#Cat Spray Under Black Light
Text
What is Banishing? The How-Tos and Methods
Banishing is a direct form of expelling energy or spirit from your space. Used to get rid of a specific energy, spirit, or person. Can even be used to banish a bad habit if you really wanted to. It is a strong form of defensive magic versus cleansing which is more of a brush out the door. Banishing is you picking whatever up by the scruff like a wet cat and throwing it out the window.
You can incorporate cleansing and banishing methods together. Make it spicy, get the job done in one go.
Here are some banishing methods that are within my grimoire.
Spiritual
Smoke - Burning Dragons Blood, Frankincense, Hyssop, Rue, Cedar, Juniper, Blackberry Leaves and Pine are great herbs to burn for banishing and purification. You can also make a herbal spray as well.
Candles - Banish from your space using corresponding banishing candle colours like Black.
Herbs - Can be made into satchels, jars, sprays, spellwork and other items for banishing.
Sigils - Create a banishing sigil for your space, self or working.
Powders - Powders like GTFO powder are great examples for banishing's
Witches bells - Witches bells hang on your doorknob or on your door (inside the home) for protection and banishing. When someone comes into the home it rings, banishing negative energy.
Spells - Return to sender, uncrossings and freezer spells are good examples of banishings. Write the target's name on a black candle with intention, dress with corresponding oils, and write a petition to place under the candle to effectively banish them from your space/life.
Energy - Visualize a powerful bubble of protective light of any colour. Visualize it pushing out of your chest and visualize it burning up the energy and pushing it out of your space. Can be energy-taxing so please drink some water and eat a snack.
Black salt - Salt (I use sea) mixed with charcoal, eggshell powder and protective & purifying herbs. Used in warding, banishing and protection. Please be careful around pets with salt as they can get sick if eaten.
Physical
Baths/showers - Submerging yourself in water with banishing herbs and oils. You can also shower with banishing herbal soaps and hang a mesh satchel with purifying herbs over your shower head.
Physical - Literally taking pots and pans, screaming to get out of your house. Both annoying to the neighbors and effective for spirits.
Vocal - Prayer to deity/ancestors/guides/etc for assistance. Prayer from a holy book. Incantations are normally followed by another action like ringing bells.
Feel free to place your banishing methods below!
Looking for all of my posts in one place? Check out the Masterpost
#witchcraft#witch#electic witch#witchblr#banishing spell#banishing#beginner witch#protection magic#protection
170 notes
·
View notes
Note
ok sorry but two questions
- can mr large bastard eat from the lead plates
- have you ever been to the wasteland con thing that's in the california desert
Large Bastard still manufactures and tests ammunition for a living so interacting with leaded glass isn't much concern for him either, though I think it would be wise not to eat off of plates that are 100% lead.
Wasteland Weekend seems like a cool party but
I think if I suggested a desert trip with no guns to Large Bastard he'd look at me like a cat getting sprayed with a water bottle.
But also it has always seemed a little funny to me to stage that area as "the wasteland" - it's in Cal City (or, i guess, Edwards but same difference) and I spent a huge amount of my childhood there because that's where my uncle lived; I went there for spring and summer and winter breaks and went offroading with my weird-ass aunt out there long before Wasteland was a thing. Like:
That's the map to where wasteland happens. The pink circle includes the house where I was watching MTV at 3am on the day that Joey Ramone died. It's not even ten miles away from the Wasteland. (Which, I guess I don't talk too much about being a desert rat but large bastard and I both split time between living in LA, living in the LA suburbs, and living in the desert - he was in a different desert than me, though, his desert is yucca valley/joshua tree/twentynine palms).
Wasteland is kind of like Faire (I think it's more like Faire than it is like Burning Man, which is the other comparison that people make - Burning Man is way more interesting to me than Wasteland); that's not a dig at Wasteland or at Faire - it's a party (and a pretty expensive one) where fun things can happen but I'm much, much more likely to spend a trip to the desert attempting to take pictures of scorpions under a black light and going for a hike then going shooting while Large Bastard is much more likely to spend a trip to the desert essentially vibing and then going shooting.
129 notes
·
View notes
Text
Rip This Place Apart (Driller Killer x Reader)
Summary: He’s gonna rock your world, baby!
Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. This is based on an anonymous request. I wrote this while I was dealing with a bout of insomnia, ironically. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.
Word count: 1.5k
Warnings: Descriptions of blood and gore. Sexually explicit content. Do not interact if you’re under 18.
A man kept appearing in your dreams, and he wouldn’t go away. Leather-clad and oozing obnoxious amounts of sex appeal, he was the opposite of a problem, until your dreams started feeling a little too real. Maybe it was your subconscious’ way of telling you to get laid, but every time you had some kind of interest in a man, he clouded your mind until you either made a fool of yourself or retreated.
That night was going to be different, though. You and your friend Marcie had spotted a flyer for a funky looking local band called Shriek and the Spyders, a group of self-professed psychobilly hooligans who were known for their wild shows and over-the-top onstage antics. A bartender who’d overheard you and Marcie discussing the show the day before advised, “Wear something you won’t mind getting stained.” Your interest piqued, and you figured a skimpy black top and similarly black skirt would do.
The Crypt was a hole-in-the-wall joint that certainly lived up to its name. You could hardly see inside, save for a few red overhead lights, because of course they were red. The light fog that swathed the room was either from an effects machine or so many people chain smoking. When you approached the bar, you scanned the cocktail menu, all named after and inspired by classic monsters. You ordered a Frankenstein-themed drink, wondering if it were possible for a place to be too campy.
“C’mon, let’s try to get closer to the stage before they go on,” Marcie said once you both got your drinks.
About fifteen minutes later, the band strutted onstage, an abundance of leather and pompadours. Almost like—no, you weren’t supposed to be thinking about him. Not bothering with introductions, Shriek and the Spyders went right into an upbeat song that made the raucous crowd go wild. They didn’t let up, sweat dripping down Shriek’s face as he ran back and forth across the stage, microphone in hand.
In the middle of their third song, a spray of fake blood rained over the crowd, leading to cheers and screams nearly drowning out the music. Some of the effects looked a little too realistic for your comfort. The bass player’s “eye” popped out at one point, and the lead guitarist’s face seemed to literally melt during a solo a few songs later.
You and Marcie had been dancing along to the whole set, your drinks long since discarded, half spilled on each other as other concert-goers bumped into you. It was the most fun you’d had in a long time, but you couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that settled in your gut no matter how much you tried to focus on the show.
In the middle of another song, Shriek broke into a howl as a giant drill emerged through his chest, spraying the crowd with blood again. Except, this time you weren’t so sure it was fake. No one else seemed to care. The carnage only electrified the people around you as they roared and cheered when Shriek collapsed near the microphone stand, his guts hanging off the stage. The floor beneath you shook at the crowd’s riotous stomping and jumping at the scene they’d just witnessed. When you looked up at the stage, you were horrified to see him. Gore hung from the end of his drill-tipped guitar, splattering the crowd as he revved it, keeping eye contact with you and grinning slyly at your disbelief.
He leaned into the mic, the corners of his lips curling into a cat-like grin as he announced with a swoon-worthy croon, “This is dedicated to the one I love.”
Then he pointed right at you.
The energy in the room shifted to a tangible malignancy, or maybe it was your own panic as you tried to push and shove your way out of the crowd. Instead, you only found yourself being forced closer to the stage, his romance-laced innuendos and skillful guitar strumming overwhelmed your senses and made your skin crawl. It felt like the whole crowd was in on his scheme to get you.
With each song you were shoved closer, and closer, until for the first time since he manifested in your dreams, you were able to reach out and touch him.
Was he even real?
You were dizzy by the time the show ended, hardly able to protest when you were manhandled and told something about wanting to be seen backstage.
“I want details!” Marcie shouted, oblivious to your plight as the rent-a-cop shuffled you away from her.
Backstage was a stretch. More like a narrow hallway with a utility closet and a small, graffiti-covered room that had been requisitioned by the bands. The door to the makeshift dressing room slammed behind you when you stumbled inside. He was waiting there for you, sitting on a grungy looking red velvet couch, his leather-clad legs spread wide open. His jacket was discarded in the corner of the room, revealing the sheen of sweat and blood that coated his body.
Your eyes drifted to his drill, large and intimidating, with a red tip that looked angry against its large shaft. You could’ve sworn you saw it twitch a bit, and recoiled at the thought of it penetrating you.
With a click of his tongue, he drew your attention back to him. Raising his hand, he beckoned you over to him with a curl of his index and middle fingers. You felt a jolt rush through your core at the motion. Almost involuntarily, you approached until the points of your kitten heels touched the tips of his steel-toed boots.
“How’d you like the show, baby?” he asked.
“It was…a lot.”
“It was all for you.”
“Yeah…” you trailed off, blatantly ogling the bulge straining against his tight pants.
He grinned, thrusting up toward your face. “Could use a little help, sugar,” he crooned, eyes dangerous as he palmed his crotch. “Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true.”
You let out a shaky breath in response, and proceeded to sit on his lap. He threw his head back, groaning at the sensation of your weight on him. Tangling your fingers in his slicked black hair, you pressed yourself closer to him, kissing his neck as you rolled your hips against his. You nipped at his throat when you felt his cock twitch against your pussy.
“Goddamn, baby,” he moaned. “Gimme more of that.”
Rolling your hips again, you let out a soft whimper at the friction from his pants on your clit. It was as if a switch flipped inside you, desperation flooding your senses as you chased your pleasure, grinding against him, almost embarrassed at the sounds your wet pussy was making as it rubbed against his hard cock.
Your breathing shallowed, muscles ached as you rutted against him, feeling yourself getting closer to orgasm. For a moment, it felt like he was only there for you to use, to get off with like some living, leather-wrapped sex toy. Maybe he was. You weren’t thinking clearly enough to question it.
“Wanna go all the way with you, baby,” he forced out. “Wanna make you mine.”
You moaned at that. “Yours.”
You swiftly shifted so you could pull off your panties, tossing them aside on the couch. He undid his pants, his leaking cock springing free from its leather confines. Your pussy involuntarily clenched at the size of him, and your eyes frantically met his smug face.
He reached between you, his fingers stroking your sensitive pussy. “Cat got your tongue?”
You kissed him again, more teeth and tongue than before as you lifted your hips, slowly lowering yourself onto his cock and whimpering into his mouth at how it stretched you mercilessly. You caught his bottom lip in your teeth, biting down a little too hard and drawing blood, but he took it in stride, licking it from his lips.
He sung your praises, his hands firmly on your hips as he guided you, your pussy taking all of him. His five o’clock shadow scratched at your sensitive skin as he pressed kisses to your neck and shoulders.
“Fuck!” you cried out as you bounced on his dick, your cervix pounded by his length. Your vision blurred with tears, thighs burning as you kept riding him. So close. “I—I’m gonna—“
“That’s it, sugar. Come for me.”
Your orgasm rolled through you, rocking your hips against his as you held onto his shoulders to steady yourself. Your pussy pulsed around his cock, and you could feel his hot cum fill you as your body milked his seed from him. He was vocal when he came, your name practically echoing throughout the room in a perverse melody.
Riding out your orgasm, you shuddered against him, feeling his soft, spent cock still buried inside you.
“That was…are you real?” you asked breathlessly.
“In dreams you’re mine, all the time,” he answered cryptically, kissing you with a disarming tenderness.
#driller killer x reader#slasher x reader#slumber party massacre 2#slumber party massacre#spm2#slasher fandom#slasher community
137 notes
·
View notes
Text
Theme 27: 🫦 Smokey Shamey 🫦
I hope @gallacrafts will indulge my curveball take on the Smokey Shamey theme, as I rock up with some: Smokey Eye Make Up Looks
DEBBIE
To me Debbie will always be the little girl who never got that princess party she dreamt of, hence a pink smokey cat-eye, finished with pink glitter highlights.
MANDY
I am leaning into Season 6 Mandy, with a classic black liquid liner cat-eye and a matt grey smokey eyeshadow. Understated and classy, while still being playful and sexy.
KEVIN
There is nothing more durable than a smokey eye in brown, blended out to skin colour - one of my favourite make ups for a rainy day at the farm, because it will still look pretty decent by the end. Solid and dependable, just like Kevin!
IAN
I’m normally a big fan of contrast colours, but if you’re a redhead with pretty green eyes then you lean into that green as hard as you can!! We’ve got two shades of green (light on the lid, dark in the crease), blended out into a shimmery gold, green eyeliner on the lower lid, and black eyeliner & mascara on the upper.
MICKEY
And finally we have the OG black kohl smokey eye - perfect for our little trash panda! You want your black eyeshadow to be highly pigmented, and don’t be afraid to get a bit messy with it. You’re a Milkovich, not a Chanel model! On top of the black eyeshadow we have some black glitter, for depth. And of course it wouldn’t be a Mickey look without some characterful brows and chewed pink lips!!
And then of course post Season 4 we get Mickey ‘I Just Want Everyone Here To Know I’m Fucking Gay’ Milkovich, the bravest little thug muffin on the South Side, deserving a special rainbow smokey eye look in his honour!
Some make up ramblings behind the cut, for anyone interested :)
I get most of my make up from the cheap counter at whatever pharmacy I'm in - teen brands are great for cheap yet decent quality items!
However I do have some preference in terms of performance for certain things.
I love my EcoTools make up brushes. You can pick up a pack of 5 brushes for a tenner, but if you can find the set of 2 double headed brushes - Eye Enhancing Duo Brush Set - you've got all you need for a smokey eye look in two handy brushes! I've been using mine for years with no bristle loss or decrease in quality. Very very happy with those!
Eyeshadow - I'm a slut for a MAC pallet. They're not all as good as each other, and occasionally you get an eyeshadow that barely leaves any pigment on your skin and it's infuriating! But 80% of their colours are great. And you can buy colours individually on their website / at a MAC make up counter, and then you can fit them into a non branded make up pallet you pick up at amazon or your local pharmacy for a couple of quid, allowing you to put together you're perfect personal pallet!
Barry M does little pots of loose pigment in ALL the colours of the rainbow, called Dazzle Dust, and they are amazing!! Please do take a few days of experimenting if you are not used to working with loose pigment, as it can get MESSY lol A good trick is to go heavy on powder foundation under your eye prior to starting your eye make up, so any loose pigment catches on a layer of powder that you can then just brush off with a big powder brush.
I also have little pots of glitter (purchased from a craft store) in all the colours of the rainbow and a small bottle of stage make up adhesive. You will find there's a million different glitter adhesive gels and fix it sprays, some of them may be amazing, however many of them are going to work the exact same way as a simple application of some vaseline would. Depending on the effect I want I either use a small paint brush to very precisely apply glue and glitter pieces (glitter eyeliner, cut brows with glitter lines, individual glitter dots), or alternatively I use a lip gloss or similar sticky clear substance and sprinkle the glitter (for glitter blush, glitter temples etc.)
I have bought many a mascara promising many a thing (longer, thicker, fuller, rounder, magic in some way or other) and honestly, I have never been able to tell the difference between their performances. As long as it doesn't clump and go tacky after a week of use, it's fine by me.
For eyeliners - I have a few choice colours in MAC, but for the essentials I love essence cosmetics, which are one of the teen brands I mentioned above. Their liquid liner pens (24ever ink liner for example) are some of the best I've ever used, and they're like £2.50 each. Otherwise, I like eye pencils you can sharpen for the exact precision I desire, not the waxy sticks inside a plastic case that you operate like a mechanical pencil. Those are a big no no.
Okay, that's all I can think of on the fly.
Please add your favourite make up brands and tips and tricks in the comments! I love to learn from other people!
46 notes
·
View notes
Text
RippleClan: Moon 26
The dog came back and Downstar once again bravely fought it off, breaking her back leg.
[Image ID: Downstar faces a large red dog. Under Downstar, it reads + CONDITION: BROKEN LEG.]
Fennelspot saw it in a dream, apparently; a massive dog with pointed ears and cat blood on its fangs, racing between the shadows, searching for prey. There were two clear facts in his mind; the beast was a darkhound, and it was the same one that attacked Downstar just two moons prior. Fennelspot must have taught Oilstripe about the Spirits of Shadow, as she launched into a speech on their weaknesses as soon as Downstar made the announcement at the Clan meeting. Downstar bit her tongue and let her speak. The Clan needed to know, so she could handle listening to Oilstripe’s strange knowledge for a while.
Downstar had a plan as soon as Oilstripe finished speaking. There was no killing this hunter of the Dark Forest, but it could be chased away with a few brave souls at Downstar’s side. Burdockcreek, Rustshade, and Scrubmask each rose to the challenge. Oilstripe claimed the spirits of the Dark Forest, those who spent their haunted afterlives in whatever sense of peace they could find, would lead darkhounds to churning, powerful rivers so they would be swept away. It was as good a plan as any.
Fennelspot invoked two spirits of StarClan to protect the patrol. First, he called for Ternpath, Celestial of Dogs and Hounds, to shield the group from the darkhound’s fangs. Then he asked Beaversneeze, the unfortunate Celestial of the Great Northern River, to take the darkhound far away and leave the Clan cats where they are. As he recited his prayers, he kept glancing at Oilstripe like she could help him. Downstar tried to block the ginger molly from her mind and focus entirely on the task ahead.
