#sympatico

[herzspalter]

Do robots dream of Sympatico?

Reward sketch I got to do heHEHEH

[millerdoc]

Sympatico

[waybackwanderer]

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THE IDEAL MATERNITY HOME - Homepage ; ButterBox Babies Apr 2001 Archived Web Page 🧩

[afditlodap]

dan nose piercing when

[bringbackthepornbots]

Ishmael (approached by a stranger named after a prophet, actively warning him away from Ahab): This is probably nothing

Ishmael (seeing a gnarled tree): Hold me Queequeg it's a sign of doom

[galoots]

[navree]

been talking about this with my dad but aoc has honestly grown on me in the last couple years, especially when compared to both my distaste for her for her first two terms and also most other members of "the squad"

[ihavewritersblockbutinreallife]

Yall I know it's been a while since the last Frightclaw post, but I'm currently in the process of moving, so life's a bit swamped rn

I'll have lots of time to do stuff for yall soon tho!

In the meantime have a tiny Brainstorm that I made for my friend @dinosaurqueenmab

[skyland2703]

Tarrick and Santaura are actually the ultimate lovestory....?

[congregamus]

Further consideration.

[waybackwanderer]

undefined

"The Ideal Maternity Home: The Story Of The Ideal Maternity Home" Dec 2000 Archived Web Page 🧩 🔊

[lovelytsunoda]

proud mary // han lue

summary: now living a quiet life with their daughter, han and y/n reflect on how they got there, and all the good moments that are still yet to come.

pairing: han lue x wife! reader

warnings: this is a big one so listen up: mentions of post pregnancy mental illness, mentions of pregnancy and starting a a family, weddings, ignoring tokyo drift canon because I fucking can, (actually I ignored a lot of canon) han is about to activate a shit ton of daddy issues

I left a good job in the city, working for the man every night and day and I never lost one minute of sleeping, I was worrying 'bout the way the things might've been.

big wheel keeps on turning, proud mary keeps on burning. and we’re rolling, rolling, rolling down the river

2009, tokyo, japan.

the garage was dark, lit only by the moonlight and the small lamps atop the workstations. han lue had closed up hours ago, and everyone was gone save for him and his lover.

“han, what are you doing?” y/n laughed, sitting at a table scattered with nail polish bottles and a shellac brisa light. “it looks like a smudge.”

“it’s a drifting car!” han laughed, staring through the large magnifying glass that was allowing him to see the design he was attempting to paint on his lovers thumbnail. “see, there’s the spoiler and those are the headlights!”

friday night manicures had become somewhat of a tradition. y/n hated painting her nails with her non dominant hand, but she also didn’t speak enough japanese to venture out and get her nails professionally done. when she and han started dating, he offered to do it for her, easing the aggravation that sometimes came with doing mail designs yourself.

“well, now that you’ve pointed it out.” she laughed, kissing him on the cheek. “I love you.”

they had been together coming up on two years. two long, wonderful years. she was a mechanic and he was drifter, it was almost meant to be. she stopped him from getting himself killed, and in return, he loved her unconditionally.

they were sympatico like that. she loved his sense of humour, his protectiveness. he loved her smarts and the excited way she talked, animatedly and with hand gestures.

“what do you say we get out of japan for a bit?”

han should have known this question was coming. y/n was a restless spirit, never meant to stay in one place for too long. in a way, han was as well. he could tell that his lover had been more restless than usual, either from missing home or needing a change of scenery.

“a friend of mine, his name is dominic torretto, he’s got this place down in the dominican republic.” han started slowly, unsure of how much he wanted to involved her in. y/n was his whole world, and what dom and mia would be running was far bigger than street racing in shibuya.“he called me the other day wondering if I would run a job with him. but it’s not entirely legal and I don’t blame you if you don’t want any part in it.”

“baby,” she frowned, placing her hand inside the blue light machine. “of course I’ll go with you. I never pass up a chance to go somewhere sunny, and you know that I’d go anywhere with you. what we’re running here with twinkie and sean isn’t exactly legal either, you know. I’m a big girl, seoul-oh. I can handle myself.”

“I know. I just want you to know what you’re getting into. you’re important to me, y/n.”

“I know.” she said softly, running her hand up his arm as she rested her head on his shoulder, gently kissing his neck. “so when does our flight leave?”

“whenever you want it to. I haven’t even bought the tickets yet. are you ready for an adventure?”

“fuck yeah.” y/n smiled, pressing her lips to his. “but you have to paint my other nails first.”

han laughed, the kind of laugh that would always set loose the butterflies in y/n’s chest, the kind that reminded her why she fell in love with him in the first place.

“I don’t think I have it in me to paint another drifting car.”

“then what are you going to paint on my thumbnail?” y/n laughed back, looking down at her nails and realizing that her lover had actually done a very good job painting a drifting car manicure.

“I don’t know,” han shrugged. he would deny it if asked, but he actually loved painting y/n’s nails. he thought it brought them closer together, built up intimacy in their relationship.

they were moments he wouldn’t trade for the world.

“I’ll just do like a checkered flag or something.”

“but you did that on my index finger!”

laughing, y/n turned her head to kiss him. “come on, you big dork. the sooner we get my nails done, she sooner I can model that new lingerie set I bought last weekend.”

“sold!” han laughed, knocking over bottles of gel polish as he searched for the bright pink he had used to paint the car on his girlfriends other hand. “drifting car? f1 car? whatever my gorgeous gorgeous girl wants.”

“I love you, han lue.”

“love you more, pretty girl.”

