#but any attempt i’ve made at drawing it on has looked Bad

[mamahoggs]

80% of costume stuff is ordering something online and then digging through your drawers only to realize you already have that thing. anyway i found this glove in with my tights

[noyasmashing]

I LOVE YOUR FICS OMGGGG 😭😭

could u write like kageyama where he has like a high prestige (??) especially when he's being sub on the bed, he wouldn't let out his moan but finally being such a loud and whiny baby when u flick his nipples with ur tongue and play with his sensitive member 😭😭😭

IM SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG 😓

ALSO!! I know my writing keeps switching from past to present tense-it’s a bad habit i’ve had but i’m too lazy to fix it, plz just ignore

CW: Dom reader, nipple play, gn!reader, some crying, hand job, a bit of marking of you squint

Tobio was quietly slumped in the corner of the sofa, nestled comfortably between the cushions. His gaze was fixed on you, as you were completely engrossed in the movie playing on the screen. The tension in the room was intense, and you could sense his longing for your attention.

As an advertisement briefly interrupted the film, you glanced over at him. His face contorted into a pouty expression, clearly communicating his feelings without saying a word. The sight almost made you laugh, but you didn’t want to make him feel bad.

You pushed yourself up from your spot at the opposite end of the sofa and made your way towards him. "Tobioo," you coo’d softly, causing him to nibble on the inside of his cheek. For the first time since the movie started, he looked away from you.

"W-what?" he stuttered, sounding slightly annoyed at your attempt to engage with him despite his obvious staring.

"You're hard," you purred, draping one leg over his lap, you settled yourself on top of him. He didn't meet your gaze, but he nodded silently, looking down at his fidgety hands.

You used your palms to steady yourself on his shoulders, dipping down to his level, until your eyes finally met. You closed the gap with a controlled kiss that quickly turned messy as Tobio greedily took in your tongue. Sweaty hands clasped at your shirt desperately, his needy reaction giving away everything he was feeling in that moment.

Pulling away gingerly, your hands clinged at the hem of his shirt, while his pants for air fanned your neck. "Can I take this off?"

A breathy "yes" escaped him. You could feel his needy erection pressing against you through his pants. But he would have to wait a little longer.

You lifted his cotton shirt up, over his head, unintentionally ruffling up his hair in the cutest way. But what was even cuter was his perky pink nipples that made you grin. Noticing your expression, he shrunk under your intense gaze, not wanting to admit the effect you had on his body.

Tobio couldn’t help but let out a sharp gasp, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Your tongue teased his collarbone, tracing a path of tantalizing warmth against his pale flesh. Simultaneously, your hand skillfully worked to free his erection from the confines of his underwear, eliciting a shiver of anticipation from him.

Drawing your teasing mouth away from his sensitive skin, you took a moment to prepare, spitting into your hand to use as lube. The sight made Tobio's breath hitch, an embarrassing whine escaping him. He reached out to put a hand on his mouth to stifle any sounds that threatened to escape, but you quickly snatched his hand away, ensuring he couldn't silence himself.

“Do I need to tie your hands up again?” You questioned harshly, your thumb teasing his slit that was dripping with pre-cum. The intensity of your touch sent a shiver down his spine, “no please, ‘m sorry!” pleading not to face the humiliation of being bound by harsh ropes.

You hummed content with his response, tongue pressing firmly against one of his cute nipples. He wanted to try to stop you, but the pleasure was too much to care, causing his mouth to go all slack, eyes helplessly rolling back, with a needy whine.

Restraining himself from thrusting into your hand, he struggled with the unfamiliar sensation of being touched in such an intimate area. As you continued to suck and bite lightly, his back arched, granting you better access to his sensitive nipples.

“Your nipples are so cute! You look so pretty like this!” You enthusiastically praised rolling one between your index and your thumb, his eyelashes fluttered, tips of his ears flushed with heat, his thighs quivering as moans spilled from his parted lips.

He hated how much he loved your words, he wanted to be pretty for you. All he could do to respond was let out the loudest, prettiest, “Ahh- nghh!” He had completely lost himself in the moment when your wrist twisting back and forth as you focus on his red tip.

That, combined with the biting at sucking from your mouth, not to mention your free hand teasing his chest, occasionally running over his hard nipple, was too much for him.

"[N-name], please I-I... it's- gonna cum!" he rambled, his hips involuntarily buckling into your firm palm. The desperation in his voice was palpable as his member throbbed and twitched with the need for release. With skilled hands, you focused on his sensitive tip, eliciting pretty whimpers from him. “Did I say you could cum?” You asked harshly dragging your mouth away from his chest.

He let out a pitiful cry, tears threatening to fall from his long lashes. His most pretty tactic to get some of your compassion.

“Ah, n-no, no you didn’t-fuck fuck fuck!”

"You know what I want to hear," You sing, running your finger up and down his weeping cock. He stops his eyes from rolling back, but his head fell back onto the couch as he let out a pained sob.

“Nghhh, can I cum please? I wanna so bad, it hurts, please [name], please.” He shamelessly begs, his prestige melting away from the intense pleasure you placed under him.

You nodded with smile at his words, “Cum for me, my good boy,” You encouraged, and with that thick white ropes of cum coated his tummy. His body trembled with the force of his orgasm, instinctively attempting to close his thighs, but you held him in place. The intimacy of the moment hung heavy in the air, the aftermath of pleasure leaving Tobio vulnerable and undone under your touch.

This time, it was him to speak up, “uh—can you do…do that again.”

[sabbathbloodysabbeth]

I’ve been reading a lot of stuff on Twitter and well I’ve come up with this idea

So in this au i’m talking about its most commonly the Omega who courts the Alpha. As there is a better success rate with relationships if the Omega is able to decide who they want. (Plus it’s not as stressful on them knowing they have a alpha out there who wants them but don’t know they are. It gives them some control and if things go right it will be the last thing they have to really control in the relationship)

But problem is Steve Harrington (omega) hasn’t courted anyone or made any attempts to do so. Every Female Alpha doesn’t catch his eye in a way that he wants, and the one that kind of did turned out to be a lesbian. So he kind of just gives up. He’s drained and had to take on a lot more then what a normal omega should have with the upside down. (Frankly even more then what one Alpha does in a life time) so it’s just accepted that Steve Harrington doesn’t plan on doing anything.

Then Eddie comes along. Both of them went through hell together, Steve even had to carry the Alpha out and it was one of the most distressing things in his life. Then Vecna is defeated and everything goes back to “normal”. Or as normal as it can get.

Steve doesn’t even realize that he’s courting Eddie. It’s all done without thought, and Eddie has already caught onto it and shyly takes each piece with a happy smile. Not pushing the boy any further. Wayne Munson is even seeing his boy being courted and he’s excited. He was convinced that no one would go for his boy in this town.

It starts off with cookies, Steve shyly brings them in and Eddie destroys the whole container within a few minutes with a happy smile. Then Steve brings in a crotched blanket for the other, seeing the way he was cold under the regular blankets. The next thing might now count, but Eddie does. Steve brings back Eddie’s vest and it smells only like Steve. Eddie sleeps with it for weeks until the scent is gone. He’s close to asking Steve to give him something with his smell when Steve gives him a black teddy bear that was hand made to look like Eddie (and it smells like steve!) the courting doesn’t stop in the hospital, when Eddie’s realizes that Steve might not take the last step he decides to court Steve.

He starts giving the other stuff he knows he’ll like. Drawings of him biting a bat like Ozzy, a old sweater the totally doesn’t fit Eddie anymore, and some blankets. Though he also gets a bit more touchy. He catches onto how Steve melts into him. It’s a year after everything has happened and they have been courting each other the entire time very obviously. Everyone is tired of how cute they are but they all understand.

