#[ throWS YOU TRASH STARTER
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hhoneylemon · 2 months ago
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“i have so much to tell you”
mark grayson x gn!reader
summary: mark’s just gotten his powers and is excited to test them out. while flying in the middle of the night, he remembers someone who would enjoy this just as much as him.
based on this post by @wordsofwhimsy
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mark stands in the kitchen of burger mart, smiling to himself as he flips burgers on the little grill.
his shift was mostly uneventful, giving him time to think. he’d have to finish his english work when he got home. speaking of english—why did he have homework again? the assignment was so short.
his nose scrunches as he tries to remember, though it doesn’t take him long. you had made a joke about one of the characters in the book you were reading in class, causing the both of you to become sidetracked for the rest of the period. you’d read five pages in the entire class period and managed to answer one of the comprehension questions before mark made some corny joke that made you laugh.
oh, that laugh of yours. mark smiled to himself, setting the spatula to the side. he even lets out a dreamy sigh that has his coworker side eye him from the drive thru window.
mark stands up straighter at that, focusing on flipping patties once more. he decides he never wants to look that coworker in the eye again. he’s pretty sure that girl is in his calculus class, too.
a few minutes later, the manager appears in the back room to survey how mark and his coworkers are doing. the man lets out a grunt as he notices the dwindling of customers. it’s getting late, the sky already black and dotted with stars.
“grayson. take the trash to the dumpsters.”
“yes sir.”
mark gathers the trash, collecting the bags and tying the tops off to carry them easier. he resorts to dragging them, remembering the time his coworker—a poor starter named kyle who quit that next night—tried carrying them to the dumpsters and the bags burst on him.
he groans as he throws open the dumpster lid, huffing as it closes and he has to reopen it. he slings one bag inside, grunting as he swings it over the lip of the dumpster. he then reaches for the second bag, throwing this one with much less care. it goes flying into the night sky, far higher, faster, and farther than should be possible.
mark adjusts his burger mart hat, grinning to himself.
“it’s about time.”
( ´ ▽ ` ).。o♡
after dinner with his parents and a shower to wash away the grease of his job, mark lies in his bed. he’s trying to fall asleep, but it’s rather hard after night that he’s had.
he’s been waiting his whole life to become like his dad. with the promise of being trained the next day, he wants to fall asleep as quickly as possible to be able to get those lessons. alas, his brain simply won’t let him rest. he rolls over multiple times, sheds his sleep shirt, lies still for a few minutes. nothing.
rolling onto his side, mark grabs his phone from his bedside table. he checks the time. 12:16.
he sighs and sits up, legs tangled with his bedsheets. he can’t take this any longer. he spends a few seconds untangling himself from the sheets before making his way to the window. he climbs out and stands on the roof, marching his way to the ledge.
he looks down at his yard, then to the sky. a slow, shaky breath escapes him. if he’s like his dad, he can fly. all of his powers would develop at the same time, right? even if he can’t fly, maybe he’s invulnerable and it won’t even hurt if he falls into his backyard.
he paces between his window and the ledge a few times before sighing and making his decision. oh well, right?
mark walks back to his window once more before turning and sprinting to the ledge. his eyes squeeze shut as his feet no longer touch down on a safe surface and—nothing. he slowly opens his eyes.
he’s floating.
he grins, whooping hysterically as he shoots into the sky. he’s so glad that he didn’t kill himself, or break a bone at the best. that’s not even the best, honestly, how humiliating. he can imagine going to school with a broken arm, everyone asking what happened. ‘oh yeah, i jumped off my roof!’ he’d sound like a psychopath.
mark flies shakily, almost falling a few times. he keeps changing his stance, trying to find something truly comfortable. nothing sticks out just yet. just as he considers flying through chicago, a thought strikes him.
do you know who would enjoy this? do you know who should get to experience this with him?
he flies a few miles, the wind mussing up his hair and biting at his cheeks. he’s laughing to himself as he spins midair, regretting it almost immediately when he catches a mouthful of air, drying out his mouth. he frowns the rest of his way to his destination, terrified of more mouth assaulting his mouth. it’s bad enough the wind is stinging his eyes and making it harder for him to see where he’s going.
he finally arrives at where he was trying to go. he stops midair outside of a house, lowering himself to find the correct window. he raps his knuckles against the glass, fighting away a smile.
moments later, you’re there, opening the curtains. your eyebrows furrow when you see him, even mouthing something in confusion. you unlock the window and slide it open, leaning out just enough to look at him face to face.
“mark? it’s after midnight, what are you doing here?”
you don’t get a response. instead, you get hands grasping at your underarms and pulling you through the window. next thing you know, wind is screaming past your ears as mark zips into the sky with you in his arms.
once he deems the two of you at a height great enough, he floats himself into a sitting position. he settles you on top of him, your legs bracketing his torso as he wraps his arms around your waist to keep you tight and safe against him. it’s technically not ‘safe’ since he has such little flying experience, but it’s more safe than if he kept carrying you by the underarms. 
laughter bubbles out of you as mark flies the two of you around like that, staying above the skyscrapers of chicago to keep the two of you out of harm. the sound escaping you causes mark’s heart rate to increase in speed, his eyes widening slightly.
he realizes he could do this forever. you above him and in his arms while he flies around to his hearts content. those pretty brown eyes observe you, the moon illuminating all of the complimenting features of your body and making it seem like you’re glowing.
technically, this isn’t right. what if there was a plane and the two of you got hit before he could move? what if some villain shows up and thinks you’re heroes and tries to kill the both of you? what if he nesses up and drops you?
when you pull back to look up him, flashing that beautiful smile, he decides he doesn’t care about the dangers. he could live in the moment forever and he’d be content. as long as it’s you by his side, he’ll make all of the wrong decisions without looking back.
his brain shuts off when your eyes twinkle under the moonlight, crinkling up at the sides as a breathy laugh escapes you. he had dropped a few feet without realizing, the feeling of your stomach dropping making you laugh. without thinking, he leans in and captures your lips in his. one arm stays steady around your waist, the other loosening so that his hand can trail up your spine and cup the back of your neck.
when you kiss back, mark feels every burden he’s ever had lift off of his shoulders. he’s lighter than a feather. he’s lighter than air, even.
this is it, he decides. this is where he can die. in your arms, kissing underneath a million stars. scratch that, how could he die? he can’t do that to you. he’ll find a way to become immortal so that he can do this as many times as there are stars in the sky.
you pull away, catching your breath. mark grins, leaning his forehead against yours. you smile, though there’s obvious confusion in your gaze.
“how?”
you gesture to the sky. that’s fair. he couldn’t imagine what it was like on your end, all of the confusion and awe. he just offers a breathy laugh that’s filled with admiration, his eyes twinkling as his fingers play with the hair at the nape of your neck.
“i have so much to tell you.”
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i love writing mark fluff <3 he’s just such a little loser. there are a few thoughts about him i wanna write but i struggle with a little, yknow? i think he has his own kind of confidence, i tried incorporating that into this but 🤷 i hope you percept it. this was 1.4k words :)
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demie90s · 1 month ago
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(I LOVVVEEE THIS CAUSE I HAVE BROTHERSSS)
Soft Spot
UConn x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
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MASTERLIST | MORE
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You’re the team menace. Trash talker. Trouble starter. But when your baby brother shows up to watch you play and accidentally runs onto the court mid-possession—only to get hurt—you lose it.
ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: emotional angst, sibling bond, tough-girl vulnerability
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: injury (not graphic), swearing, intense emotion, reader shows rage then softness
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 0.6k
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They never knew what to expect from me. One day I’m practicing full-speed in a weighted vest, the next I’m handing out glittery slap bracelets pregame just to throw off the other team’s rhythm. I didn’t talk the most, but when I did, it was sharp, calculated, said like I already knew how the play would end. I moved different. Never sat still on the bench. Wore gold grills with my warmups. Smiled during free throws. The team just let me do me—mostly because I produced. And because nobody wanted to be on the other side of my mood.
My little brother had been begging to come see me play. He was four—smart as hell, dramatic, and loud. My twin in every way except height. I had begged my mom to bring him tonight. Just one game. She finally said yes.
I saw him before tip-off. Front row, bouncing in his tiny jersey with my number on it, clutching a little pack of gummy bears like it was gold. I tapped my chest twice, winked at him, and got in formation.
The first half was chaos. I was locked in—breaking presses, rotating like I had eight arms, jaw clenched with every bucket I hit. We were up ten. The crowd was loud. I was louder.
Then it happened.
Mid-transition, I heard someone yell—high-pitched, panicked. I turned in time to see a flash of red and navy dart across the court. At first I thought it was some wild fan. Then I realized—his curls, his chubby little legs, the way he was holding up the gummy bears like he wanted to give them to me.
“Shit—no!”
He got maybe ten feet before his foot clipped the edge of the paint. The floor met him hard. The pack flew. His tiny arms braced but not fast enough, and his head bounced once against the court before he stopped moving.
The gym fell dead silent. And I broke.
I shoved past a ref, nearly knocked over a cheerleader. Someone grabbed my shoulder—maybe Geno—and I swung my arm back so fast they let go. My vision blurred, chest heaving. I yelled something—don’t even remember what. The words were hot and harsh and flying out of my mouth before I could stop them. I wasn’t yelling at him. I was yelling at the world. At the ref. At myself.
“WHY THE FUCK WASN’T ANYONE WATCHING HIM?!”
He started crying. Loud. That little hiccup-sob that sounds too big for his chest. I stopped moving. Just dropped.
My knees hit the court with a thud, and suddenly I wasn’t the player with the stare, or the girl with the edge. I was just a big sister. Scrambling. Gently lifting his body off the floor with shaking hands. He clung to my jersey so tight it almost ripped. He wasn’t bleeding, but his lip was busted and he was scared—really scared.
“I’m right here, baby, it’s okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
I held him like he was glass. Rocked with him. Whispered against his curls while the rest of the world just stood there, watching something they never thought I had in me.
I felt Azzi kneel beside me. She didn’t say anything—just put a hand on my back. Paige hovered nearby, frozen. Even Nika looked heartbroken. Nobody knew what to do. They’d never seen me quiet.
Geno didn’t yell. Didn’t rush. He just stood with his hands on his hips, like maybe he finally understood what made me tick.
I stayed there until my mom reached us. Until he calmed down. Until I could breathe again.
And even then, I didn’t get up right away.
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The locker room was too quiet.
No speaker, no music, no jokes, no yelling. The usual noise that echoed off the walls after a win was gone. We’d taken the game by double digits, but nobody was celebrating. They were still looking at me like I might snap again. Or fall apart. Or both.
I sat at my locker, head down, jersey half off, arms still tense like I hadn’t unclenched since I carried my baby brother off the court. My knee bounced. My palms were still sticky from where his tears soaked into them. He was okay—my mom texted me already. He was eating fries and watching Bluey like nothing happened. But I was still in that moment. That damn scream still ringing in my ears.
KK was the first to move. She didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over and dropped a water bottle by my feet.
“You good?” she asked, voice low.
I nodded, but it didn’t feel real. “He’s fine.”
“That ain’t what I asked.”
I didn’t answer.
The rest of the team slowly filtered back to their usual routines—shower, tape off, slides on—but their eyes kept flicking over to me like I might crumble into the floor. Paige was whispering with Nika. Azzi hadn’t taken her shoes off yet. Geno was talking to a trainer outside the door, but I could tell he kept glancing in.
Finally, Ice sat down across from me. Elbows on her knees. Serious.
“We didn’t know you had that in you,” she said. “The soft part.”
I looked up at her. “I don’t show it.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause the second people know it’s there, they think they can touch it.”
She nodded like she got it. And I think she did.
Paige stepped over, slow, like she was approaching a wild animal.
“You scared us,” she said. “Like… genuinely. You were—”
“I know.”
And I did. I knew what I looked like. Feral. Screaming. Crying. On my knees in front of thousands. It wasn’t just rage—it was fear. The kind I’d buried deep. The kind that only surfaced when someone I loved bled in front of me.
“He’s your baby,” Azzi said softly, finally speaking up. “You were just being his sister.”
I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand, breathing deep through my nose. “He brought me gummy bears.”
Paige smiled a little. “Of course he did.”
I reached into my duffle and pulled out the half-crushed pack. Put it right in my locker like it belonged there. Nobody said anything else. They didn’t have to.
They saw the realest part of me tonight. Not the menace. Not the monster.
Just me.
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@draculara-vonvamp @non3ofurbusiness @toorealrai
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hivemuthur · 5 months ago
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Nothing's New - Ch.2.
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viktorxfemale!reader explicit!
AU modern era, lovers to enemies to lovers, getting back together, a lot of angst, smut to come somewhere mid-way through
Ch.1. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6.
word count: 7,2K
tag: #nothings new
summary: More meetings, welcomed and unwelcomed + some foreshadowing. Nothing exactly smutty in this chapter, but I'm leaving it on explicit rating, for reasons of angst and generally adult emotions. Also, I should go to writer's jail for starting so many fics with dialogue.
Cross-posted on AO3
“Why the fuck are you only telling me this now?” You fume over the phone. A sloppy text message from Mel has made you stop in the middle of the street. Now. Now, when you are heading to act out your pretend chance meeting with Viktor. Now, when you are ten minutes away from the drop point and haven’t finished replaying all possible conversation starters in your head yet. Now, when your knuckles are white from clutching your coffee cup. Now, when you are bathed in the cold sweat of fear and the hot sweat of the temperature. Why now. Why now.
I feel you should know this. Viktor is seeing someone. Please don’t eat me.
You are going to fucking eat her and clean your teeth with her bones.
“Jayce spilled just recently. He was afraid I would tell you.” Oh, the irony. Mel is whispering on the phone, which indicates that Jayce is around, and her clock is ticking. “Apparently it’s been going on for about six weeks. It’s someone from work.”
“What?! Six weeks? What was that scene at your party then?!” To counter Mel’s whispering, you are screaming. White-hot anger surges through your veins, blinding fury. The audacity. The audacity to make you feel bad for doing something adjacent to moving on when he himself has moved on weeks ago. People scoff as they walk past you, and you glare daggers at them. Fuck off.
“I understand this is… hard, but… I thought you were happy with Paul? Maybe this is the way to fix this?” your friend offers carefully. Very carefully.
“I am happy. I am so fucking happy it makes me sick,” you spit into the speaker against Mel’s sigh. The thought of Paul makes you feel guilty. Your entire relationship has been built on guilt poisoning your reason. But the thought of Viktor. With someone else. That’s different.
“This is all I know. Jayce is leaving, I have to run!” Mel ignores your protests, puts the speaker an inch away from her mouth, and sends you three in-air kisses. You almost throw your phone into the trash bin. You almost slap a person walking past you who gives you a sodden look. You almost kick a beer can under your feet with the force of a rugby player.
This is so, so different. The thought of you and Paul suddenly makes you sad. The way he is a picture of kind insecurity, even though most of him is mouthwatering. There are ugly parts of him, yet invisible to the naked eye. He makes the thought of being touched by someone other than Viktor bearable.
Viktor touched you like he was keeping you. His claiming hands, a constant reminder of his yearning. Which is why, when he stopped, you forgot. You became unkept. A stray in a shelter, getting food, water, and blankets, but no carer. And you could’ve lived without all of those, but not without the belonging. For you, it decayed much sooner than for Viktor.
And then Paul found you. He stumbled upon the pieces of you, left to be picked up and put back together. And Paul touched you like he was asking for permission to be kept. So the two of you strays agreed to keep each other. With time, his touch became familiar; it had overridden the default touch of Viktor. It became comforting, consoling. You never long for it, but you always welcome it. And you no longer need a keeper.