2010, monte carlo, monaco.

it was set up to be another sleepless night without her lover by her side, and y/n was having none of that as she wandered the deck of the comfortable yacht, looking around at the decorations that the crew had spent the day putting up.

she was just praying that it wasn’t going to rain.

nothing was about to spoil her big day.

she scurried below deck, past a half open door through which she could hear roman pearce’s guttural snores. fingers curled around the door knob, she tried not to make any noise as she eased the door open, slipping into the cabin.

“you couldn’t sleep either?” she laughed, looking at the king size bed where her fiancé lay, phone in his hands as he texted his mother, who the crew was picking up in the harbour in the morning before the ceremony began.

“got a lot on my mind.” han shrugged. “fucking tej won’t shut up about the reception and the playlist and I’ve told him a million times that it’s not going to be some crazy rave kinda thing.” the man sat up, gesturing for his soon-to-be wife to come closer. "it's doing my head in. seriously, he wants to do a club mix of 'i would do anything for love'."

y/n snorted. han thought she looked like an angel in the low cabin light, a halo glowing around her head and shining off her white silk pajamas, the ones with the tiny shorts and 'bride' embroidered on the butt. "how the fuck do you turn the best meat loaf song in existence into a club rave song?"

"the fuck if i know." han shook his head, hands sliding up her thighs as she came to stand in between his legs. "jagi, sarang-hae."

honey, i love you.

"mhm." she hummed, a smile on her lips as she leaned down to kiss him sweetly. "i love it when you speak korean. it's so fucking sexy."

the last year had been stressful. the dominican job had been way more complex than y/n had expected, and it took a while for han's old crew to warm up to her. it took a while, but eventually she managed to crack dom toretto, and two weeks later, han got down on one knee and asked y/n to marry him.

hence why they were on a yacht off the coast of monaco, the entire thing decked out in fairly lights and tulle.

"if you think tej is bad, you try getting in between letty and those large plastic ribbons on the back of the deck chairs." y/n laughed. "who knew letty ortiz was so serious about weddings?"

she was practically sitting on his lap now, head resting comfortably on his shoulder as the boat rocked back and forth.

han seoul-oh was her home. her safe harbour. she always felt safe in his arms, at his side, even when they were plunging into almost certain danger like they had in the dominican.

"i brought you something." y/n hummed, reaching into the pockets of her shorts and withdrawing the small cardboard packet.

"fake nails?"

"help me put them on? for old time's sake." she passed him the glittery white french tips, no doubt chosen to match her dress for the ceremony tomorrow.

"i can't wait to spend my life with you. and believe me, there will be plenty more manicure mondays."

2014, monterrey, california.

"daddy, where's mommy?"

"i don't think she's feeling well, poppy." han lue frowned, looking over at his daughter, who was perched in her little kiddie chair at the kitchen table. "i'm going to go check on her, okay? stay right here."

how do you explain depression to an infant? poppy jae-i han had been one of the best things to have ever happened to han seoul-oh. but in the almost twenty-four months since their bundle of joy had been born, something had felt off about his wife.

everyone hears about the mental health complications that can come with childbirth, but no mother ever thinks it would be her.

every husband fears it, too.

"y/n, jagi?" han tried to keep his voice level as he eased open the bedroom door. the couple had bought a ranch house in monterrey when they learned they were expecting. it was one of the few things they used their ill-gotten gains as a part of dom's crew for. "poppy's asking for you."

it broke his heart to see his wife like this, hair messed and greasy, red splotches under her eyes from where she had been crying.

"am i a bad mother, seoul-oh?" she asked, voice small. she seemed so tiny and fragile underneath the layers of blankets on the queen bed. "she always seems to cry when i'm around, but never with you. poppy loves you more than she loves me."

"what?" it was all han could do to stop himself from crying as he sat on the bed, gently running his fingers through y/n's hair. "sweetheart, what's brought this on? poppy loves you. you're her mom. she needs you."

"mia makes it look so easy." y/n sniffled, pulling herself up to a sitting position. she's lost weight. not a noticeable amount, or even an unhealthy one, but enough that her husband knows. there are many things that you can hide from the man you share your bed with, but han knows. he knows she's not doing well. "and i'm fucking shit at it, han."

"look at me, pretty girl." han encouraged, reaching for her hands. "you are such a good mother. i know you're struggling right now, and i know you're hurting but you need to know that poppy loves you so much. she was asking about you over breakfast, you know."

"i don't know who i am any more. i've lost my sense of self."

han frowned, brushing a few strands of greasy hair away from her forehead before leaning down and gently kissing her hairline.

"listen, i was talking to brian last night-"

"of course you were fucking talking to brian."

"-and he thinks you should talk to mia. they're passing through town today on their way back from dom and letty's, brian and i are going to take the kids out to the zoo or whatever, and you and mia should do something." he suggested, running his hand comfortingly up and down his lover's back. "go to the mall, get a coffee. i think she could really help you. she's been through this before."

y/n inhaled shakily, pulling away from han. "what if something happens to poppy and i'm not there?"

"y/n, everything is going to be okay. i promise. brian will be there, the kids will be in great hands. go do something with mia, darling. find yourself again, yeah?"

"okay." y/n nodded, still clutching his hand like it was her lifeline. "i can do that."

"mommy?" a small voice called. poppy had managed to get herself all the way from the kitchen to the master bedroom, where han had left the door ajar just in case poppy needed them. "are you okay?"

"oh, sweetheart, come here." y/n said, tears beginning to fall.

because how could she ever think that her little bundle of joy didn't love her as much as she did? poppy waddled over to the bed, and han hefted the toddler onto the mattress so that y/n could pull her close.