Steve finally finishes what he started when he trusts (he forces) Eddie into his nest after a really bad nightmare. Scenting Eddie in the process. Which forces them to a conversation which does lead to Steve being taken care of 😉

[theperfectawful]

Blind Item / Chapter 1

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC

Chapter 1: Gimme More

Rating: Explicit (18+) Series Summary: 2007. Hollywood, CA. As a former child star, you face the harsh reality of growing up in the unforgiving spotlight. A car crash on Sunset Boulevard and a cocaine scandal give you one option: Rehab. Reluctantly agreeing, you embark on a 90-day stay at Promises Malibu to attempt to salvage your career. But when Dieter Bravo arrives, your journey takes an unexpected turn. Drawn to each other, you navigate sobriety and the wreckage of your reputation. As the double standard of Hollywood's treatment of troubled stars becomes evident, you question if redemption is truly possible in a world of unequal consequences. Word Count: 11k

Content/Warnings: Age gap (~10 years, Dieter is in his mid-thirties), alternating POV, heavy drug use, illegal drug use, alcohol use, driving under the influence, frenemy dynamics, oral sex (f!receiving), dubcon/noncon, it is neither reader nor Dieter's finest hour when we meet them. Period-typical language and behavior, Hollywood assholes.

Notes: This is my first fic - I've never written or posted anything like this before, so please be kind and feel free to share any feedback or suggestions. I never would have been able to write something like this, let alone work up the nerve to post it, if it hadn't been for the kind and gracious support of @pennyserenade, @whatsnewalycat and @frannyzooey all lending me their advice when I slid into their DMs. They all inspire me endlessly with their work and talent and it’s because of their work that I was inspired to write something of my own.

Our reader is, for now, and unnamed OC. While I’ve done my best to avoid using physical descriptors of her, it should be noted that this story is a period piece that takes place in early 2000s Hollywood. The main character would have been a contemporary of stars like Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan and Nicole Richie, and there are certain assumptions I’ve made about what she looks like based on that factor of this particular story. The early 2000s could be dark, ruthless times, y'all, especially for young women in and effected by Hollywood. My intention is to examine that. Thank you for reading!

Desperate times call for desperate measures: sources say that this former child star’s team is working overtime to keep her employed. When she made her not-so-graceful exit from her latest film, the star cited conflicting schedules as the reason for her departure. The film’s producer has a different story: the Hollywood juggernaut has been heard around town calling the star unprofessional, accusing her of being late to her call times and using drugs in her trailer. She’s got a shot at a last resort: a return to television. Word is, the bad publicity has her team bargaining and drawing out sober contracts just to get her hired.

Whenever you were in town for work, you stayed at the Chateau Marmont. You were in Los Angeles often enough and long enough to justify buying a home there, but you refused, the idea of actually owning a home in LA never quite sitting right with you. Instead, you rented the same room each time you visited. You loved that little bungalow. The thick, lush landscaping shaded the windows and kept it nice and cool inside, and your front door was only a stone's-throw from the swimming pool. 

It felt like home after a few years, anyway. These old, tucked-away places were what you liked most about Los Angeles, unlikely, quiet havens hidden between sky-high condos and overly sleek offices. The building breathed old-Hollywood luxury, vintage tiles and original hardwood floors and the ghosts of silent film stars wandering the hallways. The staff knew you well. The same breakfast was delivered to your door at noon every day. The top-tier maid service employed by the hotel kept the living room, kitchen, bathrooms and second bedroom impeccably tidy, though they were given clear instructions not to enter your bedroom.

Your bedroom did not inspire the same glamorous aesthetic as the rest of the hotel. Clothing was piled high against the walls and pouring out of dresser drawers, tags and receipts discarded in the wake. Empty bottles cluttered the hardwood floors, clear, crushed water bottles and rattly orange pill canisters. A full ashtray sat on a side table, a makeup mirror and various products scattered next to it.

In the middle of the room was a king-sized bed, an antique walnut headboard sprawling against the wall with a mountain of sheets and blankets layered atop a deep mattress. You laid swaddled in those sheets, rubbing your palms into your shut eyes and groaning as you rolled over, dragging your hands wide across your face to peek out at the clock on your nightstand.

4:41pm. You blinked, straining your eyes to focus and confirm you read that right. 4:41pm. Fuck.

Bleary-eyed, you reached for your phone, met immediately by a barrage of missed calls and unread messages when you slid it open.

MELANIE [3:21 AM]: Bathrrom

PETE [3:36 AM]: Did u leave

CORINNE [9:00 AM]: Call with NBC @ 1. Please be available. Corinne Roxford.

MISSED CALL: CORINNE

CORINNE [11:30 AM]: Confirming availability at 1pm. Corinne Roxford.

(212) 555-4325 [12:06 PM]: Hey gorgeous ;)

MISSED CALL [12:30 PM]: CORINNE

MISSED CALL [12:45 PM]: CORINNE

MISSED CALL [1:00 PM]: CORINNE

CORINNE [1:03 PM]: ??? Corinne Roxford.

MISSED CALL [1:05 PM]: CORINNE

CORINNE [1:07 PM]: Call immediately. Corinne Roxford.

“Hiiiii,” a soft, tired voice called from across the room. You looked up, squinting, at your best friend Natalie leaning in the doorway to the bathroom.

“Mmmm,” you hummed in response, peeking out from where you lay buried in the sheets. “Hi.”

She crossed the room, kicking piles of clothes out of the way and perched herself on the corner of the bed, her toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. You cracked open one eye, locking eyes with her. In an unspoken acknowledgment of your situation - what you got into last night, the state you’re currently in, the splitting headache you’re certain she has, too - you raised an eyebrow at her. She smirked back at you and the two of you erupted into laughter. You lifted yourself up to sit, pushing your foot into her side from under the covers.

“You were insane last night!” she accused, still smiling as she resumed brushing her teeth.

“Me!” your voice was raspy and you coughed. “Me? You were the one making out with the bartender.”

“He wasn’t a bartender. He said he was with the DJ or something.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s better,” you snorted, the sound muffled by the plush pillows that cradled your head. You rubbed your palms across your face again, feeling the coarse texture of your own tired skin. The room was dimly lit, with the soft glow of morning seeping through the half-closed blinds. 

Your phone vibrated on the nightstand, disrupting the quiet ambiance. You picked it up, groaning when you saw your manager’s name blaring across the bright screen. With a sigh, you slid it open.

“Hi, Corinne,” your voice was a hoarse whisper as you did your best to sound alive. Natalie stirred from her spot and crossed back to the bathroom, old floorboards creaking underneath her feet.

“I needed you on that call this morning. This is your career I’m trying to save here. Do you think I’m doing all of this for my health?”

“I mean… you’re not not…” It’s out of your mouth before you can stop it. She is on your payroll.

“Very funny. I don’t think I need to remind you that you’re running out of friends and favors here, hun. I don’t think you want me to join that list.” Her sentence was punctuated by the sound of her horn honking and a muttered expletive. She sighs. “NBC still wants to speak with you, and soon, but they want to do a four-episode Growing special. The rest of the cast is on board, and they think if we play this right we can turn into a full-on reboot. But you have to straighten up, do you understand? I need you in the Santa Monica office first thing Monday to sign the paperwork.”

“I’ll be there. I promise.” Your eyes closed again, and you sunk into the plush embrace of the king-sized bed, the soft cotton fabric soothing against your skin.

“I don’t know how to make it any more clear to you how much trouble all of us are in. This is  your shot at a comeback.”

“I understand.”

There’s a bit of silence, the noise of New York traffic floating through the airwaves and into your ear. You insisted on total honesty from Corinne, unable to tolerate your team coddling you, so her words might have hurt more if this was the first time you’d heard them. Or maybe if the haze you’d woken up in were a bit thinner.

“Tomlin and the team will be in on Thursday night to get you ready for the VMAs. I’ll see you then, too.” Corinne changed the subject, her voice a mix of stern professionalism and genuine concern.

