relatively low. These two podcasters thankfully had just 1000 subscribers,an indication of the low appetite for their brand of hatred. Whilst in the UK, Harry and Meghan had royal protection officers. They made a big thing on Oprah that Archie wasn't going to get his own protection officer (which is assessed on a risk basis, not whether someone is a prince or not, contrary to what Meghan alleged). But whilst a child Archie would not be expected to travel independently anyway and the decision would have been reassessed when needed. When they left the UK, they did so knowing they would lose their security, but at least they are wealthy enough to pay for it. But that leaves the rest of all these target groups at the mercy of the occasional nutter with absolutely no police protection apart from normal policing. I may be being harsh as I know H&M are higher profile, but in terms of the likelihood of any crime actually being committed I have more sympathy for the little people in this target groups who are more at risk with less protection. In fact I have been on the receiving end of this many years ago, receiving several repeated abusive notes from a neighbour threatening physical and sexual violence towards me, plus extremely unpleasant and intimidating behaviour. The police wouldn't take it seriously at first although eventually he was charged but got a non-custodial sentence. I was forced to sell my house and move, but a few months after I found he went to prison for a few years after committing armed robbery. I was terrified and became a recluse whilst this was going on. I have a friend whose daughter has been stalked for years and fails to get the police to act. She has changed university three times, and eventually quit, she has moved and even changed her name by deed poll. It is people like this I feel sorry for who have to deal with nutters, not the H&Ms of the world. I also hate that certain people extrapolate a few extreme racist nutters to imply we are a racist country. On that basis, if you have the odd rapist, we are a nation of rapists, and a serial killer means we are a nation of serial killers etc. I hope my words are not misinterpreted because I do not think H&M should have to experience this and I think such people are vile. I just hope H&M's fans don't make it sound like an every day thing that is rife in the UK. and they don't make it all about H&M as if they are the only people ever targeted by extremists. post link: https://ift.tt/kByQaGp author: Coffee_cake_101 submitted: July 07, 2023 at 07:44PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit

1 note · View note

homebody-nobody · 5 years ago

Text

you’re a part of me

(WHAT?? Jax wrote ANOTHER fic?? THREE FICS?? in TWO WEEKS?? I know, I’m shocked too. We’re gettin closer and closer to bein a Real Fic Writer lads.) How many juke first kiss fics will you write, Jax? all of them. as many as I want. I dunno. you're an adult obsessed with a tweeny-bopper show. shut up. who even has the patience for 5 +1s in this house it's 3 +1 and only barely bc I don't know how structured fic works so it's not even separate like it's supposed to be. anyway enjoy some dumb teenagers falling in love if the dialogue is cringe sorry lol I was trying to stay in the tone of the show and may have gone a little bit too disney channel (Also if you see typos/the same adjective used twice in one sentence/paragraph, no you didn't I don't edit it makes me nervous) ------------------------------- (ao3) ------------------------------ '... Luke has thrown out any semblance of personal space. He orbits around her just as closely as the others, no longer threatened by or hyper-aware of the consequences of his proximity. Basically, he’s getting entirely too comfortable.'

(3 times Julie and Luke almost kissed and 1 time they did) ------------------------------------ Luke is overly physical. Theoretically, Julie already knew this. She’s seen him with the boys, the way he lives in other people’s space, hanging off Reggie and lurking next to Alex, not caring where his lanky limbs or knees or elbows end up, even if it’s in other people’s ribs. He was never like that with her, too afraid of the crushing disappointment that came when she phased through his hands. But now, there isn’t the strange, tingles-up-her neck way-weird, way-wrong sensation that came when she accidentally brushed through him. So even though Julie’s used to keeping a respectful distance, Luke has thrown out any semblance of personal space. He orbits around her just as closely as the others, no longer threatened by or hyper-aware of the consequences of his proximity. Basically, he’s getting entirely too comfortable.

She notices it the first time during rehearsal, when they’re hashing out the particulars of a melody -- Luke wants it to go down, and Julie thinks it should go up. She plunks herself down at the grand piano to prove that her idea will sound better, fanning the half-finished sheet music out across the top, pointing out the measure they’re arguing over, smudged and crinkled from repeated erasings.

Luke narrows his eyes at her from across the room, his face set in his trademark (adorable) grumpy expression. “It just sounds better!” she argues. “Listen.” She puts her hands on the keys, left hand hitting the chord, right dancing over her proposed melody. “So please, keep chasing me…” she sings, building to the last word and sliding her voice over an intricate run ending in a step up. Looking up, she tilts her head, her wild hair piled into a tenuous bun, curly tendrils framing her face. Luke’s stomach does an interesting flip. “See?”

He stands up, swinging his guitar strap down across his chest before walking around her, putting his right hand over where hers had just been on the paper. He stands just behind her shoulder, sending goosebumps down her spine. “It should go down,” he insists. “It’ll flow better with the next line and then the break before the chorus makes more sense. Listen.” He puts his foot up on the bench and swings his guitar back up like it's an extension of him, playing a riff and singing the line they’re arguing about before dipping in to the next. “So please keep chasing me,” he sings, his voice gracefully stepping up and then back down, “Cause even though I’m runnin’, I know you’re the one I need.”

“You’re making it too simple!” she cries, slamming her hands down in her lap and turning to face him. She opens her mouth to continue the argument, but when she looks at him, she starts, finally realizing just how close he is. The toe of his sneaker brushes her leg, and he leans over the sheet music, closing her in against the piano. His dark eyebrows pull together, mouth slightly pinched as he concentrates, solid and strong and very much in her space. “Um --” she says.