And Paul is a man that everyone envies you for. He’s a man that steals glances and twists the necks of women who congratulate themselves for having a decadent taste in men. In fact, Paul just looks like he fucks well and would make a good dad in the future. He’s hot, but not intimidating, smart, but not a buffoon. Clingy and needy at times. He gets angry in traffic and then patronises you when you freak out about weak Wi-Fi. He has a sadness and kindness to him that makes him a whole human. And sometimes, a whole human is more than you can bear.
You wonder, who is this woman who found pieces of Viktor, and how has she put them back together? If she did. If he let her. If he is in pieces at all.
You feel yourself in fragments, appearing and disappearing, as you approach the shop. And oh God, he is there, and Jayce is running late. Viktor is... picking a bed.
Your shirt clings to you awfully, and you catch a glimpse of yourself in the shop window—face red, remnants of foaming anger visible at the corners of your mouth twisted downwards, hair all messy from digging your hand into it, and two fucking sweat stains under your armpits. Great. Just great.
Why is he picking a bed? Is his bed soaked with you, and he wants a fresh one for the new woman? Is he ready for someone else’s scent so soon? You aren’t ready for him being ready.
You snort up three breaths in a row, no exhales. You hold them until one of your feet steps through the door, announced by a bell. Before your mind can throw you something—anything—you’ve prepared, you feel yourself walking up to him, and you hear yourself blurting out, “Why are you buying a bed?”
Viktor, who is standing by a frame much bigger than the one you two used to sleep in, looks up at you slowly, his lips disappearing into a thin line. “Because I need a bed. And hello.”
“What’s wrong with the old bed?” Unbelievably, you’ve lost all of your common sense. All that matters is why Viktor needs a new bed. His eyebrows raise, and he… smiles. With a horrible, smarmy curve of his lips.
“I don’t have a bed anymore,” he answers sweetly, acid dripping off his tongue.
He didn’t have the bed anymore. For months, he had slept on his tiny couch, which had significantly buggered his spine. But he couldn’t bear it—the bed had smelled of you, and whenever he came near it, it was as if you were still there, lying there, waiting for him. At first, he had wanted to burn it. He asked Jayce for help, and Jayce was frightened. He fidgeted around Viktor and asked him wary questions like, “Are you sure this is what you want?” or, “Isn’t it illegal?”
Viktor scoffed at the last one. He was convinced that if he had told the police why he was burning a bed, they would have helped him do it. But since he was in no shape to chop it with an axe while picturing your face or drive it out of town to build a pillar of hate to pay his respects to you in an eternal flame, he settled on a Craigslist deal. Some poor fucker wanted a bed in exchange for a book. It happened to be the first edition of Naked Lunch. The poor fucker had no idea.
You would have loved it. So he burned it instead.
He burned it on the balcony in the middle of the night, hoping it would make him feel better. Hoping you would feel the tickle of the flames around your soul as he purged it from his being. Hoping that this symbolic act of destroying a piece of literary history would also destroy his feeling of this—this thing he dared not name.
And now, he has just collected a shiny new set of keys to his apartment that he is going to give to Julia the next day. Not to live together, too early for that. But to come and go as she pleases. He will do things differently now. He will do them better this time.
And it is easier, because Jules isn’t so co-dependent. She is collected and pretty. She is alright with anything Viktor proposes. She never challenges him and manages to be funny on rare occasions. They have a lot in common, and it feels comfortable. Yes, Jules is an easy ride—one that he needs after his road through hell.
“What happened to the old bed?” you insist. You loved that bed. It was small and cozy and soft, and Viktor would always jokingly complain about it. And then he would really complain about it, because when he wanted to be far away from you, the softness of the mattress would suck you both into the middle by morning, like a black hole.
His vile smirk turns into a full, shit-eating grin. “It’s gone,” he says coldly. “I hated it. It was bad for my back. Why are you here?” He shoots you a look, and you feel a new wave of sweat pushing itself through your skin.
“I saw you in the window,” you blurt out idiotically, as if that would explain anything. You bite the inside of your cheek, your face contorting into a new expression every second. How utterly mortifying.
“And? You thought you could say hello?” He shifts his weight onto the cane, pinning you like a butterfly on one of those museum boards. Splayed flat, stretched and dried out, dust under anyone’s prying fingers. “Or… you thought it was proper to just come in and be disturbingly weird?”
“I— What? I am not being weird! I’m asking you a question, and you lie to my face,” you hiss, your tone defensive. Oh, he has caught you. His eyes glint, clearly pleased with your mind struggling to formulate a proper comeback.
“Disturbingly weird it is, then,” he deadpans, that fucking smirk still on his face.
Weird. He remembers it so well. He didn’t want to, yet the sensation burned itself into his brain. Even more now, as the act of burning history had the opposite effect of what he desired. After the last remnants of Naked Lunch lifted into the hot summer air and disappeared into glimmering dust, he felt himself stepping into the weird club. The way your weirdness was fascinating and hot. The way his was full of fear and remained unaccepted.
You were neurotic but refused to acknowledge it fully, even though you wore it as a verbal badge. The constant fidgeting, moving objects around, slow pacing across the room as you read your books, always with a soundtrack because your mind needed distractions to remain focused. You could sing a song and read a book simultaneously, and Viktor loved it. He lived to observe all those people encapsulated within you, every single one incomplete, as if you were made of a bunch of different personas.
The fidgeting became overwhelming when he asked you to move in with him. It had been fast, and he owned it—the recklessness of the decision. He left you a way out: keep your old place, just in case. The “just in case” came in handy three years later, when you returned to a dark cage shrouded in dust.
But back then, you had no idea what to do with yourself once your stuff travelled with you to Viktor’s. When you were a guest, the pressure was less. You could move things around, and he would put them back where they belonged after you left. Now, you debated heavily before touching anything. Your books splayed on the floor, your records in a box, while you moved from place to place trying to figure out the value of a random bundle of tomes that some poor soul had sold to your boss for a stupidly small sum.
Viktor was sitting at his desk, trying to work, but your groans made him wince, and your skittish movements lingered in the corner of his eye. He turned in his chair and sighed.
“Come here,” he beckoned, his arm opening in a welcoming gesture, inviting you to sit in his lap. You paused, a puzzled look on your face. Then, you dropped your computer onto the bed, walked up to him too fast to save yourself any dignity, and straddled his hips, hiding your face in his neck.
“Why are you being so jumpy?” Viktor asked, wrapping his arms around you, shielding you from whatever answer you would have to come up with, signalling that whatever the reason was, it was alright.
“I am always jumpy,” you mumbled into his collar. No way to say this. Happy and sad at the same time. Excited and frightened. Bold and shy. Full of his love and hungry for more.
“Hmm, but this time more than usual,” he mused, placing a hot hand on the nape of your neck. A thought struck him.
“Miláčku, are you nervous about a new space?” His question was met with silence, only your nose pressing deeper into his neck. He chuckled, pleased to stumble upon the answer so quickly.
“Do you not feel like this is your home?” he asked, his tone warm and gentle as he propped your face against his palm and lifted it so you would look at him, the response painted on your face.
“Would you like to change something? Would you like to, say, paint a wall?” His peace offering made you wince at your own immaturity. Yes, you wanted to change something. Yes, you wanted to feel less like an invader. The comfort of being a guest was long forgotten, morphing into the feeling of being a stranger probing Viktor’s space, trying to squeeze yourself into it.
Seeing your eyes fixed on him expectantly, your mouth forming a pout, he continued. “Would you like a bookshelf?” A timid nod. He smiled. There we are.
“And maybe a record shelf?” An unhinged display of affection at this. You rubbed your face against his in thanks, nodding a few more times and purring. He chuckled, rolling your hips on his, warmth pooling low under his belly button.
“Hmm, and would you like to get all those things now?” Or would you rather seal the deal with a nice, afternoon fuck? He licked the lobe of your ear, breathing you in through his nose. Your hips pressed down on him, a sweet weight of your ass splayed on his lap making him warm. He ran his flat palms down your back to ground you further, his touch addictive.
“No. Now I want to do something else,” you said, picking up the ball, nipping at his lower lip. You kissed his beauty marks, and Viktor’s eyes fluttered shut in bliss. So much fun to crack you open.
“Ah, distracted already?” he mumbled before kissing you deeply. His hands travelled to cup your ass cheeks, his palms filled with your flesh, just as things should be.
“You always distract me.” Spoken with embarrassment at the admission. Sweet civility, your decorum still intact at those tiny confessions. He swallowed all of them, kept them to himself, and grew stronger and better each time he was granted one.
“And… I’m sorry for being weird,” you said, pulling away an inch to rest your forehead against his.
“I like weird,” Viktor said with a smile, his tone closer to a love confession than a blunt statement. “I am weird,” he added, tracing the lines of your face with his fingers.
“No, you are not,” you chuckled, disarmed. “You are… peculiar,” you announced, poking his lips gently, affectionately.
“That’s just a fancy weird,” Viktor snorted. Peculiar. What a word. What a beautiful word to be given to him. He would wear it like a crown from that point forward. You had anointed him with your gift, and he would cherish it with pride.
“No,” you defended, your brows furrowed at this clear misunderstanding. “No. Weird has bad connotations.” Your finger rested on the tip of his nose, accentuating your point. “Peculiar is fascinating and curious,” you mused as your finger began tracing upward, all the way to the spot between his eyebrows, and then higher, to the line of his hair, brushing it away so you could cup his face. “Odd, in a good way.”
“Alright, word wizard. Did you just come up with this?” he relented with an embarrassed chuckle.
“No, I thought that on the first sight,” you announced proudly. You had. Peculiar was entirely Viktor’s. Wonderful, fascinating. Never fully uncovered, always something there lurking to surprise you. A wild landscape of his brilliant mind, of his raw body—so flawed, so beautiful, like an unfinished sculpture. Every time you remembered his angles, they would shift into something even more mesmerising. The complete lack of effort within him, the way he dressed like a man from a novel. The way he was always incomplete, always searching.
“Peculiar at first sight. Do you have a word for everyone?” he murmured. Seeing your timid nod, his eyebrows shot up. “Jayce?”
You laughed; this one was easy. “Big. Just big. Big everything—big hands, big teeth, big smile, big personality. There is enough of Jayce to literally hug the world,” you said, your tone warm and friendly, as all of this was true about Jayce.
Viktor chuckled, thought for a second. “Mel?”
“Rich.” The word came slightly too fast, and you grinned. Viktor laughed knowingly. “But it goes to everything about her, as I love her,” you clarified, your expression soft. Mel was rich through sharing it with other people. Her fortune came back to her, the more she gave it away. The fortune of her money, her personality, her beauty, spread across all the people she knew.
“Oh, I know. For yourself?” He cocked his eyebrows, his look probing. He had so many words for you. Beautiful. Unhinged. Skittish. Tender. Focused. Distracted. Vulgar. Weird. Hot. His.
“Uh… chaos,” you chuckled awkwardly. Yes, the chaos of your mind never tamed. Which was why your life landed in books. They had provided you with all the personalities you mended yourself from, making your chaotic being work. And Viktor seemed to like all of them.
Until he stopped, and there you were. The weird gained its disturbing friend, and it was no longer cute or fascinating. Now, it was gnawing at him, because he could see those parts of you that he once loved so dearly through a distorting layer of ice, burning his eyes.
“It is none of your concern how I furnish my apartment,” he says calmly. “I am seeing someone and would like your remaining stuff to be removed. Here.” His words stab at you as he pulls out a keychain from his back pocket.
“Next weekend, I’m out of town. Feel free to come and collect your things. Leave the keys in the post box,” he recites, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “If you don’t, I will dispose of them on my own.”
A rush of blood to your head—cold and vile—leaves icy spikes in your veins as it travels upward through your body. Your face drains of colour, your mouth agape. Thousands of “what”s push themselves to your tongue, and you let one slip through.
“W-what?”
“What is so surprising? The pragmatism, or the fact that I had the civility to tell you I’m moving forward on my own accord?” he asks, his tone so utterly cruel it makes your insides twist. “Take this as the last ounce of respect I have left for you.”
“Are you implying that I do not respect you?” you spit, the fury you felt while talking to Mel surging back with full force. What a wanker. “You blocked me. Everywhere. I had no way to let you know.”
“Just take the keys.”
“I… still have my set,” you offer weakly, instantly regretting it as Viktor’s lips curl into a smirk.
“These are new,” he says with feigned innocence. Of course. But you already know this, so why does it shoot straight through your chest? Why does it leave a steaming hole in it? Why do you want to take the keys and stab his eyes with them? Why do you want to scream at him—and yet you can’t.
You take them wordlessly, staring into the void. They burn your hand. “Okay. Alright,” you sigh, defeated, sliding the keychain into your pocket.
An automated smile glues itself to Viktor’s face. So why does he feel so rotten? Surely, this is a victory. Here you are, crumbled into a sad twat of a person, resigned from any further attempts to talk to him. Here you are, exactly where he wants you—hunched and shrunk under the weight of his boot stomping over your cruel heart. You lost, and he won.
So why does he feel so shitty?
He clears his throat and looks away.
“I will have you know that Jayce is desperate to piece the gang together. You and your new… partner will receive an invitation to dinner on Sunday. Jayce has informed me that we are expected to play nice.” The word “partner” is laced with so much venom, the radius could make all the kittens in the vicinity drop dead.
“W-what?” you ask dumbly again. What the fuck? Jayce has lost his mind.
Before you can ask again, the said madman appears by your side.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” he asks wearily, but his embrace is warm.
“Can… can I talk to you for a second?” Your voice cracks, and you hate it. And the worst part is, there’s nobody to carry you home on the top of your shield.
Jayce glances over to Viktor nervously, but Viktor’s eyes are fixed on the mattress in front of him. Jayce sighs, nods, and pulls you a few steps away, pretending the reality isn’t as fucked up as it is.
“What’s up?” He keeps his tone light.
“Jayce, a dinner?”
“Uh, he told you already? I meant to… Yeh, I had an idea that maybe if we all meet and clear the air, things could move forward, at least a bit?”
When he sees your mouth opening and closing a couple of times, and your eyes not blinking even once, he adds, “Please. This is killing me. I feel exactly the same as I did when my parents were divorcing.”
You sigh, finally. Finally, a breath. Your heart is thundering in your chest, and you can feel Viktor’s secretive glances.
“Can I leave at any point?”
Jayce’s face lights up with relief. “Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you, thank you for giving this a chance,” he blurts, so happy, wrapping you up in a hug.
You want to wince away at first, afraid that he might feel how restless your heart is or that he might smell how sweaty you are. But in the end, Jayce’s hug does what it had always done—it calms you, making your head give up. It is what it is.
“I’m gonna go,” you say weakly, pulling yourself away. Jayce shoots you a knowing look and nods, placing his hand on your shoulder before you disappear completely.
You don’t spare Viktor so much as a glance, his keys still burning a hole in your pocket.
***
You despair. The number of times Paul calmly tells you that you could still turn back makes you sick. This poor, kind bastard. He has agreed to this ridiculous idea in an instant, before even checking how you felt about it. Seeing that what you felt is utter peril, he does his best to calm you down and present you with around a thousand options for how this could go.
“We can just not go. We can pretend you’re sick. We can pretend I’m sick, and you can go alone. I can go alone and test the waters for you. We can stay for a drink. We can leave if you feel uncomfortable. Just remember this awesome thing called ‘free will,’ okay?” he says, sitting cross-legged, naked, on the bed.
You are pacing, also naked. Panic surges through your vascular system. It carries said panic to every tissue of your body, making it slowly decompose into a puddle of cries and sobs.