"you know that mummy loves you, right?"

"yes. i love you too, mommy."

"see." han smiled. "you're going to be okay. we're going to get through this."

2017, monterrey, california.

"i genuinely can't comprehend that roman pearce is getting married."

the family of three was walking down the nail care aisle at walmart, a welcome addition to their weekly shopping trip as y/n scanned the packages on the rack for a set of acrylic nails.

han laughed, one hand around his wife's waist and his chin on her shoulder as he leaned against the shopping cart. "it's not going to last. they may be getting married on saturday but i bet that by christmas roman is going to call and tell us she asked for a divorce."

"don't be so cynical." y/n laughed, kissing her husband softly before holding up a small white box. "do these go with my dress?"

"they'll go with anything, babe." han said, moving to whisper in her ear “they'd look even better wrapped around my c-"

"i want nails like mom's!" poppy han's shout cut him off, the little girl looking at the array of disney princess nails on the lower shelves.

laughing, han knelt down next his daughter, one hand on her shoulder. "which one do you want, princess? do you want frozen, tinker bell? mulan?"

"i want the ariel ones." poppy smiled, reaching for the pack of little mermaid nails. han helped her get them off the hook before lifting her up, carrying the six year old securely against his chest.

"seoul-oh, she's like six, you're spoiling her by carrying her all the time." y/n laughed, dropping both packs of nails in the cart.

"what, she's not heavy, sweetheart." han grins. "besides, i have to stay in shape somehow."

y/n rolls her eyes. "sweetie, it's bold of you to assume that you were ever in shape. but i loved you anyways, didn't i?"

back at home, they settled in the living room, near the large bay window. y/n watched contentedly from the kitchen as han sat at the coffee table across from poppy, delicately brushing nail glue across his daughter's tiny nails, dropping the glittery little mermaid nails on top.

it had taken a while to get to this peaceful, quiet part of their life, but y/n han was so glad that they had made it. that she had seoul-oh and that she had little poppy.

"be careful with your nails, they might come off. now, go get your homework done before we make the pizza, okay?"

poppy scurried off down the hall to her room, and y/n padded across the shag carpet, looping her arms around her husbands neck as she gave him a kiss.

"i'm so lucky, you know that. i'm happy and healthy again, and i have you and poppy. that's everything i could ever ask for." she said softly, resting her head against han's chest as the man tilted his head down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

of course they both missed the good old days. the days of adrenaline and adventure. but brian and mia had left, and then y/n and han, and soon after was letty and dom. they were moving on with their lives, a chapter of glitz and glamour coming to a close.

"i want another one."

y/n froze, pulling back from her husband. "what?"

"i want another baby. and i know what we went through last time, and i fully understand if you're not willing to take that chance again, but god, y/n, i want a big family with you." han explained, holding his wife's hands. "poppy is growing up. soon she's going to be too cool for dear old dad. and then there will be boys-"

"or she'll be like you," y/n cuts him off with a laugh. "in which case there will be lots and lots of girls."

"god help us all. my little girl is going to break a lot of hearts one day."

"and you want another one?"

"honestly? yeah, i do."

"then i guess we'd better start trying. multiplication isn't that hard, so poppy's gonna be looking for us within the next hour." y/n hummed, kissing her lover softly.

han smiled against her lips, hands slipping into her jeans pockets to cop a feel of his wife's ass. "i only need half that."

TAGS:

@libraryofloveletters @magnummagnussen @mignonricciardo @sidcrosbyspuck @cartierre @monzabee @scuderiamh @daydreamingleclerc @diorleclerc @oconso @cl16version

[johnwickb1tsch]

Excessive Force : a Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE AMAAAZING @treedaddymcpuffpuff 😘😘😘) - Chapter FOURTEEN ---> (all chapters)

trigger warnings: mention of police shooting, child trafficking, past childhood trauma, abuse, etc. plz take care!

“Are you serious?!” You have to move the phone away from your ear to avoid a blown drum from Sheila’s screech. 

“Yup.”

“Okay, why don’t you sound as excited as me?” 

“I’m nervous. He’s really forward. And, I haven’t been on a date in forever.” That didn’t end horribly… You’ve decided not to count the fiasco with Julian. You’re in your room, fingering through the limited collection of nice clothes in your closet. You briefly debate wearing a turtleneck and thick linen pants just to piss him off. But, also, there’s that little sundress you bought at the mall that you’ve never gotten a chance to wear… The pretty, soft color would pair very nicely with your silky cream bra and panty set—that you also have never worn. You’re starting to re-think the whole not being a prude thing. 

Plus, it’s hot outside.

Sheila pulls you from your search. “Listen, if he tries anything, just kick him in the dick. Works every time.”

“He’s like eight feet tall. I don’t know if I can reach his dick… with my feet.” 

You both giggle. 

“That’s why they make step stools.” 

“Like, for that exact reason?” 

Sheila’s one of those people that has proven to be supportive. You met her on a bus tour your first week in LA and have been buddies ever since. It works perfectly since you both have hectic work schedules and don’t really expect anything from the other one. She calls you for drinks, you call her for lunch. Sympatico. 

“Obviously. So, he’s tall. Is he hot?” 

You tug your bottom lip between your teeth when you think back to his bare, bruised body on your exam table, those mile long, strong thighs that caged you in and felt more like they belonged to an Amazon Boa rather than a man. 

“Okay, that silence either means hell yes or hell no, so which is it?” You hear the grin in Sheila’s voice.

“First one.” 