He shrugs, shaking his head a little bit. “What,” he says, not understanding what she’s having a problem with. Julie’s eyes drop to his mouth, close and stupid kissable, and he notices the motion. The air crackles as both of them unconsciously draw closer, song forgotten, focused only on each other. Luke leans in, half an inch, and Julie’s breath hitches in her chest. This is stupid. She knows this is stupid. Luke is dead. Full ghost. Not real. Well, real, but not a viable option. He might have a physical presence now -- a very strong, very warm, very attractive physical presence -- but that doesn’t make him any more possible. And yet, here she is, pulled into him like he has his own gravitational field and she’s helpless to it. Luke licks his lips, and Julie tilts her chin up, fractional motion tiptoeing toward something irreversible and dangerous.

Just as she’s about to step over that uncrossable line, there’s an almighty crash. Both of their heads whip up in time to see Alex topple off his stool -- he’d fallen asleep as they were arguing. The noise wakes Reggie, whose head was lolling against his amp. “I didn’t do it!” he yells, flailing into sitting up straight.

Julie clears her throat and turns back to the keyboard, stretching her hands over the keys. “You’re, uh --” she says, glancing at Luke out of the corner of her eye to find him smirking in an infuriatingly adorable manner. “You’re right. It should go down.” He stands up straight, mildly surprised at his easy victory, and backs off from the piano to show Reggie the chords. They sketch out the verse and Alex adds a backing beat, the moment forgotten.

That is, until Carlos comes in to nag her to eat. Alex poofs out and Reggie dives behind his amp. Since the whole discovering-corporeality thing, they’re not totally sure if Julie’s the only one who can see them still, and they’d rather not have to explain to Julie’s dad what three teenage ‘holograms’ are doing living in his garage. Carlos delivers his message and then darts back inside, eager for dinner, and Julie stands up from the piano, gathering the half-finished song and tucking it into the folder she keeps her in-progress projects in.

Reggie emerges in a comic mess of limbs and grins at her, Alex poofing back on to his stool. “I’ll be back after dinner to finish this,” she says, hoping they don't notice the shake in her hands as she tucks the folder away. Luke pops his chin over the edge of the couch, behind which he’d taken cover.

“Hey Julie!” he calls, and she turns back to look at him. “Just remember; KISS.”

Her brain short-circuits, heart tripping over itself as she remembers his eyes on her, his shoulders and his hands and his stupid concentration face. “I, uh -- What are you --” she sputters.

A shit-eating grin spreads across Luke’s face as he puts his elbows on top of the couch and pushes himself up. “Keep it simple, stupid.”

Julie practically runs out of the garage. Alex raises an eyebrow, his gaze arcing from the door to land on Luke. “That was uh…” Luke schools his expression into one of false innocence. “Bold.” Luke rolls his eyes and brushes him off, but Reggie gives Alex a knowing look. Their friends are idiots.

It happens again one afternoon when Carlos has a baseball game and Julie has the house to herself. Or, so she thinks. She’s lazing around on the couch, avoiding her history homework spread out on the coffee table, Adventure Time babbling on the television. She’s slowly working her way through a bag of gummy bears and m&ms (her favorite candy combination), wearing an enormous hoodie that used to be her mom’s, home alone; life is fantastic. Until --

“Oh, sweet, cartoons!” Luke poofs into existence directly next to her on the couch, and she starts violently enough to shake candy into the couch cushions. Some of it lands on his chest, and he holds up a green gummy bear with a wistful expression. Julie just stares at him, still mildly in shock, definitely still annoyed, and really not in the mood to endure his moping about food when she was having a perfectly nice time by herself.

“Hey,” he says, either ignoring or unaware of what he’s just done to her heart rate and her peaceful afternoon. “You think now that I’m corporeal --” (he over-pronounces the word, having just learned it from Flynn days before) “I can eat like, regular human food?” It isn’t until he looks to her for an answer that he realizes what he’s just done. “Oh, sorry,” he says, that same stupid-ass grin settling on his face, not sorry even a little bit. “Did I spook ya?”

His glee at the pun, which he definitely stole from Reggie, sparkles in his gray-green eyes, and Julie’s heart, which had just started to recover from his sudden appearance, trips over itself one more time. Emerging from the shaken-up snowglobe of her brain, she blurts out her first thought. “You’re the worst,” she says, even while thinking the opposite.

He looks genuinely hurt for about half a second before turning the gummy bear towards her, too, and speaking for it. “You should be nice to Luke,” he says in an absurd voice. “He’s so handsome and talented!” He laughs at his own joke and pitches his voice up to continue with the bit, but she snatches the candy out of his hand and pops into her mouth, grinning. He feigns shock. “That bear could have had a family, Julie.”

“If they did, they’ll all be happy together in my stomach,” she says, eating another one to punctuate the statement. Luke laughs, and the sound has a heart-stopping melody of its own. It’s comfortable, the relationship that they’ve developed with each other. He always laughs at her jokes and is the first to offer her a compliment after rehearsal, and she loves his dorky sense of humor, even when she gives him a hard time about it. They write music and goof around, and even with the (very strong) undercurrent of romantic (she hopes) tension between them, a friendship sits comfortably on top. He’s only been in her life for a short time, but she can’t imagine it without him. Her feelings for him endanger that, so she does her best not to let it show. He asks her what she’s watching, and she explains the basic premise of the episode so that he can understand what’s going on.