“Okay. I’m sorry.” Your voice was sickeningly sweet, a defensive baby voice you switched into when you were nervous, a trademark of yours that had been mocked by everyone from ex-boyfriends to the cast of Saturday Night Live. Corinne said goodbye and you felt Natalie’s weight return to your side.

You groaned, long and drawn out, tossing your phone into the labyrinth of sheets and blankets surrounding you. The show she referred to was a reboot of the sitcom you spent your childhood working on - Growing Together. It's one-half cast reunion, one-half desperate, nostalgic cash-grab. The producer you sat across from at the pitch meeting was almost delirious with excitement - explaining what a smashing success it was sure to be, a “televised homecoming for America's favorite family.” It took so much strength not to roll your eyes right in front of him that you thought you’d pop a blood vessel.

“Are you in trouble?” Natalie asked, a teasing tone in her voice.

"Yeah, almost always," you replied, casual in your admission. As you sat up, fully awakening, you stretched and planted your feet on the floor. You chugged the warm Vitamin Water on your nightstand before reaching for your bag on the floor and digging through its contents. Gum, a fluorescent orange paper wristband, a baby pink Juicy Tube, a black and white photobooth strip of you and Natalie with your tongues out. Not finding what you were looking for, you dumped it out onto your bed and continued rummaging through the items and garbage inside. Your iPod, a receipt from the drugstore, 3 loose cigarettes and half a dozen empty quarter-sized plastic bags. You sighed, shoving everything back inside carelessly. 

“Did we finish everything last night?” You call out, patting the bed behind you, your gaze darting around in search of your phone.

“We?” Natalie’s laughter rang through the room. “I don’t know about ‘we!’”

“God, no wonder,” you muttered, the realization of this morning's particularly splitting headache dawning. Locating your phone again, you typed out a text message to your dealer, padding out of your room to the kitchen.

[5:13 PM]: Andyyyyyy. U going to Lush tonight?

You tapped the side of your phone restlessly for a beat, then texted again.

[5:13 PM]: Can you bring what u brought last night

In the kitchen, you opened the cabinet, revealing an array of neatly arranged pill bottles. Without looking, you pulled out a bottle of Advil and an empty glass. Seated at the kitchen table, engrossed in her Macbook, was your assistant, Rhea.

“Corinne’s pissed.” She said before she even looked at you, focused intently on the screen in front of her.

“Good morning,” you responded, filling your glass at the sink and beaming an exaggerated, pageant-queen smile at her. She scoffed in response.

“The sun is going down in… 40 minutes.” she retorted, her gaze flitting momentarily to the clock on the wall, then back down. You made a mockingly offended expression, hands lifting with dramatic flair.

“Time is a social construct, Rhea,” you declared, tossing back the Advil and chasing them with the full glass of water.

“Yeah, for you, maybe.” She muttered, still typing like a maniac.

You were fired six weeks ago.

The movie was meant to signal a departure for you, a leap into serious territory - a drama marking an overdue graduation from the teeny-bopper films you’d spent the last decade of your life making. You’d been lucky a year ago - a really excellent writer took a chance on an elevated high school comedy with you at the helm that had people in the industry, finally, taking you more seriously. 

Seriously enough to get you in the door, at least. Being on set gave you a different impression. You felt as coddled as ever, still treated like an unqualified child star whose presence was more of a slightly annoying novelty than a creative asset.

You wanted to be treated like an adult - a real actress, a professional. This movie was supposed to accomplish that. Despite the fact that this project had a huge, award-winning director attached to it, it was subject to the same issues you’d experienced on countless, lower-tier productions. Poorly communicated call times, technical issues, handsy producers hanging around your trailer. The latter issue caused you to insist on Rhea being by your side whenever possible - power in numbers in an attempt to keep greasy Hollywood exec’s hands away from you.

You weren’t going out any more often than you usually did. Now that you were old enough to not have to sneak into clubs anymore, you were having fun. Though your evenings often bled into mornings, occasionally pushing the limits of your call times, it felt manageable. However, Corinne was relentless in reminding you of the stakes and your professional expectations: show up, behave, perform.

That morning, exhaustion hung over you more heavily than usual. The night before, you’d been out celebrating Natalie’s 23rd birthday. A friend of hers had just returned from Amsterdam and brought with him a bag of European ecstasy as a souvenir. After Le Deux closed, you threw an after party at the Chateau’s pool, you and Nat drank champagne on your floaties as the chemicals rushed through your systems. Your fingers dipped in and out of the heated pool, the two of you gossiping and giggling and floating along until the sun came up.

You were on set on time - early, in fact - but the MDMA had worn off and your energy was plummeting fast. You’d run through the scene several times with Rhea, but it didn’t seem to have helped much.

“Cut,” the director called out, sighing and stepping out from his position behind the camera. Your costar groans softly, standing up from his spot across from you and stepping away as the surrounding crew moves quickly to reset the scene.

“I’m sorry Alan,” you offered immediately as the director approached your mark. A makeup artist swoops in, tapping a brush to your under eyes.

“You’re furious with him, remember,” he coached you. “I understand it’s early, but I need you to manage to muster up some energy.”

You nodded, trying to focus despite the persistent buzzing in your head. “I’m really sorry.”

“I don’t need you to apologize to me like a punished child, I just need you to perform the way I’ve asked you to. Can you do that?”

"I'll get it right this time, I promise," you assure him softly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

He eyed you skeptically, his weaning lack of patience with you made clear by his expression.

“We’ll break for five.” He called out to the room, still staring at you as you stood up and shuffled off behind him.

Rhea arrived at your side with your cell phone and a Red Bull. You flip open the screen as you walk, quickly scrolling through your text messages and trying to distract yourself from your dull, nagging headache.

“That was okay, right?” You asked, trying to sound casual but unable to hide the uncertainty in your voice. “Is it as bad as he says?”

“You were fine,” Rhea’s voice was uncharacteristically high-pitched as she held out the straw of your energy drink in front of you. Her eyes flit back and forth, scanning the area, and her voice lowers into a whisper as she continues. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m tired,” You brushed her off, shaking your head and handing your phone back to her. “I’m fucking exhausted.”

Rhea nods, a concerned eyebrow lifting as you arrive at your trailer. Everyone in your life was looking at you like that lately - as if doing anything less than completely coddling you would cause you to fly off the handle. The cautious glances, the careful choices of words, the subtle tiptoeing around your every move - especially from Rhea, who never gave a fuck about your feelings - it all grated on your nerves like an itch beneath the surface. 

She held out her hand and you took it quickly, grabbing an orange bottle from her and slipping through the door of your trailer.

In your trailer, you sat at the vanity and closed your eyes, taking a couple of deep breaths before opening them and gazing at yourself in the mirror. You opened the bottle, pouring out two small pills on the counter in front of you. Scanning the surface quickly, you located a plastic card and pushed it against the pills with the ball of your hand. You pushed it again and again, finally finishing and scraping the excess powder from the card onto the table. Dragging the powder into two lines, you leaned down to inhale them and stood straight back up. You licked your finger and picked up the excess residue, pushing it into your gums and taking a couple more deep breaths to re-center yourself.

The acrid taste of the pills gave you a Pavlovian surge of energy, the anxious buzz in your chest subsiding and easing into a steady hum. You sat at the mirror, dragging a finger underneath your eye to wipe smudged eyeliner from your face. You sniffled, forcing the action into another deep breath and staring at yourself in the mirror. You belong here. You do. You know what you’re doing.

A sharp knock at the door pulled you back to reality with a jump.

“Jesus,” You called out “Alright, Rhea, one second!”

“It’s Alan. Open the door.”

Fuck. You frantically began cleaning the counter in front of you - slipping the credit card into your pocket and brushing your hands across the surface.

“Now!” Alan boomed from outside.

“Okay, okay!” You moved to the door and turned the lock, opening the door just enough for him to see you. You sniffled again, trying to camouflage the reaction with a cough. “Yes?”