You end up telling her about his persistent hospital visits, him pulling you over, maybe omitting some—okay, no, a lot of the details just so she doesn’t want to kill him just yet. You also haven’t told her about the Julian debacle–or that Tom basically rescued you. 

You also leave out that he just happens to be the new superhero on every news channel right now. You’re still processing that yourself, and it’s not boding well for you keeping your cool with this man. 

As it turned out, it was the news that informed you of Officer Tom Ludlow’s whereabouts those lonely night’s you’d missed him harassing you on that lonely stretch of highway. He wasn’t ignoring you. He was rescuing two teenage girls who had been kidnapped and trafficked by a gang. According to the report, Ludlow had entered the house after hearing a cry for help, alone, and gunned down every single one of the gangbangers before setting the girls free.  

Parts of this story should have alarmed you, but there had been a time in your past when you would have given anything for a person of authority to ride to your rescue, red tape be damned. How many times had the cops come to your house for a domestic disturbance between your parents, and left you in a bad situation because of some legal technicality or another? How had they seen you, scared and dirty, cowering in the doorway, and left you behind? The horrors you could have told them, if only they’d cared to ask without your parents there to overhear and threaten you, but every time until the last time, they’d just left you in the hellhole that had been your childhood home.   

How different your life—your sister’s lives—would have been if you had a Thomas Ludlow back then.

The twin girls’ MISSING posters and billboards were all over the city. Most anyone with the power to do something had given up on them as a lost cause, just another sad story, written them off as tragically probably dead in a gutter, but not Ludlow. Ludlow had risked his neck (and possibly his badge, because you’d heard of the old “I heard a cry for help” trick to gain entry, and it was almost always code for “I didn’t have a warrant, what are you going to do about it?”, to get them out, and goddammit if that didn’t just warm you to your toes and soften your heart.

Worse yet, you feel like the biggest asshole for calling him a fraud, to his face, the night after it all went down. He’d just taken it on the chin, and he still asked you out. 

Ok, he technically extorted you, but it just doesn’t feel as sinister now as it had last night. He’d been bold, and borderline needy for some human tenderness, and fuck if you didn’t understand all too well why now. 

Now, rather than having to keep yourself from tearing him a new one, you were afraid you were going to have to restrain yourself from crawling into his lap at the first opportunity, and fucking his brains out for being such a goddamed hero. 

“Oh, he’s a freak!” Despite saying this, she sounds like she’s twirling her hair and kicking her feet. 

You snort. “He’s got..uh…nice hands.” 

You decide on the sundress and the bra-panty set, but you don’t bother laying them out in preparation, because you’re still telling yourself that this isn’t that big of a deal and you’re not that invested and that if Tom Ludlow kisses you, you won’t burst into flames.

You want to take a bath, leave some scent of those seldom used lavender lemon oils lingering on your skin, but decide against it. 

No. Actually. You’re doing it. Taking a nice,  warm, spiced soak, rubbing lotion over every piece of you except the very sensitive bits, shimmying into the undergarments. The panties end up being cheekier than you like, but your butt looks cute, and the dress covers everything pretty good, anyway—well, everything that matters. 

After putting your hair up in a messy bun and throwing some mascara on, you’re ready for—actually, who the fuck are you kidding, you are the opposite of ready. Borderline panicking at the thought of this man coming to pick you up and taking you out and putting on his lewd charm and ruining this cute underwear. 

By the time he buzzes downstairs, it’s too late to decide on another pair of shoes. You have to live with sandals—with the fact that he might just look down and get a full, unfiltered view of your toes curling when he opens his pretty mouth. 

You’re totally fucked, here. 

You think it again when you open the door, finding his lean form all in black, leaning on the wall with his hands in his pockets and his full bottom lip between his teeth, like he’s already thinking about eating you up. You literally feel it as his eyes look you up and down, from your messy bun to your pink painted toes. It’s been two seconds, and already you are soaked between your thighs. 

Doomed. You are just fucking doomed, and a part of you is just ready to surrender, because it takes so much goddamn energy to fight your attraction to this man. You can feel it like live electricity crackling over your skin. 

Of course, there’s that other part of you that wants to run right back up those stairs and lock yourself away from this gorgeous devil.

“Hey, beautiful.”

Your mouth opens to reply, but your brain takes a few seconds to catch up, utterly short circuited by how ridiculously handsome he is in his black button down, his dark pants belted low on his hips, those big feet in black boots. It’s a little strange, seeing him without his badge or his gun on his hip–but you can work with this. 

“Hi,” you answer, scathingly clever as ever. 

“Ready to go?” 

You’d brought down your purse, to avoid inviting him into the private sanctuary that is your little shoebox of an apartment, but now you almost regret it. 

“Yeah. Where are we going?” You step out the door, but he doesn’t move back, relishing your close proximity with a smirk. But there is a new softness in his brown eyes as he looks down at you that makes you a little weak in your knees. He reaches up to touch your cheek, feather light, and it boggles your mind how this man can be such a beast, and yet so gentle when he wants to be. 

“You’ll see.” You narrow your eyes at him, but for once, it’s more playful than fueled by annoyance. “Relax,” he says, his shapely mouth dancing as he suppresses a smile. “You’re in good hands, honey.” 

You don’t even flinch, as he drives this final nail into your coffin, the wave of desire inspired by the thought of those oh-so-capable hands and what they just might do to you tonight buzzing down your spine. This is how you die–you are strangely, almost, ok with it. 

When he has you safely ensconced in the passenger seat of his sleek black Charger you look over at him, his long arm draped over the wheel as he navigates the hostile environment of LA traffic like a shark patrolling a reef. “So…I saw you on the news last night.”