She’s hyper-aware of him as they watch the show, and she envies the ease with which he occupies her space, his shoulder brushing hers, their knees occasionally bumping. He slouches all the way down on the couch, one foot kicked up on the table, turning the remote in his hands and messing with the battery cover, completely at home. (He’s always fiddling with something -- a pen, his necklace -- or bouncing his leg, or clicking a guitar pick between his teeth. It’s a habit that’s mostly adorable and only sometimes annoying.) If he notices her staring at him, he doesn’t say anything.

It takes a couple more episodes, but she finally relaxes, and the distance between them -- already spare -- vanishes, her shoulder tucked under his, her head angled toward him, their feet bumping on the table. Half her attention is on Finn and the land of Ooo, and half on the boy beside her, who doesn’t seem to give any indication that he’s thinking about this as much as she is. Luke has a way of pulling her in until she’s closer than she ever planned to be, like she can’t help but touch him. Ever since the night they played the Orpheum, he’s become magnetic, his presence a force she can’t resist. If she tilted her head down, just a fraction, it would be resting on his shoulder. What would he do? Would he shrug her off, or rest his head on hers? She watches his hands play with the remote, imagining what his strong, slender fingers would feel like laced with hers. She’s had crushes before, of course -- she liked Nick all the way from seventh grade up to this year -- but nothing so real and powerful as this.

“Don’t you think Finn sounds just like Reggie?” Luke asks, pulling her from her thoughts. She looks up at him, and he looks down at her, and -- oh.

He’s very close.

His eyes always remind her of an overcast sky, swirling with unknown depth, and they widen when they meet hers, filled with awe. Blood rushes in her ears, muting the TV, tuning out anything that isn’t him. Her heart is beating so hard and so fast she wonders peripherally if he can hear it, and then that thought fizzles out with the rest of any kind of logic when his gaze drops to her mouth. He’s going to kiss her. He’s going to kiss her!! Panic and elation and anticipation all scramble in her chest. She’s never kissed anyone before, and even though she’s never asked, she knows he probably has. What if she’s bad at it? She’s half freaking out and half telling herself to shut the hell up as he turns his entire body towards her, his hand reaching up to hold her face and --

The front door slams open, announcing Carlos and Ray. “Mija!!” her dad calls. Luke jerks back from her like he’s been burned, eyes filled with absolute terror, before he disappears.

“JULIEEEEE!!” Carlos hollers, launching himself across the living room at her and landing on her stomach, knocking the air out of her. Her arms come up around him automatically, despite all the sweat and the diamond dirt sticking to it. Feeling mildly shell shocked and like she’s been hit by a hell of a lot more than her little brother, she barely listens as Carlos and their dad babble over each other in an attempt at telling the story of Carlos’ game-winning home-base slide. She’ll be happy for him once her heart rate slows down.

Luke stays away for almost a full twenty-four hours after that particular mishap, long enough she almost asks Reggie and Alex if he talked to them about it. There’s about a thousand reasons not to, but mostly, she doesn’t know if she can even explain just what happened. She does tell Flynn, who launches into a very confusing monologue that starts with her admonishing Julie for thinking anything good can come from involving herself with a literal ghost and ends with her gushing about how many cute love songs they could write together, zero percent of which makes her feel better.

The only reason he doesn’t continue avoiding her is rehearsal, which, of course, he would never miss. She’s hoping to talk to him before they get started, but then the bus gets stuck in traffic and all of her boys are already set up with their instruments and having an impromptu jam session by the time she gets home. “What --” she hisses as she heaves the doors shut behind her. “Did I tell you guys about playing in here without me?” Alex shrugs and apologizes, and she can’t really be mad at Reggie, at least not for long.

But Luke -- he barely looks at her, nervous fingers dancing across a complicated riff even as the other boys stop playing. It takes a second of silence before he looks up to see the rest of his band staring at him. “Oh,” he says, the phrase ending in the discordant sound of fingernails on steel strings. “Yeah, right. Sorry.”

They get started, but nothing sounds right. Luke rushes the tempo and refuses to make eye contact with anyone, spinning off into fancy riffs that have no place in the song they’re working on. Reggie keeps trying to keep up with him, tripping up Alex and frustrating Julie, and when the song grinds to a cacophonous halt for the fourth time, she stands up from the piano. Reggie takes a step back.

“What is your problem?” she practically yells, stomping over to Luke. He’s been surly and unusually stubborn, and the shift from his usual cheerful, passionate demeanor builds her own stewing anxieties to a dangerous head.

“It’s not my problem you can’t keep up,” he says, and then, after watching the words register in Julie’s expression, immediately regrets it. Alex’s eyebrows shoot up and Reggie makes a very soft ‘ooooohhh’ noise under his breath.

“It’s not keeping up if you can’t hold a steady tempo,” she says, too upset over his refusal to cooperate to catch the reaction from her bandmates.

“Okay, so maybe I was rushing,” he admits, trying to walk it back. But Julie’s on a roll, and once she gets started laying into him, she very rarely lets up.

“Thank you!” she yells, the sarcasm clear in her tone. She’d been especially fond of the product so far, a song she thought embodied the perfect blend of Luke’s harder edge and her singer-songwriter roots. His sudden, uncharacteristic left turn is as much an interruption in their rehearsal as a knock to the tenuous pride she’d been building in the piece. “And what are all those riffs you’re tossing in? You have to hear how they don’t fit.”