Pushing the door firmly, Alan moved into your trailer, his body dwarfing yours in the small space.

“Listen to me,” he said, low but firm. “I’m done. I’m not doing this with you. I am not letting you fuck up my movie.”

“What?” You were dumbstruck.

“Don’t play dumb. Not now. You know exactly what I mean.” He was inches from your face now and getting angrier by the minute. You swallowed, desperately looking around for Rhea. Tears stung the corners of your eyes and you fought them, willing yourself not to blink.

“They’re prescribed,” you attempt. It doesn’t work.

“I don’t care what you do on your own time,” he continued “But this is mine. This is important to me and to everyone else out there whose livelihoods depend on this project, and I’m not going to let some spoiled, coked-out little actress spoil it.”

Your face burned with humiliation.

“Corinne fought hard to get you on this project. This was more of a fucking favor to her than you. But this movie does not live and die by your actions, do you understand me? You can kill yourself if you insist, but you will not pull my movie down with you. You’re fired.”

Your jaw dropped. You were unable to find words let alone choke them out. Rhea’s face was stark white when you spotted her just outside the door of your trailer, her cell phone firmly against her cheek, whispering into the receiver with her eyes wide.

“This is no longer viable for me or anyone else on this crew. I want you off my set now.”

You couldn’t move, your heart pounding in your chest. He stood there for another moment before exiting the trailer and slamming the door behind him. The force of the slam caused the door to open slightly, revealing Alan standing in front of Rhea.

“I don’t want to see you here again.” He said to her, loud enough for you to hear, his voice stern and uncompromising. “You’re lucky I don’t call the cops on you for bringing drugs on my set.”

You hung in the doorway as he stormed away, and as the room swirls into focus you see the eyes of the crew on you, their faces filled with curiosity and concern. Turning your head, you quickly blinked away your tears and wiped your eyes with the back of your hand.

Officially, you’d been let go due to ‘scheduling conflicts’. It was flimsy, Hollywood jargon for your star showing up fucked up, and unfortunately, the euphemism did little to quell the relentless scrutiny surrounding you.

Rhea had shown you the footage of you that began making the rounds after your firing was announced - a creepy, shaky video leaked by some PA of Alan berating you on set, cut with another clip of you walking around the soundstage. It was embarrassing - your hair was disheveled and you were pacing around in a way that looked strange out of context, but there wouldn’t have been anything interesting about it at all if the rumor hadn’t gotten out that you’d been fired for your drug use. Since then, the attention on you had been relentless.

The paparazzi had been a regular part of your life since you were a young teenager. It, generally, wasn’t as bad in New York, which is part of the reason why you preferred to stay there, but in LA it felt as if you were never more than a few feet from a camera. 

When you were 16 and working on your first film after Growing Together ended, you started going to clubs with your coworkers. No one ever gave you any trouble, and you didn’t even start drinking until you were 18, but despite that, the mere optics of a child star reveling in nightlife proved a lucrative angle for the media to exploit.

Since then, you were followed almost constantly. Leaving home, returning, getting groceries, getting your nails done, driving through McDonald’s - flashing lights in the corner of your eye were such a regular thing that you barely even noticed it anymore. There were photographers you knew at this point, friendly ones who knew your angles and creepy ones who constantly tailed your car.

It’d never been like this before, though. Literal throngs of photographers showed up anywhere you went, watching you like hawks, all waiting to swoop in on the slightest slip up. Going shopping was an event that needed to be scheduled in advance, boutiques needing to be warned that you’d be coming in so that they could prepare to lock doors behind you. Every step, every breath, felt scrutinized and captured for public consumption, leaving you suffocated beneath the weight of it all.

You were so angry about being let go - your behavior, truly, was no different from what any other actor your age was doing. You partied with your friends, you were out late sometimes, but you knew you were a good actress. It had been your passion since you were a child, and it was beyond frustrating to hear people tell you they loved you and wanted to see you win and then have them turn against you the moment you made a mistake.

So, although you’d behaved and spent the first week or two lying low at the insistence of Corrine, you were over it now. You stayed in LA, uninterested or unwilling to go home to your family and friends in New York and explain to them what's been going on. You were going out with Natalie every night, usually to Le Deux or Lush or Teddy’s. You stayed out late and slept in late and generally just did your best to avoid confrontation with any paparazzi or journalists or producers you’d pissed off.

You weren’t lying to Alan when you told him you were only taking what had been prescribed to you. It just happened that a lot of things had been prescribed to you. Lately, you’d been alternating between Adderall and MDMA for the last week or so, making you too speedy and anxious to really dwell on the current state of your career. You were, admittedly, running through your prescriptions more quickly than usual, causing you to need to make some calls in order to fill in the gaps.

Throughout dinner, you anxiously slid the screen to your Sidekick open and shut, open and shut. You thumbed through the wheel of apps, trying to will into existence a text from Andy that didn’t seem to be coming. It’s not exactly like you expected rigid punctuality from the guy who sold you drugs, but his radio silence was making you antsy.

[9:05pm]: Hellooooooooo

Natalie exclaimed as a tray of shots was delivered to the table, echoed by the group of acquaintances that you met up with at Don Antonios, the restaurant you always went to before a night out. Eagerly, you took one off the tray, blindly grabbing another as you knocked the first one back. You chased that shot with the other, the warmth of the liquid making you feel more like a human being and less like a raw nerve.

Seated to your right in the booth was a girl you kind of knew. She was always hanging out on the fringes of your group, some friend of a friend of a friend who was for sure going home and telling everyone she partied with you. She’d been gawking at you all night, beady eyes locked on you since you sat down, craning her neck and sitting uncomfortably close to you, your dress pinned under her studded jeans. You’d been resisting the urge to ask her what the fuck her problem was for the better part of an hour. As the group around you became distracted by the arrival of the shots, you seized the opportunity to confront her.

“Can you please get off of my dress?” you spat.

Her eyebrows shot up as she took her eyes off of you for what felt like the first time that evening to look down, apologizing and scooching over. She had tall red stilettos on and, when she looked back up at you, you could see the smudged mascara on her eyelid. Just as you were going to take the opportunity to move away from her, she leaned over to talk to you over the noise that surrounded you.

“Sorry. Hey, I’m Katie.”

You grimaced, not in the mood to talk to this person.

“Hi.”

You turn away for a beat, but your attention is grabbed again by Katie’s voice lowly in your ear.

“Hey, I have Xanax, if you want one,” the offer took you by surprise, the prospect lighting you up immediately.

“Oh, my god, I love you,” you said, quickly turning towards her and extending your palm. “Please?”

Downers really weren’t your thing, even booze wasn’t your favorite, but this evening was going to turn from boring to maddeningly insufferable fast if you didn’t get your hands on something.

“I know someone who needs one when I see them,” she laughed, discreetly dropping two pills into your palm.

The clubs in LA were the same thing every time. You showed up in big black SUVs, posed and made nice for the photographers outside for a moment and then clamored inside towards the booth that was waiting for your party. 

It felt like high school. Well, you assumed, since your high school experience took place entirely on set. You saw the same people everywhere, all scattered around the room, broken up into their own little cliques. All gossiping, the room alive with murmurs and whispers. Who’d just shown up? Who was fighting with who? Who’d stolen whose boyfriend? It all felt so juvenile, but not being here was worse, so you put up with it. The people changed, but not really - you usually ended up surrounded by the same cast of promoters, wannabe socialites and greasy LA club dudes, swapped out every couple weeks by stand-ins and understudies and new arrivals. They circled your table like vultures, mingled with one another and made use of your tab while you sat engrossed in your Sidekick.

The night became slightly more tolerable once you’d taken one of the bars Katie gave you, but you were still desperately trying to get a hold of a dealer. By the time you left the restaurant and were climbing into the backseat of your car to head to Lush, you’d even resorted to texting backup options, people you’d partied with once or twice who you suspected might be around. 