He lifts one of those dark brows, though his expression remains otherwise unreadable. “Haven’t really looked at what they’re saying,” he admits, like he’s used to the media getting the details wrong towards their own ends. 

“They said that you saved two underaged girls that were being traffiked?”

His mouth turns down, and you wonder if you’ve killed the happy vibe of the evening so soon with your nosy questions. But then again–you need to know. It’s a gnawing curiosity in your gut not just for the events that transpired, but the man who orchestrated them. Who you are currently alone in a car with, so you reason you have a right to know.

“Yeah,” he simply answers, not keen to crow his own praises. 

“And you…killed all those guys?”

He gives a sigh that seems to come from the bottom of his soul. You sense a weariness in him that he’s never shown on the outside before. 

“Yeah.” A long silence draws out between you, before he adds, “They were very bad dudes, y/n. Please don’t be afraid of me.”

You can’t exactly say that you’re not–but ironically, the news of him shooting down those gangsters really has nothing to do with it.   

“I’m not. I mean–if they were abusing those girls, then they deserved it.”

He looks you over then, an appraising look as though you’ve given him some new information about your character. Maybe information you didn’t exactly mean to give away, but it’s out there now. He’s going think you’re a kindred spirit–or a blood thirsty gremlin. 

Either way, you don’t really want to discuss why you sympathize with those girls, and with him. 

“Are you okay?”

This question seems to take him aback, like he truly wasn’t expecting it. He’s surely used to being a pillar of stoic manhood, but you know this shit takes its toll. “Yeah. I’m fine, sweetheart. Thanks.”

You eye his hand resting on the center console, and a part of you very badly wants to reach out to him and take it. Almost as though he can sense it, or maybe because he wants it as badly as you do, he holds out his hand palm up in invitation. It’s possible you stare at that hand for a beat too long, his wide calloused palm and long blunt fingers. Long enough that he tries to play it off, starting to take it back, before you quickly lace your fingers with his. The way he smiles to himself sends warmth blooming all the way to your toes, and you’re glad he’s driving because they do, indeed, curl in your sandals. 

You give him a little squeeze, relishing the way your hand feels so tiny and protected in his own, and say, genuinely, “I’m sorry. For calling you a fake cop.” 

He clicks his tongue. “I’ve heard worse from people that aren’t half as pretty as you.” 

You want to fight with him on that—scoff, roll your eyes—but you just can’t, because as much as that small, whiny part of your brain tells you he’s lying, the bigger, rational part absolutely knows just by the sincerity in his tone that he thinks you really are a pretty, sublime creature. 

“But I still kinda think you’re a jerk,” you half tease. 

“Mmmm, what happened to that feisty little thing I know? She change into a cute sundress and suddenly become sweet?” 

You are loathe to admit the real reason for your change of heart. 

“You wish.” 

He chuckles. “Bet I can make you sweet.” 

You’re a total idiot for what comes out of your mouth, and your underwear is the one that will more than likely end up paying for this mindless insolence. “How?”

He brings your hand up to his mouth, lips brushing over the thin skin of your knuckles, sending a spear of desire through your arm and into the rest of your body. You make a tiny choked noise when his tongue peeks a taste of your skin, going unfocused and fuzzy, radio static and full throttle cavewoman. 

He kisses the center of your hand, then murmurs, “With sugar, silly girl.” 

It's not only the panties that pay a high price, but also your throbbing heart, pleasantly tense and hot and full of desire. 

He must find your slack jaw and blank stare immensely entertaining, because he’s laughing low and soft, rumbling in delight. 

“Are you okay?” He asks. 

“I’m fine.” There has never been a more heinous lie uttered in this entire state. 

You’re fairly new to LA, but you soon realize from your surroundings that he’s taking you to the Santa Monica Pier. 

You are thanking the universe and the gods when you arrive at your destination. Five more minutes—hell, seconds—trapped in that car with him and you would have climbed into his lap and started barking. 

When he swings into a parking space designated just for Law Enforcement you turn to him with a lifted brow, as though to say, Abuse your authority much? 

But you already know the answer to that. This date is a product of it. And so far…it’s not so bad. 

“Do you like fish tacos?” He asks, keeping your hand and massaging that bulky thumb over your wrist.

“Shouldn’t you have asked that before you made a reservation?” you taunt him. 

“No reservation,” he informs you with a quirk of his mouth. “But the manager owes me a favor.” 

He waves around the busy avenue and beach walk bustling with people, peppered with colorful shops and restaurants of every kind. “Pretty sure we can find you something you like, if Mexican food with an ocean view isn’t your thing…” He says it with a smirk, and you’re seriously not sure if you want to kiss this man or smack him. Maybe both, but save it for later, sings out the little devil on your shoulder before you can tell it to shut the fuck up. 

Good lord. 

You’ve heard of the restaurant–and that it’s famously hard to get into. You wonder if his connection is a product of a favor for a good deed, or a bit of blackmail. Maybe a little bit of both. You’re finding more and more that it’s hard to put this man in a single box. 

“Honestly…?” You make him wait for it, and you can tell your effort to put this confident man on the spot only half succeeds, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth. “That sounds pretty amazing.”

This evil, evil gentleman. He opens your door for you, helps you out of the car, stands patiently while you fix your dress, only half looks at your exposed thighs before you pull the hem down and cover them up again. 

Then, he threads his arm with yours and leads you onto the pier. You can’t believe you’ve never taken the initiative to come here before. It’s beautiful, lit up like a modern carnival of neon lights. 

“Oh, can we go on the Ferris wheel?” You ask, looking up at him. 