“Oh come on,” he says, proud in his ability and therefore less willing to step down. He rolls his shoulders back and moves toward her, the challenge set in his spine. “I was shredding and you know it.” Luke is sweet and kind and silly and compassionate, but he’s also a musician, and a lead guitarist at that. His ego, though it rarely becomes an issue, is far from insubstantial.

“If you want a solo, fine!” she cries with exasperation, her hands flying through the air like they always do when she’s upset. “But you have to say something so we can give you room for it!” Her annoyance has turned down the sensitivity on her Luke-nonsense monitor, caught up enough in the trouble that she can’t see that he’s riling her up on purpose.

“What, you afraid of a little improvisation?” He’s smiling now, and his obvious glee, such a stark flip from where she thought this was going, throws off her tirade. He starts walking toward her, and his newfound physicality gives him an ability to fluster her to a much greater degree than before.

“No --” she stammers, stumbling backwards, distracted out of anger by his sparkling eyes and the power in the body approaching rapidly. “That’s not what I --” There it is again, that power he has to turn the rest of the world into radio static, her vision blurring and her hearing dulling until it’s just Luke filling up the world in front of her.

“C’mon Julie,” he says, and right now she hates his stupid smirk and the stupid way he rolls her name around in his mouth before letting it out. “you have to take risks once in a while.” She’s backed up against the piano now, her hands wrapped tight around the lid, and he’s still pushing it, strong and warm and undeniably, frustratingly male in her space.

But Julie isn’t one to let him intimidate her into silence, no matter how cute and well-muscled he may be. She takes a breath and looks him in his ridiculous sparkly eyes, poking him in his absurdly firm chest.“I am not afraid of taking risks, mister,” she says, “Let’s not forget who performed in front of her entire school to get back into the music program --”

“My idea,” he scoffs, not backing up. Why isn’t he backing up.

“Or who fronts a band of actual ghosts!” she continues, her voice increasing in volume again, and the speed of her heart tripping over itself could be from the argument or the boy who’s collarbones are less than a foot from her face. Both are entirely possible.

“Less ghost now,” he reminds her, tilting his head, his weight leaned one one leg, his hand resting on the head of his guitar, relaxed when they’re supposed to be arguing.

“You just get to poof out after we perform!” she says, only about two-thirds of her mind still focused on the fight itself, the other third completely wrapped up in the feeling of Luke in front of her. “I’m the one who has to stick around and ask questions!”

“So you’re saying you take chances,” he says, diabolically diplomatic instead of challenging. He leans forward, putting his hands on the piano behind her, caging her in with his arms. She refuses to back down again, even though his face is now inches from hers. “You’d take a leap of faith?”

“Yeah,” she says, only half-certain, because she’s not totally sure they’re still talking about music, and her heart is in the base of her throat and her stomach is somewhere around her shoes, and suddenly her hands are sweating when they definitely weren’t a minute ago. This definitely isn’t an argument about the song anymore.

“Oh yeah?” he says, and there’s the challenge again, except this one sounds more like a dare, and he’s definitely looking at her lips this time, not even trying to be subtle about it, and her hands are braced on his forearms and when did they get there? And Luke is warm and when she looks up, his eyes are on hers, and despite all that bravado and provocation there’s still a question there, and all she would have to do to answer is lift up on her toes and finally, finally press her lips against his, and --

Alex coughs. The oxygen goes out of the room like someone opened an airlock, and Julie feels herself sink, just barely, back down on her heels. The world fills back in, colors and sounds suddenly too bright, too abrasive. Tearing her eyes off Luke, she glances over his shoulder to where Reggie and Alex are, still with their instruments, watching them intently. Alex looks politely put out, his eyebrows tilted up with incredulity, like he's asking if they seriously just made him watch that. Reggie, on the other hand, hides nothing in his expression, shock and amusement there in equal parts as he glances between Alex and the two of them still tucked close against the piano, jaw askance in a surprised smile.

"Are you done?" Alex asks, in a tone that sounds less like a question. "It’s not that I mind…" he gestures between the two of them with a drumstick. "This, but like, time and place, dude." He's not talking to Julie. Luke clears his throat, appropriately chastised, but still looking smug as shit.

"Um, sorry," she mutters as he returns to his spot next to his amp.

Alex shrugs. "Not your fault," he says, "from the top?"

"Uh," she says, frozen for a moment in embarrassment and confusion. She looks to Alex, and he gives her one of his soft, kind smiles, the sort that makes her feel like everything is going to be okay. “Right, okay,” she finishes, as her hands twitch and she settles back into her body. Rushing back around to the bench, she flexes her hands over the keys, curling them into fists and then back out again when they tremble. “From the top.”

The rehearsal goes -- okay, after that. The magic is missing; therefore, while she usually feels inspired and courageous and empowered walking out of the garage, she just feels exhausted and drained. She eats dinner with her family, and her dad definitely notices that she’s uncharacteristically quiet, but saves asking about it until after Carlos is safely sequestered with his iPad. “How ya doin, kiddo?” he asks as she helps him clear up the dishes. “Everything okay?”

Julie looks at her dad with mild alarm, wondering what exactly he knows. He does his best, he really does, but it took him a while to even notice she was in a band. Not to mention, he still believes they’re holograms. “Um,” she says convincingly. “Yeah?”

He smiles kindly, in the way that means he’s very politely calling bullshit. “Alright, mija. What’s going on?”

Heaving a sigh, Julie keeps her eyes on the dishwasher she’s loading, trying her best to plan an escape route out of this conversation. “I promise, Dad,” she says, “It’s nothing.” and then, what she thinks are the magic words. “Boy stuff.”