Rustshade’s job was to find the darkhound. A few patrols had scented the beast in the north, not too far from where it attacked Downstar during the anniversary celebration. As a codekeeper, Rustshade knew how to track something down. Downstar trusted. Once Rustshade found the darkhound, the other three cats would spread out, heading toward the thickest waters of the Great Northern River.
Downstar would be the one to make sure the river took the beast. She had the lives to spend, after all. She waited in the spray of the cool river under the glare of the hot midday sun. Her tail caught on the water’s edge and drifted toward the ocean. Oddly enough, she thought of little as she waited. The world simply existed around her. Her mind mixed with the churning of the water. If the darkhound took her life again, so be it. That was her duty. It was hard to feel scared when she knew what death felt like.
She heard the darkhound before she saw it. Its vicious bark spooked birds from the trees. Downstar tensed and stood, water dripping off her tail. The smell hit her just as Scrubmask burst through the trees. The pale warrior scrambled up a thick sugar maple and crouched in the leaves, just as planned. A moment later, the darkhound sprinted into the sunlight.
It looked exactly as Downstar remembered from the sporadic flashes of her second death. It looked more like a wolf than a dog. Its stocky frame could crush Downstar underfoot. Its wild brown eyes bounced about, searching for its missing prey. Its heavy black fur was only broken by sporadic gray markings like light trying to break through thick shadow. The darkhound ran toward the sugar maple and jumped on the trunk. It barked and howled at Scrubmask, scratching up the bark.
“Over here!” Downstar yowled. The darkhound’s head snapped toward her. Its piercing bark stung Downstar’s ears. The darkhound jumped off the trunk and sprinted at Downstar like a bat through the sky. Downstar turned and jumped onto a half-submerged rock in the river. Water flowed over her paws and tried to drag her under. Deep water stretched out before her. Downstar breathed deep and dove into the deadliest portion of the Great Northern River.
Her ears hummed along to the heavy flow of the water. Her fur reached eastward with the flow of the river. Downstar’s legs burned as she swam hard and deep. Her paws touched the smooth mud and stones of the river’s bottom. She could barely see through the stinging water. The dog splashed into the river, its bark drowned by the sudden rush of water. The impact shoved Downstar aside and sent her spinning. Wild paws paddled toward her. Her chest tightened as she frantically tried to right herself.
Long fangs dug into Downstar’s back leg. She yowled, water bubbling around her muzzle as blood stained the river. But this was the darkhound’s mistake. If it wanted to hold onto her so badly, it could join her in a frantic rush to the ocean, far away from the Clan she worked so hard to build.
The pair spun through the darkening water. Downstar wasn’t sure which way was up. Her leg and the darkhound’s muzzle smashed into a large stone that jutted from the bottom of the deep river and peeked out over the surface. The darkhound let go and tumbled further toward the ocean. Downstar’s vision blurred. She needed air. But where should she go to get it? She tried to swim, but she couldn’t move her limbs. She was so heavy…
Something grabbed Downstar’s scruff. Splashes of brown and white dragged her toward a distant light. Her senses burned as her head breached the water. She choked on the air, water rushing out of her lungs. What was happening? Had she reemerged in StarClan’s ocean? No, she wouldn’t feel so miserable if she had died. She couldn’t see, she couldn’t hear, it was all she could do to force air down her water-logged throat.
The first thing Downstar heard when her ears cleared was “I’ve got you, Downstar. I’ve got you.” The brown and white blobs began to take shape. Carnationspeckle stood at Downstar’s side, soaked and panting.
“Where did you come from?” Scrubmask hopped out of the sugar maple and ran toward Carnationspeckle and Downstar.
“I couldn’t let you drown yourselves,” Carnationspeckle huffed. “I followed the darkhound’s scent.”
“It could have killed you,” Scrubmask growled. “You’re nowhere near fast enough to outrun a beast like that.”
“Yes, but I can outswim anyone in this Clan,” Carnationspeckle said, wrapping her tail around Downstar. “I couldn’t let her drown.” Rustshade and Burdockcreek appeared, following the long-gone beast’s scent.
“Scrubmask, hurry back to camp and fetch Fennelspot,” Rustshade barked, slipping beside Downstar. “Her leg is severely mangled.” Scrubmask was gone before Rustshade finished speaking, following the river toward the ocean and the shipwreck. Rustshade sighed, shaking his head, and continued studying Downstar’s leg. It was hard for the tortoiseshell leader to process everything around her, as her Clanmates were still blurry and her ears were still clogged. But she could think, and her thoughts were not pleasant.
“Carnation,” Downstar coughed, watery eyes glaring at the young caretaker, “I have nine lives. You have one. You should have let me drown.”
“Having nine lives doesn’t mean we should waste them if you don’t need to,” Carnationspeckle sighed. She licked the water dripping into Downstar’s eyes, but Downstar batted her away.
“I don’t need you to risk your life for me,” Downstar growled. Carnationspeckle stepped back, nodding softly as her ears fell back. Downstar coughed up more water as the pain of her bitten leg swam through her muscles.
If the darkhound was going to kill anyone, if anything would get one of her Clanmates killed, Downstar would be the one to die.
(Fennelspot: 83, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)
(Oilstripe: 30, female, historian, charismatic, ghost sight)
(Downstar: 85, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)
(Burdockcreek: 20, male, historian, competitive, lore keeper)
(Rustshade: 70, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)
(Scrubmask: 43, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)
(Carnationspeckle: 28, female, caretaker, compassionate, talented swimmer)
James and Weedfoot go hunting together.
[Image ID: James and Weedfoot follow a rabbit.]
---
James was shockingly quick for a large (and Weedfoot had to be honest, lazy) former kittypet. He chased after a brown speckled rabbit, matching its pace leap for leap. There were a lot of places the rabbit could escape to in RippleClan’s more open southern territory, but James looped back and forth, scaring the rabbit away from any escape routes. In a few moments, the rabbit dangled from James’ jaws.
“Wonderful!” Weedfoot chirped, jogging down a steep slope to join her hunting partner. “I really thought it was gone when the wind shifted.”
“My humans used to hunt rabbits,” James said, resting the rabbit at his paws and licking his lips. “I am well acquainted with the need for speed when stealth fails in a rabbit hunt.”
“Once we cook this, this rabbit should feed most of the Clan,” Weedfoot purred. She glanced at the darkening sky and added, “A meal for tomorrow, however. Let’s return to camp.”
“Finally,” James purred, stretching his back. “I can sleep.”
“You’re in camp all day,” Weedfoot chuckled with a twitch of her whiskers. “I would be begging to leave camp if I were you, but you’re always itching to get back.”
“Because I like staying in camp,” James groaned. “If I could spend all my time in camp and never leave, I would be content.”
“You have to be one of the laziest cats I have ever met,” Weedfoot laughed.
“Not lazy,” James purred, adjusting his tattered black ribbon. “I am simply not a fan of moving.”
“Not moving sounds like a dream at the moment,” Weedfoot admitted, sheepishly ducking her head. “With Downstar resting in the medicine den, I’ve been doing both her job and mine. All I can think about is when to send out the next patrol and what we’ve already done for the day.”
“You’ve been a radiant deputy,” James said softly. He patted her on the back with his long, soft tail. “Just as I have been a wonderful caretaker since I found your humble Clan.” James puffed out his fluffy chest.
“Let’s go home before you start taking yourself seriously,” Weedfoot chuckled, headbutting James’ shoulder. The former kittypet picked up his rabbit and followed Weedfoot back to camp.
When the pair returned, RippleClan was winding down for the night. Clammask stomped out the remnants of a smoker while Oilstripe groomed herself. James rubbed against Weedfoot as he made his way to the fresh-kill pile. Oilstripe stopped grooming and trotted up to Weedfoot.
“Yum, rabbit,” Oilstripe cooed. “That will taste amazing tomorrow.”
“James is quite the hunter,” Weedfoot sighed. She watched James as he said goodnight to Scrubmask with a gentle purr and a shake of his pelt. When Weedfoot looked back at Oilstripe, however, her former apprentice had a curiously mischievous look on her face. “What are you thinking, Oilstripe?”
“You like James, don’t you,” Oilstripe said, flicking her tail at the pale ginger tom.
“He’s stepped up when he’s been needed,” Weedfoot said as her stomach suddenly tightened.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” Oilstripe purred. She sat next to Weedfoot and said, “You’re in love.”
Oh StarClan. Oilstripe was right. She did like James. She didn’t have time to pursue a mate! She had to step up for Downstar while she recovered. She was the deputy. She couldn’t be distracted! No, no, that wasn’t the worst of it. Weedfoot already had a mate. Paleshade had been the greatest companion she could have asked for. They were together every step of the way. How could she enter StarClan one day and face Paleshade if she fell in love with someone else?
“She wants you to be happy,” Oilstripe said quietly, dragging Weedfoot out of her thoughts. Oilstripe had a hazy, unnerving look in her eyes and kept glancing away from Weedfoot. What was she even looking at? A fearful itch climbed up Weedfoot’s spine.
“How did you know what I was thinking?” Weedfoot gulped.
“Uh,” Oilstripe gulped, staring at the ground, “I just know you well, is all. And I’ve heard so much about Paleshade, I feel like I know her too. And from what you’ve told me, I think she would want you to find someone who makes you happy in RippleClan.”
“Maybe,” Weedfoot muttered. An odd warmth filled her chest. “Maybe.”
(James: 102, male, caretaker, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)
(Weedfoot: 75, female, deputy, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)
(Oilstripe: 30, female, historian, charismatic, ghost sight)
#warrior cats#clangen#rippleclan#warriors#rippleclan story#downstar#weedfoot#james#oilstripe#fennelspot#carnationspeckle#scrubmask#rustshade#burdockcreek
32 notes
·
View notes
Text
Here's our roundup of the fics posted in the Tanthamoretober collection for week 2 (or 2ish)
Don’t forget to leave a comment if you liked a fic!
Day 8: Harvest
Festival Ideas by Anarik
Rating: Teen and up
Summary: “Where have you been?” Kit retorts, crossing her arms. “Come on. It’ll be fun. And you’re the only person I know with the necessary balls to do it.”
“You don’t really know me, though.”
“True. But I’ve heard and seen things.”
Now that takes Jade by surprise.
(also appears under the prompts ‘witchcraft’ and ‘voyeurism’)
Take My Hand and Take Me Anywhere by Silver85
Rating: General audiences
Summary: Kit hates the Harvest Festival but a pretty woman asked her to go. Who was she to say no?
Part 8 of Loving Me Loving You, (AWOOOO)
petrichor- the smell exuded by plants during dry periods by Geek_and_Nina
Rating: Teen and up
Summary: pumpkin picking!
(also appears under the tags 'voyeurism’ (mildly!) and ‘witchcraft’)
Part 8 of Show Don't Tell
Day 9: Rainy Day
My Own Kind of Light, Chapter 5: Rainy Day, by slvershdws
Rating: Teen and up
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Kit Tanthalos meets visiting nineteen-year-old Jade Claymore at an Autumn Festival and it’s the start of a friendship that grows over the years into something neither expected, nor can they agree on what it is.
Until they do.
You Make This A Home. Stay With Me. by Silver85
Rating: Teen and up
Summary: Kit hasn't been honest with Jade about what the bite means.
Part 9 of Loving Me Loving You, (AWOOOO)
love of mine by Geek_and_Nina
Rating: Teen and up
Summary: i have decided to give them all of the quiet and soft moments that I would want on my fall break
Lili is the wyrm and she is the WORM
you have full permission to hate this version
Part 9 of Show Don't Tell
Day 10: Scarecrow
perfect by Geek_and_Nina
Rating: Explicit
Summary: jade and kit are gathering leaves to stuff their scarecrows with and kit sees a mugging!
(also appears under the prompts ‘mirror sex’ and ‘help isn’t coming’)
Part 10 of Show Don't Tell
Day 11: Haunted
cold steel, warm wax by Geek_and_Nina
Rating: Explicit
Summary: Jade has another one of those nightmares and as always, kit is there
(also appears under the prompts ‘knifeplay’ and ‘cursed’
Part 11 of Show Don't Tell
Day 12: Horror movie marathon
inside by Geek_and_Nina
Rating: Explicit
Summary: kit is feeling particularly needy and wants jade to spend the day with her in bed 'watching movies'
(also appears under the prompts ‘orgasm denial’ and ‘locked in’)
Part 12 of Show Don't Tell
Day 13: Jumping in a leaf pile
Dreams Pale to Reality by Silver85
Rating: Teen and up
Summary: Kit finds her family jumping in the leaves and it's a perfect fall day.
Part 4 of Alpha Kit
rolling in the leaves by Geek_and_Nina
Rating: Explicit
Summary: so i did this as a kid with trash bags, where we filled them with fallen leaves and set them up to look like a huge spider and spray painted a face on it. i think the idea would come across kit's tiktok or interest and she would feel the deep need to do this at airk's house and just... not tell him
(also appears under the prompts ‘abduction’ and ‘impact play’)
Part 13 of Show Don't Tell
Day 14: Warm Drinks
lace and silk and mesh by Geek_and_Nina
Rating: Explicit
Summary: kit winds down from a day out with elora and airk and texts her girlfriend whom she misses A LOT
(also appears under the prompt ‘dirty talk’ and ‘prank gone wrong’)
Part 14 of Show Don't Tell
Bright Smiles Warm Drinks by Silver85
Rating: General audiences
Summary: Jade and Kit have their first date.
Part 11 of Loving Me Loving You, (AWOOOO)
My Own Kind of Light, chapter 6, Warm drinks, by slvershdws
Rating: Teen and up
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Kit Tanthalos meets visiting nineteen-year-old Jade Claymore at an Autumn Festival and it’s the start of a friendship that grows over the years into something neither expected, nor can they agree on what it is.
Until they do.
Day 25: Black cat
these walls come tumbling down by OnlySheStandsThere
Rating: Teen and up
Summary: Veterinarian Jade Claymore hits a panther with her truck one night, only for the panther to turn out to be a very attractive girl who needs medical attention, a place to stay, and maybe something more.
Finally, here's the link to Autumn, Week One
Want to join in? See this post for the complete list of autumnal prompts for the rest of October.
39 notes
·
View notes
Text
Chapter 7 of Recovery Road
chapter rating: E (18+)
pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader
word count: 11046
chapter summary: this is how the spiral ends.
chapter warnings/tags: physical abuse, depictions of overdose, dark themes, angst – lots and lots of angst, crying, hospitals
a/n: the song accompanying this fic is Foreigners God by Hozier. I had to physically restrain myself from using the lyrics as title because everything about that song fits so perfectly with this chapter. (title from x)
▲ Series Masterlist | Previous | Next
▲ AO3 Link
▲ Taglist Form
Wondering who I copy
Mustering some tender charm
She feels no control of her body
She feels no safety in my arms
I've no language left to say it
But all I do is quake to her
Breaking if I try convey it
The broken love I make to her
- Foreigner’s God, Hozier
The desert does storms differently.
Los Angeles, while hardly considered a desert, is occasionally touched by the fringes of a powerful storm. Bloated, purple clouds. Lightning so full of heat that is almost palpable as it sparks across the sky. Rain in fat globs that splatter and spray. Grumbles of thunder so deep and loud, they’re almost animalistic. Sometimes it rains like the world is in mourning, in deep-seated grief. It’s a comfort, though, in the same way sad movies are cathartic – an expression of pain in a way that is so often hard to conceptualize. There’s a relief in it too.
Outside the hotel window, thunder growls, curling low like a jungle cat, as lightning cracks, warding off the onset darkness for just a moment. It’s been raining for hours, water flooding potholes on the streets below, gushing from drain pipes. This early in the morning, the few cars out that swim through the gloom have their lights on bright, trying hopelessly to cut back the encroaching deluge. People are nothing more than wet shadows.
The weather is throwing a fucking fit.
Thunder batters against the hotel windows again, groaning so loud he almost misses it. Almost misses that soft, quiet, little “fuck” that escapes your mouth. But he’s too close, too deep inside you, nose to nose, his elbows in the mattress by your head – he catches every movement your face makes. Every twitch of your lips, every stretch of your jaw. Every sigh. Every wail.
The pitch black room, save for the occasional flash of lightning, smells like sex. And it should. You’ve been at it for hours.
The skin on his back smarts where your nails dig into him, but that doesn’t get him to speed up or change his pace. Steady, slow, making you feel every inch that he stuffs up inside you. He kisses the curve of your sweaty neck as his hips roll as deep as the thunder outside.
“Oh, oh my god – Dieter–,”
He nuzzles your neck, nose tickling the back of your ear, sweat rolling from the back of his neck, over his shoulder, and onto your chest.
“Take it, baby, just take it. Let me have all of you,” he murmurs into your ear. Gently, he reaches under the covers at his back and pulls your leg up to his hip, maintaining that slow, tortuous pace. You breathe in on a high whine, the sound knotting his gut with pleasure. You shove your head back into the pillow, your face flushed, eyes wet as if trying to escape from feelings he inspires in you. You bite your lip and moan.