Sinking into the plush booth, you let your head loll to the side, eyes shutting against the assault of strobing lights. The steady, pumping rhythm of the bass sent a rattle through your bones.

After a minute, Natalie's hand landed gently on your knee, snapping you back to reality.

“You okay, girl?” She asked. Her voice felt distant, barely audible over the pounding bass reverberating through the room. The glitter on her eyelids shimmered in the blue light, the only part of her face you could clearly make out in the shadowy corner of the booth.

“I’m fine,” you answered impatiently, kicking your feet up into the seat next to you. Just then, your phone finally buzzed, your heart skipping a beat as your dealer’s name flashed across the screen

ANDY [11:03PM]: not goin tonite

You scoffed, pausing for a second before furiously tapping out a response.

[11:03PM]: FUCK U ASSHOLE

You hit send and threw your phone into your purse with a huff. You were going to have to come up with something else. Or maybe just slit your wrists right here at the table instead.

You surveyed your group as bottle service brought two large bottles of tequila to your table along with a tray brimming with shots. knew all it would take was a couple hundred bucks from a photographer outside for them to spill about how you’d begged them for coke. They'd probably do it for free just for the attention. You'd already asked Katie, but all she had was Xanax and a joint, and Natalie would've let you know if she got a hold of anything else.

You started scanning the rest of the room, looking for anyone you knew. The club was packed, some sort of launch party that’d booked a huge DJ filling even the VIP section from wall to wall.

Suddenly, your attention was grabbed by the sound of a man shouting at the booth directly across from yours. He was the typical guy you'd find in places like this: a douchey-looking producer type, each of his arms wrapped around two miserable-looking models to his left and right. Intrigued, you followed his gaze to see who he was yelling at.

Oh, bingo.

Dieter Bravo. You recognized him instantly. An actor like you, you knew you’d seen him around at award shows and parties, but you’d never met. His reputation preceded him, though; you knew he partied, knew that he, too, had been let go from movies due to 'scheduling conflicts' more than once. You knew he’d been in trouble for drugs. Last you'd heard, he'd been in the news for cheating on his wife or something. You were certain that all it’d take was a little bit of flirting and buttering him up to get him to share whatever he had with you.

Without a word to anyone, you rose from your booth, ignoring Natalie's questioning as you strode towards Dieter's booth. Immediately, though, you lost your footing, lightheaded from standing up too quickly. You brushed it off, saved from a fall by someone at your booth. Straightening your dress, you grabbed a bottle of tequila before pivoting on your heel and starting back towards Dieter.

Dragged out against his will, Dieter was a guest of honor at a launch party for Elysium Fragrances, the cologne brand he’d shot a campaign for last year. His presence was requested tonight as a make-good for being a no-show at the launch of his own campaign, instead being spotted that evening by the California Highway Patrol speeding down the Pacific Coast Highway with a model in the passenger seat. 

He’d been stopped by a cop as he attempted to pump gas, some asshole photographer seizing the opportunity to swoop in on the interaction and hurl all sorts of insulting names at his date. Dieter lost his patience, blowing past the cop to shove the paparazzo to the ground, shattering his camera in the process. He was arrested that evening on five charges - assault and battery, destruction of property, drunk and disorderly conduct, assault of an officer (come on) and, thanks to a thorough search of his car, possession with intent to distribute.

As his smug-faced mugshot circulated the tabloids, it eclipsed the glossy editorial photos that the brand had invested millions in. The extravagant campaign was reduced to a joke, its over-the-top glamour juxtaposed with candid snapshots of Dieter’s angry face shouting at the photographer.

Unbelievably, the brand hadn’t thrown him out then and there. He almost wished they had - he preferred the couple of nights he spent in jail to the following days spent in meetings, his team arguing with Elysium over their ability to sway this and use his reputation to their advantage. Ultimately, they maintained his status as a face of their brand as well as his 6 million dollar contract, with the stipulation that he shoot another campaign and make himself available for any event, launch or party the brand requested for the next year.

Being asked to party in exchange for six million dollars was a sweet deal - he understood that - but the reality of being a cosmetics brand’s puppet meant that he ended up at the same fucking parties week in and week out, always babysat by an appointed employee of the brand or, failing that, someone on his payroll.

Tonight was particularly torturous. The tabloids had latched onto the whispers of his crumbling marriage - rumors that were, fortunately or unfortunately, completely legitimate. Heidi was meant to be the one to tie him down, set him straight, clean him up. Their wedding photos looked like a fucking editorial, glossy photos ran with headlines predicting their domestic bliss. But a year and a half, a relapse, a DUI, and a string of affairs - all on his part - had shattered those illusions.

Last week, Dieter returned home from a 3-day bender to Heidi’s mother on the landing at the top of his stairs. She was screaming and hurling the contents of his closet at him, plus whatever else was within arms reach. Heidi, her once-bright eyes now dull with tears, cowered in a doorway behind her mother, slamming the door behind her when he called out in an attempt to reason with her. Her mom located his Oscar, hurling it towards his head with a warning to leave the house before she called the cops. He’d ducked just in time to avoid the statue concussing him, it instead crashing through the glass window of the door behind him.

The stories spread like wildfire, his team scrambling to reshape the narrative, casting Heidi as the cold, unfeeling spouse who couldn't handle his demons. They painted her as the villain, accusing her of rejecting him for his vices - after all, she knew who she married - all the while conveniently forgetting that she had stood by him through more than most people would be able to tolerate. It was an angle he wasn’t happy with; He may have been hedonistic but he wasn’t cruel. In the interest of giving her space and avoiding any additional negative attention sent her way, he moved out. He kept an apartment closer to town, and staying there made it that much easier to avoid any reminders of his failures.

The word on the poor, dejected husband had spread, causing every asshole he ran into tonight to look at him with the same pathetic, sympathetic expression. He resented their pity. He resented this party, this club, his obligation to be seen holding some stupid bottle of cologne in order to maintain his career. The four whiskies he'd downed had done little to numb him from it, and even the lines he'd snorted on the way over had failed to dull the edges of this evening.

You’d stumbled in about an hour ago, perching yourself in the booth across from his own. Your eyelids were heavy in a familiar way, his dirtbag instincts making him suspect you’ve popped a painkiller in addition to whatever you’ve been drinking. A group of giggly, hungry hangers-on swarmed around your table like flies, posing for pictures and parting only to let bottle service in and out.

Dieter knew you - or at least, he knew of you. The cute little starlet who always popped up next to him in the tabloids. He’d seen you in enough movies and on enough billboards to recognize your face, and he’d lurked around clubs like this often enough to have seen you before. Before you’d walked in, he’d resigned himself to an armchair as far back in the VIP section as he could find, determined to wait out the evening before bringing home whatever model ended up in his car. The whiskey he’d been drinking was only just beginning to kick in and he didn’t fight it, leaning back and willing the time to pass faster. But you… you were interesting.

Your gorgeous legs were stretched out along the booth, climbing up to the hem of your dress, a pink silky thing he imagined he could tear off of you with the smallest amount of force. Glossy lips pouted at your phone, eyebrows furrowed in a sweet little frustrated expression. When you looked up he didn’t look away - he kept his eyes trained on you as you looked around the room. You were looking for someone, obviously restless. A boyfriend? The thought twisted at his stomach uncomfortably and he willed himself to stop watching you, putting his glass to his mouth and draining it with a single swallow.

“Bravo!” a voice bellowed from his left, snapping him out of it. Clint - some hack from Elysium Fragrances and tonight’s designated narc waved enthusiastically from the booth next to him. “You gonna sit there and fuckin’ mope all night, bro?”

Fuck this guy. Like most of his brand-approved chaperones, he was content to accept the babysitting opportunity and spend the evening running up Dieter’s tab and shamelessly hitting on the girls at his table. The least he could do would be to leave him the fuck alone.