But Ray’s been prepping for this, had conversations with Rose about it before she passed, while the cancer slowly ate her alive. She knew she wasn’t going to be able to be there for her daughter through the time in her life a girl needs her mother the most, and she wasn’t about to let him hide behind toxic masculinity and leave Julie to figure it out on her own. “Okay,” Ray says, trepidation clear in his voice but also not unwilling to approach the topic. “What’s his name?”

Julie almost drops the pot she’s scrubbing. “Does it matter?” she asks, her voice crawling up several octaves.

“Just trying to learn who is in my daughter’s life,” he answers diplomatically, sitting down at the counter to make it clear he’s not letting her out of this one easily.

“I promise, Dad,” she says, doing her best to frantically dodge the interrogation she knows is coming, regretting she brought it up at all, cursing herself for being so obvious. “It’s dumb. You don’t even know him.”

Ray nods slowly, pretending to believe her. Julie goes after the pot a little harder, because maybe if she just finishes the dishes she can go upstairs and bury herself in her bed and not have to have this conversation anymore. “It’s not that guitarist, is it?” he asks, and her spine goes stiff as a ramrod. Ray’s her dad, but he’s not blind. He’s seen the way they look at each other when they perform, the way the boy follows her around the stage like a puppy, desperate for her attention, disappointed when she jams with the other members of their band and not him. He’s an excellent musician, but Ray knows too many stories of near-legends gone sour with misdirected young love.

“No!” Julie cries immediately in an obvious lie. “Of course not!” She turns, half-laughing, explanations falling out of her mouth “We’re just friends,” she insists, lacing her fingers in front of her and nodding exaggeratedly. “Just friends. Only friends. Uh-huh. Friends. And!” she continues, gesturing widely, “he doesn’t even live here! So that… wouldn’t even make sense!” she laughs awkwardly. “So no way. That it’s him. No way it’s him.”

Ray sighs out a laugh that Julie’s too panicked to hear and leans forward on his elbows. “Alright, nina. Just be careful, okay?” She’s nodding along, edging her way towards the stairs. “You and your band…” She looks like Rose, in that hoodie that practically swallows her, hair piled messily on top of her head. Her mom was also a terrible liar, he remembers fondly. “You have something special. Don’t throw that away for a boy.”

Julie nods rapidly and then bolts, thundering up the stairs before throwing her bedroom door closed behind her and diving headfirst onto her bed, burying herself in decorative pillows. How does everyone know?? First Flynn and then Reggie and Alex and now her dad? Is she that obvious? (Um, yes.) She flops onto her back, staring up at the colorful tapestries slung across her ceiling, the string lights and posters and art. Usually, she loves her room, the feeling of her creative mind as a space she can inhabit, exploring her heart and the things she loves without having to shut out the outside world. But tonight, she feels trapped in her own head, so she grabs her notebook and squeezes out the window, perched on the roof outside her room.

The evening air is cool and crisp, the gentlest bite warning the oncoming winter, as much as there is a winter in LA. She spends a while scribbling down half-baked lyric ideas and doodling angry black scribbles around the edges of the pages when nothing comes out right. It’s harder to write on her own, now, without the steady pulse of Luke’s genius behind her, the electricity that flows between them as they create impeccable harmonies. Sometimes, it feels like music belongs to the both of them together, a joined force, like they’ve given up their individual melodies for something greater. It’s thrilling and terrifying all at once.

Eventually, she just ends up holding the notebook open to ‘Perfect Harmony’ with one hand, the other arm wrapped around her legs, her chin propped on her knees. She still hasn’t shown it to Luke, afraid of how real it feels, how clear it makes her feelings for him. Also, it’s a ballad, which they haven’t even approached yet, and she has no idea how Reggie and Alex will feel about such an explicitly romantic duet. She’s thinking that maybe she might be able to vague it up, maybe even make it a solo piece, when Luke appears next to her, like thinking about him draws him to her. (Which might actually be true -- she hasn’t examined that very closely.)

“Hey!” he says cheerfully, all awkwardness from the evening’s rehearsal ostensibly disappeared. He plucks the notebook out of her hand, using the other arm to hold back her immediate demands for its return. “New stuff?” he asks. This is not normally such a grievous invasion of privacy. Ever since they started writing together, their songwriting journals have become common property, and half the pages in hers are marked up with his handwriting and vice versa.

“It’s not ready yet!” she cries, pushing against the (stupidly strong) arm he has across her collarbone, willing to climb bodily over him to snatch the notebook back. Luke’s face very slowly falls as he reads it, the lyrics sinking in, and her protests trail off as she stops scrambling to grab it out of his hands.

He stands suddenly, pacing across the roof. “Did you --” he starts, breathing shallowly, his tongue tucking his teeth between his lips, nostrils flaring before he speaks again. “Why did you copy this out of my songbook?” It’s not accusatory, only a question, born of true confusion.

“I didn’t,” Julie replies without skipping a beat, equally baffled.

“I wrote this after the garage party,” he says. “How is it in your notebook?”

“I wrote it at school before the garage party,” she replies, doing her best to keep down the memory of the Luke in her imagination and the song coming to her fully formed in the form of a Patrick Swayze-esque daydream. She didn’t even tell Flynn about that part.