He’s been dragging it out too long. The both of you are on a fine, miniscule edge, neither wanting it to end, neither wanting to be separated from the other, but the tension is too profound, too great to hold onto much longer. He knows his knees won’t work for hours after this. His hips are going to be totally shot. He doesn’t fucking care.
You breathe in sharply and your cunt contracts around him once and he thinks he blacks out for a second, hips stuttering to a halt. That almost-painful flare of heat he felt must be visible on his face because you gasp, somewhere between a hiccup and a sob. There are tears in your eyes, but you don’t ask for it. You take it just like he wants.
“Sorry, baby, sorry–,” you whisper, your hand sliding to his cheek, then his mouth, your thumb against his lips. But he shakes his head, eyes shut against the overwhelming sense of submission, sliding back into his agonizing pace, and he presses his lips to the pad of your finger, lets your hand ease up into his hair.
“Don’t – don’t a-apologize. You just feel so fucking g-good.”
He says this but wants to say other things. He speaks to distract himself from the fact that his denied orgasm has sharp shocks sparking up his spine.
He clumsily kisses your cheek.
“Thank you, b-baby, thank you for letting me do this. For letting me fill you up. For taking me, as I a-am,” he stutters, his tongue too thick for his mouth. He really should just shut up and come, but when he opens his eyes, the look you give him – your eyes black and round from the Ecstasy – it pulls on the tendons at the back of his chest. Like the strings of a guitar – strum his heart and he’ll sing.
He had begged you to let him fuck you slow, like he did in New Orleans. They only had a few hours before the comedown hit and he wanted to spend those hours savoring you. Licking his fingers of your sweetness, carving away old memories to make room for the ones of you naked and trembling, steaming images of you to the inside of his brain with a sweating iron. With a stripped-bare willpower, he holds himself back because he thinks the longer you’re beneath him, the more of you he can take.
But this last one, this one he can feel pulsate in the cup of his skull, it’s too big. It’s too much to suppress any longer. He grits his teeth, and tries not to languish in the warmth of your thighs.
“Are you close?”
You nod, a single tear breaking loose and running from the corner of your eye to the sheets below you. “Y-yeah. I’m so close, Dee.”
He adjusts on his already shaking knees, pulling back and giving enough space between your bodies so he can reach down to touch you at the apex of your legs, but you frantically shake your head, grabbing his wrist. You shake your head harder.
“No, n-not like that.” You put his hand back by your head, then pull him towards you with your legs, forcing him onto his elbows again. You dig your heel into his low back. “L-like this. Just a bit faster, honey.”
Feeling swells so much and so fast in his chest as he watches you encourage him, tell him exactly what you want, and what you want is him – he feels like he can’t inhale.
There are things he wants to say to you, but they’re clogged up somewhere between his gut and his tongue. He nods instead, planting one hand flat against the mattress, his head tucking into the curve of your neck. He goes faster, just a bit, like you asked. Under the patter of rain, the bed squeaks, metal screws and cheap wood rocking together. The wet clutch of your cunt is making him dizzy.
“Fuck, baby, I’m gonna– I’m gonna –,”
He angles his hips like he knows you need, his pelvis against your clit, and you cry out, hands latching around the back of his neck, knees up by his shoulders. You wail and it breaks him wide open. He comes, deep inside you, gooey, pearly cum mixing with your release, your cunt so tight, he feels it all ooze back down his cock. He shudders at the sensation, his cock twitching almost painfully. His brain feels like the last bit of film flapping in the gears of a projector – thin, empty, overused. White noise.
Beneath him, he feels you sobbing, gasping against his throat. He uses his shaking arms to pull back, just so he can look at you, so he can kiss back your tears. That was intense and he wants you to know he’s here for you.
“Baby, you’re crying.”
Your gentle thumbs catch wet salt on his cheeks and he blinks, suddenly aware of the cold streaks his tears left behind. He shakes as he wipes his own face.
“Fuck.” The word out of his mouth is watery, thick, and you smile up at him, your own grin wet and overjoyed. “I didn’t even realize . . .” You finally laugh and he can’t resist kissing you. Your tears mix with his as you press your cheek to his.
This is the thing inside of him being quiet, being eased, coaxed down and put to rest. The want for you, it’s indescribable. He has you but he doesn’t. It’s not enough. The only time this black mass of desire inside him releases its pull is when he’s coming inside you. When his split soul in your body reunites momentarily with his. When he makes you his. Over and over and over again.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Outside, lightning flashes and you glow beneath him for just a second. This body is familiar because it’s his.
You make me happy, he thinks, so happy.
It has nothing to do with the drugs coursing through his blood, that sits in his cum drying on your thighs, on the mattress.
It’s been two weeks since the last round of press junkets and tours, one week before the Oscars. Chloe, of course, did not come on the rest of the trip, electing to go home before returning to Europe to help her father. At this point, he couldn’t care less. It became easier and easier to stop answering her texts, and ignore her calls. He was already starting his new life with you. After a party in SoCal two nights ago, when he was up to his eyeballs in booze and your tits, he got half-hard thinking about making the phone call to his lawyer to draft up divorce papers. Ecstasy is so much better when you have someone to do it with you.
He wonders if she could see the lie in his eyes when he told her he’d give her an answer when she came back. If the divorce papers will come as a surprise.
In a ring of thunder, he backs out of you, dragging the covers with him, and you shiver, exposed, skin damp in his sweat and your own. Eyes hazy, lips bitten, marks of him everywhere on your skin, you look raw, fucked out. He kisses your collarbone before easing out of the bed to take off the condom.
You’re already half asleep when he comes back to bed.
Sleep is oozing around his bones, making his muscles limp and pliable. He’s seconds away from passing out. He knows you both need to eat, but he can’t lift his eyelids long enough to find his phone. He crawls in bed behind you, the exhaustion a weight more demanding than gravity. He came inside you and all his energy left him. You hum as you curl up next to him. He doesn’t even make it under the blanket.
You say something to him, something that his body reacts to, but his brain doesn’t fully comprehend. Noise, soft, gentle, comforting noise. He wants to hear it, whatever it is you’re saying, but he can feel parts of his mind shutting off, going dark.
Instead, he turns your limp body onto your side, his own molding around you, a warmth he never before experienced expanding from his chest to the rest of his body. His fingers curve around your chest and he thinks he can feel your heartbeat beneath his fingers. It might be his instead.
He noses your hair.
“Never leave me.”
Sleep is a thing he is, not a thing he does. He drifts, untethered in blackness, for hours, maybe days, maybe years. He dreams and remembers and his heartbeat settles somewhere behind his stomach.
When Dieter wakes up, it’s still raining, but the bedside light is on, casting a warm glow over the clothes on the floor, the crushed up powder on the table, the tablets of E by the couch. His come down is making him itchy – he’d love a joint – but he’s more unsettled by his sudden loneliness. Your side of the bed is empty, still warm, and he hears the shower running, sees light from under the door. You’re close by. He settles. Easily, slowly, mindfully of his fucked up hips, he rolls onto his back, staring up at the dark ceiling, his thumbnail carving out a line between his eyes.
He wants it to be months from now.
He wants the divorce papers signed. He wants you in his home, all your things there. He wants to trip over your shoes, move your purse from the countertops, smell your shampoo in his shower. He wants his time to become your time, wants to carve out hours of the day just to be with you and no one else. He can feel himself finding excuses to get away from his next gig, the next tour, from the next press circuit, canceling plans for parties and dinners, from everything that doesn’t have you in it. Nothing is as important as you are because nothing makes him feel like you do.
He needs you to come back to bed – he misses you. Thunder rumbles and he follows the noise out the window, his gaze briefly catching on the bedside table where you left your things. He spots the pill bottle and his skin hums. Flexeril. He wants to be under a little bit longer. He pops the cap off, rattles two pills into his hand, and throws it back, his throat pliant and obedient.
Sleep comes for him again. He hallucinates you, either dreaming or awake. A fix – love – whatever. They’re all the same to him.
It’s still raining when he lifts his head, sleep sloughing off him like relaxing overworked muscle, but it’s brighter out, the barrage of rain lessened. He has no idea how much time has passed and looking at the clock won’t help. He hasn’t kept track of time in days. Not since Chloe went away.
He’s suddenly aware of the warmth across his back. Your dainty fingers hang over his shoulder as if you tried to hug him and collapsed in place. Grinning, he rolls over, careful not to wake you, and sneaks his arm under your pillow, his other hand pulling you back against him. You smell like lavender and smoke and, wrapped up in his green t-shirt, a bit like him. He runs his nose the length of your neck to your ear – all mine – and lays down, tries to go back to sleep . . . only to realize what woke him up in the first place.
Buzzing.
Blue light from the bedside table.
Blinking through the headache the sound is giving him, Dieter leaves you and the perfect glow the outside light gives your skin. Sitting up, he blinks several more times at the name at the top of the screen.
Chloe.
And he’s missed four other calls from her, about five minutes apart each. She’s never done that before.
Swallowing and easing his feet to the ground at the edge of the bed, he answers her call.
“Hello?”
“Dieter.” Her voice is wet, water-logged by a salty brine. She’s been crying. He glances over his shoulder at you. Fuck, does she know where he’s been? You stir in your sleep, but don’t wake up. Over the phone, Chloe inhales, hiccuping, and then an explosion of words: “Dieter, something’s happened– I wanted to tell you in person but – and I know you said you’d think about it but–but, Dieter, it’s happened and –,”
His head this fogged from his hangover, from the last vestiges of E and the muscle relaxant still crawling around in his veins, he can’t parse out her words, every vowel and consonant flowing and butting up into the next. He can’t tell if she’s happy or upset.
“–and it’s so much sooner than either of us expected but–,”
“Chloe. Chloe,” he soothes, trying to be quiet and firm at the same time. You move again behind him and he looks at you just as you open your eyes. You smile at him and his heart skips. He turns around, trying to shield you from her. “Slow down. I can’t understand you. What’s going on?”
Silence.
Rain lashes the windows behind him. Thunder rocks the foundations of the building. Cars careen through the wet streets below. Your small hand presses against the ridges of his spine.
“Dieter, I’m pregnant.”
Rain lashes the windows behind him. Thunder rocks the foundations of the building. Cars careen through the wet streets below.
Your hand pulls away from him.
“What?”
“I’m pregnant. We’re going to have a baby.” Her voice is tinny through the speaker. She sounds far away. Everything sounds far away. “You’re going to be a father. Isn’t it what you’ve always wanted?”
The phone falls from his hands to the floor with a clatter. It lands just right and the screen goes dark, the call ended.
His fingers feel spongy, rubbery, unreal. His heart beats up against his chest, but he hears it in his ears, like he’s been running for miles on end.
A baby.
His baby.
His lungs suck in air in short, sharp gasps and when he breathes in deep, he’s immediately hit by a wave of nausea. He fights to keep from hurling right onto the floor.
Go, he has to go – has to – his body is moving, shifting, but his knees give out. Weakly dropping him to the floor against the bed frame. The back of his skull tightens and retightens. With every pulse of his heart beat, he feels it in a different place on his body. His ears. His fingertips. His chest. God, there’s something in there, clawing to get out. It’s choking him.
“Dieter.”
His fingers pull at the invisible bonesaw cracking open his chest. “S-s-shut up. I can’t bre-eathe.”
Fuck fuck fuck fuck
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He can’t be a –
– can’t be his father –
Can’t can’t won’t won’t – not like this – not now –
He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t want it.
This kid – they’re gonna have his fucked up brain, his fear of living, that oppressive, slimy voice that keeps him pinned to his bed for days on end with all the curtains closed – that weighs him down to the bottom of the fucking ocean –
He’s ruined them before they ever even had a chance. Because they’ll be his, a part of him. An unlucky splinter embedded deep under a caustic burn. It’s not fair.
His fingers dig into his hair and wrench.
“Dieter.”
There’s a hand on his face. It’s soft and gentle and he hates it. It strokes his tears before he turns away and snarls, clawing his way up the mattress, cornering himself against the headboard.
Don’t touch me
Your eyes, gazing up at him from where you kneel on the floor, immediately flood with tears. They crack and overflow. They drip off your face.
“So it’s true, then. What she said. It is yours. Your . . .”
Can’t can’t can’t won’t won’t won’t can’t do it
His nails scratch his scalp, hard. There’s liquid under his cuticles.
“What happens now? What are we going to do?” You beg him, your tiny hands clutching at the sheets around the edge of the mattress. “W-w-we talked about – have you sent her the p-papers – I thought –,”
Maybe that weight in his chest will finally collapse and swallow him whole. Cramping until his very existence is crushed under the gravity of a pole star as it dies. He pulls his knees to his chest, his fingers knotting deeper and deeper into his hair.
“I’m going back.” The words scald his mouth the instant they leave it. They taste like bile, bile that rots inside of him. “I-I have to . . . I have to be there for . . . B-b-but n-not now – not like this – not when I-I’m still –,”
There on the table, there’s a chance he can forget about all of this, just take it away a second longer – but he has to go back to – to her – his ba–
“But you promised.” Your serrated voice snares him and tears his gaze back to you. “Dieter, don’t do this. Please. Let me help you. We can figure out something together. You can’t go back. You don’t love her. There’s nothing –,”
“She’s the mother of my child, Natalie. Of course I have to go back to her.”
He almost misses the gasp from your lips. Almost.
That noise. The inhale, the crunch of air against an unwilling lung. The audible sound of understanding. Of clarity. Of the ground finally setting.
You on one side. And him . . . him out of your orbit.
He sees the flash of your white teeth, the sharpness of bone, before you open your mouth.
“You’d be doing both of them a fucking favor if you never showed up at all.”
He thinks he goes blind in one eye for a moment from the rage that burns up through his rib cage. All that blackness that was inside of him since the day he was born comes rushing, pouring to the surface.
“What?” he snarls, lunging down and snatching you up by the meat of your arms, his fingers digging into your flesh. His teeth snap near your ear. “What do you want me to do, huh?”
“Stop, Dieter, you’re hurting me –,”
There’s a loud, angry man living inside of him, that’s lived inside every room he’s ever been in. The things he did subdued the anger, but not the inevitability. There’s a loud, angry man inside of him, and he doesn’t have the courage to pretend anymore that the voices in his head don’t all sound the same.
He crushes you against chest, your nails clawing at his skin, as he hauls you across the room. Dieter shoves you onto the couch, pulsating with fury. You’re crying again as your fingers curl around the ashtray on the table. Your arm winds back and he jerks away the second before you fling it at him with a scream. The ashtray shatters the lamp, electrical sparks flying, clay shattering, and then —
“I hate you!”
“And I hate myself around you!” He snarls.
He watches the words collide with your very being, your eyes fluttering as though he had slapped you.
“We bring out the fucking worst in each other,” he goes on, like toxic drool spilling out of his mouth. “And you fucking know it.” He can’t stop. He doesn’t want to. Your mouth drops, lips trembling, skin going white, as though you drank poison from the cup of his hands. “You want me to abandon this kid for the mistake of just being born? You want it to turn out like you?”
Tears again and this time he cannot miss the gasp. The hiccup where air goes down wrong.
It’s all wrong.
“Fuck you, Dieter, GET OUT!”
“This is my hotel room–,”
“Get the fuck out or I’ll call the fucking cops!” You shriek.
Your shoulder knocks into his chest as you shove past him, snatching up his clothes and pitching them into his face. The bed behind you looks like a war zone, covered in shards of glass and clay and wires. A great machine disemboweled.
“Goddamn it –,”
His belt buckle grazes his cheek. You’re trying to draw blood. Your hair wild and mussed from sex and his abuse, cheeks enflamed, you breathe as though you gasp around a collapsed lung.
This was always how it was going to end. He’s come to the end of the spiral.
He thinks you and hurricanes share the same sort of powerful, thunderous beauty. The very sight of you glaring at him with such disgust and violence on your face makes his eyes grow hot.
“You are a fucking coward, Dieter Bravo.” You sniff, wiping something from your chin with the back of your hand. “You’re a coward and a fucking liar . . .” You swallow, vitriol wet in your mouth, in the curve of your shoulders, in the unsteady shake of your hands, “and you’re gonna be a fucking shit dad. You have no idea how to love anyone but yourself.”
You’ve done it. Stripped him down to his bare essentials and this is what you’ve found: a copy of a loud, angry man. A copy, blurred and blackened and smudged beyond recognition. And despite his best efforts, the copies would go on until there was nothing left but hot darkness.
Turning away, you take the sweating champagne bottle from the bucket and, stumbling towards the bathroom, you fall forward and lock the door behind you.
That blank, empty door will haunt his dreams for years to come — he just doesn’t know it yet.
He’s still shaking when he picks up his phone.
“Are you in Los Angeles? No. No – I’m not . . . remember the old laundromat off 1st? You have to meet me there. Now. Hurry . . . please . . . please.”