His attention returned to you when he heard a commotion from your direction. There you were, knees buckled, held at your elbow by one of the guys surrounding your booth. A couple of cell phone cameras lift and snap photos behind you as you attempt to compose yourself. He can’t take his eyes off of you as you stand back up, adjusting yourself, your little dress riding up for just a moment before you smooth it back into place.

The bottle he’d finished had begun to cloud his vision, so it took him a moment to realize you were stumbling towards him, your plush lips slightly parted as you swung a bottle of tequila at your side. Despite the haze, your smile was unmistakable as you arrived at his chair. When you held up the bottle with a subtle lift of your eyebrow, he nodded in agreement.

He wasn’t entirely sure if you climbed into his lap or if you simply floated there, an ethereal presence that captivated his senses. You were such a gorgeous little thing, soft legs draping over him effortlessly, while your electric fingertips traced delicate patterns along his arms.

“Where’ve I met you before?” You slurred, fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt as you settled in his lap.

You were fucked up. If it wasn’t obvious before, it was now. Good - he was, too. His plan had been to leave, get one of the models at his table to come home and roll over for him without much effort, but passing the evening with someone in his same state of mind would spare him from having another dull fucking conversation tonight. Plus, you were so pretty, big black pupils dilated and fixed on him beneath the lazy black fan of your eyelashes.

“You tell me,” he answered, running his finger along the rim of his glass.

Did you know who he was? He goes along with your guesses as to where you’d met before. Miami, London, the Met, whatever you said, as long as you didn’t piece together that you know him from a TV show that aired when you were still in middle school.

Music blasted through the speakers surrounding you, strobe lights flashing and highlighting flecks of glitter on your shoulders. He lifted his hand to run his finger along the thin strap of your dress as you lifted the bottle up between you and raised your eyebrows in question. He nodded, holding up his empty whiskey glass. 

“Glastonbury?” You asked as you filled his glass. 

“That must be it,” he agreed, knowing he hadn’t been to Glastonbury since 1995, and clinked his glass against your bottle. He watched as you took a long draw from the mouth and could see the grimace you were holding back as you squinted, your throat bobbing as you swallowed. He followed your lead, emptying his glass in three big gulps. Your eyes flitted over momentarily to the group he came with, crowded around the booth to his left, then back to him.

“You alone?” You asked him, glossy lips smirking.

“Just like you.”

You let out a knowing chuckle and leaned in closer to him, tequila and lime and smoke on your breath as it mingled with his own. The way you dragged your lower lip through your teeth had his cock twitching, the combination of the chemicals in his system and you purring in his lap like a kitten destroying any shred of inhibition he had left. 

There’s an acknowledgment between people like you and Dieter. It’s one of those things that doesn’t lend itself to description, but he knew it when he saw it - in the mirror, in friends and acquaintances and enemies, in blown-up photographs on the covers of tabloids, suicides and DUIs announced in newsstands. Raw nerves covered in glitter, celebrity or civilian, death drives winning over life drives every time. He saw it in your dilated pupils and the way your thighs were rubbing together, the silk of your dress doing nothing to hide it. You’re like him, too, and most importantly, you know better than to ask why.

His hand cupped your face before he realized he’d done it and he closed the space between you, your lips soft against his the next sensation he was aware of. You tasted good, and he wanted more right away, deepening the kiss and digging his fingers into your thigh forcefully. He ran his tongue along the seam of your mouth, his own lips going numb as he licked into yours. He pulled you up to straddle him and you moved easily, hips lowering onto him immediately and settling, the lace of your panties brushing up against the thin fabric of his pants. His mouth trailed to your ear, worrying your earlobe between his teeth and guiding your hips to roll against his crotch again and again.

“You don’t give a fuck, do you?” He said, his voice low and hoarse in your ear. He knew you had the attention of his group and your own, not to mention anyone else who happened to look over, but it didn’t seem to matter to you. He knew you’d been in trouble lately - the same limelight, coming-of-age growing pains he’d been through himself several years ago - and his own instincts threatened to kick in and shield you from the excess attention. 

You laughed with a shake of your head, tossing your hair over your shoulder and, without looking away from him, lifted his hand from your thigh to your lips, dragging your tongue across the length of his index finger and popping it into your mouth.

Oh, you were fun. You were already making him hard, and he knew you could feel it as you grinded into him again and again, letting his finger drop from your mouth when he pressed his lips back to yours. He needed to be careful - the linen lounge pants he’d thrown on to come here would betray nothing if you kept it up much longer.

It’s a noticeable absence when you hum and pull away from the kiss, the urge for more of you rolling over him and causing his fingers to dig into your thighs possessively.

“Do you have anything… funner?” You asked, big, blown out eyes pleading as you lifted the tequila bottle up again. Aha. It just so happened he did - a baggie of coke he’d brought along just in case sat in his pocket, along with two tabs of acid. It didn’t seem like that kind of night, though, at least not yet. He’d stick with the coke.

“I might have something,” he replied, a genuine smirk spreading across his face for the first time that evening. He sat up straight, smacking your ass and biting your jawline at the same time, the yelp it pulled from you quickly transforming into a wild giggle and sending a rush of blood to his cock as he peppered kisses and bites down your neck to your collarbone. 

Quickly, he helped you to your feet and guided you through the crowded room, following you across the floor, his index finger linked with your pinky, prying eyes and pointing fingers meaningless to the both of you. You may have been stumbling, but you were confident. Or at least not at all concerned. A camera phone at the bar flashed and Dieter instinctively ducked his head, moving a hand to your hip to rush you forward and out of sight. 

Tucking into a hallway at the back of the club, he kicked a door open and hurried you inside a small, dark room. It was clearly an employee restroom, high piles of backstocked paper towels and toilet paper toppling over when he pushed you up against the wall harshly, his hands cupping your face, the cool metal of his rings pressed against your cheek.

He pulled a pink baggie out of his shirt pocket, opened it and tapped a bump of white powder out onto the skin between his thumb and index finger. He held it up to your nose and, without any question about what it was, where he got it or if he’d already tried it, you’d inhaled, one hand holding his steady while the other held your nostril closed. 

Fucking finally. Your head lit up immediately with euphoria and relief as the amphetamines rushed through your system and you melted against Dieter as he lifted you to perch you on a stack of cardboard boxes. 

You let him move you like a rag doll, smiling as he propped you back and tapped out two more bumps onto your chest and snorted them, running your fingers through his messy curls as he dragged his tongue along your cleavage, licking up what was left.

His lips found yours again, and the pungent taste of the powder on his tongue mingling with his taste drew you in closer. Looping your arm around his neck, your free hand clutched his bicep. The acrid taste turned pleasantly tingly on your tongue, a numbness spreading as it explored his mouth.

“Here, baby,” he urged, breaking the kiss breathlessly, and you hummed in response as he tapped out another bump on the back of his hand. You inhaled it again, then he used his finger to gather the remnants of the powder. Cupping your cheek firmly, your jaw relaxed under his touch as he rubbed the excess powder into your gums. You reacted instantly, closing your eyes and drawing his finger deeper into your mouth, succumbing to the rush of sensation.

He groaned in approval, your lips already open when he kissed you again, drawing him in for more, thighs parting to wrap your legs around him. The flimsy strap of your dress fell off your shoulder, the fabric across your chest following shortly after.

Blissfully content with the relief of the chemicals rushing into your bloodstream for the first time today, you went numb, rolling your head back and watching patterns dance behind your eyelids. You allowed Dieter to touch and move you at his will, his hands skillfully brushing the other strap of your dress off your shoulder, exposing your chest completely. A throaty moan escaped him at the sight, the gentle sway of your breasts moving with the rhythm of the rough push of his hips into yours. He drew you closer, his lips finding purchase on your skin. Roughly latching onto you, he drew your breast into his mouth, his tongue drawing circles around the peak of your nipple before switching to the other side of your chest.