“At school…” Luke repeats, studying the lyrics with a furrow between his eyebrows, and as much as Julie is also reeling from shock at the mystery, it’s kind of adorable to watch him try and solve it. “This doesn’t make sense,” he says, looking up at her, signature grumpy expression in place. He tilts the notebook flat, like he’s presenting it to her, hoping she has the next steps. Like he’s reached his conclusion, and it’s that he’s confused.

“It doesn’t,” she says, and it comes out as half a laugh unintentionally, just looking at his ridiculous, adorable face.

“Why are you laughing?” he demands with exasperated urgency. “This is super weird!” He rushes over and collapses next to her, a mess of flannel and limbs and beautiful dumbass. He shoves the notebook back into her hands as she folds her legs underneath her, relinquishing her grip on her knees.

“Yeah,” she sighs, unable to wipe the grin from her face. “Yeah, it is.” Luke looks like he wants to ask her what she’s smiling at, but then he starts smiling, too, because her happiness is his happiness. Julie’s already past the strange coincidence, lost in the joy of his gray-green eyes and the feeling of him next to her. She’s too used to strange, to the ever-changing rules of the afterlife and the constant uncertainty that Luke and her boys bring to her life. Yes, it’s strange, but she’s in a ghost band and her crush is dead and still manages to look at her like that so she has a certain level of perspective when it comes to things like this.

“What are you --” Luke tries to say, but her eyes are on his and they’re warm and brown and kind and he’s finding it a little hard to form sentences.

“This is ridiculous,” she says, and he’s nodding without knowing what he’s agreeing to. “We wrote the same song on the same day,” she laughs, and he nods again, half-listening, half lost in her. She’s excited now, about the possibility brought on by magic and her connection -- their connection -- souls tied together with passion and music and love. “That’s impossible!” It cements something for her, the feeling of coming together, of sliding into place. They’re so solid, tight, together, on the same wavelength… musicians have put it a thousand ways throughout the years, to communicate the feeling of a co-writer, a bandmate, a partner, reading your mind, singing the next line, playing the next riff that was just in your head. Julie and Luke get the added bonus of being inexplicably spiritually linked. Nothing can break that, or replace it. She’s not scared of it, anymore.

“Impossible,” he echoes. He always feels a little bit stronger, a little more alive whenever he’s with Julie like this, just the two of them, hanging out or writing music, and he’s in her immediate proximity, soaking in the warmth of her brown skin and brown eyes and the chaotic energy of her wild, incredible hair. She pulls him in, without knowing the power she holds or the light that she emits, casting a golden glow over everything around her.

“Luke,” she says, and he tunes back in, realizing that he’s steadily leaning toward her as they sit on the roof, Julie cross-legged, Luke angled toward her, one leg stretched out, his elbow propped on his other knee. “Are you listening?”

“Um,” he swallows, “Yeah?” but he’s looking at her lips, not her eyes, and he’s thinking about kissing her, just once, just to see what she tastes like, remembering the smell of gummies and m&ms, hoping she’ll be just as sweet. She doesn’t say anything, mostly because she forgot what she was going to say in the first place, watching his eyes watch her mouth, breathing him in. He’s too close again, closer than any friend or bandmate should be, and there’s no mic between them, and the door to her room is closed, and there’s no bandmates or brothers or dads, and her heart pounds in her chest.

When she tilts her chin towards him, she feels ready, finally, knowing what he means to her. Only a breath separates them, but they both stop, waiting for the inevitable interruption, the door slamming open, or someone calling up from the yard below, but it doesn’t come. Realizing what they’re both waiting for, they breathe out a simultaneous laugh, their foreheads dropping together. The tension fades, and Julie’s smile feels uncontainable, demanding every inch of her face as this beautiful, goofy, genus, talented boy adores her while she sits there, falling in love with him.

It’s easier, this moment, than the one before, because it feels less laden with the weight of someone pulling away, unsure or unwanting. This moment is comfortable, joyful, the two of them acknowledging every minute of want and disappointment and hilarious misfortune over the past few days, acknowledging what they would have asked for instead. And when Luke finally reaches up, pulling her in gently with his hand on her neck, his thumb sliding over her jaw, it’s with confidence and tenderness, reassured that she wants this, too. Julie leans easily into the touch, and when their lips meet, the spark and rush is better than any performance, any screaming crowd drowning in lights. They kiss each other, moving together, leaning in as one, harmony made in the movement of mouths and the press of lips, and this moment -- it’s perfect.

#jatp #juke #julie and the phatoms #julie x luke #luke x julie #jatp fic #julie and the phantoms fic #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #my stuff #homebodynobody #julie molina #luke patterson

50 notes · View notes

makeitcool · 4 years ago

Quote

I am not having a good time.

I inform my father via FaceTime as I create a paste-like consistency in my mouth by over chewing too salty raisins and not salty enough peanuts for too many hours from my massive Costco trail mix bag, which I am determined to make consist solely of M&Ms so I can have a few moments of unbridled joy when I reach the bottom of the bottomless bag, causing my father to inquire as to why I do not just purchase a bag of M&Ms. He doesn’t understand.

2 notes · View notes

ozma914 · 4 years ago

Text

Movie review: Black Widow

Finally, Black Widow gets her own movie! At least she beat Hawkeye.

Considering what happened in the last Avengers movie, "Black Widow" just about has to be a prequel. (You crazy kids and your two year old spoilers.) Sure enough, we open with a very young Natasha Romanov, living a quiet life in Ohio with her parents and cute little sister, Yelena.

But it's not that kind of a movie.