“Let’s get some food in you, and then we can do whatever you want.” He really needs to stop being so…caring. It’s seriously starting to mess up your insides. 

You turn into a fascinated kid as you walk down the salt coated slice of wood built out over the ocean, looking this and that way, pointing things out, mentioning possible after-dinner activities. You feel like you’re getting annoying, but Tom just seems amused by your sunburned tourist behavior. 

You pass by a little shooting booth with huge stuffed bunnies hanging from the rack, and he must see the way you’re ogling them, so he leans down close to your ear. “I could win you one of those?”

You grin back up at him. “I can win you one.” 

“Oh? Little sharpshooter?” 

It sounds like he doesn’t believe you, so you stick your tongue out at him between smiling lips. 

He pokes your forehead in retaliation. “Anybody ever tell you how fucking cute you are?” 

The restaurant lives up to its popularity and then some. It takes a while to get here, but you just know it’s worth every foot blister when they sit you down and immediately serve a popped bottle of iced sparkling water and delicious, warm salsa and chips. 

You made it just in time to catch the purple orange sun sinking below ocean level, and the front row seats really just make the view that much more spectacular. At this point, you wouldn’t be surprised if a dolphin jumped from the water, illuminated by the dying sun, just like in the movies.  

“This is… amazing.” You grab some tortilla chips to munch on while he pours you both glasses of the fancy water. “Have you ever been here before?” 

“Once.” He doesn’t elaborate, so you don’t want to push the issue, but you can tell there’s some kind of ache behind that simple word. 

“Okay, so you’re obviously not from LA—where are you from?” He leans over the table a bit, curious. 

“Kansas.” 

He opens his mouth, but you stop him because you already know what he’s going to say. 

“Don’t do it.” You point a warning finger at him, giggling like an idiot. 

“God, but I really want to,” he groans. 

“So,” you say, taking another bite of chip. “Why did you become a cop?”

“You start with the heavy questions, huh?” he teases you. “Thought I was the one who was trained in interrogation?”

You suppose he’s right, considering your earlier line of inquiry in the car. But you shrug in response. Considering how you ended up here, you see no reason to tiptoe around things. “Just curious.”

He offers up an easy smile, letting you know you didn’t offend him. “Well, I actually always wanted to be a dentist.”

You snort with disbelief, trying to imagine this man’s bedside manner. But then, dentists do get to cause people a lot of pain… “Ok. Maybe that tracks.”

“I’m fucking with you,” he informs you with a smirk. 

You do your best to appear annoyed, and fear you fail at it badly. “Guess it’s not hard to imagine you pulling teeth, is all.”

He huffs at that. “I always wanted to be a cop, since I was a kid. My old man was a detective. Killed in the line of duty. I guess I felt like I needed to pick up his unfinished business.”

You blink at that. You and your big fucking mouth. “I’m sorry,” you say, reaching for his hand across the table. He curls his fingers with yours, playing with your aqua painted fingernails with his thumb.

“It’s alright. Happened a long time ago.”

“How old were you?”

“Eleven.”

You squeeze his hand in yours, saying nothing. 

“What about you? What made you want to be a nurse?” 

You don’t really feel comfortable enough to tell him your whole coming-of-nurse story, so you give him the cut version: “when I was young and felt like I had no one, a nurse comforted me.”

“How young?”

“Ten.”

He winces. “Maybe I’ll get the full version of that story one day?”

There’s an epiphany, here, in this little restaurant with the comfy blue chairs, and it’s that Tom Ludlow scares you because he makes you feel something deep, deep inside your chest that you can’t even remember being there before he came along. Julian was easy, child’s play; although it stings, you’re writing him down as just another failed fling. You know if Ludlow gets his hands on your little sensitive heart, it will be a very different story. 

You take a big drink of water to wash down the salty crunch. “Sorry.”

“For?”

“Being so…cold.”

He chuckles. “Oh, you are so cold. Gonna have to make it up to me.”

Warmth floods the top layers of your skin. “I already said I’d win you the bunny.”

You’re amazed at how easily he can transition back into a smooth, carnal beast. “I don’t know if that’s enough for me to forgive you.” The fake hurt in his tone should not make you squirm in your seat. 

You bite like a dumb, good little fish should: “okay, then, how do I make it up to you, Officer Ludlow?” 

You’re hoping to faze him with the sultry innocence of your tone, but it just fuels his devilish aura instead. “We can start with me turning you over my knee.”

You don’t have a retort, but your vagina absolutely does, and she gets you squirming in your seat. 

He leans forward, knowing smile sure to be your undoing one way or another. “Would you like that?” 

“Thought you didn’t want to hurt me?” You challenge, trying to keep cool despite the blazing Ludlow heat. 

“Who says spanking has to hurt? Dr. Bitch?”

You can’t help the giggle that rolls out of you, and he seems to find it entertaining that you have to cover your mouth to hide it. “No, Tom, believe it or not, I am a grown woman who has lived an experienced life.” 

“And how was it?”

You tilt your head. “What?”

“You know, when you asked one of your vanilla boyfriends to swat that gorgeous, plump ass a little bit? Just to see how it would feel.” He leans his chin on his palm, listening intently for your answer, and you think you might be on your way to spontaneous combustion. 

How in the fuck can he just hit the nail right on the head like that? Know about parts of your life that you haven’t shared with anyone—not that there were many to share with. Are you really this readable? 

Once again, he has your sharp tongue dulled with arousal and embarrassment, and you shift in the chair. “He did it, like, once and then stopped.” 

“And did you like it?” He presses. 