“Hey,” he says, getting up and rushing to hug you. “It’s alright. He’s just a guy.”
This very complacent lie makes you shoot him a look. He tries to be respectful of your old life, of your friendships. Unbidden, his love is too sweet on your tongue as you feel yourself becoming complacent as well.
And then you remember Jayce. His face when he was sad, and he was so, so fucking sad it ripped your heart out. And you feel this vast emptiness that is left after Viktor. With the absence of him, the absence of Jayce and Mel is unbearable. So you sigh.
“Alright. Okay. Let me just… try to do something to not look like a rat.”
Paul chuckles, assuring you that you never look like a rat. When you walk down to the restaurant, your feet stomp heavily on the pavement, and your hand squeezes Paul’s palm in an unrelenting grip. At the door, he says it again, “We can turn back.”
You shake your head and step inside, bravely hiding behind the mass of your boyfriend. Jayce spots you instantly. He gets up so fast, his cutlery clattering to the floor.
“I was afraid you were going to bail,” he whispers loudly into your ear when you finally make it across the room.
“I… thought about it,” you admit under his glare. “You have to thank this guru,” you add with a sigh, gesturing to Paul, who just shrugs, as if it were obvious that you would have bailed without him.
They exchange embraces. You smooch Mel’s face obscenely, actually quite happy to see her, before slumping into your chair, the question staring you in the face. Where is Viktor?
Noticing the question mark distorting your forehead, Mel quickly adds, “They’re on the way. Traffic.”
Bullshit. Viktor lives nearby, and there is no traffic on a Sunday evening. A small relief creeps into you—maybe the outer gods heard you, and it is Viktor who was going to bail. Maybe you have been pulling your hair out over nothing, and this will turn into just a nice evening with your two friends and your lovely boyfriend. Maybe—
“Apologies. Traffic,” comes a sharp tone, accompanied by a shrug and the familiar sight of a cane being hung over the chair’s armrest.
Something sinks in your chest. Peril has just taken relief’s head, ripped it off, and taken a huge shit into its neck. But this isn’t the worst. Introductions come next.
A girl comes running in after him. Pretty. Nerdy. Just… pretty. Nothing remarkable. Pliant and nice, with slightly shy body language. Potentially intelligent. Potentially nothing.
And suddenly, you feel odd having Paul at your side. It feels like you are trying to prove something. It eats at you—that Viktor has shown up with someone so unremarkable, while he himself oozes confidence about his champion. Your champion seems to be completely overblown—his massive frame, his charm that could sweep anyone off their feet.
Overachiever. Poser. Liar.
You feel a nasty fucking thing hatching in your chest. It envelopes your heart, fills your veins with ice, and you could swear the whites of your eyes have gone black. Your hand hesitates when she repeats your name with an oblivious voice, pulling her palm out for a handshake. Your own palm hovers as you muster every ounce of willpower not to slap that mediocre face.
“Hi, Julia. Nice to meet you,” you manage, swallowing the beast, which rakes its claws at your insides as it slides down to your stomach. Your throat burns as you down an entire whisky glass.
You realise it would feel less painful were she obscenely beautiful. Her absolutely average physique has meant that there was something within her soul that beckoned Viktor forth, and the thought makes your own soul wail.
You watch them all from your seat, exchanging names and glances. Jayce knows Julia from work. Paul knows both Jayce and Mel. Which leaves… oh.
“Right, sorry. I’m slow in this weather,” you chuckle a bit too loudly. “Paul. Julia. Viktor.” You gesture clumsily, presenting them to each other before scrambling back into your seat, craning your neck to eye the waiter back to your table.
You watch Paul charming Viktor’s new girlfriend with his smile. You watch Viktor’s slender hand disappear into Paul’s firm grip. You watch their eyes meet, cold and challenging.
You feel a sudden urge to slide under the table. To bury your head in your knees. To bite through the wooden floor to the basement. To dig your own grave and fall asleep in it forever.
“Thanks for the invite, Mel,” Julia beams at your friend, and you spot Mel’s unctuous smile gluing itself to her face. This one is one of her best—so oily and sleek that even Jayce notices. He presses a kiss on her cheek so deep that she has to relax her face.
“So… how did you guys all meet?” It falls on the table and it takes you a few seconds to pick it up.
Holy fucking shit in heaven. Of course. He hasn’t told her. He hasn’t told her that this innocent dinner with friends is actually a farce with the high potential of turning into a carnage. She is oblivious to you. She has no idea. Ignorance is bliss.
“Uh… well, me and Viktor know each other from university, but that you know. Mel I met at a business convention, and, well…” Jayce stammers, stumbling over his words as his forehead begins to glisten with sweat.
Poor soul. You feel so sorry for him, you throw him a lifeline.
“And I am Mel’s friend. Best bitches since business school,” you say, giving the best fake smile you have. Not as good as Mel’s, but it does the job. “And Paul and I met at my work. You can connect the dots,” you throw out nonchalantly. And Viktor was fucking me into heaven for three years. For two.
“Oh, so you’re in business too?” Julia really tries, but the tension is just too palpable. You blink, dumbfounded.
“Uh, no.” A forced chuckle, as if business were a vile way to live. “I sell books.”
“Alright, that’s just unfair,” Jayce intercepts, taken aback by your modesty. You are not trying to be modest; you are trying to give as little information about yourself as possible. You almost smack him, but he continues.
“She finds books like you wouldn’t imagine. Medieval texts, first editions, magic books—all the crazy shit people would write down and publish. Precious objects,” Jayce muses as you try to smooth a crease of panic from your forehead.
“And they trick people who have no idea of their value into selling them rare tomes for chunks of copper,” Viktor murmurs, twirling the wine in his glass.
“Knowledge comes at a price. Of all people, you should be the one to understand that,” you shoot back, your nails slicing through the skin of your palms. You feel Paul’s hand on yours. He doesn’t look at you; he just entwines your fingers together on your knee. The saviour.
“Anyway, it’s actually all incredibly bureaucratic and boring,” you offer weakly, finishing your second drink. “And what about you?”
And then Julia talks. How she is an assistant at the lab where Viktor and Jayce work. How she was always fascinated by their projects. How she thought Viktor distant and mysterious at the beginning, only to discover he was a sweet man. How she just couldn’t say no when he asked her out. Each sentence is a stab into your chest, each of your hard gulps making Viktor smile triumphantly. Until—
The first thing you see is his smirk dropping from his face. The second is Paul’s face as he pulls you in to whisper into your ear, disguising the act as a gesture of affection.
“Smile. And nod. Do you want me to punch him?” he murmurs, the question inaudible to anyone but you.
You smile lovingly, place your hand on his cheek, and shake your head. In fact, you smile so much that your face hurts, and you find yourself needing to physically relax your cheeks with your fingers.
The conversation carries on, all faces a tad sour save for Julia’s. She does most of the talking and asking questions. She focuses on Mel and Jayce, leaving you and Paul to exchange inside jokes. And he does such an exceptional job distracting you that some of your smiles are actually genuine.
You are on your third drink, and your body relaxes despite itself. The food arrives, finally bringing some silence, occasionally broken by hums of appreciation and Jayce’s voice, since he talks with his mouth full. For a moment, you forget Viktor is there—until Julia leaves for the bathroom and leans over to give Viktor a kiss.
His neck cranes to meet her mouth. His hand travels to her throat; the other squeezes her waist. Very briefly, his eyes meet yours. Before you can combust from the look, her hair falls, shielding them both, and all you can make out is the sound of lips smacking apart when she finally pulls away. You wonder what would happen if you stabbed your hand with a fork.
Viktor clears his throat and returns his attention to his plate. You watch him separating meat from the bone, chewing, and swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he does. And he feels your eyes on him, the smug curve of his lips betraying him.
Paul picks up the glove. He clumsily rolls a chunk of pasta onto his fork and asks innocently if you want to try his food. Absently, you nod, taking a sip of water first to flush your mouth. The bite is too big, and he smears sauce on your cheek and nose. You don’t worry about decorum; you chew as you always chew—jaw working heavily as you gulp down. You can swear Viktor’s eyes are burning a hole in your throat. Paul chuckles at how gross you are and leans in to kiss the sauce off your cheek, nose, and the corner of your mouth. He lingers and comments on how it tastes even better now. It’s all very sickening, and you feel dirty doing it. You can see Viktor eyeing his fork.
Julia returns and plops down next to Viktor with a happy sigh, as if she’s just had the most satisfying number two of her life. You cackle at the thought, but it dies in your throat when Viktor chirps, “I missed you,” to her and presses his lips to her temple.
You feel yourself simmering beneath the skin. It’s all too much.
“Excuse me for a second.” You offer another sweet smile, stand up, place a hand on Paul’s shoulder, and make your way toward the entrance. A gush of sticky air isn’t exactly a relief, but at least it’s not acidic.
“Sorry, can I bum one?” you ask a woman smoking outside. She gives you an understanding look and pulls the cigarette pack toward you.
“Sure, honey. Did you spot your ex in the crowd?”
“Uh, you have no idea. Thanks,” you exhale, letting her light your cigarette. You don’t smoke, but now it seems suitable.
You are expecting Paul to come out after you, ordering a regroup.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Viktor deadpans, giving you a scolding look.
“I don’t,” is all you manage to say without choking on the smoke. “Please, leave me alone,” you plead, seeing him move closer. You could rake that face with your nails. You could slap him and walk away. You could throw his keys back at him and tell him to eat shit. But no. Jayce needs you to play nice.
“Are you not having a nice time?” he asks innocently, just aiming to hurt. “I thought you wanted things back to normal.”
You sigh, looking at the cigarette lying oddly between your fingers. “I…” Your voice falters. And then, despite your efforts to hold the words back, they refuse to stay. They slice your throat open from the inside, bleeding straight into his ears. “I miss you.”
A slap. A slap straight through his heart, hooking his lungs out of his chest. Your beast gets him, instead of sweet Julia. It coils in, purring and eating him from the inside. It’s all he wanted to hear. He won, again. And he feels like shit about it, again.
Viktor’s cane wobbles under his weight, a sharp, uncomfortable cough forcing its way out of him. His face twists. He stands there, still as stone, except for the erratic rise and fall of his chest. His lips part, his tongue flicks to wet them, but no words come. He looks like he is suffocating under the weight of what you’ve just said.
“Fuck off.” The words come out jagged, like broken glass, his voice harsh and cracking. “You have no right.”
You deserve it. You have no right, indeed. Your chest tightens, your lungs pulling for air that isn’t there. He has gone for the kill, but his voice… His voice doesn’t match his words. It’s soft and trembling.
“I know.” Your voice cracks too, balancing on the edge of fury and despair. You step toward him, the cigarette still burning between your fingers, ash crumbling onto the pavement. “But I do.” It feels like scraping off a scab too fresh to be poked at.
Viktor’s eyes widen, just for a moment. It’s quick—too quick—but you catch it. A flash of something buried deep, a flicker of something that makes your knees want to buckle, to throw yourself at his feet. His jaw clenches hard, his lips twitching as if biting back every single thing he wants to say.
“This was supposed to be over,” he hisses finally, but his gaze betrays him, darting down to your mouth, lingering on the curve of your jaw.
“It… is, I just—” You step even closer, the words clawing their way out of you, half a plea, half a challenge. “This is different.” There is no logical explanation for how this is different, except for the absolute certainty, the gnawing truth in your heart of hearts. You are utterly convinced that Julia existed only to spite you, whereas Paul existed to save you, and in principle, the connection between him and Viktor was non-existent. You wonder, for a second, if you should tell him. And then you picture how he would react, and you decide not to.
His hand grips the handle of his cane tighter, his knuckles turning white. “Do not—” His voice wavers. “Do not do this to me.”
You laugh bitterly, the sound hollow and cruel even to your own ears. “What am I doing to you?” You gesture wildly, the cigarette burning low, its ember a heartbeat away from searing your skin. “I try to do right by you. All you do is block me and slap me around.”
“You left!” he snaps, his voice rising, sharp enough to cut through your already battered flesh. “You are the one who left, and now you stand here, saying—saying things you should have said before.” He looks completely crestfallen.
The silence that follows is deafening. Your shoulders slump as you stare at him, and for a moment, you don’t recognise the man in front of you. The Viktor you know wasn’t this—this wreckage, this storm barely holding itself together.
“I left because you made me,” you whisper, the tears you’ve been holding back threatening to spill. “Because you pushed and pushed until I broke. And now I don’t even know if there’s enough of me left to stay mad at you.”
His head dips, his shoulders collapsing in defeat. His free hand runs through his hair, tugging at the roots like he wants to rip something out—anything, just to make the ache stop.
“You think it was easy for me?” he asks quietly, almost a whisper. “To let you go? To—” His voice cracks again, and he stops himself.
That is a first. You knew how hard it was—you had to crawl through your own shitty tunnel. You knew it was hard for him, but you’ve never heard him admit it before.
You both stand there, breathing hard, the air thick like tar. The cigarette finally burns out, the last ember dropping to the ground as you let it slip from your fingers.
“Then why didn’t you fight for me?” you ask, and your voice breaks. “Why didn’t you—”
“I did.” His words come fast, cutting you off, raw and painful. “I did, but you didn’t see it. You wouldn’t.” Viktor fights his hands to not reach out for you and wipe your tears away with his thumbs. He fights his body to not pull you flush against him, to kiss you deeply and whisper a secret into your mouth. He takes a step back, and it costs him everything. Then you both stare at the thing in front of you.
The truth. Ugly and jagged, sitting between you like a gaping wound neither of you knows how to heal. You had both fucked up, royally. And then you went ahead and jumped into something new, hoping that a tiny bit of duct tape would seal a hole in a massive, overflowing tank of feelings.
“Go back inside.” His voice is soft now, a whisper lost in the sticky night air. “I’ll be right there.”
“Everything alright here?” Paul’s voice reaches you before you see him, and you wince. Viktor takes notice. Paul’s arms are crossed on his chest, lips pressed into a thin line.
You nod and drag yourself in obediently. A quick stop in the bathroom to fix your sorry face. A slump into the chair next to Paul, as he places a loving arm around your shoulders. Viktor comes back to the table with an unreadable smile on his face, his eyes wet, but only you can see it. A civil, nice evening, ending with exclamations of how you all should do this again. How it was fun.
“All good?” Paul asks you when you walk home. When you walk to his apartment, the one you silently refuse to move into.
“Yes, just… why did you come out after me?” you counter, puzzled. You pin him with your gaze until he relents into an embarrassed chuckle.
“I thought you needed saving, is all.”
“I don’t need to be saved from anyone, Paul. Don’t intervene again. I’m an adult,” you scoff, opening the door to his apartment.
For the first time, you flinch away from his touch when you are in bed. Tears choke up in your throat all night. But you hold them tight, not letting any slip out. And you realise it takes so long to get over losing someone. That no band-aid, no pretty and nice boyfriend, no amount of friends or sad music could make the process faster. And you realise it isn’t possible to get over Viktor so quickly. And then, you realise that your grief hasn’t moved an inch. It’s still in denial.
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b0n3s-is-gay · 7 months ago
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Winter/Christmas with the Gang: How they'd spend it with you (Dividers by @/thecutestgrotto)
Master list: Here
Darrel "Darry" Curtis:
Kisses under the mistletoe, slow kisses under the cover of warm light from the christmas tree
Wrapping gifts together! Buying gifts for the gang with the money you two pooled together. He'll either listen to the radio with you, watch christmas specials while wrapping, or he'll tell funny stories revolving around the holiday.
If it's after the events of the book, you two head out to Johnny and Dally's graves. You light candles and sit out there with the gang, spending time with the two kids until you're reminded of the December chill and your own humanity.