Natasha is torn from her family and sent to the Red Room, where she grows up to look just like Scarlett Johansson and becomes a Black Widow--Russian spy and assassin who somehow keeps her mid-American accent.

Fast forward to the events of Captain America: Civil War, which you don't really have to watch to see this, but why wouldn't you? Natasha finds herself on the losing end of an Avenger vs. Avenger slamfest, and with almost all her comrades imprisoned, she finds herself on the run. But that's okay: She has a lot of experience being on the wrong side of the law. Natasha finds a self-sufficient house trailer in the middle of nowhere and settles down to watch James Bond movies while the outside world cools down. (The particular movie she watches foreshadows a reveal later on.)

But it's not that kind of movie, either.

Natasha is drawn back into the spy world again, trying to infiltrate the Red Room and rescue her sister black widows--including her sister (played with style by Florence Pugh, who I will lay money on being the next black widow to become, well, the next Black Widow.) Along the way she and her sister have a family reunion that's to die for, and also to kill for, because it's that kind of a movie.

Because "Black Widow" is set mostly in 2016, when other things were going on in the Marvel universe, the movie can't make use of the usual MCU supporting characters. That's a good thing, because it allows development not only of the character, but also her own cast of great supporting characters. Also, we finally get to find out what happened in Budapest, and the throwaway line from the first Avengers movie becomes a major plot point.

I get a little CGI weary sometimes, but "Black Widow" makes good use of modern effects, and the fight scenes are spectacular. At the same time--and in no small part because of acting skill--we get a real feel for what Natasha and her family go through as they fight to make peace with their past. The only real complaint is that we won't see Johansson in the role again, but on the bright side "Black Widow" serves as an origin story for her sister Yelena, who apparently will be an anti-hero in the upcoming Hawkeye series.

(By the way: If you're any kind of a fan, you'll quite definitely want to stick around for the post-credits scene.)

In the end, "Black Widow" is not so much a superhero movie as an amped up spy thriller with a surprising amount of heart, and unsurprising amount of action.

My score:

Entertainment value: 5 out of 5 M&Ms. The good milk chocolate.

Oscar potential: 3 out of 5 M&Ms. Maybe in the effects related categories. There's some quality acting going on here from several cast members, but the Academy is still prejudiced against SF/fantasy movies. That's especially sad with "Black Widow", which features two Oscar winners and, in its main roles, two Oscar nominees.

http://markrhunter.com/ https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

#black widow #marvel #mcu #movies #review #movie review

2 notes · View notes

mhdiaries · 5 years ago

Photo

Wave 3 Toralei Stripe Diary

July. Two. Five.

Ooh they’re telling math jokes now...

Q: What do you get if you divide the circumference of a jack-o-lantern by its diameter?

A: Pumpkin Pi!

The math geeks I’m stuck on this bus with think that this is funny. So funny in fact, that the harpy sitting in front of me shoots milk out of her nose when she hears the punch line. I don’t think it’s funny at all. I’d rather be listening to the music I have stored on my iCoffin but two hours into our five-hour ride home my iCoffin gave up the ghost. It should have lasted the whole trip and then some except that one of my math camp roomies “accidentally” unplugged my iCoffin charger last night when she plugged in her fright light. I don’t even know why a ghost needs a fright light. What? Was she afraid she would trip over something and go “bump in the night?” I realized what happened when we woke up this morning but we had to leave first thing so I didn’t have time to put a full charge on it. At least I got enough battery life to block out the two hours dedicated to the singing of “X Number Bottles of Ghoul Juice on the Wall.” To add to the misery the seats on this bus only have room for two monsters and Meowlody and Purrsephone are of course sitting together which left me stuck in a seat next to a troll named Teala who had never been away from her bridge for more than a day until she came to math camp.She cried herself to sleep every night. Not that any other monster but me noticed but then again I notice everything. I also noticed Teala wasn’t laughing at any of the math jokes either. In fact she seemed to be more miserable than I was. Well now, here I was thinking she was missing her bridge but if that were the case why didn’t she seem excited about going home? “Dish,” I said. She turned and looked at me for a moment and then stared back ahead. “Okay - suit yourself then,” I said and then tried to curl up in the seat to take a cat nap which I had almost accomplished when she said; “My boy-fiend broke up with me...by text...the first night of math camp.” She still wasn’t looking at me but she wasn’t crying either. “He was my first real boyfriend and...and I don’t know why I’m telling you ‘cause you don’t seem to care about any monster besides yourself and you’ll probably figure out a way to use this to make me even more miserable.” I didn’t show it, but that really hurt. Just because I enjoy the chaos that a good practical joke brings doesn’t mean that I’m intentionally cruel does it? I don’t think it does and besides; where’s the fun of kicking some monster when they’re already down? It’s a lot more fun to see the surprise on a monster’s face when they think they’ve got it all together and you can “help them” see that they don’t. So I said, “Guess you better tell me the whole story then so I can do a thorough job.” That actually brought a ghost of a smile to her face. Teala told me that her ex boy-fiend was applying to colleges and that he decided he needed to keep his “options open” in case he might meet his “intellectual equal” at school. At first I didn’t believe he actually wrote that and then she showed me the text. “Does he really think he’s that smart,” I asked. She kind of shrugged and said, “He’s scary smart but not as good at math as I am, especially withy differential equations.” She told me he really wanted to get into this one school because his favorite mad scientist taught there. I’d never heard of the school but I knew who the mad scientist was because Mr. Hack made use watch a bunch of his videos in class. The videos were deadly boring but the mad scientist had this odd accent and strange speech pattern. I used to mimic his voice in class to make Mr. Hack jump. I’d wait until Mr. Hack’s back was turned and then scream, “Huhhacckkk - theeese stuuudannts reeelease youuu wuh-ill ah-yuat wa-unce!” It cost me several days in detention and a trip to Headless Headmistress Bloodgood’s office the last time I mimicked the mad scientist but even Mr. Hack admitted he couldn’t tell the difference between the scientist’s voice and my imitation of it. We talked about a few more things and then Teala finally fell asleep. I was able to finally fall asleep as well but not before having to hear another math joke followed by an explosion of milk from the seat in front of me.