In the blue darkness curling in the back of the room, metallic drums in their square boxes churn, their heating coils humming as excess heat warms the tile, the cracking plaster on the walls. Not a soul insight, but the machines go on, diligent and indifferent. There are the eternal mountains, the infinite sea, and there are these machines, washing out dirt from clothes and towels and bedsheets, and warming the cold and wet and the damp, forever and ever and ever.
He lets out a shaky exhale. Tapping the gray ash into the empty soda cup between his legs, he takes another sip from the cigarette, his left knee bouncing fixed and tight, as he waits in the half-darkness, his back pressed up against the cool window. In front of him, the washing machines grumble, the only light giving them individual edges coming from the glow in the street behind them. He didn’t even bother turning on the overhead fluorescents when he came in.
The cigarette butt between his fingers joins the other three at the bottom of the cup before he picks up the packet and shakes out another one. The metal zipper of his hoodie feels cold against his bare stomach. His knee won’t stop shaking.
To his left, the double glass doors suddenly open, the cool brush of rain overwhelming the heat of the machines for a moment, and a frantic shadow spills through, its head swiveling in a panicked search.
“Dieter?”
Disbelief. Horror. His chest swells so sharply he thinks he might split open.
Heels clacking on the linoleum, she comes into the light of the window. Her mouth smeared bright red, blonde hair down and smoothed around her ears, she wears a black raincoat over silk red pants and black heels. She looks beautiful.
Except for the way her mouth twists in terrible anguish.
“Oh, shit.” Heidi says, softly. “Dieter, what happened?”
He works his jaw, his eyes hot and tight, he doesn’t even look up at her when he says, “you look nice. Hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”
Heidi’s mouth drops open as further bewilderment sinks in. She slowly lowers herself into the seat next to him. The plastic squeaks from the force.
“Honey, do you know what day it is?”
He shrugs, shakes his head.
“Everyone’s been trying to find you for days. The studio’s furious but . . .” she inhales and he knows the sound. It’s the sound doctors make when they tell parents their child has a terminal illness, when parents tell their children they had to put down the family dog, when his father told him he wasn’t welcome in the house any more. “I was on my way to the Oscars. It’s Oscars night, Dieter, and Recovery Road was nominated for best picture.”
The smoke in his mouth sucks out every droplet of moisture. He sees the room spin for a second. “Congratulations. I mean that. You deserve it.”
She inhales again, but it comes through perforated and broken. “Honey, you were nominated. Best Actor. That’s why we were trying to find you.”
He sniffs and drops the still burning cigarette into the cup, his palms rubbing frantically on his thighs, over his jeans, the smoke yanking his guts up into his mouth. He feels the acid burn his tongue.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, “I’m sorry I didn’t answer my phone. I’m sorry you didn’t know where to find me. But . . . fuck, Heidi,” his voice cracks, “it’s gotten so out of control and I don’t know if I can fix it . . . or if I should.”
It’s her soft hand on his back that does it. Like she touched a pressure point that released the festering knot he had become and every sensation within him is pushed to an eleven, everything pushed to the brink, to the very line of sanity, and he breaks.
He leans forward and cries.
The single hand becomes two, then an entire body of warmth as she pulls him into her chest, not worried if he smudges her makeup or wrinkles her blouse. It streams from him, a dam unsealed and imploding under its own weight, and he cries, the wails high and loud and he could scream like this. He sinks to his knees and she goes with him until they’re on the floor, the seat of the chair digging into her back and his arms wrapped around her waist.
“I fucked up, Heidi. I fucked up so bad.” His fingers twist into her coat. “I’m so sorry, s-so, so so-rry . . .”
I fucked up
I fucked up
I am fucked up
I fucked up
I’m so tired of fucking up
She lets him cry out this thing that’s been choking him, grips him tight, holds him down, in the murky darkness of that laundromat, the machines churning and churning and churning in the quiet. He cries longer than he has in recent memory. Maybe in his whole life. Nothing has ever hurt like this because this is the culmination of every other hurt, every other wound. A grief compounded he never had time to mourn.
He cries until it’s all out, until there’s static in his head and his eyes ache and his limbs are heavy. Until, despite the pain, his mouth wet and gummy, he can breathe around the weight.
She waits for the flood to slow, for his breathing to ease, his skin still fire hot. She rubs the back of his neck and he shudders against her chest.
“Dieter.” His own name sounds alien to him. “Honey. Talk to me.”
She hasn’t called him that in half a decade. She uses her own sleeve to dry his cheeks and he turns away, mortified he’d ruin her pretty shirt. Heidi eases him back, resting against the chair. Her hand still holding the back of his neck, he finally looks her in the eyes. He can feel his breastbone bend under the weight of his failure.
But he tells her.
Mouth sticky and eyes dripping, he tells her everything – from the moment he knew you were taking drugs on set, to you showing up dripping and half-naked at his door, to the house in Albuquerque, the unsteady acceptance and balance you somehow agreed to – despite how you both felt, what you both wanted to explore – how heartbroken he was when you slept with someone else, how heartbroken he was when it became clear that Chloe couldn’t wouldn’t understand him because the love she felt for him was never enough to fill in the ache inside of him.
The few moments of unparalleled joy he experienced with you in that cottage in the crescent city.
Joy, fueled and fed and stimulated by drugs.
That was the hardest to admit. That hurt the most.
His hands shook, either from the comedown or the nerves or both. Not a single detail was omitted, a memory misplaced. If he didn’t discuss certain blocks of time, then they were never in his memory to begin with. He wanted it purged from his system, like flushing an infection with saline water. If he didn’t bare his soul now, he never would, would never have another chance to be this honest with her or himself about his many vices, his many addictions. How he thought he loved you so much his heart might burst. How he can’t tell if that love comes from inside him or the strings he uses to stitch himself back together.
What he had done to you in that hotel room. How he treated someone he loves with his whole heart.
“And Chloe, she’s – fuck–,” he wipes at his eyes with his sleeve against his palm, “she called me this morning and told me she’s pregnant.”
Heidi audibly swallows. Swallows down her disgust and horror. She knows what this means to him. Her silence reminds him exactly how fucked he is, how irrevocably changed his life is, and ice-cold, black-dread terror rockets up his spine, squeezing his heart. His stomach claws at itself, empty of anything to destroy. He wants to peel the skin off his fingers.
She wraps her hand around his forearm, pulling his hand into her lap.
“Was that something . . . had you talked about . . .” she stops and starts, plucking at the threads of what she is trying to ask. “Were you trying?”
He shakes his head, eyes itchy from the tears. He paws at his face with his sleeve, huffing. When he speaks, he sounds like he has a cold. “Last time I saw her was at the start of the press tour. She came back, asking if we could fix things, and at that point, Natalie and I had already . . .” he wraps his arms over his chest, willing it all back inside of him. “Chloe asked if I wanted to have a baby with her and that was it. I think any desire to remain her husband just evaporated that day, whether I knew it at the time or not.”
“Wait, I thought you said you were going back? Back to Chloe? If that’s not what you want, then why . . .”
He picks up a piece of that famous Dieter indignance and holds it in his fist.
“I’m not divorcing the woman while she’s pregnant with my child. Besides, if she thinks I can help, or if she needs me . . .” he inhales, unsteady and weak, “if she thinks me being around the kid will make things better and not worse, then . . .” The laundromat goes blurry, the truth of it cracking, splitting, chunks carving up his throat. He exhales and the tears roll down his cheeks. “Then I’m going to do it. I-I-I just don’t want the baby . . . to-to e-end up . . . like . . . me.”
“Oh, Dieter.”
Heidi slides around his back, her head against his shoulder, arms tugging his inward, as if she could take away his sadness, his pain, his shame. They both tremble as sobs wrack his body.
“You wouldn’t make things worse,” she murmurs to his shoulder blades, to the thin sweatshirt damp with sweat. “You wouldn’t, Dee, I promise.”
“But it’s there, it’s in me, Heidi. This capacity to hurt everyone I love.”
“Honey, they wouldn’t love you if you couldn’t hurt them.”
“A baby isn’t going to love me,” he says, softly, to her knuckles around his stomach. “It needs care, support, someone who’s around all the time. And I don’t even know what fucking day it is.”
“But you won’t always be like this.” Hedi squeezes him gently. “I saw the healthy Dieter, the focused one. The one who loves the movies, who loves being an actor. You can be that person.”
“Yeah and all the while wanting to fuck someone who wasn’t my wife.” He tugs on his hair and feels a few strands come loose. Gray, by the light behind him. Great.
“You’re never going to be perfect, Dieter. No one is. Therapy and rehab is not meant to make you perfect, it’s meant to make you healthy.”
She’s not seeing it — why can’t she understand that he’s permanently fucked?
He slides out of her arms, irritated, and curls up by the window, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
“I was in rehab for two years and in an instant it crumbled. Everything they tried to teach me.” He rubs his palm in the divet of his nose between his eyes. “It doesn’t work. Not on me.”
“Then why’d you do it, Dieter?” Heidi asks as she stands, her hands on her hip. “Why do you keep going back if you think it’s pointless?”
“Because I want it to work!” He snaps up at her. “I don’t want to be like this forever. I went for Chloe, for you, for Mark, for everyone who–,”
“But not yourself.” She cuts him off and he feels the impact in his chest. With a sigh, she sits down next to him and drops her head against the wall. Heidi is quiet, observing the hunched washing machines, the spinning of the dryers, and a faint smile breaks across her face. “Do you remember that time we met that really cute guy here, what, fifteen years ago? Dark hair, blue eyes, hands the size of plates.” He nods. “And he was really into cycling, remember? So you and I would go down to that tiny gym twenty minutes from our apartment and join that fucking spin class at 6AM because you were determined to get his number . . . and then once you had it, after months of that goddamn class, you–,”
“I never called him.”
“You never called him, that’s right.” Heidi says as she laughs, Dieter chuckling with her. She watches as his fingers curl into his own hair.
“So, what, you’re saying I have problems with follow through?”
“I’m saying you are committed to whatever you want to do, if you want to do it.” She wraps her hand around his bicep and leans into his shoulder. They’re quiet, contemplating. “I remember thinking I’d die young, when I was in high school. And because of that, I was as reckless as I wanted to be. But then I met Lucy and as clichéd it is to say this, everything changed. Being with her, I was the most clear-headed I’d ever been in my life and I knew exactly what I wanted.” She glances up at him as the rain picks up again. Flat droplets splatter against the window near his head. “How do you want your life to make you feel? Do you know what you want from life, Dieter?”
Fame. Acclaim. Adoration. These things go off in his head as if they were a Pavlovian response to this kind of question, but then they fade, grow weak without sentiment.
Honestly?
At his core, his dark, deep secret is this: he wants to feel the way the drugs make him feel. Like he’s the happiest he’s ever been, or at peace with the universe, or the star of every room.
Like he’s loved. The drugs make him feel like he is loved and whole and that’s what he wants.
And there’s only one person on earth he’s ever felt that way with.
“Do you love her, Dieter?” The question is delayed, muffled against his shoulder.
He sighs. “Between you and me and these four fucking walls, no, I don’t. Maybe I did once, but what I feel for Chloe isn’t going to change or improve. I feel something for her, but it’s not the right kind of something to–,”
“I mean, Natalie, Dieter. Natalie.” Heidi lifts her head, her gaze serious, rimmed with worry. “Do you love Natalie?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t question it, doesn’t add addendums to it, conditions around whether or not he loves her only when he’s high, or not high. There is something there, something deep. Something that scared him at first, but he’s seen you now. He knows that if he reached out his hand, you’d take it. Because whatever is in your soul, it recognizes itself in his. A split soul, into two bodies.
Racing to the edge of calamity.
But then Heidi sits up, takes him by the shoulders and asks a question he’d never once considered, about anyone.
“Do you see a future with her?”
“I . . .”
No.
He tries to swallow around the knot in his throat.
No, because one of you is going to burn out too fast. One of you isn’t going to survive, not the way it’s going. Did Heidi mean marriage, kids, a fucking lawn with a picket fence? He’s not made for that kind of future either but that is okay because he was never going to make it there anyway.
I always thought I’d die young.
Something fundamentally shifts in his brain, as though an old reality suddenly winked from existence.
He thinks about that blank door you locked yourself behind. He thinks of your tears and how he broke you. He loves you, he knows it, but now he sees outside himself. He thinks of the carousel and his mother and the promises she made to him.
“I want her in my life,” he tells Chloe with certainty. “I can’t picture my life without her, even if I don’t know what that’s going to look like. Whatever we are, whatever happens with the baby or Chloe, I know now I can’t live without her. Without Natalie.”
The dusting of worry fades from her face and a crease appears between her eyes. The one that comes out when a scene won’t quite come together, or there’s a line of dialogue that needs reworking. When something is just a bit outside her understanding and she hasn’t quite settled on an answer.
“I’ve never seen you make that face before.”
“What face?”
“I . . . I don’t know. You just look different, when you talk about her.”
“I love her. I mean it.”
She turns away, some personal revelation coming too late. Her eyes are like flints, flecks of hard green stone, when she looks back at him.
“Enough to leave her?” Heidi implores of him. “Because what you’re asking, it’s cruel, to do that to someone. You get that, right?”
He bites the skin under his lip. “Yeah. I see that now. Or maybe I always have and I just didn’t want to admit it.” He’s cried enough for a lifetime, but his throat pinches and the backs of his eyes grow hot. “I just can’t stand the thought of us never speaking again. If something ever happened to her . . .”
“If you really want to stay with Chloe and raise this baby, then you might have to make that choice. Or she might make it for you, to keep you out of her life. Either way, you have to accept that.” He nods, a few drops sprinkling off his eyelashes. Heidi squeezes his shoulder and goes on, “but for right now, we’re going to start with rehab. Get you clean. You’re going to have to tell Chloe about the drugs, but as for the affair . . .”
“Do you think I should?”
Heidi’s lively green eyes dull, the stem of a flower as it wilts. “Honestly, Dieter, I have no idea.”
Before he can read what else may be written on her face, she stands, pulling him up with her. She eyes him with a teasing contempt as he zips up his hoodie.
“You really do look like fucking shit.”
“Yeah, thanks, I feel it.”
She takes his hand and holds it to her chest. “One step at a time, Dieter. Step one, we’re going to get you some food so you sober up. Then we go get your stuff.”
His stomach twists at the thought of seeing you when he has no idea what to say — apologies aren’t enough. “But–,”
“One thing at a time.” She takes out her umbrella as they stand at the precipice between the laundromat and the wet street. Her look is one of hope, a small thing, of uncertainty and promise. “One thing at a time.”
The rising of the hotel elevator syncs with the steady climb of his anxiety. His head hurts, even in the low lighting, and there’s some small part of him that’s looking forward to that white bed in any empty room. Folded up into the corner of the opulent elevator, eyes dark-rimmed, hair long and unkempt, looking every bit the addict he is, he swallows as the numbers in gold across the top of the double doors ding with every floor. His eyes fall to the watch at Heidi’s wrist. She stands in the middle of the elevator, her head held high, a slight frown on the crease of her forehead. He wonders what she’s thinking about but he isn’t sure he wants to know with certainty. It’s six thirty. They’ll all be seated now.
“Thank you.” He murmurs to her wrist.
Heidi glances at him, taking in the dark circles beneath his eyes, his waxy skin. He had been so hurt by her apparent disinterest after she left the film’s production that when he called, part of him was sure that she wasn’t even going to answer. One by one his support network had been cut away, trimmed down until he was dangling by a thread. And yet, she came, without hesitation, on possibly the most important night of her life. If there is anything to be ashamed about, he figures, it’s that he ever doubted her. He should have called sooner.
“Thank you, Heidi, for everything.”
Her expression softens and she breathes slowly. She actually graces him with a smile. “Don’t thank me yet. We’ve got a long road ahead of us.”
We.
When he thought he was all alone.
His eyes sting as the elevator stops on the twenty-second floor, dinging cheerily when the doors open to the top, most secluded floor. It’s quiet, all five black doors in the hallway shut and locked. Heidi steps out with purpose and he drags himself after her, hands digging into his wet pockets to try and find his key, if he even managed to bring it.
And then he freezes.
Something’s not right. A sense. A chill in the air. An uneasy twinge in the stomach just before freefall.
Heidi stops, looks over her shoulder. “Dieter, what’s–,”
Behind the door to his room comes a loud thump. A scrambling. And then –
“Oliver?”
Those ice blue eyes snap up as the drug dealer stumbles through the doorway. Eyes bloodshot, skin gray, his immaculate suit is gone, replaced by black jeans and a loose shirt. His hands are trembling.
“Ah, fuck, Dieter.”
The blackness of his irises take up the entirety of his pupils. He’s high, out of his mind . . . and he’s terrified. Trembling like a child, his gaze bounds back and forth between Dieter and Heidi.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Oliver?”
“I-I-I . . . uh . . . look, she called me, and I, uh –,”
“Natalie called you?” Heidi’s eyebrows arch up her forehead. She frowns at Dieter. “What for?”
At that, Oliver’s cheeks flush red. “Look, it can’t be traced back to me. I’ve got a green card and I can’t lose that. I need it – I have to –,”
“What can’t be traced back to you?” Dieter steps forward, his pulse quickening.