Christmas Day, you sit with Darry, cuddled on his lap so he can't be like that dad with the trash bag on Christmas day/eve.
If you two get carollers, which you probably won't because of where you live, you'll stand with him and his brothers (if they're not too tired) and listen.
Decorating with him and his brothers, it's soft and domestic. It reminds him of how he used to decorate the tree and the house with their parents.
Throwing flour at one another when baking christmas treats. It's nice to make him let loose with the holiday, even when you're goofing off with the gingerbread.
If a smell were to describe the winter months with him, It'd be Nutmeg and vanilla
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Keith "Two-bit" Mathews
Mickey Mouse Christmas specials while cuddling. Any animated show like, Charlie Brown, that has a christmas special, you bet you're watching it.
Christmas day, you either spend the morning with his mom and sister or the Curtis gang. There is no in between. He's either spending it with his sister and mom who put up with him or he's getting shit faced at the Curtis House while enjoying the day.
"I wish you'd suck me like that candy cane" "Maybe I will, but wrap it in a bow first."
When (if) you or the curtis brothers make eggnog, he spikes it. No reason at all other than Christmas cheer.
After the events of the book, if you two go see Johnny and Dally, he's quiet. He talks to Johnny, telling him about how his mother and father got arrested. When he talks to Dally, he pours a beer for him and talks to him about everything from how Ponyboy is doing to joking with him (I like to think they were really close when Dally wasn't a hard ass).
When you open gifts from him, there's always one joke gift. It could be a card with monopoly money to a box with an I.O.U for a gift (He gives you the gift afterwords.)
If it snows, he's going to throw some at you. Throw one back. Build a Snow man that looks like Two-bit and he'll build one that looks like you.
If there was a scent to describe this, it'd be aged whiskey and mint.
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Dallas "Dally" Winston:
For starters, don't expect your gift to be bought. It's stolen, it's all stolen.
When it comes to Christmas, he's the Grinch. If someone slips on ice, especially a Soc, he's smiling like a mother fucker like he's the one putting ice around.
Winter time, especially Christmas time, you bet your ass you're spending it with either Johnny and Ponyboy or the whole gang as they are his family (as much family as a guy like him has).
If you get him a sweater, he'll wear it but only in the comfort of his room at Bucks. He loves you, but no, he wouldn't be caught dead wearing it in public as he doesn't want people to think he's getting soft (he has).
Christmas eve, you're in his arms while humming christmas tunes. He'll tell you to be quiet, but he doesn't mean it... It's nice, it's domestic...
If you're baking a cake or something of the sort, he's either smacking your ass or hugging you from behind. There is no in between as this man either does it all or does nothing too much.
Three words, Hot Coco Kisses. Kiss him after you take a sip, he'll deepen the kiss for the full flavor. He'll do this for just about holiday sweet you eat because why not? I personally think he likes winter treats
If there was a scent to describe his holiday, it'd be leather and dark chocolate.
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Steve Randle:
Winter with Steve is like any other day, just a bit colder. Being from a house of abuse (I get you Steve, ur one of my favorites), he never got a chance to see the appeal of the Christmas spirit before he met Sodapop.
Spending time with Steve during the holiday season is mostly at your house or the Curtis house. He's not bringing you home when his dad is in one of his relationships with Whiskey Bubbles. So you better get used to the constant chaos of the Curtis Household or try and get your parents to be real cool with a greaser real quick.
If you two decorate your tree or deck the DX with all these lights and decorations (with permission from his boss), he's going to be staring lovingly at you. His heart swells when you ask him to lift you up so you can hang some garland, trying to bring some life to the work place.
Christmas songs on the radio, you two dance along to them with a smile. When "I Saw Mommy Kissin' Santa Claus" plays, he kisses you and smiles brightly when he hears your muffled giggles.
If you're at the Curtis household, you're going to be sitting on the couch with him all cuddled up. Watching christmas specials much like what Two-bit does. Sharing a slice of chocolate cake or a beer if sweets aren't your fancy.
If you get him a gift for Christmas, his heart is going to melt. As I stated before, he never got that christmas or gifts of the sort. So when he does get those gift, he feels so happy. Anything you give him will be cherished and held close to his heart. It doesn't have to be fancy, it's the thought that counts.
After the events of the book, I think he'd go out to the Grave yard with the gang. He wouldn't say much until it was just you, him, and the graves of your fallen friends. He'd talk to them, telling them how he wished they found their peace because nobody should go through a mortal hell and then a spiritual hell after.
The scent of this would be hard to describe, but I would say it smells like oil or grease with chocolate cake.
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Sodapop Patrick Curtis:
Sodapop loves Christmas, it's no secret. The gifts aren't needed, he'll be so happy if he's surrounded with the people he loves. The gifts are a plus though.
Mistletoe! Much like Darry, Sodapop loves kisses under the mistletoe. Quick and loving or slow and passionate, it doesn't matter. Mistletoe just makes it magical, the winter scene outside made it seem like a Hallmark movie (yes, they have been around that long. Since 1951!).
If you plan on baking with him, rethink that idea. Sodapop Patrick Curtis cannot cook or bake for shit. This point has been made time and time again. He can decorate, but he can't cook or bake. Maybe consider getting him a cook book or teaching him for christmas.
At work, much like Steve, he'll help you decorate the DX with permission to make it more welcoming. It's not needed, but it brings a smile to his face as you hang garland and set up a little faux tree on the counter with little soda cans and candy bars. It's funny, more tensil ends up on you and the floor than the tree.
Post Book, Soda would still be smiling. Picking up the pieces of what happened in that short span of time made the winter months a bit hard. Visiting Dally and Johnny, talking to them... Sandy cheating on him and then only telling him that baby isn't his by sending his letter back, unopened. It's rough, but he powers through it with a little help with you. (TL;DR, he's depressed for the first week or so but it's easier as you help)
I see and think about this a lot, but the Curtis Brothers are slow dancers in their own elements. Soda's slow dancing element is when you're doing something alone. Soda will slow dance with you to anything, anywhere, at the most random times. It just tends to get a lot worse when the snow starts falling.
Speaking of snow, he actually doesn't like it. I see this man as a summer creature. He gets tired in the snow, like a lizard. If his feet get cold, it's like ice. That has lead Ponyboy to establishing a rule where he has to wear socks to bed until spring when it starts to warm up. He is not having it.
If there was a scent for this, it'd smell like that fresh laundry smell and apple cinamon candles that have just been blown out.
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Johnny "Johnny Cakes" Cade:
Johnny Cade... My beloved, this man has only ever had a christmas with the Curtis gang. Not very many gifts but that's fine, a day where he's not near his parents and getting abused is a win in his book.
When winter does finally roll around, he tends to spend it at the Curtis Household or at yours as it gets too cold to sleep in the lot unless he lights a little camp fire. When he stays at your house, he tends to leech onto you and steal your warmth like a cat. It's adorable.
When it snows, Johnny likes to bundle up and go out with you. You make snow angels, build snowmen, throw snowballs at each other, and over all have fun in the snow. It's not often he can let loose and have fun without having to fear Socs, so when he does relax... It's a far cry from what he's usually like.
When you two start setting up the trees and decking the halls with boughs of holly (fa-la-la-la), he's smiling with you. The radio is on or the tv is on playing some kind of christmas program that he's not paying attention to. When the Mistletoe goes up, he smiled and shyly kisses you before letting you continue. If you want him to put the star on the tree, his smile will widen. He'll either use a step stool or sit on your shoulders to do so.
Johnny likes when you read to him while cuddling next to the tree or in bed. Read him a random book while the snow falls outside, he'll fall asleep while cuddling or look up at you with a big smile while you turn the pages.
On christmas eve a few years back, when everyone is opening their gifts, there's one at the back of the tree. The present is for Johnny. Everyone smiles as they pass it over to him, watching as he unwrapped the little box. Inside the box was his iconic jean jacket. Every christmas season, he smiles as he puts it on. In his head, it's a reminder that people love him and it spurs him on to keep going.
If you cook for your family or the Curtis Household, he'll help. He's not Darry level chef, but he can mince an onion really even. It'd be a bit out of the ordinary if he didn't spend so much time over at your house where he'd do his homework while you made dinner.
A scent that I'd feel would describe this best is fire (not because of the church) and chocolate oranges.
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Ponyboy Michael Curtis:
Sunsets in winter! When the turkey is destroyed and the carb coma has faded away, Ponyboy is ready for Christmas. He'll take you out to the lot on a day where he knows Johnny won't be there and watches the sunset with you. The first sunset of winter is always his favorite one to watch.
If you try really hard, you can maybe get him to sing along to some christmas songs. He can sing, don't get him wrong, but it's embarrassing and he knows that Steve will make fun of him. He enjoys singing as he used to sing all the time with his mom and dad before the accident, but he just doesn't sing a lot because of the gang and because he doesn't have the time.
After dark, when Sodapop and Darry are asleep, he'll sneak out and meet you at the lot. You'll walk around at night, talking about the winter months.
Post book, I think Ponyboy will use these night walks to go to the grave yard to sit with Dally and Johnny (Someone talked about how the gang pooled their money to buy a bench between the two graves for Ponyboy, I agree with that). He'll sit with you after you light candles and read from "Gone with the Wind" to Johnny.
Decorating the tree with him and his brothers is fun. Again, tinsil is all over the place rather than on the tree. You and Ponyboy get your hands tangled up in the lights and garland, lauging as Darry and Sodapop untangle you both. The brothers would talk about the orniments and were they're from. Come time for the star, Darry lifts Ponyboy up on his back to put the star on.
When Darry starts his christmas baking, he insists on you and him helping. It's like a bonding moment between the oldest and youngest with you there as a bridge between them (Soda is at work or spending time w/ Steve).
Say it with me now.. MISTLETOE! Ponyboy is the opposite of Darry. Usually his kisses are soft, but under the mistletoe? He's passionate. He's always got a little sprig of mistletoe in his pocket to use when he goes over to your house where you two can close the door.
A scent to describe winter with him... It'd have to be a blend of cigarettes and milk chocolate.
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Tag list: @witchyleehibernates
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ssahotchnerr · 1 year ago
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hi babe! was wondering if you could write something abt hotch + reader having their daughter’s first birthday and all of the team is there and it’s so cute and we get big brother jack.
maybe it including light bickering between them but it’s so clear they love each other so much still and it really is just pointless bickering. something fluffy for sure.
up to you! i trust your wonderful writing , thank u bunches !
- 🕷️ [is this anon emoji taken yet? oops if it is!]
take the bench
AHH that's so adorable 🥹 cw; fem!reader, jack calls reader mom, domestic banter <3 and aaron being very dad <3
"are you kidding, look how cute!" you exclaimed, holding up the little outfit for all to see. your daughter's tiny hands immediately made a grab at it. "this is perfect for spring."
"after two boys, i can't express enough how fun it is shopping for a girl." jj gushed, resting her chin comfortably on her hand. "new section of the store unlocked."
all had gathered for baby girl's very first birthday, and it's been quite the eventful afternoon. lively conversations, a plentiful spread of food, cake on the horizon.
currently your daughter was sat comfortably on your lap, while you orchestrated the whole present-opening extravaganza.
at her young age, she could pull the tissue paper out of the gift bags as instructed, you and jack helped with the actual paper ripping as needed. whether it was you tearing off a starter piece, or jack proudly fulfilling his big brother duties - simply unwrapping it entirely himself and excitably showing his sister what she had received.
and meanwhile, aaron had the most dad job: trash bag duty. it was right up his alley naturally, being sure to punctually collect the scraps of paper before they touched the ground; preventing a mess at all costs.
which ultimately, led up to a new game.
"jack," aaron grabbed his son's focus, holding the bag open and jack caught on instantly. he grinned, balling up and throwing the tissue paper in hand in aaron's direction.
it started off gentle; quiet cheers when jack made the shot, not to mention the growing smiles on both ends. but then it soon turned into them firing off at each other, a bit too aggressive in the constraints of the living room. jack's laughter heightened with each throw, and henry even began to join in from time to time.
while still enamored by the gifts, all thanks to her brother and father's volume, baby girl's attention was quickly drawn to them. she let out a high pitched squeal every time wrapping paper flew over her head and through the air, attempting to wiggle her way off your lap.
as much as you loved aaron and jack carelessly enjoying themselves, and the addictive giggles emitting from your daughter, you also didn't want to take the focus away from everyone's generous gifts. they had spent time, and money, and deserved the proper recognition in return.
"aaron." you warned lightly, raising an eyebrow when his gaze shot to yours - a silent, but loving nonetheless, quit it.
"alright bud," aaron caught the last makeshift ball from jack with his hand, shoving it into the trash. "take the bench. the ref is giving me that look."
"but dad-"
"you heard me. and your mother."
jack let out a small whine, but promptly complied. he returned to the stack of his sister's presents, shifting through and looking for the next one to give her.
"for someone on clean up duty, you sure are making quite the mess." you teased once you caught aaron's eyes again, jack placing the next gift in front of you, "a larger one, if i may add."
"mess isn't in my vocabulary." aaron quipped right back, a delightfully smug look on his face. "you shouldn't be the one talking."
you cocked your head to the side, comically, "oh?"
"who's side of the closet is currently exploding?"
"who's sock drawer has seen better days?"
"the parents are fightingggg." derek stretched out his voice, murmuring humorously under his breath and nudging penelope with an elbow. while the soft tone, his statement was for all to hear.
now, it was your turn to (lightly, as to not jostle baby girl) chuck a ball of wrapping paper at him. derek ducked, barely, laughing loudly as he straightened his posture back upright.
"good try, but not good enough mamas. you gotta work on your aim."
"see, i'm not making a mess." aaron teased as he came near to grab it off the carpet, taking a detour as well to give your lips a quick peck. "you have that title perfectly under control, darling."
you playfully rolled your eyes, a smile dancing its way onto your lips. aaron couldn't resist the sight, kissing you once more. "oh bite me, hotchner."
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toovaeloe · 1 year ago
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bus stop 𝝑𝝔 “If I was your boyfriend, you sure as hell wouldn’t be waiting at a bus stop.”
suguru geto x genderneutral reader
no curse au
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You’ve used the “I have a boyfriend” excuse and you may have just manifested one. Or a gorgeous man, at the very least
☁️🚏☁️
This was the worst, you think. Had to be punishment for something you did in a past life.
For starters, you were late for work. Was it your fault for staying up so late, giggling and doom-scrolling through mounds of mind numbing media? Yeah, maybe…
Let’s blame it on the weather. Your alarm didn’t wake you up after you silenced it. The neighbor’s dog wouldn’t stop barking through the night. But it’s not like you could tell your boss any off that.
So that’s why you raced out the door, haphazardly juggling your belongings in your arms. Wallet. Keys. Phone. Something else you couldn’t quite remember at the moment. Did you have everything? Probably; no time to check now. Only to find when you stomped on the brake and turned the key in the ignition…your car wouldn’t start.
Sputter…sputter…and then nothing.
Great.
There’s your late-to-work-excuse.
Maybe you shouldn’t have ignored the “maintenance needed” symbols that have been lighting up your dash like they want their own holiday. To be fair, time and money just weren’t things that came in abundance.
In any case, as you were sitting in that local garage enduring the mechanic babbling on about vehicle expertise junk you just couldn’t begin to understand, zoning out and nodding every few minutes with a halfhearted “hmm,” so it at least looked like you were absorbing information…you made note to at least revisit the idea of changing your smoke alarm’s batteries before it decided to turn on you, too.
But that was last week.
7-9 business days.
That’s how long until your car would be up and running again. Apparently, according to the mechanic, you were lucky it was even that. Apparently. Which meant you needed some other means of transportation to and from work and such.