July. Two. Eight.

I went to MH today to pick up some pictures I left in the FearBook office. When I was done I went up to the belfry. It’s a good place to keep an eye on things without other eyes watching you. It’s also a good place to take a nap. Usually the hunchback who rings the bells...the bells...works up there but he was on summer vacation in France or somewhere so I had the place to myself; until Spectra came floating through that is. She thinks that she’s very stealthy but it’s almost impossible to sneak up on me and I heard the rattle of her chains long before she actually appeared. I pretended to be asleep for a moment then with my eyes still closed I said, “What do you want Spectra?” “Oh, hello Toralei. Did you hear the news?” Most monsters don’t trust anything they hear from Spectra. I know better. There’s always an element of truth in her “news”. You just need to know how to listen. Here’s an example; Spectra told me she heard that Nefera is moving back to town and will be taking over for Ms. Kindergruber in Home Ick. Not only that but Ms. Kindergruber is also going to quit teaching to become a roadie for her favorite rock and roll band. Now as much fun as it is to imagine Ms. K. climbing stacks of amps while wearing a sleeveless leather vest, bandana and steel toed boots it’s not going to happen. Although when compared to the thought of Nefera actually “lowering herself” to teach, it’s practically a done deal Ms K will be hitting the road. I’m pretty sure out of that confusing jumble of information the one true fact is that Nefera is moving back to town and probably sooner rather than later...now there’s a monster who enjoys kicking some body when it’s down.

July. Three. Zero.

Got an email today from Teala, the troll girl I sat with on the ride home from math camp. Apparently her ex boy-fiend told her that he got a call from the mad scientist he wanted to study under. The scientist told her ex that his test scores indicated a “skuhh-ill weeeakness in diffuhh-wrenntial eeeequay-shunns” and that her ex should find some monster that was intellectually superior and “geeet sah-ummm tuutorr-ing”. Her ex was certain it was the professor since “no monster could fake that voice.” He also apologized to Teala for being an arrogant jerk and asked if she would tutor him in differential equations. Teala told him that she would have to check her schedule. Sometimes it is just purrrecious the way things work out for the beast.

August. One. Three.

I bought a ball of dragon thread today for Sweet Fangs. It’s just about the only material that’s strong enough to survive more than one play session with her. I don’t know what I’m going to do when Sweet Fangs gets bigger because I’m probably going to need the whole dragon and I’m not sure mom and dad are gong to be good with that.

August. Two. Five.

M&P came over today. They’re like my sisters and I can’t imagine how boring unlife would be without them. We do just about everything together and some monsters even think we’re related but we’re not. Not that it matters since we don’t really care what other monsters think anyway. We are who we are and any monster or monsters that want to try and herd us better get ready for a long miserable day. Today we weren’t worried about being herded, today was a brainstorm session. Our mission, repay Cleo de Nile and her minions for not only ruining our perfectly planned graduation prank but also for taking away part of our valuable summer vacation by “arranging” our trip to math camp. Knowing that it was Cleo who got the better of us is almost as irritating as being wet or having my fur stroked the wrong way. I can’t believe that I actually helped her when she first wanted to be a part of the Fear Squad. Cleo didn’t even know how to do a cartwheel, much less a round off. So I took her under my claw and taught her everything I knew and since I’d been doing gymnastics from the time I was a kitten I knew a lot. I finally got Cleo to the point where she started to “get it” and instead of being a liability she started contributing. I figured that for all my hard work and leadership Nefera would make me the Fear Squad captain when she graduated. Only she didn’t - she passed it onto Cleo. I can still remember what Nefera said to me when I confronted her about it. “I didn’t want Cleo to succeed - I wanted her to be humiliated but since you helped her, you get to deal with the consequences.” Then Cleo acted as if she deserved to be the captain and that she automatically knew everything there was to know about leading the Fear Squad. She should have showed some humility and stepped aside. She didn’t so now it’s up to me to teach her some new lessons and I can’t wait for class to be back in session.

August. Three. One.

There’s a meteor shower tonight, which will give us the purrrfect opportunity to practice the three D’s. Divert. Design. Demure. First I divert attention away from myself - although tonight the meteor shower should do that for me, next I design a “surprise” for my intended victim student and then after the unexpected happens I demure - “Oh my, what happened here?” More later...

Ended up scraping the three D’s tonight, mostly because the meteor shower diverted me. I was supposed to meet M&P at this coffee shop down close to the beach - it’s the only time I go to the beach since sand + water + fur = unhappy werecat - but they were late so I grabbed a catnipuccino and waited. The owner turned down the lights of the shop so it was almost dark and then the sky was falling. The ghouls showed up just as somewhere down the beach a monster started playing guitar and I said, “Just because we’ve got nine lives doesn’t mean we need to rush through this one.” And we didn’t.

#monster high #monster high diary #toralei stripe #text post #wave 3

68 notes · View notes