Oliver actually whines when he looks back to his old friend.
“Look, I guess I didn’t realize how much she was t-taking. I was already high when I got here and just sort of let her h–have her pick –,”
Dieter’s stomach clenches.
Heidi frowns, still not getting it. “What are you talking about? Have her pick of what?”
“Oliver.” Those pale eyes jump back to Dieter, his entire body shaking. “Where’s Natalie?”
“I c-can’t be here, right now, ok-kay? They’re going to deport me if they f-find out that I–,”
Dieter thinks he hears the shower running.
The air in the hallway thins, a ringing settling between his ears.
The rest comes to him in flashes.
Tattered pieces flung into the air, raining down images. He snatches at them but they crumble in his grip.
Shoving Oliver out of the way.
Pills, liquor bottles, powders on the table. Ones he knows he didn’t leave there.
The white bathroom door.
This is the moment he realizes that blank door will haunt his nightmares for years to come. What he could have found on the other side. What he nearly does.
Your pale hand dangles over the side of the tub. That’s the first thing he sees. It brings him to his knees on the tiled floor.
Shower water pelts your gray face, black lines of makeup streaking your white cheeks. Oliver had dumped you in there still clothed in black underwear and his green shirt, possibly in hopes that the water would rouse you. But you don’t react to the water, or the sounds he’s making. You don’t react to him sliding down over the lip of the tub to you, his hand cupping your face.
You look small, broken and folded like a doll.
He had discarded you so easily.
But there, beneath the flood of water across your skin, he sees that you’re –
“Breathing,” he murmurs to himself, to you. “She’s breathing –,”
The ice cold water drenches his back as he pulls you out of the tub and into his lap. It’s not graceful, your knees and elbows knocking against the porcelain, but still you don’t move. You still don’t wake up.
He drags you into his lap like a lion drags its prey, selfishly, hungrily, snarling.
In his ears, the rushing of blood muffles all sound, everything happening in the room outside. He’s vaguely aware of movement, of running, of someone yelling.
But you still haven’t opened your eyes. He touches your face, fingers dragging back the damp hair across your forehead, and he thinks he feels your pulse slow.
No no no no no no no stop no not like this stop please i’m so sorry please don’t I’m begging you please please please please you can’t go you can’t leave me i’m so sorry please don’t leave me i’m so sorry please wake up wake up i’m begging you
please please please please
He doesn’t know what he keeps to himself or what he whispers out loud to you, arms wrapped around your back, limp head pressed tightly into his throat.
He holds you until the ambulance comes, as if his constant vigil will keep you from slipping away.
It was an accident, Oliver assured the police.
It was just a little fun that got out of hand. His stuff was more potent because it was made in a lab, not off the street. He didn’t remember to tell her and she didn’t know, Oliver said over and over and over again.
But that information came through Heidi’s contact at the police station, a contact that had been in the interview room when Oliver confessed everything in hopes of easing his sentence. But this was third hand gossip. A game of telephone that made Dieter nauseous to think about.
Maybe it didn’t matter why, only that it did. Only that you were hurt, that you were unconscious. That what he had done to you made you do this to yourself.
He watched the double doors from the hospital waiting room constantly.
Curled up in the back corner, his eyes remained glued to the swinging, open-and-shut, entrance to the admission rooms. Where they took you after the ambulance arrived. They didn’t let him go back with you. He was prepared to lie and push and use every ounce of his considerable influence to let him see you, but in the end, Heidi brought him down. Told him to let them do their jobs and all he could do was wait.
He paced the length of the waiting room, in the beginning. Shoulder curled, hands clenched across his body, nails bitten to the quick, he never took his eyes off that doorway.
The nurse at the station initially glowered at his frantic energy, but then something lightened her gaze. She recognized him from somewhere but couldn’t place it. Heidi tried to get him to sit, drink water, but he refused.
Her police contact called her, told her Oliver had been arrested and was selling out his suppliers left and right. For his sake, Dieter hoped they’d deny bail and keep him in jail, away from the public. Away from anyone who might come after him.
Heidi sits down next to him, now that he has settled, with a sigh, her second cup of coffee in a styrofoam cup from the machine smelling like burnt tar. She blows on it in a way that can only be described as calculating.
His sweatshirt dried cold against his skin. Why are hospitals always so fucking freezing?
“Dieter,” she begins but he grinds his teeth so hard, it’s audible.
“If you tell me to calm down, Heidi, I swear –,”
“No.” The word is heavy, cutting. It shuts him up immediately, even draws his dry gaze away from the doors. He looks at her, one of his oldest and only friends, with the coffee in her lap, thin pale fingers delicately holding the sides. Her eyes are unreadable as she watches him. “I want you to think about what you are going to say to her when she wakes up. And she will – that girl is tougher than you give her credit for,” she adds sternly. “But when she wakes up, that will be your one and only chance to do the right thing. The right thing for her. Not you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He chews on his tongue, which has suddenly grown three sizes and gone dry. The finality in her voice, it sinks into him. An ax falling into wood but isn’t removed. Left there, splitting the wood apart and letting the wet molasses ooze out of the crack.
It’s not fair, his heart aches. It’s not fair.
But it is right.
Dieter wipes his eyes as a doctor walks out of the double doors, the first in what feels like hours, and he approaches them in the corner.
He wants to ask, wants to open his mouth, but words have left him. What if it's bad news? What if –
Heidi stands to meet the doctor with an outstretched hand, Dieter shakily rising to his feet behind her. The doctor, a serious man with no facial hair and brown eyes, takes Heidi’s hand and returns the greeting. Dieter makes a fist in his pocket to keep his hand from trembling.
“You’re the family, then?”
Dieter wants to shake his head, no, this isn’t how families are supposed to be, but Heidi nods before he can confess his heart to an indifferent cause.
“We are. How is she? Is she–,” Heidi’s voice cracks despite her stern tone and Dieter’s skin at the back of his head pulsates.
“She’s alive,” the doctor says quickly. He wonders if that’s the information they have to give immediately. Some reassurance that all this time spent waiting wasn’t for nothing. That maybe something out there is kind and listened to his frantic begging. “But she will need to remain in our care for a few days. She’s going to be alright, but she very, very nearly wasn’t.”
The doctor goes on, describing what they had to do to save Natalie’s life. What poisons they found inside of her. What they took from her to piece her back together.
Wasn’t. There’s an alternative in that.
In a parallel universe, you died. You were gone.
But in this one, you lived. You were still here. There was still time.
“Can I see her?” He blurts out, cutting the doctor off from his long explanation. Those brown eyes harden like bird shells when they fall on him.
“She’s unconscious, heavily sedated, but stable. The nurse will show you back, but she might not be able to hear you.”
He nods. You might not hear him now, but you would, one day. You would know how sorry he is if it was the last thing he did.
The doctor waves at a nurse and Heidi turns and takes him into a hug.
“Tell her we’re all rooting for her,” she whispers in his ear. “Tell her I’ll be here waiting for her when she gets up.”
He pulls back, something about her phrasing squeezing his heart, he doesn’t like that he doesn’t like that at all —
But the nurse is opening the double doors for him, expectant.
She’s smiling but her eyes are empty as he lets go and steps back towards the long white hallway.
Your one and only chance to do the right thing.
He follows the nurse down room after room. He can’t bear to look into the rooms through the small windows, to flood his imagination with images of your possible fate, so he stares resolutely at the back of the nurse’s head.
She stops outside of room twenty two and opens the door for him.
“You’ve got ten minutes. You can come back in the morning during visiting hours.”
He nods, her indifferent gaze almost a relief. Pity, mourning, he couldn’t stand to see it. One more crack and he’d break. Shatter and spill like marbles across the floor.
He wants to thank the nurse, but the words get stuck and she walks off, handing him the responsibility of the door as she returns to the waiting room.
His hand shakes against the frame.
You were right. You always have been. He’s such a fucking coward.
Shaking, knees wobbling, Dieter falters as he goes into your room. It smells sweet, the air pungent and cloying. As if dead flowers had been sprinkled over filth.
There’s one light behind you, the curtains drawn shut, shadows heavy.
Where you had been a limp, lifeless doll in the bathroom tub, stretched thin in the small bed now you more resembled a weak, helpless child. Small, pale, ragged to the bone. As if someone had stripped back years of your life, revealing a vulnerability lost long into adulthood. A brush with death and you become humbled, glancing towards the light erodes your false pretenses until you lay bare at the end of time and at the beginning.
You look so, so sick.
His knees give out when he spots the skin beneath the arms of your hospital gown. The plastic seat beneath him all but holding him up right, he lifts the sleeve closest to him.
The skin is purple, green, in the shape of fingers. His fingers. He had done this to you. Of all the things he thought he was, thought he had become, this sort of monster seemed unfathomable. But he was wrong. He had become a special kind of monster.
His thumb trembles as he rubs the bruise, so sickened with himself his stomach churns.
As though pinched, you suddenly gasp awake, the machines monitoring you spiking and chirping. Twisting in the bed, eyes blurry, it’s clear you don’t know where you are, what has happened. You struggle until he puts his hands on your shoulders.
“Baby – baby, calm down. You’re safe. You’re in the hospital.”
Your hair still hasn’t dried completely and it curls around your shoulders like tentacles. Easing back down, you look up at him, eyes fluttering as you try and focus your gaze. You blink and recognition suddenly sparks across your face.
“Dieter?” You cry out and suddenly your cheeks are flushed with tears. Your pale skin sparks pink as you sob wretchedly. “Dieter – I-I t-thought you l-left me–,”
A solid block of stone where his heart used to be, he pulls you into his lap, arms clutched tightly around you. You’re shaking and shaking and shaking as you mutter,
“Thought you were g-gone. Thought you left m-me fore-eve-r-r. L-left m-me.”
Dieter swallows, his chin on your head, aware of his own tears but doing nothing to wipe them away.
He lets you cry. Holds you tight and strong in his arms and, as he always has been, unable to offer any real comfort. Real support. He offered nothing real, nothing tangible, no promises kept, because he had nothing to give. He sees that now.
You slow in your cries, your wailing, but you’re muttering something else now. He can’t hear it with your face against his heart, so he eases you away, hand soothing your neck, thumb by your ear. Your eyes are closed and you immediately try to nestle into him again, like a kitten searching for warmth.
“I did it . . . it’s my fault . . . I did it . . .” You claw at his forearms.
“Did what, baby?” He tilts your head up, up to him, to the light. Your face is puffy and pink and your lips are covered in tears. They spill again, your skin slippery, as you answer:
“I ruined your life, Dieter.”
In his shock and horror, his grip loosens and that’s all you need to launch yourself forward into him again. Your arms hold him by the waist so tightly it’s like you fear he’s going to fade away, crying again, crying anew. His eyes flutter shut, against the building wave of nausea in his gut, against the soothing hum of your skin against his – this is where we’re supposed to be – against the acceptance of what’s to come.
He lets you cry, perhaps longer than he should but he’s determined to sear the memory of your skin, your shoulders, your hips, your head into every crevice inside of him, stuff himself full of you when he has nothing else to sustain him on. He’s still greedy, selfish, corruptible, when it comes to you.
And that’s the whole fucking point.
“Natalie–,” he tries and it comes out soft. “Natalie, I have to tell you something.”
You pull away from him, eyes puffy and red, your beautiful mouth twisted and gnarled in grief. But there’s something wrong with your eyes, your gaze blurry.
His stomach knots with the realization that you might not remember any of this, the sedatives too strong. Fighting against his trembling chin, he takes you by the jaw, gently, carefully, how you’re meant to be handled and he has done it wrong so many times before.
“Natalie, I’m going to go away for a while,” he says. Your eyes fill with tears, but they don’t spill over. Your mouth twists petulantly.
“For how long?”
“For a while. You’re sick and you have to get better.”
You turn your head, considering his words. “When I get better, can I come see you?”
His jaw twists, dropping your gaze, chin trembling and teeth clattering. “I don’t know, baby. I don’t think that’s a good idea.’”
“Why?” You’re crying again and, finally, so does he.
“We’re not good for each other. And I can’t keep doing this to you.”
“Do what, Dieter?” You aren’t sobbing like before, but you pale. Like a ghost. Like he’s killing you.
Inhaling through a wet mouth, he kisses you on the forehead, tears flushing out of the corner of his eyes. Your little fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt.
“Dieter, I love you.” You mutter to his collarbone and that makes him let go. Releases you.
Sets you free.
You lived and he still had to say goodbye.
He wants to tell you in kind, try and capture this roaring, expansive feeling in his chest and give it to you. Offer himself on the funeral pyre if it keeps you warm.
You suddenly can’t quite focus on him, the rock of your shoulders is unsteady. Either the medicine is kicking in or the brief bout of consciousness is fading.
“Go to sleep, baby.”
You nod, eyelids heavy, and he gently eases you back, into the pillows, your weight growing as sleep overwhelms you. By the time, he has you against the white sheets, you’re already gone. He recedes from you, grateful and furious and happy and screaming all at once. He gives you one final kiss on the curve of your eyebrow, lingering long after he should, before tucking your hair back and moving away.
His last image of you is deathly pale and alone.
Nurses and staff stride through the hallways, around gurneys and into supply closets. Disembodied voices call out doctors through the intercoms and machines make noise. No one stops him as he walks down the long hallway and through the exit.
The metal handle clenches loudly as he pushes through, out into the dawning morning. It’s purple and quiet and not a soul in the entire city moves.
The rain has finally stopped.
“You’re still watching that?” Dan probes her, his patrol of the hospital slow given how late it is. “It’s just some dumb award show.”
April makes a face at him, glancing down briefly to finish her notes before her shift is over. Her feet ache and she’s looking forward to the pasta in her fridge.
“I worked a double today. If I want to indulge in a dumb show, I can.” She caps her pen and takes off her nurse’s badge. “Besides, it’s not a dumb awards show, it’s the dumb awards show. The Oscars are kind of important, idiot.”
Dan smirks, their banter the thing he looks forward to the most in his days as a security guard.
Neither one of them notice the single man walking past the nurses station towards the exit.
“Did you even watch any of these –,”
“Shush, they’re announcing Best Picture.”
A woman on the stage in a golden floor-length gown, her smile as bright as the lights around her, opens the envelope in her hands.
“And the Oscar goes to . . .”
She lifts the card, extending the suspension in her inhale.
“Recovery Road!”
The crowd on the TV bursts into applause and April squeals, clapping excitedly.
“Oh, please, like you even saw that in theaters.”
April shoots him a dirty look. “Yes, I did! I loved it. It’s my favorite movie of the year – maybe ever! I cried, like, four times. ”
Dan’s expression softens as he looks at her. She can’t soothe the blush in her cheeks quick enough.
“You really like movies, don’t you?”
“Oh, yeah, ever since I was a kid.”
“Maybe I could take you to one sometime.”
She smiles at him. “I’d like that.”
#dieter bravo#dieter bravo x f!reader#dieter bravo x you#dieter bravo fanfiction#dieter bravo x reader#the bubble fanfic#the bubble fic#the bubble fanfiction#the bubble 2016#dieter bravo/f!reader#dieter bravo/you#dieter bravo/reader#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal characters
41 notes
·
View notes
Text
A tiny re-written snippet for my OCs from forever ago, Part 1. (As usual for me, this seemingly simple scene is going to require multiple mini-installments, because I write veeery slowly and perpetually underestimate the length of things)
Scene summary: Aftermath of a not-fun encounter with a half-starved mountain lion in the middle of nowhere.
Story summary: The Fire is dying, and someone must make the long and perilous journey through the mountains to the Place Where Worlds Meet, to receive the gift of Fire anew and bring it back to their people. It is the dead of winter, after a scarce year. The village, already ravaged by hunger and sickness, tries to strike a delicate balance between who can succeed and who they can spare. The chosen ones: childhood friends Raven and Sky. During the month-long trek there and back they face all manner of acute environmental perils, along with the ever-present threats of cold, hunger, and fatigue.
Important Notes:
Character ages: Somewhere between adolescence and young adulthood. They will both officially come of age in the spring, but I haven’t yet decided exactly what that age is in their society. Uncomfy? Don’t read.
Medical stuff: Going for hurt/comfort vibes rather than any sort of accuracy. Stickler? Don’t read.
Content Warnings: Blood and injury. I think that’s it.
Unimportant Note on writing conventions: Although present me has developed a preference for 3rd-person narration, I am sticking with younger me’s original 1st-person narration for now. It does make the pronouns easier, if nothing else.
“Sky?” Though it came out as a hoarse whisper, my voice sounded unnaturally loud in my ears, much like the rapid pounding of my heartbeat. A breath of wind through the hemlock needles was the only reply as I turned back towards him. “Sky!”
He lay still, as he had fallen, thrown on his back with his limbs askew. The tilt of his head left his throat bare above the clasp of his cloak. A shiver ran up my spine, and my hand found its way unbidden to the back of my neck, where the bite of the mountain cat’s powerful jaws would have killed me instantly. Stunned, unconscious, dead, in the wavering moon-shadows I couldn’t discern.