Sparks shot down your spine and your mind went blank for a second, lost in the feeling of him against you, the synapses in your brain firing and lighting up. You snapped back into the moment when you felt him grasp your hand with his own, his fingers intertwined with yours. He guided you down to press your hand into his crotch, grinding the firm length of himself into your hold again and again. 

A soft moan escaped your lips, surrendering to the warmth and pressure of his body against yours. You tightened your grip around his neck, allowing yourself to fully yield to his control, your body pliant and responsive to his every move.

You’d fuck him, you figured, as you moved against him. He was good looking - now that you were feeling a little less edgy, you could appreciate it. Corinne would kill you if word got out, but he seemed like someone who knew a thing or two about discretion. He stiffened even more as he firmly thrusted into the cradle of your hand and you cupped your fingers around his length, the soft fabric of his pants allowing you to feel him completely. You walked your fingers up to his waistband, nails dipping under the fabric and pulling at it slightly. You’d go home with him. Whatever. You’d bring Natalie with you and you could leave by morning. He probably wouldn’t even notice a missing gram or two.

You followed the thought as he trailed kisses up your chest and neck, finally settling at your ear. His hand rose up your thigh, thick fingers dragging along the lace fabric at your center. The bundle of nerves there erupted at his touch and your thighs instinctively squeezed around him.

“Let me taste you, baby, please,” He growled just above a whisper into your ear. You arched your back into his arms, moaning and nodding in agreement, the cool porcelain of the sink underneath you causing your skin to goosebump as your dress rode up further. You opened your eyes, peeking at the chestnut brown curls, the color blending into the dark room surrounding you. Your eyelids felt heavy, and you fought to keep them open, wanting to stay present with him. But the warmth of his breath against your skin and the gentle touch of his fingers on your cheeks were lulling you somewhere else. You felt like you were floating, your vision blurred at the edges and you fluttered your eyes shut again, feeling his fingers curl around the waistband of your panties and stall there for a moment. 

Your fading in and out like that threatened to spook him away. You couldn’t be too fucked up. He lightly tapped your cheeks a couple of times, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Stay with me, baby," he whispered urgently. "Gotta hear you say it."

“Mmmm,” Dazed, faraway eyes looked up at him, your blown-out pupils mirroring his own. You nodded again, dragging your teeth along your bottom lip. Your pulse raced between your legs, and you felt your hips moving towards him, trying to ride something that wasn’t there yet. “Do it, Dieter, please.”

There we go. He smirked, lifting you from the stack of boxes to push you up against the wall and sinking to his knees. He bunched up the fabric of your dress at your hips, roughly pulling your panties down your legs, the black fabric hanging loosely at one ankle as he lifted your leg to hang over his shoulder.

You shrieked when he slid his tongue through your folds, your knee buckling when he repeated the motion, his strong hands moving up to your hips to support you. His tongue pushed wide against you, him tasting and exploring you as his fingers dug into your hips with bruising force.

He felt fucking amazing. You typically hated when men touched you, especially when you were high, but he felt incredible. You’d give him anything. Despite your rapidly dulling senses, the feeling of his tongue working your clit back and forth was at the front of your mind. He pushed his tongue wide against you again and again, fucking two thick fingers up into you without warning. 

You gasped, your mouth opening wide as you root your fingers into his hair to ground yourself. He wanted to wreck you completely, to smear the dark makeup around your eyes and watch that glossy mouth of yours stretch around his cock. His lips locked around your clit, and as the blood rushed to the bundle of nerves there you threw your head back, chest heaving, loud, wretched moans spilling from your throat.

With your senses dulled, he knew it’d take a little more to send you over the edge. A third finger pushed into you with a stretch, starting slow and working up to get in and out of your tight, soaked cunt. You moved your hips to match his rhythm, your pace hiccuping as he began working you faster and faster, working your clit between his teeth with a pinch.

Your moans were frantic, hitching higher and higher as he confidently worked you towards an orgasm, your surroundings blurring and swirling around you. 

THUD, THUD, THUD. Just as you neared your release, a loud pounding at the door shattered the moment.

He groaned in frustration, pausing briefly before attempting to resume. You struggled to regain your focus, your chest heaving with heavy breaths, nerves coiled tightly at your core.

The knock was followed by a muffled argument and the clanking of keys from the other side of the door. Reluctantly, Dieter's head emerged from between your thighs.

“Fucking assholes,” Dieter grumbled in frustration as he stood up, moving the straps of your dress back up your shoulders and quickly adjusting himself. You steadied yourself with a hand on his shoulder as you pulled your panties back up, frustration pounding angrily between your legs.

“Find me, alright?” He breathed, smoothing out your dress, his hand lingering on your ass and eyes slowly moving up your body. “I’ll take you home.”

You nodded as the door was thrown open, the bright, white light of a flashlight shining into the small room. You stood up straight, quickly fixing your hair in the mirror and sneakily grabbing the small, plastic baggie Dieter left on the counter, hiding it in your fist behind your back.

“Let’s go. Knock this shit off,” a voice bellowed from behind the light, which darted back and forth between you and Dieter. “We’re not doing this in my fucking club, get the fuck out, let’s go!”

“What the fuck is this?” Dieter asks, moving to stand in front of you and block you from the bright light.

“I’m sorry, man, I tried to stop him,” Another voice followed from outside the room. You squinted and peeked over Dieter’s shoulder, annoyance showing on your face. A large bald man in a suit held the flashlight and to his right was the small, douchey-looking guy you recognized from Dieter’s booth. Natalie’s head popped up behind the both of them, looking relieved to have found you.

“You’re not doing drugs on my floor and fucking little girls in my bathroom. That’s it, Bravo. Get the fuck out of here, let’s go,” the angry man repeated. Dieter raised his hands and murmured an apology to you as he shuffled out, one hand poised defensively in front of his face. He pushed out of the room past Natalie, her brows furrowed at him in confusion as he passed. His counterpart flocked to his side, immediately rushing into what sounded like a flurry of explanations and reassurances. Natalie slid into the room smoothly, wrapping an arm around you to usher you out. You stumbled at her side, annoyed and disoriented.

“I’m TWENTY-TWO, ASSHOLE!” You screamed at the man with the flashlight, attempting to shove him with your balled-up fists. He raised his eyebrows, bald head wrinkling and frown deepening. Natalie pulled you away from him quickly and you could hear her apologize behind you. “Don’t tell’um sorry, Nat, ’m not fucking sorry, I was in the fucking bathroom!” you slurred, your voice disjointedly raising and lowering in pitch.

“C’mon, babe, let’s go,” Natalie urged you.

“Yeah, ’s get the fuck outta here,” you agreed, stumbling as she shepherded you out. She handed you your purse and you quickly shoved your hand inside, dropping the half-empty baggie into the side pocket. One or two flashing lights from the crowd gathered at the bar stole your attention for a moment, but it quickly returned to the big, bald, interrupting gorilla with the flashlight. “This place SUCKS!” you screamed as you began to turn back towards him, leashed by Natalie’s grip around your arm.

“Let’s go,” she repeated firmly. You followed her through the crowded bar, stomping across the floor and ignoring the unending stream of heads turning towards you. The two of you shoved out the heavy metal doors of the club, clicking and flashbulbs immediately erupting around you as the cool evening air breezed across your skin. Your name was shouted from your left and right as Natalie dug in her bag for the valet ticket.

“Having fun tonight?” A photographer asked. You rolled your eyes. “Alright, over here, honey,” the same voice continued. With a resigned sigh, you turned to offer a practiced pose, your mind ticking through your media training despite how fucking annoyed you were. Stumbling a couple of times as you attempted to maintain your balance, you moved through a lazy pose or two. You knew the routine - let them get their shot and maybe they'll back off. 

“Partying tonight?” Another voice interjected. Moron.