Lucky you had the local bus service, right?
WRONG.
They were always late, but you still felt the need to get to the stops on time, lest you have a repeat of 5 days ago. (You showed up only 2 minutes late and were left behind at the store. Had to wait for an hour for your friend to get off her shift and come pick you up.) You highly doubted it, but what with the way the world was shitting on you right now, it wasn’t out of the question. And the city’s money obviously wasn’t going towards public transportation— they could qualify as garbage trucks if they really needed them with how trashed they were. Mystery sticky patches on the seat, gum underneath. The inconsolable children whining their heads off. That was kind of cute at first, but now it made you want to throw yourself out the window. The whole thing was just the experience that you could expect from a free public transportation system.
And why was it so rainy this month??? Ugh.
But what could you do but make do with what you had? Complaining definitely wasn’t making your shoes any less waterlogged. Be grateful, or some shit like that.
That evening, however, as you were waiting twenty minutes past the time the bus was supposed to arrive at the stop after an exhausting work day…you were just so fed up with everything. With the puddle water soaking through your shoes, with the way you had to stand because the benches were damp…with this rando-guy who had walked up next to you that you were half sure kept looking at you. To say the least, it only served to annoy you in your already sour mood.
You were willing to just ignore it. Until he stepped closer.
“Hey I’m uh…I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you around.”
Oooohh boy.
“Yeah, yeah, it is you. I’ been taking the bus sometimes. Usually I’m riding my motorcycle but uh, not today.”
Did you ask?
“Thought I’d drop by.”
The public bus stop. (???)
“What’s yer name, toots?”
Yeah no. Go back to the 1950’s and maybe that’d work there. You’d rather lick the mystery sticky shit off the bus seat. You could pick up a date 10x better without opposable thumbs.
All of the above is what you would’ve liked to say. Alas, you were tired. You didn’t want trouble that would take more energy than it was worth. So before he could go any further, you just coined the foolproof line.
“I have a boyfriend.”
Lie. You didn’t, but it was the first thing that came to mind. And if that didn’t make him lose interest, then he must really be a pathetic asswipe.
Sadly, he was. In terms of getting the hint to shut up, the guy looked barely deterred; offended even, as he prattled on.
“Well why were you acting so into me then, huh?” You definitely didn’t. You don’t even know this dude.
“I wasn’t even going for you.” He definitely was.
“You’re—“ X, Y, and Z. Just because his game is trifling?? You felt a headache coming on. And maybe a bout of anxiety. People are crazy, and the last thing you wanted was for this needless situation to escalate into something dangerous.
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The entire mess was occurring just as Suguru was making the commute to work on the same street. But he found himself slowing nearly to a stop when he caught sight of you.
How could a person look so exhausted; hair extra frizzy, floccose from the humid rain, clothes soaked, droplets of the downpour dribbling onto your cheeks and blinked away from your lashes…and still so breathtaking? Or perhaps that was part of your beauty in this moment. You looked every bit done with the day, but who knew when- if— he’d ever see you again? He’d be stupid, a fool to not at least try to strike up a conversation with you. He’d be…
…Probably like that idiot.
A sulky moue twisted at his expression as he witnessed the disgraceful way this loser was fumbling. Oh dear. His approach lacked so much grace, so much respect…it was really just distasteful. You didn’t deserve that. And frankly, he didn’t think he deserved to watch you be treated like that when he knew he could do so much better.
“Sorry to keep you waiting!”
A merry sounding tone directed your way had your head sharply whipping to the source. A tall dark haired man you’ve never seen before; layered in a gray colored quarter zip and dark slacks, you think. His approach was casual and relaxed, a subtly jovial yet inherently guileful grin tugging at his lips. He even waved to you like an old friend. His entire facade was so convincing you considered for a moment if you had known him from somewhere and simply forgotten.
No, you really wouldn’t have forgotten a face like that. Eyes like those. A presence so contrasting of itself and yet so cohesive in its own way, if you had to try and describe it. Just a damn beautiful man. With eyebrows that were beginning to crease on his forehead.
Ooh, you were staring.
More than that, he was giving you a pointed look that you didn’t notice while drooling over the poor guy. Unfortunately for you, slo-mo’s only happened in movies, and in reality you just looked like an ogling dork. But you didn’t have time to dwell on your embarrassment when he was quite obviously urging you to play along with this illusion he was creating.
And so you did.
“Oh- hi! No worries,” You insisted in an awkward attempt to adapt to this new charade.
“‘Hasn’t been that long,” though your reaction to his presence wasn’t as well-articulated, it was convincing enough.
The other dude looked to be at least somewhat suspicious, and might’ve spoken on it if wasn’t for Geto’s scrutinizing gaze and a simple raise of his brow.
“Can I help you?” And just for good measure, he’d wrap his arm around you, sliding his hand into your coat pocket as if he’s done it a million times before to pull you closer against him. Whatever glare this ravenette man was glowering down the length of his nose at this guy with must’ve been scarring, because he murmured some half-assed excuse before scampering away.
You idly wondered how’d he get wherever he was going without the bus.
Or maybe you’d have more time to think about it if your brain wasn’t short-circuiting, acutely aware of the unworldly attractive man’s hand resting just over your hip.
“Sorry,” Geto spoke after a few beats, languidly retracting his arm from your coat and back to his side. “You looked like you were about to burst a blood vessel entertaining him. I hope I didn’t overstep. Y’know, with your boyfriend and all.” He had to have overheard you earlier.
But the way he spoke made it sound as if he doubted that fact, glancing to either side of you as if to say That is nowhere in sight..? without being so overtly rude. Or maybe he just wasn’t all that apologetic.
“That-! Yeah,” You pepped with a nervous pitter of laughter, “yeah…it’s not a problem, thanks.”
Your hand gravitated to the zipper of your jacket, absentmindedly fiddling with it as you frantically thought up an at least half decent explanation. One that wouldn’t make you sound more clumsy than you already felt.
“He’s not real, so he won’t mind.”
Yeah, real smooth. What was that you said; about being able to pick up a date without opposable thumbs? You’d need at least ten pairs of hands.
But Suguru didn’t seem to mind. In fact, his grin widened into something toothy and almost boyish, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that added an innocent charm to his otherwise elegant features. He found it endearing.
“Perfect,” His response was coupled with a discreet chuckle.
“Don’t feel obligated,” He’d continue as he reached to the side of you. So close to brushing your shoulder, it made your breath hitch. Though truly he was reaching around you, sharply tearing a flier from the side of the bus stop and pulling a pen from one of his pockets. If you were paying more attention you’d have noticed the glint of impish amusement in his umber eyes that led one to believe that action was more deliberate than he let on.
Still, he’d make quick work of jotting down a phone number and the address of a nice restaurant he’s been meaning to try with Satoru— but plans change. “but I’d like to take you out. I was on my way over to ask you, anyhow.”
He offered the page to you; his handwriting as sumptuous and calligraphic as you would’ve expected his penmanship to be; in the margins of some tacky ad for a lawn mowing service. As you went to accept the paper, however, he rescinded it from reach. All whilst drawing closer so that his piercing dark amber eyes held your gaze with an unwavering intensity. The kind that made your stomach do flips and stole your breath away.
“And for the record,” He spoke quietly but poised; a conspiratorial whisper for only you, him, and the rain to witness. “if I was your boyfriend, you sure as hell wouldn’t be waiting at a bus stop.”
There wasn’t time to react; he was already slipping the page into your pocket, withdrawing to a comfortable proximity all the while waving you off and wishing you well with a kind smile, disappearing someplace else.
You didn’t even catch his name.
At least your bus was here.
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a/n: I had something to say but I totally forgot 😭
OH but I did add an upcoming section to my masterlist so you can see my works in the works if you’d like! 🤍 always open to ideas too
Dear god I crave geto with that loose low bun that’s barely a bun kind of hairstyle. Ykwim???
ty for reading 🤍🤍🤍 love you have a lovely lovely day or night
edit: OMG THATS WHAT I WAS GONNA SAY. I kept accidentally writing bust stop instead of bus stop as I wrote this. So, sorry if you bust
☁️☁️☁️
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seat-safety-switch · 5 months ago
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The greatest challenge of our time is deciding what to have for dinner. After a long day of dealing with absolute bullshit from every asshole you run into, the last thing you want to do with the remainder of your dwindling resources and time is also come up with an entire meal. Members of the Organization Mafia (motto: "buy a Daytimer®") will tell you that it's easy if you just think ahead and make a meal plan every weekend. This, unfortunately, ignores the fact of the matter: most of us are too stressed trying to recover from our jobs to play sous chef on a Sunday, chopping up veggies in preparation to construct a quick Friday supper that may never come.
That's why there's meal plan companies. For just a frankly eye-watering monthly fee, some folks working in a warehouse that you'll never meet will chop up your veggies for you. Then all you have to do is open and throw away a bunch of boxes, shove all that shit together, and enjoy your dinner. No thinking, no prep, no organization required: just money. Unfortunately, I don't have money, which made me think about how to make a meal plan service for poor dirtbags like myself. And I think you'll agree that I've hit upon something very special.
Introducing Second Chops®: our meal plan service that consists entirely of whatever food we stole out of a dumpster. Why? For starters, it's carbon-neutral. The rich dickheads already polluted the atmosphere for it, and we'll spend as little expensive gasoline as possible getting it to you. It's very local: we take it out of the nearest grocery store's dumpster and get it to your home before it thaws out too much. And it's organic, depending on which grocery store doesn't lock their trash disposal very well around you. Then we just charge you a low monthly fee, which basically covers our employees' salaries, benefits, and bail.
Sure, you don't get to pick what meal you're eating, or even if the ingredients we loot construct a balanced diet. That's the whole point. You wanted to be freed from the tyranny of choice, and through Second Chops®, you can simply let fate decide. Maybe this week there's a bunch of nice Alaskan halibut on offer. Or your local grocery manager bought too much Taiwanese cabbage. What's important is that it's cheap, and as long as you don't ask too many questions, it will remain cheap.
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mel-child-of · 3 months ago
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{open starter} death of a child, birth of thy women of hatered
*Mel wasn’t doing so good, I mean she was doing better but still, she had a lot of hate. Who could blame her even with her exploding at people deep down it made sense because she never was able to show her full range of emotions unless it was needed for the camera. But that was in the past, and currently Mel had a portal open to hell more specifically Lucifer's house and was throwing trash and shit in there just making it more of a mess. You also saw that she had some alcohol nearby clearly she was drinking.*
*After a few minutes Mel closed the portal and started to go for a walk, you can see some hatred still in her eyes as she walked. She wasn’t going to forgive so easily*
What do you do?
(tags @acezinspace @emdabitchass @urbestestwindgod @cloak-of-ares @least-favorite-hades-kid @penelope-is-waiting @odysseus-of-ithaca-is-lost @aura-of-the-winds @lucifermorningstar-official @the-speedster-god @lethia-not-athena @the-god-ofwar @seleneandheliosog @mother-of-trust @princess-of-jade @notesbyaphrodite @justice-bringer @god-of-smithing-and-cozy-vibes @amber-the-unknown @apollo-ask-blog @least-favorite-ares-kid @that-roman-arsonist @thomasofithaka @the-great-emperor-commodus @defect-child-of-eros @/anyone )
(my master list)
(tell me if you want to be added or remove)
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katerinaaqu · 1 month ago
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I just realised that every person who has bad takes about Odysseus or the Odyssey as a whole always has odyssey in their name or if you visit their blog they will claim to be a greek mythology enthusiast. So it makes me wonder do they actually love love the Odyssey, like they said they read it only to brings out poor analysis about the epic, just baffling at this point. Rather a full ignorant person by now rather than whatever those people are.
I think there is some sort of wave going on these days which saddens me honestly and that is the wave as you said of people who want to show how enthusiastic they are of the myths and how much they appreciate the originals and are not afraid to speak of the flaws
But here's the problem
As you said I have seen myself arguably the worst takes on characters such as Odysseus from accounts that do that. More often whatnot they bring the retellings to the picture as if to make their point stronger but as you said I find it from sad till oftentimes ridiculous that people feel almost the obligation to say "that person is the absolute monster! He is a killer a murderer and a rapist but that's okay things were different back then and I wish people stopped babying them!" Yada yada
But here is my problem:
For starters i see picturing of characters that turn almost to evil caricatures of the ancient tales like people say "Odysseus killed Astyanax and felt nothing" like where does that come from? Iliou Persis which is the main source of it rescued only in a fragment says "Odysseus kills Astyanax by throwing him off the wall" where on earth does it even state his psychological world? How do people know he felt nothing? If anything the Odyssey shows the exact opposite. That Odysseus has a deep rooted guilt inside him enough to blow his carefully constructed cover while crying his eyes out. In Euripides plays we see him more "evil" but ironically through OTHER PEOPLE'S views, Odysseus's own thoughts are not expressed (I love it how the same people who claim these are also saying that Odysseus is a liar that lies with every breath but apparently he DOESN'T lie when he is "evil" nope. Then he is honest he absolutely is NOT wearing a mask...he is wearing a mask only when he is kind apparently...) and when Odysseus is the center then he is much more sympathetic. Not to mention the context of the plays is that oftentimes Euripides writes them for criticism to Athens hence the characters being cruel to cause controversy etc
Or of course the classic "cheat" or "rape" thing because again apparently in 2020s there are a few things worse than murder and rape accusation is one of them because the evilest of men in the public conscious MUST be rapists or rapists wannabes. And we usually go to war prizes because apparently someone having a war prize means they MUST be using them for sex (even if Odysseus had 50 of them and all of them worked as servants in the palace and there is zero evidence that he used any of them for sex but sure Agamemnon mentioning a hypothetical scenario of him taking "Odysseus's war prize" means Odysseus DEFINITELY used his for sex and even if he did sure he MUST have been terrible to them I mean his name is not Patroclus to be gentle puppy...) or many others
That of course is an issue because people think for some reason ancient Greeks were all about murder and rape for some reason as if their society didn't have people with different opinions. They go about "Odysseus DEFINITELY did all that because that was normal for that time bla bla bla" I mean excuse me but tax invasion is pretty common these days as well. Does that mean that every single person around is invading taxes? Sunbathing in the summer is common. Do people who avoid the sun not exist? I don't get it really
I don't understand why people who want (and I believe they do) to love the original myths feel some kind of obligation to trash talk the characters and then end it with "it's okay because different times" to show that they understand the past...? Even if they tend to make generalizations and daresay use the 21st century view on the past to do so more often whatnot? Honest I am not sure why. It is as if for someone to study mythology is to admit that all of them are the absolute worst and that you wouldn't even wanna spit on them in real life rather than imagine the complicated background of theirs
(And of course usually for men. Lord forbid someone badmouth Clytemnestra or Medea or Circe. These are victims of the patriarchy that did nothing wrong or even if they did they have the right to because the evil men we saw above. Circe was not a witch goddess that took advantage of Odysseus and his men. Odysseus was willing. Clytemnestra killing Cassandra was wrong but hell yeah girl kill that mother motherfucker Agamemnon even if Clytemnestra tormented her daughters and sons as if we cannot admit her wrong doings and speaking with compassion for her condition at the same time etc)
So yeah I think sometimes at best we see people trying WAY TOO HARD to show that they know the myths and not the retellings and they try WAY TOO HARD to show the difference between retelings and originals even if sometimes their immediate reaction to cancel the lore of retellings brings mistakes (one of mu favorites being the great despise of the movie Troy to the point of people being more angry about the movie "inventing Achilles and Patroclus being cousins" even if them being cousins is a Canon thing in mythology). In the worst occasions yes sometimes I wonder if you have THAT negative view of the protagonist do you REALLY like the Odyssey or any myth for that matter?