“Yes.” 

He takes a little sip of his water, raising both dark brows over the glass at you. “Good to know.” 

Tom recommends the margaritas and fish tacos, so you let him order for the both of you while admiring the view. You can’t decide which one you like better, his handsome face or the ocean scape.

As you are finishing your delicious dinner the last rays of the sunset are putting on a five star show for you, the sky painted that impossible deep blue and purple, the water shimmering like color-changing opals.

“It’s so beautiful here,” you sigh, and you catch him looking at you out of the corner of your eye with a softness you haven’t seen from him before. You get up the courage to meet his eyes, and he smiles at you, but for once not like he intends to eat you.

“You’re not in Kansas anymore, sweetheart.”

“Goddammit.”

He laughs at that, a real belly laugh that makes you warm all over even without the aid of your two nursed margaritas. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah. I’ve got to out shoot you for that little bunny now.” 

This wins you more genuine laughter. “Alright, Annie Oakley. Lead the way.” 

[lorata]

any particular ideas about the victors and empathy? like are there any that are low/no empathy, or any that are hyperempathetic? it would be interesting to see how empathy or lack thereof would impact their experiences/images both before, during, and after their games (even if panem probably doesn't have a very good understanding of what that entails from a psychology perspective lol)

a fun thing is that both Selene and Petra are low/no empathy, which makes them a fascinating pair. Petra knows she's missing something early and so outsources her sense of right & wrong to The Rules while Selene just does not care and this is a source of conflict for the two of them quite often.

Selene bases her morality around You Are Annoying Me, Personally whereas Petra's is You Have Broken The Rules This Is Bad And Unfair And Wrong which is why they drive each other up the wall

at their first kill tests Selene doesn't feel guilty. she vaguely thinks she should? but she doesn't, and they're here to kill, so, oh well. Petra asks her victim what she did, learns she did something bad, and is like, all right then, I'm good. they have a chat after Selene's about how neither felt bad and it's the one time they're both weirdly sympatico

both Selene and Petra have images that are slightly ... off/wild/feral, in no small part due to this. Selene they have to constantly remind her to pull it back or she'll go full villain (ha ha OH WELL given that she kills her district partner immediately but Misha knows). Petra's original was a bit more on the like ..... off-putting aloof killer vibe, similar to Clove, but with the maces she never got to pull that out so she had to go for the nymphomaniac over the top angle instead.

post-Games it's easy to keep things from Petra re: the state of the world until things explode because she just doesn't think about it. she has enough to deal with re: her own healing and constantly getting re-traumatized and all that nonsense that she doesn't have the mental energy to put towards things like oh what is it like for the districts or the other victors or is the only person who's nice to me actually doing this as part of a giant machiavellian scheme. it all falls apart in canon divergence once she has time to really sit and wrestle with those questions? but boy it takes some time and work and the others (particularly the younger ones) have some choice words for her in the meantime

Callista is also very low empathy, this (ahem) very clearly factored into her image & strategy. She does not care about the other districts and she says what she wants and if you get offended that's on you. Now mind you, while Calli has low empathy and her circle is small, IF you are inside that circle her compassion level is extremely high. Calli knows that Nero is hurting and she wants to do many, many murders on his behalf. She is very angry that she cannot. Ditto with her tributes, most of whom are similarly villainized by the narrative which is part of the reason she keeps choosing them anyway. In the AUs where she does manage to land either Creed or Alec she doesn't get what they're feeling half the time but she will help them regardless and god help anyone who tries to stand between them.

on the flip side we have Devon and Alec, who are both on the hyper-empathy end of things. Devon is able to control and use his fairly well, both in the Games and beyond; Alec has much more trauma and tends to be paralyzed by it for a lot longer before finally managing to work through things as an adult. part of Alec's problem is being unable to make his own decisions or justify his emotions

ironically Claudius is also very high on empathy but has no idea for a long time given that his specific cocktail of trauma and rage responses resulted in him lashing out and hurting people, so his whole "i'm a monster" thing dug in pretty deep and he withdraws. post-games though he can't help it and it lands him in trouble fairly quickly since he can't stop THINKING about other people and it sends him straight to treason town before he's even finished his victory tour, lol. post-canon divergence he winds up being like ... a teen counsellor for ex-centre kids which is the last thing he thought he'd be doing, but there you go. funny enough Eibhlin is the first person to tell him that he's high empathy and he doesn't believe her. but one of the reasons he's so good at 'mentoring' Selene is his ability to get inside her head before she even knows her own feelings really

in general while they don't have official vocab for it the Centre definitely IDs kids who have high empathy and/or compassion and has ways to decentralize that, whether it's giving them a cause or comfort in the rules or helping to carefully dissociate what they do from who they are. for the kids on the other end it's more a question of managing that line so they don't go too far.

[shallowseeker]

I was thinking about Wayward Sisters and mentally sifting through the motifs for each main girl.

Alex was vampire-oriented, the symbolic siren that lured innocents to their deaths. Wannabe prom queen.

Claire's got the whole wannabe hero vibe but is weirdly prone to going to lone wolf.

Patience is undoubtedly paired with The Drama of the Gifted Child, a burnt-out prodigy melting down. Perfectionist.

And Kaia? Well. Kaia's not the girl on the milk carton.

But something hit me.

Claire, for all her dressings of tough, Dean-type, Barbie-girl? She's got the Jimmy Novak disease; she wants to be important. She wants to serve big causes and do big hero stuff.