I stumbled across the clearing. The uneven snow and the giddiness which follows a rush of fear-fueled strength made me unsteady on my feet. Pain which had been temporarily overwhelmed by the need to focus purely on survival pushed its way to the fore, blazing hot down my shoulder blade and back ribs. My back tightened with the jolt of each step, pulling at the raw seams of skin. A few times I nearly lost my balance; the reflexive jerk of my arms sent the muscles all across my back into spasms that tore deeper into the gashes of open flesh and I cried out, sparks dancing around the edges of my vision.
When I drew within a few paces, I could hear the rasp of labored breathing, and I saw his eyelids flutter open and then squeeze tightly shut again, furrowing his brow.
“Sky,” I breathed, torn between relief and a fresh wave of panic. “Are you…” I started out of habit, but the words dried in my mouth. What was there to ask? I had seen the creature’s curved claws gleaming white and chokeberry-red with the light of the full moon rising through the trees, each one sharp as a newly-honed knife; I had seen the spray of hot blood as they found their mark. The snow all through the clearing was churned up and stained black with it, and more showed in dark blotches on his torn cloak and tunic. I couldn’t tell, by the mottled gray light , how much of it was his - I and our assailant had both left our share. But I could smell it still welling up hot and fresh, a scent equal parts cloying and acrid that clung thickly to the back of my throat as I sank down at his side.
He acknowledged my presence with a tip of his head, eyes clear under half-raised lashes, but chose not to reply. I was grateful, in a way - words would have made it all even more real than it already was.
#winter journey OCs#my pen slipped#and slipped and slipped#friendly questions welcome#I know I haven't given these two a proper introduction
6 notes
·
View notes
Text
Asleep In The Keep: A DP x BNHA fic
Summary: Aizawa soothes Danny
Word count: 2412
Chapter 22: Star Boy
It was 11:56 am when Shouta woke up. He stared up at the black ceiling of his empty home. It was 4 minutes before his alarm would go off, forcing him to get back out into the field. Hizashi was busy either with hero work, finding Phantom, or helping prep for the upcoming training camp for class 1-A & B. As much as those kids deserve a break, they need to be prepared for what's coming, more so than any other class. The kids never should have been exposed to the LOV, but that was out of their control now. What they can control is how much access the League has to the kids. With the training grounds so far away (and several dummy locations), it should stop the league from finding them. Shouta had a bad feeling in his stomach. He just had to keep trusting Nezu.
The alarm blared in his ear, startling The Queen of Arson from her throne, which was less importantly Shouta's chest. She quietly curled her head back down, unbothered. Shouta looked down at her and rubbed her head, her purring in response. This part always hurt… With regret already in his bones, Shouta slowly rose out of his bed, gently lifting the blanket underneath her so she wouldn’t immediately notice his departure. He lowered her back down once he was completely out. Of course, she could tell the difference, and looked back at him in disgust, then jumped off the bed. Pancake ran after her, trying to play, annoying her further.
As much as Shouta wanted to stay and watch the cats, he had a job to do. He stripped out of his dirty jumpsuit and threw it in the hamper. It was Hizashi’s week to do the laundry. He thinks . He rummaged through his bare closet but was only able to find an atrocious pair of pink sweatpants that said Juicey, on the butt. Absolutely not. Hizashi had gotten them for him 5 years ago for an anniversary, and they were only to be worn in the house. He went back to the hamper and smelled the old suit, it didn’t smell that bad. He took them into the bathroom and hung it on the empty towel hook. Then took the scented spray from under the sink and sprayed away the surface stench of an alley. This would have to do.
It didn’t take long after that to get ready. On his way out the door, his third cat, Sushi, rubbed against his leg. He crouched down to pet her, ignoring the slight pain in his leg. He looked around for the others and secretly fed her a treat he kept in his pocket for the strays. And with that, Shouta was out the door.
His mind raced with thoughts of Phantom and the café, he just hoped he was still there. He had no idea how he was gonna get the boy to join UA. He distracted himself with a more current problem, the training camp.
He had been hoping for an in to place Shinso in the class, and this could be it. He had been training him since the sports festival, and could tell he was more competent than some of his other students. His personality could push his other students in the right direction and force them to use their heads. Throwing him into the mix could also throw off the League, at least for a while. He didn’t like the idea of using children as pawns, but again, he had to trust Principal Nezu. Shouta had made up his mind long ago anyway…
The café was only a 15 minute bus ride, and too soon he was kicked off. He watched the café from the outside for a moment, confused by what he saw. All the windows emanated a white light, but the street lamps around the shop were burned out. A dozen alarm bells went off in his head.
Shouta crept towards the door, ears and eyes open for whatever could be waiting for him. He knew Phantom glowed and had blasts of some kind, but was this his doing or something else? There was always the possibility that the LOV had found him. Regardless, he had to call for backup from UA. He grabbed for his phone, but as soon as his fingers touched the case, it shocked him. He tried turning it on but it was dead. Great.
The phones for heroes were designed to be resistant to most everything, especially electric or other power-emitter quirks. Was this the league? A new member of theirs, or Phantom? If it was the boy, how many quirks did he have jammed into him? It didn’t matter if Shouta had backup or not, he needed to help Phantom.
He pushed the door open with no resistance, chills running up his spine. It was still early in the day, so it made sense for it to be unlocked, but the ease still bothered him. Shouta tried to sneak in, but he wasn’t small enough to fit through the gap, and the bell dinged. He braced himself for an attack, but only felt gentle gusts of cold wind. The whole café was silent except for a faint buzz. Shouta walked into the threshold and finally saw the source of the light.
There, by the front of the counter, was the curled up form of Phantom, floating and shining brightly like a star. Shouta just stared at the specter, transfixed and disturbed by the light show. Phantom was dimming in and out of visibility, his hair and lights flashing a different color as he returned. Greens, purples, whites and blues pulsed in and out with the boy. It was like the northern lights, or maybe closer to stardust since he looked so much like a star.
Shouta put on his goggles for some relief, afraid he would have a seizure if he stared at the thing for too long. Hairs rose on the back of his neck at the activation of his quirk- but nothing happened. He tried again for longer but with the same result. Shouta should’ve been surprised, but he wasn’t. Logic and common sense wasn’t something that affected the boy thus far.
Shouta let out a frustrated sigh, and slowly approached the boy. With each step, a sharp cold wind blew into his bones and he exhaled, feeling numb. Is this what Mt. Lady was talking about in the report?
Shouta pressed on, not wanting to fail the kid before he even got the chance to try. He wrapped his scarf around his face to protect from the cold, and marched forth. He was only 3 feet away when he heard the kid mumbling. It was incompressible and sounded scratchy and acidic. It hurt his teeth. Another wind knocked Shouta down, causing him to hit his bad knee. He grit his teeth in determination, but got up, it was not the worst pain he felt. More and more blasts of cold went through him as if trying to keep him away (which was very likely). Once he had good balance again, he started walking, adrenaline in his veins making him completely numb. It was like climbing up a snowy mountain. Finally he reached Phantom. He stretched out his scarf and wrapped them around the boy, but he did not budge. Shouta didn’t expect him to, he just needed an anchor. With his hands free, he dug through his many pockets. Shouta clumsily found his space blanket and unwrapped it. He tried to wrap it around Phantom, but the wind was too strong. His scarf was starting to fray, despite that being near impossible. In a hasty moment, Shouta grabbed the boy's shoulder.
Everything stopped.
Light bulbs shattered as the boy fell down. Fortunately Shouta was able to catch him, if barely. He looked at his face, which was blue and slack. So this is what he looks like… Shouta had to file that away for later. He hurriedly wrapped the blanket around the boy. It was clear he had an ice quirk, but even they could get hypothermia if overused. He started rubbing the boy’s back and arms, trying to get him and Phantom warmer. He felt like frozen meat.
“Oh god…” Shouta cursed. His quirk wasn’t suited for this. The boy’s heart wasn’t beating and Shouta had to hope that it was a side effect of the kid's quirk instead of the very obvious truth. Shouta was holding a dead kid with white hair, a scene that was already very familiar to him.
“Shit!” he cursed louder, at himself more than anything. He started to aggressive rubbing faster, trying to get any warmth through him. His fingers were numb and he could no longer bend them right. In his frenzy, he almost didn’t hear the boy groan.
“Phantom?” he questioned. Another groan. Shouta nearly laughed from relief. “Are you okay, kid?” He didn’t try to hide how frantic he felt. He checked the boy’s heartbeat, but still felt nothing. No warmth radiated from the boy either, if he hadn’t made a noise Shouta would still think he was dead. Maybe he is a phantom, Shouta thought.
“My god, you’re freezing…” he held him tighter, hoping to give whatever warmth he could to the boy. The ice around them started to melt, which had to be a good sign.
“Come on, just breathe…” Shouta started breathing deeply to guide him, and slowly the kid started mimicking him, but grumbled. “There you go, in” Shouta breathed in and the boy copied, if a bit more shallowly. “And out…come on kid” the adrenaline had started to go down and Shouta could feel himself grow tired.
Finally after a few more breaths, the boy slowly opened his eyes. They were black and looked like a galaxy. Recognition lit like fire in his eyes, and too quickly he was scooting away from Shouta. Panic and confusion were clear on his face, but underneath it was a layer of fear. Shouta raised his hands slowly. The boy had been through a lot, he didn’t need Shouta stressing him out more.
With the excitement out of his system, Shouta started to shiver, but he clenched his teeth and bared it. Phantom eyed him, his eyes radiating a toxic green glow. He was instantly on guard, and unconsciously settled into a fighting stance. Shouta’s heart sank a little, but it was expected. He waited for the teenager to make the first move, not wanting to scare him. Teens were like animals when scared (or all the time really). He eyed Shouta’s body, or more specifically the frost on his torso. Phantom looked at his own hands and then around the café. Realization flashed through his eyes and his face twisted.
The boy’s shoulders jerked, suddenly aware of the slight weight on them. Phantom grabbed the blanket like it was a snake about to bite him. His brow shifted as he saw what it was and then he looked at Shouta with new understanding. He still wasn’t completely relaxed, but it was a start.
His face suddenly went green, as if he was about to throw up, and his face twisted as if he ate something sour. He started fiddling with the blanket, twisting it into a tight whip. His eyes left Shouta for the first time as he looked down to the floor. He bowed, just as awkwardly as last time. Shouta’s heart went out to him.
“You don’t have to do that.” The silence and tension was broken between them but now replaced with awkwardness radiating off the teen. He stopped still mid bow, and stood up rigidly. It was nice to see the teen recover so quickly.
“Uhh you too” Shouta didn’t know what he meant by that and was about to say as much when the boy said, “I mean, be on the ground.” Suddenly the teen rolled his eyes, as if Shouta misinterpreted him intentionally.
He got up, slowly, both to ease the boy and not to injure his knee anymore. When he fully stood up, he was tempted to pop his back, but this was the wrong time. The two just stared at each other, not sure how to bring up what happened. Shouta’s eyes shifted to his blanket and the boy followed.
“Here, sorry.” In a second, the boy cut the distance between them and shoved the blanket in Shouta’s chest, face green. This kid needed a doctor…
“Thank you.” Shouta nodded. Now that the kid had nothing in his hands, he started fiddling with his gloves. He looked slightly different than in the report. Instead of a hazmat suit, he wore a café uniform with a turtleneck and apron. It was clear that he was the same barista from before, and the boy must’ve known that Shouta knew. He looked like he was about to say something when Shouta interrupted him.
“I won’t tell the Hero Commission” A dirty trick, lying by omission. He was going to tell principal Nezu, but no one who would harm the boy.
“The commission?” He quirked his head.
“Yes. That’s why the news and that group of heroes are after you.” he clarified. Clearly the boy didn’t know about them. Why would AFO keep him in the dark about them? “You do know why they’re after you, right?” the boy shook his head. Jesus.
Shouta could talk to him about that later. Right now, it was clear the boy needed medical attention or at least some form of care.
“I know a doctor who could help you, she won’t ask any questions unless it has to do with your health.” He needed to get the kid to UA, for his own safety.
“I’m fine.” the kid stated without hesitation.
“I’m sure you are, but you were frozen-” Phantom cut him off.
“I said I’m fine” And that was the end of the discussion. It made sense not to trust Shouta, hell, he wouldn’t either if he were in Phantom’s situation. He wished he could show Phantom that he was genuine.
“Is there at least a safe place for you to go? Truly safe?” Phantom narrowed his eyes at Shouta, but nodded. Shouta had to get the boy to trust him first before he introduced him to the idea of joining an organization that he (probably) never heard about.
“Good.” And he meant that.
#danny phantom#dp#danny fenton#dp fic#dp cross#dp crossover#dp x bnha#mha#boku no hero academia#bnha#aizawa#mha aizawa#bnha aizawa#aizawa shouta#dadzawa#asleep in the keep
10 notes
·
View notes
Text
Embroidery Journal: Quilting + Applique For Only-Vaguely-Nefarious Purposes
I've finally cleared out my commission backlog enough to start a new project for myself, and this is one I'm really excited to tackle: an addition to my personal embroidery collection in the form of a horror art panel by @barbatusart. I spent entirely too much time last year embroidering cutesy little souvenirs for my coworkers. I think I'm allowed a little fun for myself now.
However: The solid color blocks in the background gave me brief pause. So I decided to whip up a quick little test project to experiment with how to work them in using a combination of quilting, applique, and lots of really really painstaking work with an x-acto knife. Experiment, steps, and final results below!
Step 1: Collecting Materials
Texture and fabric weight do make a very noticeable difference in any fiber arts project. For that reason, it's important to do test projects using the same fabrics you plan to make the final piece out of. Lucky for me, I have an abundant stash to choose from.
Step 2: Design
Alternately known as the step wherein I began to suspect I was going overboard by hand-drawing original artwork just for one little test project. In other news, guess what y'all - I can free-hand sketch eyes now!
Step 3: Quilt The Background
Please excuse the cat hair. For this test I'm just going for two color blocks but I think it's clear how this concept would extend to the geometric background in the artwork we're building towards.
Step 4: Create A Stencil
The idea here is that we should create cut-outs in the quilted layer, from under which the white fabric will show through. My design is not ideal for this because it has a relatively light outline, so there's not much margin for error. However, looking back at the comic panel that is my ultimate goal, the outlines there are fairly heavy and bold. If I can make it work on my sketch, I'm confident I can make it work on the final piece.
Step 5: Cut, Bond, and Hoop
A spot of quilter's spray adhesive was adequate to fix the two fabrics together. A keen eye will note that the final stencil was just a bit larger than intended and didn't quite perfectly line up. This is where the thin lines in my design aren't doing me any favors. But - good enough for now.
Step 6: Hey Look, It Worked
Would you look at that! I think this did actually do what I wanted to.
Notes For Improvement:
Using stabilizer on the quilted layer will help reduce distortion when it comes to placing it over top of the base layer - probably very important with a bigger design
Double sided iron-on stabilizer might be the way to go to keep both layers nice and bonded and prevent wrinkles
Thick outlines on the design border are definitely a must
That maroon fabric looks ok in this picture but in poor lighting, it very quickly disappears into the black, I might need to pick a different fabric
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
among thieves ✨ || bts • pjm
- chapter 0.1
"what even am I to you? your rival, your lover, an obstacle or am I supposed to be your coffin?"
about two thieves who can't live with nor without each other. and a joint past that comes back to threaten them.
© 2023 | eleni_cherie
»»»
masterlist: here
— genre: thief au, gangster comedy, adventure, romcom, humour, angst, fluff, very flirty jimin, friends/rivals/exes to lovers (it's complicated, ok?!) f2l e2l ex2l
all members play a role in this story!
ALTERNATIVE UNIVERSE. CHARACTERS NOT NECESSARILY LIKE THE REAL PERSONS. ALSO VERY UNREALISTIC PLOT LOL - JUST PRETEND READING A MANGA/COMIC OR WATCHING A FILM, REALLY.
SUGGESTIVE THEMES. MENTIONS OF VIOLENCE & BLOOD (BUT NOTHING TOO GRAPHIC, IT'S STILL A COMEDY!)
»»»
present
Vienna, Austria
Arabella felt her head heavy and throbbing as she laid her hand on her forehead. Did she fall asleep? Her eyes fell on the clock on the wall. It was way after 2am.
With a groan she forced herself to sit up, everything around her spinning for a moment before it all fell into place. She had been laying on the floor of her ranted apartment - a cover up to be closer to her target.
The pizza box beside her was still open with the half-eaten piece of cheese pizza inside. Goosebumps rose on her skin then and she felt a light breeze coming from the dark night outside. The balcony doors were wide open. Her eyes grew wide. It can't be.
She immediately stood up, legs still wobbling a little and went out. It was silent at the backyards of the tall buildings. Only a stray cat pushing a can making a noise.
She noticed a rope tied on the balcony railing up to the window of the building diagonally from hers. The wind blew again, tousling her waves and causing the rope to swing. She huffed.
This damn -
She grabbed the zipper of her hoodie and in a swift move got rid of her clothes. Revealing the tight black attire she had been wearing underneath. Tucking her hair out and tying it into a ponytail, she pulled out her extra layered gloves and slid them over her hands before hooking her belt to the rope and swinging herself onto it. She crossed her legs around it, her grip tight as she pulled herself up to the other apartment's window.