If you deny the humanity of the characters in the name of the idea of "different times" and spread this across the internet is that really appreciation? Or is it someone trying way too hard to show that? Do you REALLY care about the past where your views inheritently paint a living and breathing culture with the worst colors as if the worst thing that could happen to any individual would be to live in ancient Greece because it was a place where murder and rape were "as common as someone drinking their morning coffee"?
Dunno. Not sure if I can solve that riddle.
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rabidwormswrites · 3 months ago
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Part 2 of the addict Reid fix-it fic
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Characters: Spencer Reid and reader
Word count: 1,3k
Warnings: reader is a former addict, drug use, needles, meltdown, addiction
Tags: reader works at the BAU, implied Lie To Me crossover (I love it don’t come for me), fix-it fic, hurt/comfort, autistic he/they Spencer, she/it Garcia, harm reduction, angst
Notes: so I was in a state at midnight last night- @tabalugax thank you for the motivation 🫶
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Entering the apartment, you were greeted by pure darkness, a stark contrast to the hallway you’d just been in. When your eyes adjusted, you could tell that Spencer had been in a horrible place during the weekend. Chess pieces, cutlery, cups and bowls were strewn across every flat surface, an armchair was turned over, and there was a smell of sweat, stale air, and old food. Reid had curled up in the only relatively empty armchair, in front of which stood a small table with medical flasks and needles on top. It’s back was turned to the rest of the room, and instead pointed toward the curtain-draped window.
You stood still, simply looking around the room. You knew that a comment on the state of things could get you kicked out before you finished it, so you simply exhaled quietly and asked: “should I turn on the big light?”
“No.”
His voice was higher pitched than before and a sniffle escaped his throat, though he tried to cover it up with a cough.
“The small light then?”
You were met with movement from Spencer’s chair, which you took as a nod. You went over to a floor lamp in the nearest corner and clicked it, letting the faintly yellow light shine upon the whole mess; both the one on the floor, and the one sitting in the armchair, trying to stop crying.
You started picking up the chess pieces on the floor, doing it as quietly as possible so you wouldn’t annoy Spencer further. You tried to think of ways to distract them from the situation, to shift their attention to something nicer.
“Did Garcia tell you about the guinea pigs it bought?” You asked softly as you picked up the chess pieces and set them on the board in their starter position, only to quickly move them into a Ruy Lopez opening. You hoped Spencer might enjoy it after you left.
“Yeah,” came a quiet reply from the armchair.
“Did she tell you what she named them?”
“No we uh… we spoke before she’d named them.” Their voice was still shaky, but you could tell that the distraction was helping. Thankfully, Garcia had spammed you with pictures of the little creatures in various situations while you were on your last case, so you were prepared if Reid wanted to see them.
“Rose and Jackie. You know, doctor who companions,” you smiled. You picked up the flipped-over armchair and placed it by the chessboard, then grabbed all the used tableware and went to the kitchen with it.
“He never had a companion called Jackie,” Spencer said as you returned with a trash bag and a roll of paper, picking up the used needles and wrapping them before throwing them out.
“I think it’s supposed to be Jack Harkness but genderbent.” You shrugged and picked up garbage on the floor.
“Ah. Right,” they muttered, resting their head on their knees as they watched you, “you can go, you know. You probably have plans.”
You stopped in your tracks and looked over at them, then placed the bag down. Seeing Reid not doing very well, you’d explicitly freed up the whole day to be here.
“I don’t have any plans. I know you probably want me to go but you can’t keep this up for much longer without Hotch having to do something about it.” You went over and sat down in the empty armchair. His back was still turned against you, but you could tell that he started shaking.
“He… Hotch knows?” They looked over at you, panicked, “do they all know?” They let out a pained sob before fully disappearing into the armchair. You swiftly got up and went to sit in front of his curled up body.
“Spencer, I’m sorry but… yeah. Penny might not but the others do,” you whispered. You gently tried to take his hand but he pulled away, pushing himself further into the chair.
“Fuck!” He cried, pulling at his face and hair, “no! Nobody was supposed to know, no one was supposed to know, no one was supposed to know…” his voice slowly trailed off as he started rocking back and forth, tears running down his face.
“Hey hey hey, stay with me, Spencer, stay here, stay here, okay?” You placed your hands on his shins, then moved up to his knees when he didn’t react, “Spencer, look at my hands, yeah? Look at my hands please.”
Spencer, though still hyperventilating and rocking, looked at your hands.
“Good, you’re doing well. Can you tell me which fingers I’m moving?” You asked, wiggling your pinkies and your left index.
“Pinkies and uhm, and your left pointer.”
“Good, good. And how about now?” You asked and wiggled your right thumb, right ring finger and left pointer. You slowly eyed the table with the remaining flasks and clean needles, trying to estimate if he’d need any more.
“Thumb and ring and left pointer,” they muttered. Their breathing began to slow down and the rocking became less frantic.
“Great, you’re doing well. Have you reused any needles?”
“No.”
“Good. How much to do you take and how often?”
Spencer shook his head before burying his face in his knees.
“Hey, stay with me, you’re doing well. How much do you take and how often?” You asked, tilting your head and staring intently at them.
“I… around 4 milligrams every… I don’t know, I think four hours? I don’t know, I don’t know…” Their voice reverted back into the sobbing.
You sighed and nodded, slowly standing up, still with your hands on his knees.
“Can you get up so I can give you a hug? I know the compression can be nice when… I know it can be nice.”
You smiled softly at the curled up ball beneath you who slowly unfolded and stood on his knees on the armchair in front of you. They only reached to your chest when they stood like this. You softly brushed away the sweat-drenched hair on his forehead before wrapping your arms around his body. You could feel him give up as his body’s cramped state softened and he sobbed into your chest, shoulders shaking. You placed your cheek on the top of his head while you ran your hands up and down his back.
“I’ve been sober for 3 years,” you said quietly. You weren’t sure if they could hear you, but you felt like you had to tell them regardless.
“My last job was… a bit too chill about what their workers did off the clock. It got bad, worse than this, before anybody noticed. Or at least before they took action. My coworker Eli found me kind of how I found you.” You thought back to it. While Spencer hadn’t been ‘nice’ about you showing up, he hadn’t been totally horrible either. Not the way you had been at least.
“I didn’t treat him very well. He got quite a colourful greeting.” Their breathing was slowing and you thought he might be listening. You knew how much hearing other people tell their stories had helped you, and you thought it might help Reid the same.
“He took a whole week off to cold-turkey me. He knew I’d lose the job if he took me to rehab, so he lied and said we’d gotten each other sick. We hadn’t spoken all that much before then.”
You lifted your head and looked down at Spencer. He wasn’t crying anymore. You smiled, slightly pulling away.
“I’ll get you some more clean needles, okay? And some sanitising wipes. You don’t have any debt to anybody shady do you?”
They slowly shook their head.
“Good. I’ll leave you now, yeah? I’ll take the trash and return in a few hours with the things and a meal. You can shower in the meantime, or read a bit, it doesn’t matter much. How’s that sound?”
He nodded and rubbed the nearly dry tears off his face.
“I’m so sorry,” they whispered, their lip quivering as if they were about to start crying again.
“Hey,” you grabbed his shoulders, “rest. Let me take care of you.” With that, you ushered him to the nearest armchair, then grabbed the garbage bag and left the apartment.
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the-most-humble-blog · 4 months ago
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🚨 If a Non-Male Starts a Debate with "A Real Man Should, or Would Do…"—Step Back, You’re About to Get Nonsense on Your Shoes. 🚨
A PSA for Every Man Who’s Tired of Being Lectured About Manhood by People Who Have Never Had to Be One
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📌 THE SETUP: HERE COMES THE BULLSH*T
There you are. Minding your own business. Maybe you’re in the middle of a conversation. Maybe you made a comment online. Maybe you simply existed too confidently in public.
🚨 Then it happens. 🚨
A non-male (or, occasionally, a deeply misguided man who has fully assimilated into the Cult of Delusion) utters the cursed phrase:
📢 “A real man should…” 📢 “A real man would…”
🚨 WARNING: This is not a debate. This is a trap. 🚨
Your instinct might be to engage, correct, or challenge the incoming nonsense.
Don’t.
Why? Because you are not about to hear wisdom. You are about to hear some of the most ass-backward, reality-detached drivel to ever escape human lips.
It’s going to be: ❌ Unhinged ❌ Incoherent ❌ Surgically engineered to benefit only the speaker
And worst of all? It will not be based on what men actually think, feel, or experience.
📌 THE “REAL MAN” SPEECH: A DEEP DIVE INTO WEAPONIZED NONSENSE
Here’s what you can expect from the “A Real Man Should…” starter pack:
1️⃣ “A Real Man Should Always Pay for Everything”
Ah yes. The classic gold-digger anthem.
According to this logic, a man’s worth is measured exclusively by his willingness to hemorrhage cash for someone who: 📌 Talks about independence but won’t touch a check 📌 Thinks equality is great—until the bill arrives 📌 Believes her presence alone is a form of currency
🚨 Spoiler Alert: A real man should recognize a walking financial liability when he sees one.
2️⃣ “A Real Man Should Accept That Women Are Superior”
Translation: “I want the privileges of being pedestalized while also being immune to criticism.”
❌ Equality? No thanks. ❌ Fairness? Not interested. ❌ A relationship built on mutual respect? BORING.
The goal here is not to uplift women—it’s to emotionally neuter men so they will never challenge, disagree, or even have personal boundaries.
🚨 A real man doesn’t need to be told he’s lesser to validate someone else’s delusions.
3️⃣ “A Real Man Should Never Cry” (Unless It Benefits Me)
Oh, this one is extra rich.
You’ll hear two versions of this contradictory nonsense:
📢 Version A: "Men should never show emotions, ever. Weakness is disgusting." 📢 Version B: "Men should cry more! Be vulnerable! Why won’t you open up?"
But let’s examine the fine print:
📌 If a man shows too much emotion, he’s unstable. 📌 If a man shows too little emotion, he’s cold and unloving. 📌 If a man shows emotion at the wrong time (i.e., when he’s the one struggling), suddenly it’s “Ugh, I can’t deal with this right now.”
Translation: "I want men to be emotional when it benefits me, and emotionally invincible when I don’t want to deal with their problems."
🚨 A real man processes his emotions in a way that works for HIM, not based on the shifting expectations of people who see him as a tool.
4️⃣ “A Real Man Should Always Protect Women” (Even if She Treats Him Like Trash)
Ah yes, the disposable bodyguard fantasy.
🚨 Reminder: Protection is earned, not owed. 🚨
📌 If you treat men like walking ATMs and security personnel, don’t be surprised when they stop volunteering for the job. 📌 If you refuse to listen to men, respect men, or even acknowledge their struggles, don’t expect them to throw themselves into harm’s way for you. 📌 If you believe all men are “toxic,” then congrats—you are not entitled to one’s protection when sh*t hits the fan.
A real man should protect those who respect him. That’s it.
5️⃣ “A Real Man Would NEVER Date Younger/Thinner/More Feminine Women”
Oh no. A man is making choices for himself. A man is valuing what he actually finds attractive instead of what society tells him to accept. 🚨 Sound the alarm! 🚨
This one is about CONTROL.
If a man’s standards disqualify the person speaking, suddenly his preferences become: 📌 “Patriarchal brainwashing” 📌 “Misogyny” 📌 “Unrealistic”
🚨 A real man isn’t guilt-tripped into dating people he’s not attracted to.
📌 WHY “A REAL MAN SHOULD” IS ALWAYS BULLSH*T
Let’s get to the core truth of it all.
📢 Every single time someone says, “A real man should…” what they actually mean is, “Men should behave in a way that benefits ME.”
❌ It is never about what men actually want. ❌ It is never about what’s logical or fair. ❌ It is always about reprogramming men into something weak, compliant, and useful to others.
That’s why none of these rules apply universally.
📌 If a rich, powerful man breaks these “rules,” suddenly they don’t apply. 📌 If an attractive man breaks them, suddenly nobody cares. 📌 But if an average guy says “No thanks” to these ridiculous standards? OUTRAGE.
🚨 Because the game was never about fairness. It was always about control.
📌 FINAL VERDICT: IF SOMEONE TELLS YOU WHAT “A REAL MAN” SHOULD BE—BLOCK & WALK AWAY
If you’re a man, understand this:
📢 You don’t owe anyone an explanation for who you are. 📢 You don’t have to twist yourself into knots trying to be someone else’s fantasy. 📢 You are not obligated to meet the standards of people who see you as nothing more than a resource.
👉 You define what being a man means to YOU.
If someone starts a conversation with “A real man should…”
💀 Step back. 💀 Let them spill their nonsense somewhere else. 💀 Try not to get it on your shoes.
Because at the end of the day?
🚨 A REAL MAN DOESN’T GIVE A F*CK ABOUT WHAT FRAUDS THINK HE “SHOULD” DO. 🚨
🔥 REBLOG if you’re tired of fake “real man” lectures. 🔥 FOLLOW [The Most Humble Blog] for unfiltered, nuclear-grade truth bombs. 🔥 COMMENT if you’ve ever been hit with one of these “real man” BS arguments.
💀 You either define manhood for yourself, or you let people who don’t even respect men do it for you.
🚀 Choose wisely. 🚀
⚖️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER: This post is written for the purpose of artistic expression, cultural commentary, and psychological exploration of social and gender dynamics. It does not condone or encourage violence, harassment, or discrimination of any kind. Any references to power, strength, restraint, or critique are metaphorical, symbolic, and rooted in historical and cultural analysis. This is not a call to action — it’s a cultural mirror. If you feel offended, ask yourself if it’s from actual harm — or from seeing something you hoped no one would say out loud.
✨ TL;DR: If you're mad, it’s probably not because it’s wrong — it’s because you know it’s true.
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davos-allyrion · 3 months ago
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𓊝 ☠︎ HEAVEN KNOWS, WE BELONG WAY DOWN BELOW ☠︎ 𓊝
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(A starter with @edrickstarkofwinterfell)
After moons spent dreaming of Godsgrace, Davos was finally free. The queen had given birth, the twins were healthy, the crown was grateful, and Davos was, at last, permitted to return home. He packed his bags like a man pardoned in the final breath before the noose snapped tight.
He made his final offering to the ghost that haunted his chambers, reminded himself to write to his new… friends? Was “friend” too eager a word? Too delicate for something so new?
Regardless, he bid farewell to each of them, leaving behind a vial of perfume apiece. He was forced, regrettably, to remove one of Cerelle’s cats from his luggage. On a brighter note, his last batch of cookies for the staff came out perfectly golden.
Goodbye, King’s Landing. Heaven awaits me.
His cheeks ached from smiling. However, like all great joys, this one was destined to be short-lived.
Duskendale had always reeked of fish and deceit. Davos had tolerated the first. The second, however, had just cost him his freedom.
The betrayal had been almost amusing in its inevitability. Cletus, the soldier he had allowed to accompany him, despite his every instinct whispering against it, had cracked like brittle glass under the promise of gold. His dagger had barely left Davos’ throat before the pirates slit Cletus’ from ear to ear, leaving his body slumped in the mud like trash.
If there had been time, Davos might have felt something akin to satisfaction. The fool had thought he could profit off selling his lord. Instead, he’d died choking on his own blood. A cleaner end than Davos would have granted him.
The pirates, superstitious and stupid as they were, had believed him enough to hesitate. “Dagos of Lys,” he’d said smoothly, in a tone just short of indignant. Not too much offense. Just enough to make them doubt. A noble’s son would fight harder, scream louder. A noble himself would threaten them with his station’s wrath. He had done neither.