Kaia, on the other hand? At her core, she's got the Dean disease. That awful, awful, niggling, "I don't matter." That's maybe why she and Jack get so Sympatico with each other so quickly and stay on good terms, even after he accidentally crash-landed her in the bad place. (Jack's got the exact same disease.)

That emotional interiority is buried deep, but it's definitely there, and it's another way that Claire veers in a surprising Casward direction.

[blitzosicedcoffee]

Ficlet-Learning To Be Gentle

Making another ficlet while laying in bed cause I wanna write but I'm also exhausted.

Enjoy!

Timeline: Post Season 2, Bruised from the fight at his palace with Andrealphus, Stolas has lost everything and is brought back to Blitz's apartment.

Blitz pushes open the stuck door with his whole body, using his whole weight to push the dumb rusted hinges. The sudden opening of the door doesn't phase Stolas as he stares at the ground, hugging himself, feeling so very out of place here.

Blitz gestures in and when Stolas doesn't move, he hesitantly takes his hand and pulls him in slowly, Stolas letting him. Then Blitz closes the front door.

Stolas looks around but doesn't want to take in much right now, all he does take in is that it's extremely small. Of course, they're an imp and hellhound. But, he can only see three rooms. The one they're in, the restroom, and a room with many signs on it.

Blitz gestures to the couch that's beat up and rubs the back of his neck, clearly nervous as well. They haven't said a word to one another since he brought him home. But Blitz would never let him stay on the street, or ask another Goetia that barely knows him. No chance.

Blitz rubs his hands and heard Loona 's music and walks over to her door, cracking it open.

"Hey uh, we have a guest in the living room. Do you mind handing me some of your extra pillows and blankets, the floor cot you take for sleepovers, and your largest shirt?" He asks and she tilts his head, peeking behind him and widening her eyes at Stolas's defeated owl eyes and bruised face, "Oh. Yeah I'll throw them all out in a sec".

Blitz smiles, "Thanks Loonie". "No sweat", she says.

She does throw them out, right at Blitz and he growls a little as they make him fall over then he carries it all over to the space in front of the couch, collapsing it all and setting up the cot with the pillows and blankets, and handing Stolas the shirt.

Stolas holds up the oversized Verosika mayday shirt, "What's this for?" He asks. Blitz chuckles, seeing which one she picked. Of course that one.

"For you to sleep in", he replies. Stolas blinks and hesitantly takes off his clothes that admittedly feel great to peel off, sweat sticking to the fabric and his feathers. But before he puts it on he pauses.

"Could I uhm...do you have a shower?" He asks and Blitz chuckles, "Of course we have a shower what do you th-nevermind. In here", Stolas follows him to the restroom and Blitz pulls him to crouch down by the hand to make sure he doesn't hit his head on the doorframe. Then he realizes Stolas is already naked and blushes, biting his lip. He quickly digs in the closet and pulls out a folded towel and hands it to him, "Take as much time in there as you need".

Stolas nods as Blitz closes the door, giving him privacy. He takes a deep breath and prepares to squish himself in this small and messy shower, already missing his rain shower at home. A home that's no longer his. He tries to pull back tears but as the water hits his chest they fall and he starts to sob.

Blitz looks to the bathroom door with a pained expression as Loona escapes her room for a moment to grab a soda.

"I thought you two weren't sympatico at the moment", she asks, opening the can. Blitz hugs himself, "Well...it's..complicated", he rubs his arms, feeling goosebumps from thinking about just how complicated it is.

"Well, if he's going through a hard time you better be gentle with him", she says. He blinks, "Gentle..?" and looks back at her but she's already back in her room, and he looks back to the bathroom door. He drops his arms and heads into the kitchen, starting a kettle of hot water while he hears Stolas finishing up.

Stolas comes out and shivers himself, rubbing his own arms.

"Got just the thing for that", Blitz says, handing him one of his horse mugs of tea and dropping two sugar cubes in it. Stolas manages a small smile, "Thank you. What kind?" He asks. Blitz's mouth forms a line, "Kind?"

"Kind of tea, dear?" He asks again, sitting on the couch and Blitz sits next to him, pulling a blanket over both their legs. Well, most of Stolas's legs.

"Uh...black? Its the only kind Loonie had. Sorry" he replies, starting to flip through the channels.

Stolas sips it, "That's alright. I don't think I can sleep tonight anyway".

"Yeah it's been a long day. Do you wanna watch a movie? Doesn't have to be something serious. We can just turn our brains off and watch something", Blitz asks and goes to put his hand on Stolas's thigh, bringing him out of his dissociation.

"What? Oh, sure", he replies and looks back down at his tea. Watching the sugar melt the rest of the way.

Blitz wonders if Stolas blames him for losing everything. It wouldn't be the first time he's made someone he loves lose everything.

"What about this uh- sappy romance movie?" He asks Stolas and taps his thigh gently again, "Stols? You there?"

Stolas hesitantly looks up, "Hmm? Sure. I thought you didn't like rom coms".

Blitz smirks, "I can be swayed for the right person".

Stolas blushes and looks away, continuing sipping his tea as Blitz presses play.

They start the movie and Stolas pulls Blitz's legs over his lap for more warmth. Blitz wrapping his tail around his leg too.

"I-is that alright?" He asks Stolas and he nods, and Blitz takes that as enough of a sign to lean his head on Stolas's shoulder as well. This shit movie was actually pretty funny, as well as warranting "Awws" from Stolas every few minutes.

At the end of the movie, Blitz goes to reach for the remote only to be stuck in place by a sleeping owl. And suddenly his sleeping coos are obvious. He looks up at him and smiles, kissing his cheek gently, and curling up closer to him to attempt to fall asleep as well.