When she finally reached it, she unhooked herself and pushed the ajar balcony door open. Crossing her arms over her chest upsetly. "Sedating me to preempt me. Quite rude and not very gentleman-like of you," she laughed out.
It hadn't been difficult to figure out who had been behind this.
A short laugh escaped the man's plum lips as his hands paused from working on the safe and he heaved his cheek from the cold metal. "Oh darling, Bella, I'd never try preempting you."
"Save your breath, Jimin," she snorted. "You were the delivery boy, right?"
"Indeed," he chuckled, wiggling his head, "Kinda disappointing you didn't recognise me under the disguise." He sighed dramatically, giving her a cheeky grin then. "But I guess my disguises are just that good, huh?" She rolled her eyes, choosing not to comment on it. Partially because she felt embarrassed with herself for not foreseeing this happening. Partially because she didn't want to feed his ego any more.
"I like your new hair by the way, it suits you," he said before focusing back on the safe. Adding with a grin to himself, "Makes you extra dangerous and hot."
She blinked confused before processing what he meant. He hadn't seen her with her current hairstyle. Dyed copper-red hair and bangs. She clicked her tongue. "Thanks," she mumbled. About to enter the room when he held his hand up. Stopping her.
"You might wanna rethink that, love," he mumbled and pointed at the corners of the luxurious furnished room. It was dark so she could clearly see the red dots coming from the laser alarm system.
"I see.." She zipped down her black leather jacket, taking out a small spray bottle from between her chest. Spraying it into the room. And indeed, red laser beams crossed all around the room. "How did you come across them without disabling them?"
He licked over his lips, pressing his cheek against the cold metal again. "You should know how flexible I am," he winked at her, making her audibly snort.
Arabella was used to Jimin's overly high self-esteem and flirting, it wasn't anything new and part of his charm. Still, he made her fall asleep to get to the document before her. Offending her ego and thief honour.
She observed his expression turning back into a concentrating one, brows furrowed as he was trying cracking the safe. It was a rather old school one. The type you had to spin around the wheel and listen to when it clicked. But that was all a cover. Because as soon as he discovered the last digit, a small display appeared. Asking for a key card.
"Good I came prepared," he smirked to himself and pulled out the needed key card from his blazer's pocket. Or well, the key card copy he got with the help of a skimmer while pretending being a bank clerk the other day.
And indeed, the safe clicked open and he opened the lid. Revealing the document of importance they both were after.
"Guess my job here's done," he said as he folded it and slid it into his jacket.
But then an electronic voice started speaking, coming right from the safe. Beginning a countdown, Both looking at each other startled.
"What the - did you touch anything?" Arabella squealed panicked.
"No! I swear I didn't!" he defended himself, "Maybe you touched a laser after all!"
She huffed, crossing her arms. "I didn't! Thank you very much!"
Jimin faced the safe again, trying frantically to find a way to stop the countdown, not knowing what would happen when it reached zero. And he also wasn't keen to find that out.
"Well, bye bye then." She was ready to hook herself on the rope again and slide it down to her ranted place when she heard Jimin getting up.
"Aw, c'mon, love. You won't leave me here hanging, right?" He was giving her his most charming smile, although he should know it wouldn't work on her the same way it worked on other women. So he gave up when he saw her persisting unimpressed expression. "Fine, fine. Then leave me behind. Wouldn't be the first time anyway. But how about I'll give you that in exchange for your help?" he smirked and heaved his arm. A golden necklace he had snatched from the safe dangling from his fingers. And he saw her brown eyes widening. Of course, he thought, that always worked.
"How about you give me that and the document, which is my actual mission."
"Mission, huh? So who gave you the job?"
"None of your business." And with that she swang herself over the rope and let herself slide down.
"Bella-baby!" he called out, completely forgetting about the lasers. And unfortunately it was too late, his hand already interrupting a beam. An alarm going off along with the countdown that was nearing ten now. "Crap," he muttered and quickly ran to the window, also getting on the rope.
Dogs started barking from afar and lights got turned on one by one in the neighbouring buildings and apartments.
As soon as he reached her balcony, he pulled with all his force on the rope, untangling the hook and quickly collected it. He shut the balcony doors behind him then, before any neighbour managed peeking outside and possibly seeing him.
He dragged out a breath, relieved they made it out in time when suddenly feeling weak. And he fell to the ground. The image of Arabella stepping forward and bending over his numb body was only a blur.
"Oh, Jiminie.. I'm sorry, but you kinda forced me," she pouted. Her voice overly sweet as her face hovered over his, brushing a strand off his face before her hand wandered over his cheek to his neck and down to his chest. Disappearing under his jacket, only to appear again seconds later. With a piece of paper between her fingers. "Call it revenge for the drugged pizza. I'll see you soon," she smirked then and pecked his lips before disappearing from his eyesight. And everything turned black.
He didn't know how long he had passed out. He only realised he was on the backseat of his car when he gained consciousness again and his eyes fell open. Seeing blurry buildings and lights coming from out of the window. "Shit."
"I'd say so. We only saw Arabella waving us goodbye before she drove off on her motorbike. What happened? Did she outwit you again?"
He turned his head, recognizing Yoongi on the passenger seat.
"Well, you see," he chuckled then and attampted to sit up. His body still weary from the injection. "Let's say Bella didn't like the pizza."
The older guy just shook his head, laughing dryly. The usual blank expression on his face remaining. "Told you it was a dumb idea."
"So let me guess," Taehyung, who was driving the car, said with an upset undertone. "She also got the document."
"I feel offended," Jimin frowned, putting a hand on his chest, "You should know I always go prepared to heists." And with that a piece of paper appeared in his hand which he had pulled out from his sleeve. "The one she got was obviously a fake copy of it."
Taehyung heaved a sigh in relief, nodding. "So she got a fake one," he grinned, "She'll be furious when finding out."
Jimin shrugged, his gaze wandering out the moving scenary. "Well, that's how it is between us. She should know me by now."
»»»
Jimin shouldn't feel bad about it. At least that's what the guys were telling him when that video appeared in his inbox the next day.
It was true, Arabella tended to betray him and leave alone with the loot. And still, he forgave her every time. Because he could not not forgive that beautiful woman. This was how she was. A true thief. And loot was not the the only thing she had stolen from him all these years they had known each other.
After all the times Arabella had dumped them, he still never held a grunge against her. He knew she'd never leave him behind if there was actual danger. She'd never abandon him in a hopeless situation where he couldn't save himself. She'd never do that. Like that previous night. She knew Taehyung and Yoongi must have been close by as his partners and would get him out of there in time.
And that was why he couldn't help but feel guilty right now. And actually offended. He played the video again.
Once again Arabella appearing on the screen. Tied on an armchair. Her clothes looking torn at some parts. Her usually shiny waves ruffled.
"So Jimin, you really got me this time with your little attics," she weakly smiled. Heaving her head more to reveal a silver collar around her neck. A blinking green and red light on it. "Unfortunately my client didn't find it as amusing as me, so.." Her voice breaking, sounding almost pleading. "If you could drop off the real document, that'd be great. Or well you know I could also ask another thief for help. I heard Chat Noir is really good. Perhaps better than you, who knows." She shrugged and looked away. Squeezing her eyes shut before the video abruptly cut off.
A message with a place and time attached to it.
"West Inn Park House
10pm"
There was no need for more info. He knew what would happen if he didn't obey, judging from the fact that silver collar was more than just a nice accessoiry.
Sighing, he folded his arms behind his head and leaned back. Staring at the white ceiling. How dare she thought someone else but him could save her.
"You're gonna do it, aren't you?"
"Obviously, do I have a choice?" He stared at Yoongi who was sitting cross-legged on the couch opposite to him. His arms folded, holding his sword in its shaft.
"And how do we know this is real and not fake?" Taehyung inquired from across the room. "This could be a setup. You should expect anything from this woman."
It wasn't a secret that his friends didn't like nor trusted Arabella, rightly so. And they couldn't comprehend why Jimin was so head over heels for her either. Seemingly forgetting the countless times she set them up for her own opportunistic reasons. And Taehyung might be right this time again. And still, he couldn't risk it.
"What if it's true after all? What then?" He didn't want his voice to be shaky. But they did notice the genuine worry it was holding.
Yoongi and Taehyung exchanged a glance before the latter finally sighed.
"Fine, then do it. But what can we use instead of the document then?"
"Who says we'll have to use anything else?" Jimin smirked. "Just because I'll go save Bella from that unfortunate situation doesn't mean we'll just give it away." He stretched his arms contently when noticing blue lights peeking behind the curtains. Blasting sirens suddenly screeching through the silence. All three pressing their hands against their ears.
"This is Interpol! We know you and your gang are up there!"
"Oh no, not again.." Yoongi sighed. Already sliding out his long weapon from its sheath.
Taehyung went over to window, hiding himself behind the wall when taking a quick glance behind the curtain. Already holding his Magnum close. "How did he even find us?"
"This is our last warning! Come out or-"
"Jeez, pops is really at it again," Jimin laughed out, a smirk forming on his lips as he pulled out his walter-ppk from inside his jacket. "He's really getting better at it, I give him that."
"We're coming!"
"That was our cue!"
The three ran out the apartment and upstairs to the rooftop from where they jumped over to the neighbouring building's roof. It only being a meter apart and lower from theirs. When deciding on a hideout they always made sure to choose one with an easy escape route for cases like this.
Inside the other building, they found the bag they had hidden there at the basement and changed into the police attire they had once stolen from an unguarded truck. Being prepared coming in quite handy. They also put on wigs and disguised their faces, Yoongi also hiding his sword. Already hearing officers entering that building as well to look for the thieves there.
"Time to mingle!"
They headed upstairs, where one officer was already guarding the entrance door. "The basement's clear!" Jimin said in a stern voice as they passed by him. "We'll look outiside the area in case they made it out." The trick was to just walk and talk confidently like you were supposed to be there and do this. That usually prevented from anyone rising suspicion.
"Alright," the officer nodded, looking quite bored as he watched them walk out. Disappearing in the crowd of officers and bystanders who were trying catching a glimpse of what was going on.
From the distance they could hear 'pops' - as they fondly called the Interpol agent assigned to their cases, Kim Seokjin - holding back a swear when Team Alpha called through the radio, saying they couldn't find anyone.
His assistants, agents Jeon and Blake were speaking with the inhabitants of the buildings in case they had seen something, which they surely didn't. That Jimin was sure of. But even if they did, the three were already far gone by that point. Getting into their car, that was of course parked further away and in an empty alley, not easily spotted from the main street. Finally tearing off their masks.
"Seriously though, how did he find us this time?" Yoongi wondered out loud from his usual spot on the backseat. "He's really getting better. We gotta be more careful." He was just glad he didn't have to use his precious sword this time. It always exhausted him when doing so. Jimin shrugged as he drove off, turning into the main street towards west.
"No clue. But there's something else we gotta take care of now."
»»»
next chapter: 0.2 here
#park jimin#bts jimin#jimin#jimin au#jimin fanfic#thief au#gangster au#enemies to lovers#friends to lovers#exes to lovers#ex2l#e2l#f2l#bts#bts au#bts fic#jimin angst#jimin fluff#bts fanfic#bts x oc#bts series#kat mcnamara#katherine mcnamara#taehyung#yoongi#seokjin#jungkook#namjoon#hoseok#jimin mafia
42 notes
·
View notes
Text
"Rock n' Roll!" Random Monty Gator HC'S
Been sitting on these Monty HC’s for a while and decided “what the heck? Here’s a big dumb dumb gator man for you in these trying times.”
[⛳️Monty⛳️]
Monty is a jokester at heart, but the second he picks up that you’re not smiling as bright at his cheesy pick-up lines as you usually do, all joking stops. He shuts his trap and just stares at you. Waiting. You’ll have to ask him why he’s suddenly so quiet, or his joints will stay locked in place as he just... stares at you. He’ll grumble, his shoulders slouching as he gestures a claw at you. Confused even more than before, you frown. It doesn’t click with you until he plops beside you, muttering out, "Ya’ can talk about it if you want. Ya’know, if it’ll make you feel better or sumthin’." Oh! He was giving you the floor to talk.
Monty listens. He listens because he wishes the others had listened. He wished they had heard him thrashing and flailing his arms. Save him from himself. Save him from drowning in his own self-destruction. So when you’re having a down day, he’s silent the entire time, while also letting you take the lead on what will cheer you up. Need a bucket of ice cream? Be back in ten. Need someone to hold you? Scooch over—he’s coming in! Do you need to vent to him? He hangs off the back of his couch as he listens. No snarky comments, no interruptions. Just listening.
It goes without saying: Monty is extremely jealous of Freddy. A golden statue of em' sits displayed under spotlights in the front entrance for Peet's sake! How could a guy not be jealous?
He is so caught up in hating Freddy that he fails to notice that he actually has fans. Sure, he’ll play the role of the badass Gator, take a picture or two, sign a little kid’s autograph book, and smile for the always annoyingly bright cameras (seriously, don’t people know how to work a flash!?), but at the end of the day, they’re just fans of the front he puts up. Not the real him. Not the person who leaves behind a mangled trail of Staff Bots in the quake of his rampage. Not the person who wrecks his green room beyond repair. Not the person who punches concrete walls – over and over – until the shell on his knuckles cracks off. Not him. And he knows that if they knew him, the real him, they wouldn’t like what they’d see…
Gives out guitar picks to the kids. The green pick has his signature line “Rock n’ Roll!” spray painted on in gruesome purple font.
Says “totally tubular” and “sick!” a lot. Dumb dumb gator man.
An irrational and inconsolable fear of cats.
Everything about his design is sharp and spikey (Fazcorp wanting an "edgy" look for their more angsty demographic), so he has to keep his distance from balloons or plushies. Although his claw upgrade improved his bass playing skills, they came as a hindrance and sort of an afterthought on the engineer's part, as he couldn't pick up anything remotely soft without tearing a seven-inch gash down the side. It doesn't matter how gentle his hold is; it's bound to be shattered or ripped to shreds. His frustrations fester into anxiety, to the point of loathing when he's booked down for special events because the fear of breaking something--or, his worst thought, hurting a kid--terrifies him. It's this crippling tight-rope-walk of having your body betray you and your gentle intentions, and you can't do anything to right it.
He has a trolling account in the gaming system. His username is "slipperygator69."
The techs can’t begin to wrap their brains around why they can’t delete or ban the damned account. Every attempt is met with strips of distorted color or a system error blaring in their faces. Monty demolishes the kids at all mobile event games. He loses his shit whenever he snipes a kid and can hear them screech over the proximity chat. His secret identity has yet to be unveiled.
He's sensitive to extreme lighting. It's not the main reason it's blacked out in his room, but it’s part of it. He can relax better in dimly lit rooms, which is why Monty Golf and his green room are a lot darker compared to the other attractions. Wearing his glasses during performances does help block out the more severe spotlights, but he can get a headache if he wears them for too long. He swears he can feel the wires behind his eyes sizzle, and he's about ready to claw them out and ram his face underneath an ice cream machine after every show. At that point, squinting is the only thing he can manage. He’s animatronic, for crying out loud! You’d think they’d give him fucking X-ray vision like Roxanne!
Monty will seek out your affection no matter where, no matter when. People got a stick up their ass about him displaying his affection for you? That’s their problem! Now, if you managed to stick around long enough, then that probably means you're cool like him, which also means that he has every right to show you off! You're his. And guess what? Everyone within a five-foot radius will know it! They'll either back off or he'll make them back off.
Beatboxes absentmindedly or makes a song out of whatever he’s doing. 🎵And put the bass in the case. I say bass, in the case. *beatbox noises* b-b-bass in the ca-case, case, case.🎵
Monty: *Beatboxing*
Roxy: *Walks in* Hey, uh-
Monty: …
Roxy: ...