Still, they had their suspicions.
“A Lyseni,” one had sneered. “Pretty little silk-wearer with hands like a butcher’s.”
“Belongs to some lord,” another had grunted. “A bedmate, most like.”
It had amused them, thinking him some pampered concubine taken on a joyride through the Kingsroad with stolen jewels. A better fate than the truth, he supposed. One knife at his throat was all it would take to throw open the gates of Godsgrace, and that, he could not allow.
Then they had dragged him below deck, through corridors thick with the scent of damp wood and something rotting. The hold was dark, save for the flickering lanterns swaying with the ship’s movement. He had counted his steps, made note of the turns, gauged the sway of the vessel. A large ship, wide in the belly. He hadn’t seen the sails, but from the way the floor pitched, he guessed it was built for long-haul voyages.
The pirates hadn’t even looked at the other prisoner when they threw him in.
“Here’s a friend for you, wolf cub,” one of them jeered, shoving Davos forward before slamming the iron-barred door shut.
He hit the floor hard, rolling onto his side. The ropes burned at his wrists. His head rang from the impact. Slowly, deliberately, he exhaled.
From the shadows, a figure stirred.
Davos did not move. He shifted just enough to press his back against the wall, the damp seeping into his clothes. The ship creaked and groaned around him. A wave rocked the hull, sending dust drifting from the rafters.
The wolf cub watched him with wide eyes, dark hair tangled, pale face dirty with charcoal.
Quite friendly.
The only sound was the slow drip of water in some unseen corner, the breathing of the prisoner across from him. A presence like a storm waiting to break.
Davos flexed his fingers, feeling the rope tighten.
Then, he smiled.
“And what’s your story, then?”
The road was safer, he had told himself. More reliable than the waves.
How wrong he had been.
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sgiandubh · 2 years ago
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Autopsy of a gay lie: the Wikipedia trail
“You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can not fool all of the people all of the time.”
― Abraham Lincoln
For starters, sorry for the length and numerous screencaps. It is an investigation, after all and these are sorely needed.
Never underestimate the conjugated power of Internet, a Sunday afternoon and the lightbulb moment that can happen while baking something, because you know, people have also to reward themselves at some point.
I might have fucked up my foolproof Lemon Squares recipe, but I regret nothing. It took me three hours I could have gratefully used to finish that spirits post, but this is too damn good not to share.
Remember Meow Kabob's cross my heart and hope to die pinky swear she found confirmation of Data Lounge's allegations on Wikipedia, out of all places? How she regularly unburies that infamous screenshot listing S under the Wiki "Gay Actors" category? How she told us, filthy and uneducated shipper mob, over and over again, that story about STARZ people scouring the Internet far and wide and scrubbing any gay reference related to S, as soon or shortly after he was cast as JAMMF?
I can confidently prove now Lincoln's perennial truths I quoted above apply to this situation.
I was just pouring my lemon juice, eggs, flour and sugar mix over the hot and nutty shortbread when I stopped in my tracks: 'wait a second, isn't Wikipedia an open source project? BUT OF COURSE IT IS, SILLY COW - yes, I very often talk to myself like that. RUN. NOW. I HAVE TO KNOW.'
Sure enough, like death and taxes, the full edit list of S's Wikipedia page was there for everyone to see:
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Even better, since Internet is forever, we have full access to all these edits and can take screenshots.
This is how Sam's Wikipedia odissey started, on November 11th 2007, when he was the complete underdog:
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A ' strapping lad with natural dark blonde hair and 6'2'' tall', ideal for the role of Alexander the Great - pious silence and RIP. I grinned, because it sounds well, naïve? It also sounds gay, perhaps? What else does it prove, other than the gay crowd has an acute interest for novelty and a wandering eye?
Nothing. Not even remotely related to S.
Also, note the two classification categories: British TV actor stubs/ British actor stubs. Mark them, they stayed still and alone for a looooong time.
Up until 2009, in fact, when the wikientry was no longer considered a stub and even got several category additions:
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Then again, some movin' on up, on that semi-dormant page, in 2013. Totes normal:
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By early 2014, even more interest in S commands an expanded webpage and a longer, more detailed, category listing:
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Let's quickly peruse 2015...
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2016...
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The incorrect Irish descent category stayed there for about ten days, until removed by another user. This is how it is done and it is then added to the list:
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2017, 2018, 2019, early 2020, no change in the categories, but all hell broke lose content-wise. From Cirdan, the 'estranged brother' acting in a very gay connotated theatre production I have never heard about, in London, September 2016...
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...... to a woman named Tiffany Trach who used to dream the impossible dream, in October 2016 (and she was not the only one, far from it)...
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...to some halfwit being rightfully slapped for adding brainless Flukenzie Floozy content in March 2017:
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By that time, I was getting supremely bored clicking on links and wanted to pack the tent and throw my lemon squares in the trash bin. But, lo and behold, what do I see on January 26th 2020:
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With the tag possible vandalism:
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Whodunnit?
A very brave person, hiding under a string of random numbers...
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... and one single contribution EVER to the Wikipedia juggernaut. This is what I would call a targeted attack:
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It stayed like that, unmolested, for five days only, until the user Spiderpig662 decided enough is enough and did something about it...
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....categories being then restored to the previous wording:
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The last vicious gay reference on Wikipedia dates back to May 28th 2020 (Ha-wa-wee, anyone?), was labeled as 'hate speech' & promptly removed:
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Where wuffter is, in British Cockney slang:
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Same modus operandi, this time an IP address, pinging in (you simply can't make this shit up, can you?)...
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County Durham, FYI.
I then asked myself when exactly did Meow Kabob appear on Tumblr?
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Even more exactly, on...
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That is, to say the least, a troubling coincidence.
I do not imply anything, I have no wish to attack anyone. All I am saying, is that particular argument, which this user is shouting anytime she is prompted to, had a very short online lifespan. How could an American woman, who appeared in this fandom shortly afterwards, have known about changes operated for five days only, by an unknown user, on the open source webpage of a B-listed British actor?
I have only one question, Your Honor:
WHY?
I rest my case.
[Edit]: To make it maybe more clear, I now know where the person adding that category lives, thanks to Wikipedia's own tracking system:
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No surprises here:
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Augusta. Georgia. USA.
Now, yes. Now I rest my case.
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fea-resources · 5 months ago
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Managing Your Drafts/Ask Count: A Roleplayer Guide
"I have so many drafts / asks right now. I'm feeling overwhelmed!"
Does this sound familiar? If it's not you personally, you probably know at least a good dozen roleplayers on your dash who have said some variation of this.
Overload and draft/ask stress is a pretty common problem in the RPC. I've seen some accounts that go well over 1,000 drafts! More than on one occasion. Yikes. That's super stressful!
So how do you manage that? And manage it in a way that keeps your followers / mutuals happy? Here's a few easy tips! From someone who has never let their draft count go over 50.
Set A Draft / Ask Limit For Yourself
The first and easiest step is to impose limits on how many drafts and asks you accumulate in the first place!
If you start feeling overwhelmed with answering things once you hit 30 drafts/asks, don't just keep pressing for more interactions until you start hitting double or even triple digits! Figure out where your comfort zone is and stick to that.
If you go a tiny bit past that (you set your limit to 30 drafts, but you have 31), that's okay! Just be careful about not using leniency as an excuse to move your own goal posts. If your limit is 30, allow yourself to go to 31, but don't start moving to 40 drafts, then 50, then 100. This is how you get yourself dug into a hole you can't get out of!
Set A Time Limit On Everything Before It Gets Deleted / Dropped
Yes, it sucks not having Asks answered and threads dropped, but it happens. Sometimes the muse just isn't musing for something, and that's totally fine!
If its an actual dedicated thread or a very special tailored custom Ask or Starter, I would recommend communicating it with your partners before yeeting it into the void, but if its just a random ask from a meme list, especially if you've already got 20 other things going with the person who sent it, you're probably safe to throw it away without much fuss. Chances are your partners won't even remember half the Asks they sent, especially if they're repeat customers who send you a lot of things.
The fact of the matter is, if something is clearly never going to be answered, there's no problem just dropping it. Otherwise its just going to be another number in an ever-increasing pile of things you're never going to answer stressing you out!
Set general time limits, like if it hasn't been answered in 2 months, it gets thrown away (unless its just one particular super ultra special ask/thread you DEFINITELY want to answer, you just haven't been able to yet ; everything else goes in the trash).
Set A Thread / Ask Limit Per Partner
Maybe you have that one person that has 50 unfinished threads with you, but lo and behold, they want to start another one! While you're still struggling to keep up with the 50 that you have with them.
If you want to give more people an equal chance, a simple solution is to divide up that everyone gets X amount of time and effort from you.
Feel free to set limits with your partners, such as "I will only do 2 threads with each person at a time". If that person wants another thread, they will have to either complete the ones you already have, or drop some.
Likewise, you might have a rule that someone can send you 10 Asks, but you will only answer up to 2 of them that you receive. The rest get deleted.
The same goes in reverse. If you already have whatever number of interactions you want with a particular person, you don't have to send them more interactions yourself until activity has dropped off enough that you want to create extra engagement to fill the void of whatever other interactions you had that used to be there.
If you're really determined to give all your partners an equal chance at interaction, this is a good route to consider going with.
Curate Your Mutuals List / How Many People You Follow And Interact With
Another one of the easy ways to deal with Draft / Ask stress: Don't follow too many people to begin with!
If someone follows you, you don't have to automatically follow them back, especially if they have a muse or universe you're unfamiliar with or not particularly interested in.
Setting yourself up to interact with muses or universes which barely hold your attention or that you struggle to figure out how to interact with is just setting yourself up to have a lot of unanswered stuff that never goes anywhere.
This is as frustrating for you as its going to become for the other person.
Likewise, only follow back and interact with the people you actually have the time and energy for. Mind you, there are ways to still effectively manage your blog if you're low energy, but that should come after you've found a comfortable number of people to keep up with, not after you're already overwhelmed!
Otherwise, you're bound to frustrate yourself with too many people you can't possibly interact with, and frustrate the people who follow you who aren't getting the engagement they're looking for.
Be Upfront About Playing Favorites (If You Do)
Nothing is more frustrating for both people in a writing partnership when two people who clearly aren't each others' mutual favorites try to interact.
What I mean specifically is that you have one person who tries really hard to engage, and another who barely puts in any effort unless its only for specific people.
Truth of the matter is, everyone has favorites. Some play favorites harder than others. Don't lie to people and say you treat everyone in your mutuals list equally if you don't. Lying to people about it is bound to create problems and resentments, and justifiably so! No one likes to be strung along.
What ends up happening is that you have one person putting in all kinds of effort to get nothing in return, and another person who keeps getting flooded with attempts at interaction they don't really want, adding to their pile of Things That Will Never Be Answered, adding to your stress with a high draft count.
The simple solution is be honest so your partners know what to expect. If there's only three people you ever care to answer and everyone else is a Once In A Blue Moon interaction, just tell people! They're bound to be far more forgiving about it if you set their expectations of you realistically. At worst, the person will quietly move along to interact with other people who actually put in the effort.
Delete Things That Just Don't Work For You
It happens. Sometimes we get an ask that no matter how we think about it, we can't think of how we want to answer it or a good situation we can turn it into.
Or sometimes we just get a bad ask.
You reblog that meme that has 100 options, and that one person you haven't agreed to Ship with sends the only 2 that involve something Shippy, like kissing.
Or they send the one Ask that would be completely out of character for anything your character would be involved with, like you've got a mustache-twirling villain who likes to kick kittens, and someone sent you a meme insinuating your character is catsitting out of the goodness of their heart.
If something just plain doesn't work no matter how you try to turn it around, delete it!
Alternatively, you can reach out to your partners and discuss how to turn the Ask into something. Maybe your partner had something specific in mind when they sent that particular ask, and its just not coming to you, but once you find out the vision of the sender, it'll be much easier to reply to!
Likewise, feel free to delete a few things that don't work for you if someone sends you a lot of Asks. Maybe someone sends you 10 different Asks. You don't have to answer every single one. Pick the ones that are easy to work with and delete the rest. If you answered 3 out of 10, you still answered 3, and that's good!
Stop Reblogging / Asking For More Memes
I'm not saying everyone should do this. Memes are great! They're good, easy interaction starters! Especially when you don't have a lot of interactions going already or you're stuck waiting in limbo for other people to reply back to you!
But if you're just using memes to run away from your ever-growing pile of unanswered things, stop yourself.
Chances are, at least half of your problem with being overwhelmed is that you're chronically reblogging memes when you don't actually need to be, further compounding your problem of having too many drafts and being even more overwhelmed as a result.
I get it. The instant gratification of getting something in your inbox is nice. Its a real dopamine rush that makes you feel good! At first. But its going to come back to bite you later.
Its also a good, quick way to ruin your relationship with people who want to interact with you. If someone is already waiting on you to answer a bunch of things they sent in, and you post "Wow, I'm feeling so overwhelmed right now because I have too many things I still need to answer! But send me more things!", that's bound to put a sour taste in peoples' mouths.
That tells your partners that you have an impulse problem and that they're bound to keep sending you things that will never be answered, which defeats the purpose of following another RP blog.
At worst, people will get tired of it and unfollow, ending all chance of interaction from ever happening at all.
Some people think the answer to solving this problem is to simply purge their inbox of everything or remake blogs "fresh". While these steps can help in some cases, if you never solve the underlying problem of actually managing your draft count moving forward, eventually you will just find yourself back to square one.
I've seen this happen plenty of times, where people purge or remake a good two, five, ten different times to make a fresh slate, only to go back to the same problem given a little bit of time, because they never took any other steps to stop from ending up in the same situation. They got rid of their draft pile, but never addressed the habits that got them there in the first place.
A good, easy first step in that is to stop endlessly reblogging memes when you already have a pile of them just sitting unanswered.
Instead of letting everything pile up to unmanageable levels and keep asking for more, prioritize going through what you already have first. Answer whatever you're able to, talk to your partners about Asks or threads you're unsure of, delete anything that you know for a fact won't go anywhere.
Then, once you've dealt with the things you already have, then you can reward yourself by reblogging more Memes and Starters and whatever else you want!
Don't Lie To Your Mutuals (Or Yourself) About Guarantees To Answer EVERYTHING
I've seen this a few times before. Someone talks about how they have over a thousand drafts, but they swear up and down to their dashboard that they answer EVERYTHING they receive, so keep sending in more!
Don't do this.
The moment I see someone saying something like this is usually the moment they instantly earn an unfollow / soft block from me, because I know they're completely full of it.
These are the people who chronically never answer anything and end up blog-hopping because they let it get so out of control that the only way forward was to purge or completely remake their blog fresh, often multiple times.
This kind of rhetoric will also establish you as a liar in the eyes of your mutuals, especially your mutuals who never get any engagement while they watch you reply only to the same five people and everyone else is just a number to brag about collecting.
There's nothing wrong with acknowledging the fact that you simply cannot and won't answer every tiny thing you receive. That kind of unrealistic expectation placed upon yourself is just going to end up creating problems for both you and your mutuals.
Learn to let some interactions and Asks go unanswered, and be honest with people that that is the case! You're a human being with finite time, not a writing machine, and your partners are more than just a number for you to collect and ignore.
Yes, announcing you're going to be dropping or deleting things may lose you followers, especially the ones who keep going unanswered, but it shouldn't really bother you if you weren't going to be giving those people proper engagement anyway.
Plot With People If Interactions Aren't Happening Organically
Everyone has their own style of RP and how heavily they want to plot things. Some people need things heavily plotted, others just like to wing it. Sometimes the heavy plotter ends up with the wing-it roleplayer.