Roxy: What-
Monty: *catapults himself into a vent*
121 notes
·
View notes
Text
~ Skz as Colours (w/ delulu explaintions) | a heartbreaking post ~
~ Channie: Blue ~
⁃ Very calming colour like him, a comforting and safe place
⁃ The colour of the ocean, would take you to the beach/ocean and have cute little beach dates to remind him of his home in Syd
⁃ Would let you steal his blue hoodie knowing its your favourite because it always smells like him; he secretly sprays it with his favourite cologne so that it always smells like him despite u not giving the hoodie back
- Just like the colour name, he always calls u “baby”
~ Minho: Purple ~
⁃ The colour of lavender, a scent that relaxes you and helps w/ anxiety, a relaxing presence that makes you feel safe, just like he does
⁃ The colour of galaxies, Stargazing dates where you cuddle under the stars and fall asleep in each other’s arms and his cats snuggled in between you two
⁃ Colour of Creativity, dates where you’re dancing together, having fun and creating choreos together
~ Binnie: Black ~
⁃ colour which represents protection, would protect you always no matter what
⁃ The colour of the night sky, would go on late night drives and walks enjoying each other’s presence
⁃ The colour of nothingness, when you feel like nothing or if you feel lonely he’ll always be there to comfort you giving you cuddles and reassuring you of his love and your worth
~ Hyunjin: Red ~
⁃ Represents Royalty, would treat you like royalty, showering you in gifts and affection because your his lil prince/princess
⁃ The colour of passionate love, gives you neck kisses often and hugs you from behind to claim that you are his
⁃ The colour of roses, romantic candle lit dinner dates with rose petals scattered on the floor leading to the table where your love stands presenting you with a rose claiming “this flower is quite pretty but it could never be prettier than you, darling”
~ Hannie: Forest Green ~
⁃ Colour of trees, nature walks in the park where you eventually chase each other around only aware of the two of you in this moment
⁃ The colour of the guitar you bought him, the guitar where he spends hours playing; writing a song for you
⁃ Colour of luck, having someone like Hannie by your side makes you feel like the luckiest person alive and you think of ways to show your gratitude towards your love while you lay in his lap, his hand softly playing with your hair
~ Lix: Yellow ~
- Colour of the sun, he always brightens ur day and fills u with overwhelming warmth and joy
- Colour of a school bus, each other’s schoolyard crush, always sits with u and flirts with u using cheesy lines that u pretended to cringe at but secretly loved
- The colour of his hair you like the most, the blonde looking as if it was natural, the hair you love to mess up and play with
- Colour of friendship; best friends the thing you’ve been since day one til he finally asks you out after graduating highschool, you say yes ofc
~ Minnie: Light Brown ~
- The colour of cookies & coffee, ur favourite smell; that always lingers around him after his shift at the cafe
- the colour of a puppy, which he reminded you of oh so much, with his cute mannerisms and adorable face you couldnt help but stare at
- The colour of his hair which after much convincing he finally caved in and let you bleach and dye his hair any colour you wanted because he wants to make you happy even if it meant sacrificing his almost perfect hair
~ Innie: Pink ~
- The colour of which is his favourite so he buys you heaps of pink clothing items and accessories because seeing you in his favourite colour makes him love it so much more and loves how cute you look in it
- The colour that dusted your cheeks as he gave you small pecks all over your face, the colour that only grew deeper on your cheeks the more he showered you in small kisses
- Colour of your bouquet which you received from him on a surprise sushi lunch date for graduating uni
#skz#stray kids#stray kids imagines#bang chan#lee know#lee minho#han jisung#lee yongbok#lee felix#seo changbin#hwang hyunjin#yang jeongin#kim seungmin#skz imagines#delulu#skz x you#skz x y/n#skz x reader#bang chan x reader#lee felix x reader#changbin x reader#han jisung x reader#lee minho x reader#yang jeongin x reader#kim seungmin x reader#hwang hyunjin x reader#gender neutral reader
65 notes
·
View notes
Text
Masterlist
Welcome to Ray!Sans's ask blog! He's from SymTale!
Blog is ran by:
-@endercreep25
-@bendyzy
Characters Currently Available for Asks:
- Ray [belongs to @endercreep25]
- Revert!Fresh ("Freshy") [belongs to @bendyzy]
Characters Currently Unavailable for Asks
- Anomaly [belongs to @bendyzy]
Posts
Important
First
Kidnapped
Creators
Home
Insanity
Hey Brah
Where To
All Ask Links And References Under The Cut
Answers (In Order- Ray is Orange, Anomaly is Red, Freshy is Rainbow)
First
Favorite Color
Shtick
Hello
Compliments
Favorite Meal
Kidnapped
Error?
Recovering
Spray Bottle
Ship Child?
Alternate Universe?
Fav Color?
Cracked Skull
Dogs
Revenge
Revenge 2
String Colors/Creators
Home
Powers
Ray's Dad
Paps?
Problem
Proud
Mad
Mean
Insanity
Too late...
Hey Brah
PJs?
Cookies
Paps? #2
Inventor
Wake Up
Anomaly
Souls
Miscellaneous
Other Sans
Where To?
Concept Doodles
Doodles
Art
Ray Ref
What
Drawing
Songs
Hugs
Smol
Tax Evasion (Not Canon)
Art Trade! (Done by @/entityverse-utmv)[Thanks!!]
Softie
Doodle (By Bendy)
Wamter (Doodle #2 by Bendy)
Fissure Sans?
Frend :3 (Animation)
Fanart :D (by @/chocolatetabbycat) [Thank you!!]
Heights
Fanart #2 <3 (by @/meeludrawz) [Thank you!!]
Pineapple [E]
References and Fun Facts (Background lines double as height chart)
Ray
- Pronouns: He/Him
- Orange Text outside of panels, Black Text with Light Orange Box inside panels
- Prefers cats over dogs
- Favorite food is rice
- Hates taxes
Anomaly
- Pronouns: He/Him
- Red Text outside of panels, Blue Text with Black Box inside panels
- Wears gloves
- Strings come from his arms (wrapped around them)
- String color links with his emotions
Revert!Fresh / "Freshy"
- Pronouns: He/Him
- Rainbow Text outside of panels, Rainbow Text with Black Box inside panels
- Wears mittens
- Jacket changes it's text
Ender/Karl
- Pronouns: Any/All
- Marked with a [E] outside of panels, Light Purple Text with Dark Purple Box inside panels (Different Font)
- 3ft tall (Very short)
- Has eaten a politician
- Link to their actual ref
- Loves pineapples :3
Bendy
- Pronouns: He/Him
- Marked with a [B] outside of panels, White Text with a Black Box inside panels (Different Font)
- Wears gloves
- A big fan of the Persona series (specifically persona 5)
4 notes
·
View notes
Note
Winter/X-mas Prompts #25 - “If you keep following me around with mistletoe I’m punching you in the face.” - Luke/Bobby
It had started as a joke. Luke had gotten some fake mistletoe from somewhere, and had hung it in the door of the garage. Reggie had been his first victim, and he'd planted a big kiss on his cheek, laughing when it - and the rest of Reggie's face - turned firetruck red in response.
Alex, who had seen it go down, had gone back into the Molina house, coming back with a spray bottle Ray used on the plants. He kept Luke under fire the entire time, spraying whenever Luke tried to move closer, until he was sat safely behind his drums.
Of course he got Alex the next day, when he'd pinned the mistletoe against the ceiling of the loft above his drums. In the middle of Finally Free, he leaned over, pressed a kiss against Alex' nose, before pointing up with a smirk.
Julie caught on and actually ambushed him, hanging the mistletoe over his couch, pressing a kiss to his forehead when he was in the middle of a writing session. Flynn snagged the mistletoe the next day and held it above her own head impatiently, demanding attention. (She got a kiss from both Luke and Reggie at the same time, one on each cheek, and beamed, before ordering them to get back to work.)
Bobby was the real problem. He was wily. Like, crawl through the tiny bathroom window so he wouldn't have to go through the door, wily. Carrie wasn't so lucky, but Luke also didn't want to play their Christmas gig with a black eye, so he gave her a deep, I-saw-it-on-one-of-Mom's-BBC-Regency-shows bow, and pressed a chaste kiss to the back of her hand.
So the studio was out. Bobby was expecting it there. He'd tried the Molina house instead, because Ray had promised them a barbecue after their Christmas gig (burgers and eggnog was a great combination, in Luke's opinion). He hadn't had any luck there, though Julie's aunt did get a peck on the cheek. Carlos got a raspberry blown against his until he shrieked, after he made a comment about Luke just trying to kiss his sister.
Still no Bobby.
He wasn't successful at the band's Christmas Eve gift exchange. Carrie sent him mockingly laughing gifs when he begged her to help him break into their house so he could sneak into Bobby's room. She also wouldn't Trojan Horse him inside in a giant fake present. So by the 27th, he still hadn't kissed Bobby.
Reggie had helped him tie it to a reindeer antler headband that he wore for a few days, but Bobby just kept his distance. He did get a kiss from Willie out of that one, though.
Willie was a great kisser. Don't tell Alex.
Finally, on the 29th, he tried trying the mistletoe to a stick with some string, shoving it into his back pocket and hiding it under his shirt until Bobby came by. It didn't work, probably because the stick kept slipping and hanging out of the armpit of his cut-off shirt.
"If you keep following me around with mistletoe I’m punching you in the face," Bobby threatened, sounding entirely done. He looked like he meant it too, so sadly, Luke put the mistletoe away. He tried not to sulk too much, because, you know, he was trying to be better about Boundaries.
For New Year's, they all gathered at the Molina house. Flynn and Julie had set up karaoke in the studio, Tía Victoria had made the most epic snacks, and Reggie and Carlos had created this epic light show since 'fireworks scares dogs and cats, Luke, and I won't be a part of that!'.
Luke had almost forgotten about the Kisstletoe Disaster, when halfway through the countdown (which Willie had started at thirty seconds to midnight, because apparently that was more fun), Bobby sidled up to him.
"Hey," he said gruffly.
"Hi," Luke said, grinning. He had his plastic glass of fake champagne ready to toast and everything.
"Happy New Year," Bobby said, right before everyone shouted it. Then, he leaned over and planted a kiss on Luke's lips, warm and soft and a little slick. Luke gasped, and Bobby used the opportunity to nip at his lower lip, before pulling back. He looked very smug, gently patting Luke's cheek as he gaped, before moving away to toast with an excited Reggie and Alex.
Well, at least he got his last kiss.
#julie and the phantoms#fanfic#I wrote a thing#lukexeveryone#bobbyxluke#how long after the holidays can Inny write holiday prompts challenge#he and Ray ran into each other under the mistletoe and Luke awkwardly offered a fistbump and probably got a hug and a kiss on his beanie#all the other Candis have probably also had smooches#and Nick#though he was put in a headlock first by Luke because he cannot be Normal about Nick#yes of course Willie just planted a kiss right on his lips because he is 100% a KISSING THE HOMIES GOODNIGHT kind of dude
32 notes
·
View notes
Text
❛𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗳𝘂𝗻‚ 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙢𝙚, 𝘁𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗺𝗲, 𝘁𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗺𝗲❜ / BANG CHAN
🗯️; au inspired by big hero six! i absolutely adore that movie, and honestly would cast chris as tadashi T^T, but this is heavily self indulging, so i hope you enjoy :3 !!
🏷️; xdinary heroes (your bot fighting team), mentions of xdh, cursing, this is long buckle up, mention of changlix (?), SO MANY KPOP GROUPS (nmixx, twice), y/n IS SO DOWN BAD, mainly plot
<⚡️> what little event would the boys drag you out to now?
sure being the team’s extremely smart mechanic surely didn’t mean you had to fight, right?
gun-il, the teams leader, hesitated at first, as his own little sister AND smartest team member, who was extremely precious in his eyes could never ever destroy one of her own prized bots in these ‘cockfights’.
but of course, the others convinced him.
‘come on goo! she’s a smart gal, i think she would fight well, end our loosing streak against the…kids.’
the youngest, jooyeon exclaimed, half expecting the leader to shut him down.
at this you pushed your rolling chair away from the desk, perking your glasses down with a disgusted look.
‘you are not dragging me to destroy my precious work! i may fix your guys’s stuff, but that doesn’t mean i wanna do illegal shit with you guys…’
with this jooyeon sighed, cursing under his breath and walking away from the situation.
gun-il walked up beside you, a bit of a stern expression.
‘maybe you could just come to one? the boys would stop pestering you…’
and thats how you ended up in a neon painted alleyway at 2 am.
the lights almost blinded you, thank god your glasses turn into sunglasses.
the different groups were represented by colors, each using spray paint or colored smoke to get that across as they entered.
first came the group of girls who went to your school, represented by purple, they were named ‘NMIXX’.
the use of junk scraps really helped them.
only to be pushed out by the color pink, which called themselves ‘TWICE’.
another group of more experienced bot fighters, all ladies too.
the mc of the fight was none other than the leader of TWICE, her name was jihyo.
‘and that does it for the mixed up parts of NMIXX, now ladies shake hands~’
the representatives shook, the purple clad looking exceptionally pissed as the blonde haired girl stuck her tongue out in response.
the next team was well known, maybe even better than TWICE.
the rivals of your own team, known around as ‘the kids.’
or at least jooyeon calls them that.
the entrance was loud, called out by a thunderous sounding guy, who had a smaller petite boy attached to his side. followed by six other men, they were represented in black.
‘they are, THE STRAY KIDS!’
and the boys on your side scowled in return.
your team represented by red, came out second, and you felt exceptionally small compared to the rest of them.
as the teams got together, smack talk was indeed exchanged.
‘heres the copy cats eh?’
the first to speak was a grey haired boy from stray kids.
gun-il immediately backfired.
don’t pull jun into this, he’s shy.’
‘aw but being shy isn’t an excuse-‘
then, a black clad man with a mask on broke the two up.
‘let’s not get personal, yeah? people have the same names…’
he sternly looked at his own teammate, and apologized to gun-il.
‘sorry mate, he gets really competitive.’
both you and gun-il were taken aback.
this man was kind, very opposite to the team aesthetic, working with high class tech industries to make sure they win every fight.
‘lets have a fair match, may the best team win.’
the masked leader shook hands with your brother, flashing his brown eyes at you, then turned around to take places.
the sight of his eyes made your heart flutter.
the fighters were seungmin (affectionately called o.de) and the cocky dude from before, jisung.
you could hear the leader growling orders, and it almost tickled your brain.
how would it feel to be barked at by him.
maybe it did turn you on, something about his aura was indulgent, almost like a succubus calling you into the depths.
it hindered your ability to think of a good strategy.
the next round came along, jisung snagging the win from o.de.
he dejectedly handed the controller over.
‘just don’t screw it up y/n.’
it sounded harsh, but it came down to a pot of a good amount of money.
it came down to you and a man called lee felix fighting.
he was the petite boy with the loud man earlier.
he shook your hand, small paw engulfed by yours.
‘lets fight fair!’
the match ended with a hero victory, and it moved on to the final.
‘alright.’ the co-captain jungsu chided.
‘in order to keep winning, no offense o.de, but y/n needs to get out there.’
o.de brushed it off, patting you on the back.
‘good luck, make your brother proud.’
meanwhile on the other team, tension was high.
‘hyung! they were so good out there, xdinary heroes never wins, they have a new member.’
the leader didn’t even watch his own team fight.
‘i’m surprised you lost lixie, i’ll go out for the tie breaker round, yeah?’
a few of them nodded, happy their leader would represent.
and so it began.
the small yet agile bot called, ‘OVERLOAD’ would be going against the bulky bot entitled, ‘FIVE STAR.’
jihyo smirked and commanded the fight.
‘fighters ready? begin!’
and the match begun.
you could see the leader biting his lip in frustration, brow furrowed with intension.
his name, which now you know is bang chan was called out, alongside yours.
he glanced and licked his lips, then focusing on the match before him.
you could feel the teasing energy, caught off guard by any movement his plump lips made.
at this, ‘OVERLOAD’ was shattered to pieces by ‘FIVE STAR.’
a victory for the enemy.
at this the small alleyway cheered, the members of stray kids happily hugging their leader, and you and your boys could do was stare in disbelief.
you felt almost embarrassed, being caught off guard by such a beautiful man, having to fight the god like specimen, only to be knocked down by his good looks.
it’s like he knew you were whipped for him.
‘oi! y/n right?’ chan ran over, handing you some red streamers.
you tilted your head, butterflies arising in your tummy.
‘t-thats me!’ you managed to smile, pushing your glasses up with a soft sigh.
the leader smirked, almost finding you quite tiny in this moment.
‘you did great out there, you have a lot of potential.’
you blush, taken aback at the compliment.
‘a-ah! no really it’s my first time fighting, but i did all the engineering myself.’
‘i see, nobody ever beats felix out there, you have great talent. you should join us.’
you froze.
would you abandon your brother and his goons for some good eye candy in a heartbeat? yes, but, did you have the guts to do it? nope.
‘thank you for the invite, but, i wanna stay with them, i think they need me more than you.’
with this chan chuckles, nodding his head in understanding.
‘i get that, but, i really wanna get to know you better.’
you full on blushed now, cheeks heated.
‘y-you do?’
with this chan nodded, taking your hand in his.
‘the way you looked when you fought, so determined, it was, kinda attractive.’
he managed to say, chuckling softly at his own bluntness.
your mouth almost dropped to the floor.
‘i may or may not have distracted you on purpose.’
‘i knew those lip bites were just a distraction!’
you playfully smacked his shoulder with a grin, blush still adorning your face.
‘so what do you say darling? can i get to know you?’
with this you softly walked up, on your tippy toes, and gently pressed a soft kiss into his cheek.
‘yes, of course.’
(PART 2?) / idk if this is good T-T
#stray kids#skz#skz x reader#skz x you#bang chan#christopher bang#chan stray kids#xdinary heroes#skz au#bang chan x female reader#bang chan x reader#bang chan x y/n#bang chan x you#skz scenarios#goo gunil#Spotify
16 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
liliactrickster
Liliac Trickster's gallery
bedkiss1
Microsoft Office setup and Install help
shushyfueledshenanigans
I am very small, and I have no money.
kdramaspace
kdramaspace