Regardless, sometimes an answer to an Ask or Thread just won't come to you. Maybe your partner had something in mind already or a direction they want to take things, while you're just scratching your head with nothing.
Sometimes, getting to answering things is as simple as reaching out to discuss it with your partners!
Of course, there are times where this goes nowhere. Maybe both of you are stumped or didn't really think very far ahead. Maybe its just not vibing with either of you. Maybe you or your partner suck at communication and brainstorming. That's fine! But at least if you reach out, you can say you tried before dropping something!
And it gives you a chance to discuss doing something else that does work instead of such is the case!
Create Side-Blogs For Organization and Bookmark Purposes
The great thing about tumblr is you can basically create however many blogs and side-blogs you want to!
Let's say you're scrolling the dash and you see some neat stuff you want to save, but not reblog. Maybe its a PSA post. Maybe its a gifset. Maybe its a funny canon information/fanon post you saw and want to look back on.
Don't save "other" things in the same place as your Drafts and Asks go!
When you start mixing in "other" posts with your Drafts, your drafts are going to look even bigger and more daunting than they already are! Chances are you're not keeping a mental count all the time about those 50 other "drafts" you have mixed in with your real drafts.
Make a side-blog (or a Personal) for saving all those other completely unrelated things on! This will help keep your actual draft and Ask count in perspective, otherwise you might be stressing about having so many drafts when you actually have a lot less of them than you thought!
Use The Queue
If you find a lot of your problem comes down to having too many things at once, or your partners reply to your threads too fast so you can never make a dent in them, then you can always Queue up your posts to spread them out!
You can even customize how often and at what time frames your Queue posts things to the dash, which will slow down how fast you receive replies and allow you to get through things at a more comfortable pace.
You can always alternate using it as much as you want, such as using the Queue when you have a high volume of things to answer or return activity, and then publish things in real time or push things through the Queue faster as you like when things are going slow!
Prioritize Easiest / Favorite Drafts First (But Don't Do Them Exclusively)
This one is fairly easy, and I think most people already do this intuitively. The problem is, a lot of people do this, and then that's where they stop. They end up doing their favorites exclusively, instead of only doing them first, while letting everything else just rot in their drafts, never actually touching them.
But there's a good reason to prioritize easy and favorite threads first, especially when paired with the queue or other partners who are slower to reply. It's the easiest and fastest way to reduce your draft count and make it less daunting to deal with, without deleting and dropping things entirely.
Then you can focus on the other unanswered things that aren't speaking as easily to you, and get through those.
This step works, but only if you actually commit to answering the other stuff that you have to actually think about next. If you just answer your favorite things, and then do something like, say... immediately run to tell people to send you more memes and starters instead, you are falling back into the trap of overwhelming yourself with things you're never actually going to answer.
Instead, try to knuckle down and work on what you already have, whenever possible.
Prioritize Oldest Drafts First
Okay, so you've already gone through and answered the easiest stuff first! (Or maybe you didn't). Great!
Now what?
While this one isn't strictly an issue having to do with Draft Count, I find some people have insecurity about answering things simply because they're old.
While this inevitably happens to everyone at some point, as some threads or Asks may not be speaking to you until much later, I find that one thing that helps with this is to prioritize the oldest replies / first come first serve as much as possible!
Go to the oldest things you have, sit on them for a few minutes. Try to think of something, and work on that reply. If you try to work on it and its still not coming to you, then go on to the next second-oldest thing you have. Rinse and repeat.
Personally, I rarely have things sitting super old unless I just end up in a straight up writer's slump/block, because I prioritize oldest things first whenever possible, which helps to never have super old stuff just sitting there forever, taunting me.
This way, you're avoiding thoughts like "oh god, but they sent that thing 5 months ago. Should I really answer it at this point? Do they even want it anymore??".
Instead, you're replacing it with "Oh, they only sent that 3 days ago. That's not too bad."
Doing it like this means that my turn-around time is seldom ever so slow that I stress about how long its been.
Don't Be Afraid To Sit On Something For A While
Yes, we've talked a lot about deleting things if you just can't think of anything. And sometimes that is the correct and obvious answer! Likewise, sometimes we get something we need to set aside (but not forget about).
The more you manage the rest of your draft count, the easier this is to do without getting overwhelmed about it!
You don't have to just delete everything that doesn't immediately spring out at you. You can set some things aside however long you want to, just be careful not to use "I'll answer it later" to feed your bad habit of Draft Collection.
If you managed to answer 25 other threads and Asks, but those last 5 are just giving you a lot of trouble, that's totally fine! Even the best of us get hit with that sometimes. It doesn't always mean its time to delete them. Sometimes you sit scratching your head for a month, and then one day, the answer to that thread just comes to you!
But be honest with yourself about it. Are you really going to answer that thread, after you have some time to think on it? Are you really really going to answer it? Or are you lying to yourself and your partners? If not, there's no shame in dropping it.
Close Your Inbox
So let's say you're personally taking all the right steps you need to to manage your workload, but people are still trying to send you more things than you can handle to your Ask box.
You always have the option to simply close your inbox from receiving any new activity! Whether you just turn off Anon (not because of receiving hate, that's another topic altogether, just regular activity) or the entire Ask box, you can limit or entirely halt inbox activity from receiving anything new for a while until you have what you currently already owe into a comfortable and easy to manage state!
Yes, this means people won't be able to send you more, new things, and if they want to message you, they will have to do so through a different avenue (such as IMs or discord), but if you're already too overwhelmed with what you have, you don't need more activity.
Don't Keep People Around Who Make Your Dash Uncomfortable
And finally, though a bit of a sad truth, some people just make the tumblr dash a very uncomfortable place to be.
Maybe they stir up drama. Maybe they don't tag triggers (or they use stupid fancy tags that can't be filtered). Maybe they write too much of a topic or fandom you don't like to see. Maybe they write nothing but OOC and treat their RP blog as their personal blog. Maybe you're not even following that person, but they interact with someone you DO interact with and don't want to see them around.
Whatever the case, chances are good that if someone's presence makes your dash uncomfortable, its going to affect how well you're able to write.
Luckily, there are options available.
You can unfollow / block people.
You can filter tags and key words through tumblr.
You can use the mute function from the xKit extension.
Whether you make it public or private, you can have a DNI (Do Not Interact) saying who is and is not allowed to interact with you based on whatever criteria you set.
If people are sending you unsolicited Anons that you don't like, you can turn Anon off.
If people send you things you don't like with real or burner accounts, you can block those accounts or turn your Ask box and IMs off.
Ultimately, your tumblr blog is your space to curate, and you shouldn't let anyone else tell you otherwise. Having boundaries and expectations for how people act on your blog is your right and their privilege, not the other way around.
If other people aren't going to behave appropriately within and/or invade your yard space, you always have a right to lock people out of it by any means necessary until they either behave or leave.
Don't be afraid to do so, no matter who its coming from, even from so-called "friends" or "good people", because the only people who have a problem with you exercising your right to making your blog a good place to be for you are unsafe people who feel entitled to crossing your boundaries.
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doubleddenden · 4 months ago
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Onto Hisui, the kinda gen 8, gen 4, almost gen 9, maybe gen 8.4.2.5.7 starters?
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So I'm not going to do a full in depth review on each base starter again and their mid evolution- all you need to know that it is a sheer fucking coincidence that they picked all three of my favorite starters to be the starters for this gen. What a wild concept. Like Galar's starters sucked so bad, they had to call in back up from the previous gens just to keep the entire gen from becoming a trash fire- even Rowlet, who barely hung its hat up after gen 7 and Isle of Armor.
And saved they did. This crew is pretty strange and unique, but not unwelcome, and not unseen before- just mainly in fan games. The concept of taking 3 starters that normally have zero to do with each other and unifying them with a shared concept and variant evolutions is just... peak creativity. Something new out of something old without a gimmick that can be easily discarded, just brilliant.
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I can do a group review of the final evolutions, because GOD that's such a fun idea and they look so cool. So how do you unify three random starters? You tie them together to the place they are roaming, aka the wilds of Hokaido circa 200 years ago. A ronin, a corrupted samurai, and what I think is either a priest or a yokai. Just brilliant stuff here. The colors invoke an timely view of the old world, and each sort of have their own level of mysticism about them, and have shared hues of red- almost like maple leaves, blood, or a blood moon. Or, more specifically, DEATH in various aspects, which Hisui isn't shy about touching. God, I love these guys. I really do. 9.5/10.
Individual reviews under the cut
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Hisuian Decidueye isn't quite as cool as regular, but the only thing that's really throwing me off is the smaller wings in comparison to normal. Otherwise, this is a fantastic re-imagining of Decidueye that does something that hasn't been done with other grass starters: A *fall* color scheme. In the whole "Death" scenario, the leaves are dying, as is the age of Samurai, which would be somewhere around the same time period that Legends Arceus would take place in, and being a Ronin, Decidueye would essentially be a traveling *masterless* samurai. Ironically, considering the death motif, it leaves the ghost type behind and embraces the FIGHTING type- as if he's going down swinging while he's still got fight left in him, or he's fighting to survive the Hisuian wilderness. There's a lot that could be said to really amp up why I love this guy, and I'm still waiting for a good excuse to use him some day. 8/10.
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Hisuian Typhlosion didn't immediately click with me until I saw it in action and I saw it in artwork. It's very similar to regular Typhlosion in which you need the proper angle to truly appreciate it, and appreciate it I do after using it as a transfer starter for my run in Kitakami. If the Hisuian starter trio are based around death, you can't get much more death related than being a ghost. Specifically, Hyphlosion could based on the "Night Parade of 100 Demons," particularly with its move "Infernal Parade," but also could have inspiration from old Japanese priests, particularly from the bead-like necklace of fire around its neck. Interestingly, as a ghost, it's particularly benevolent and purifies spirits with its flames before guiding them to the next world- according to the dex, anyway. Any way you look at it, it's a very different take to normal Typhlosion, but it's a pretty valid and cool one imo. The wispy flames are super unique and mesmerizing to watch. The overall purple coat and lighter tanned belly may in fact be a reference to Typhlosion's old shiny palette in GSC, which sported a similar coloration. I do with the ears were more perked up and that it was easier to see the cooler side of it, but honestly I just like this sleepy boy no matter what. 9/10, Typhlosion was my first Pokemon and it'll always have a spot in my heart no matter what it looks like, and Hyphlosion came just when it needed to to save fire starters.
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Hisuian Samurott is probably my favorite starter of all time, now, because it basically just improves everything stylistically I love about OG Samurott and takes it even further. It is a little strange that Samurott, an already Japanese inspired Pokemon, gets a more Japnese form, but I'll take what I can get considering the state of starters at the time. This Samurott may be based on the *corrupt* Samurai, those that get drunk on power and demand others do as they say, or *die* in the streets- hence the dark type, and hence why red streaks line it's black armor- representative of blood shed by civilians that dare go against its rule, and further implicated by its signature move- Ceaseless Edge, an onslaught of slices without mercy. I think there could also be a further influence from the infamous Muramasa sword mythos- that is, swords forged so well by a single blacksmith that people claimed they were possessed or forged by *demons*, because of how well and how many they killed. Dark is the "evil" type in Japan, after all. Regardless of all of that, This is seriously such a cool Pokemon design and an ideal starter design overall, because it can move on land and in water quite decently. I think if I have a gripe, a singular one, it is simply that I would prefer black claws, but red is a fine enough color as it is. That, and maybe I'd wish it wasn't so slow. 9/10, my favorite starter at the moment, so much so I purposely bred for a shiny to use again in Blueberry Academy, and it came back just when needed to save water starters from being ugly.
God, I love these guys. I hope the ZA trio turns out as good as these guys.
Next and finally will be the SV starters... Unless anyone wants me to purposely do one for something like Pikachu, Eevee, and the Eeveelutions for Orre.
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blcssom · 6 months ago
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ok ok ok i'm reasonably caught up on drafts (single digits baby 😎) which means it's time for me to fill it with n e w things :' ))))
like this for a short starter (possibly usfw) from one of the below muses i'm itching to write atm !!! i'll come to you for muse preference <3
anthony allen (46) - financial consultant | bisexual | luke kirby fc a very high powered man in the conference room but an absolute pathetic simp when it comes to relationships !!! never above getting on his knees and begging for the approval of whoever's giving him affection.... may be a lil touch starved
beau greer (32) - librarian/cam boy | bisexual | drew starkey fc comes across very serious and quiet due to the nature of his work but absolutely unhinged in his free time xoxox naturally self-destructive and constantly pushing boundaries (sexually, emotionally, physically, etc.) just to see if he can !! live fast die young yk the drill
brianne barlowe (30) - personal stylist | bisexual | sarah catherine hook fc absolutely too rich to be kind to anyone not worshipping her !!! blonde rich bitch w/ a god complex and a tendency to act out when she's bored (which is pretty often) - approach at your own risk
carmen navarro (24) - exotic dancer | bisexual | nicole wallace fc former white trash turned would-be prima ballerina !!! unfortunately couldn't keep up w/ the $$$ for her lessons so she made a quick pivot to stripping as one does <333 never lost that ego tho very much thinks she's more talented than any other girl in the room, takes her dancing VERY seriously but also throws fits when things don't go her way whoops
declan bain (52) - ghost writer | bisexual | ewan mcgregor fc former child prodigy turned recluse !! absolutely hates socializing or being perceived in general so he switched from writing his own books to writing other people's xox very observant tho somehow manages to capture the human experience v well despite never participating !! also touch starved (shocker)
kiara obi (28) - caterer | bisexual | ayo edebiri fc big time frantic hummingbird energy this girl CANNOT sit still for the life of her. always moving/talking/walking f a s t and doesn't really make time for anyone to keep up w/ her.... unsurprisingly very socially awkward and blunt and doesn't understand why that's a problem :' )))
lenore acosta (35) - seamstress | bisexual | nathalie emmanuel fc very holistic very peace love and joy..... also v clingy and maybe not the best w/ boundaries (i.e. she doesn't respect them) but like !!! so cute so sunshine until she keys your car bc you didn't text her back for forty-five minutes even though she knows you read it <333
luca rosen (48) - priest/con-man | heterosexual | jon bernthal fc think harold hill a la the music man genuinely just moves from town to town looking for a way to scam as many people as possible and get the fuck outta dodge before they can catch on <333 currently working as a priest and he likes corrupting his flock almost as much as he likes pocketing the collection plate at the end of his 'sermon'
marcella locardi (40) - entertainment lawyer | bisexual | cristin milioti fc VERY good at what she does god can this woman argue.... absolutely not above pulling underhanded stunts in court for her clients and subsequently has never lost a case !! and if she sleeps with a client here or there or everywhere what of it??? genuinely believes the rules do not apply to her (might even think she's immortal??? depends if she's taken her meds)
remi tahara (27) - twitch streamer | bisexual | nico hiraga fc just a DOPE a loser a sweet puppy..... does what he's told without questioning it bc people are usually right and he's usually wrong!!! went viral for doing jackass level stunts his chat suggested which is not his f a v o r i t e thing but he loves how excited the audience gets when he's streaming from the ER so.......... he's gonna keep doin it
taran lowe (22) - vagabond/photographer | bisexual | louis partridge fc very laurie (little women) coded he's just coasting on his late grandad's money and traveling the world collecting lovers like infinity stones (and somehow dodging stds ??? lord knows how) very much comes and goes as he pleases and doesn't get why that's an issue !!!! will probably never love anyone as much as he loves himself his freedom but he sure is convincing w/ those flowery promises he likes to handout
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