Natalie finally located the ticket and the valet handed the keys over immediately, your car already parked and waiting curbside. Impulsively, you decided you’d drive, intercepting the keys before Natalie could take them and nearly smacking them out of the attendant’s hand before stumbling towards the vehicle.

“She’s not getting in the driver’s seat. No way,” reasons the voice of a man with a video camera to your left. “There’s no way!”

Another blinding eruption of flashing lights emerged around you. You stared down at your feet as you stumbled forward, trying to see where you were walking through the relentless assault of flashbulbs. Natalie called out your name from behind you. You struggled a couple of times with the handle before throwing the car door open heavily.

“Hey, you can’t drive, honey,” Another voice called out. You rolled your eyes.

You climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut, exhaling loudly as the noise of the chaos surrounding you finally muffled. Flashing lights continued, your windshield now completely blocked by cameras. The volume raised again for a moment, a cacophony of voices and camera clicks, as Natalie scrambled into the passenger seat beside you.

“Are these people serious,” you asked, angling your head in towards Natalie and shielding your eyes from the barrage of flashbulbs pointed at you, frustration mounting with each flash. “How’m I supposta drive when they’re fucking blocking me?”

“Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t.” Natalie said, concern in her voice. “Let me, okay?”

You shook your head adamantly. “’M not going back out there.”

“So climb over,” She suggested.

“Not in this!”

Natalie let out an exasperated sigh, her fingers tapping anxiously on her thighs.

“Hey, since when do you know Dieter Bravo?” She asks, momentarily changing the subject.

“Who? Oh,” you replied, the question registering with you once you answered. The reminder of him sent your attention between your legs and you shifted slightly in your seat. “I dunno. I know’hm from an awards thing.” You offered. It was an unconvincing lie, but Natalie didn’t fight you on it.

“He’s so random,” she laughed. “I can’t believe you hooked up with him. I think my older sister had a poster of him in high school. Right next to River Phoenix.”

“Whatever,” you huffed, everything about this evening now pissing you off.  The incessant clicking of the paparazzi's cameras only added fuel to the fire, and you narrowed your eyes in irritation, slamming your hand down on the horn for a solid ten seconds in a futile attempt to disperse them.

“MOVE!” you yelled, only inciting more flashing lights.

“Let me drive, babe,” Natalie tried again.

“Oh, my god, fuck this,” you snapped, frustration finally boiling over. With your hand still shielding your eyes, you shifted the car into drive. “You're my eyes now.”

“What?! No!” She replied, her voice rising in panic.

“Be my eyes. I’m going.” You repeated. Very slowly, you eased your foot off the brake, the car beginning to inch forward. Voices clamored outside the vehicle.

“Oh my god, um, okay. Go slow. Turn left. Slow!” Natalie began to guide you. The crowd cautiously parted around the car, photographers scrambling to avoid being flattened while still unwilling to sacrifice this shot. “Oh my god, this is so stupid. Slow, slow, slow.”

“They’re fuckin’ stupid! What am I supposed to do?”

“No, yeah, okay, just slow, keep going left.” Natalie's voice trembled slightly as she continued to navigate. The relentless barrage of flashing lights illuminated the interior of the car, casting everything in stark, blinding brightness. “Okay, cut it! Cut it and keep going straight.”

You cut the wheel to the right and straighten it out, cautiously peeking through the gaps in your fingers to confirm you'd cleared the throng of photographers.

“Haha!” you exclaimed, your laughter echoing through the tense air as you slammed the gas pedal to the floor once the street ahead is clear. With a screech of tires, you peel off into the night, Natalie's nervous chuckles mingling with your own laughter. “Bye, assholes!”

You rocketed down Highland with reckless abandon. A couple of familiar vehicles creeped up behind you - regular photographers who paid their bills by stalking you. The driver to the left’s hand hung out the window, a digital camera pointed squarely at you. The light was yellow at the intersection in front of you and you smirked, not letting up on the gas and rolling your window down to flip off the camera as you raced through the intersection just as the light turned red.

“Slow down!” Natalie yelled, panicked, her hand clutching the door handle in a white-knuckled grip. “What is your problem?”

“My problem?! These guys are the ones with the problem,” you fired back, your tone frustrated. “I can’t do anything without getting fucking cornered!” Your car veered dangerously across the yellow lines and Natalie yelped. You overcorrected, the vehicle lurching back into its lane just in time to avoid a collision with an oncoming car, its horn blaring in warning. Natalie’s body stiffened further in her seat as you took a wide right turn onto Sunset. You turn on the radio, a Rihanna song picking up midway through.

“Did he give you something?” she shouted, her tone urgent. You furrowed your brow, shooting her a confused look. “Dieter,” she clarified.

“Oh, right!” you exclaimed, mood shifting as you suddenly remembered the baggie tucked in your purse. “Look what I got us!” You reached for your bag on the passenger floorboard, swerving again. Natalie lunged across the seat, her hands fumbling for the wheel to correct your course, while a chorus of horns blared from the vehicles behind you. Finally retrieving your purse, you fished out the baggie from the side pocket and held it up between your fingers for Natalie to inspect. She grabbed it from you quickly, examining it in her lap.

“What is it?” She asked. You shrugged.

“Coke, I think. Shit, hold on,” you floored the gas to race through another newly red light.

“Stop!” Natalie shrieked. “This is so fucking stupid, dude, let me drive!”

“Jesus, Nat, fine,” you groan, slamming on the brakes. You both jolted forward as the car came to a stop in the middle of the road. “You wanna drive so bad, fine.”

You unlocked the car doors, opening yours slightly and reaching down to unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Are you serious?” She scoffed, disbelief etched across her features as she surveyed the chaotic scene unfolding around you. You nodded in affirmation, a defiant smirk playing on your lips. “You’re such a bitch.”

With a surge of stubborn adrenaline, you stormed out onto Sunset Boulevard, Natalie following suit. The gray Honda belonging to one of the persistent photographers tailed you, coming to a halt beside you as the driver scrambled out, camera at the ready.

“LEAVE ME ALONE” you shouted. “I gave you your shot at the club, I’ve been nice to you guys, what more do you want?!”

You considered what it would take to get him to go away. Words weren’t working. Should you kick his car? Throw something? You began to stumble towards him, interrupted by Natalie yelling your name again. You turned around to see Natalie standing in the street, gaze fixed on the intersection ahead. Your car - which you apparently failed to put into park - was rolling into the intersection on its own. 

With a frantic surge of panic, you and Natalie sprinted after the runaway vehicle, the strobe of camera flashes behind you incessant. Arms flailing, you both desperately signaled to other drivers to stop, your heels clattering against the pavement as you raced towards the car.

As the car veered left, you were powerless to stop it from crashing into a parked BMW at the corner. Rushing to catch up, you flung yourself into the open driver's door, slamming on the brakes and throwing the gear into reverse. You leaned across the cab to fling the passenger door wide open.

“Come on!” You shouted at Natalie as she climbed back into the car. With a tense exhale, you navigated the car backward, turning wide in the intersection before screeching forward.

Your mind was completely clear with pure adrenaline. You were only a few blocks away from the hotel now, the castle-shaped outline shrouded in trees just ahead on your right. You floored it, a tense silence hanging in the car, both you and Natalie’s eyes locked forward on the road in front of you.

Only slowing down to make a right turn into the hotel driveway, you didn’t bother waiting for the valet. Tossing your keys onto the driver’s seat, you left the door ajar as you stormed through the garage toward your room, ready to put this evening behind you.

[kiennilove]

ART TAG

thanks to @doshiart for tagging me! so excited <3

How did you start drawing? What year was it that you become more seriously and consciously interested in it?

i don’t really remember, but for some reason drawing was an activity that interested me the most?? i’m not counting playing with toys and imagining things, but it’s about creating something from scratch. one time i made paper dolls, wrote a short scenario (very poorly lol) and kinda made a theatrical play in my head with all of this??

spoiler: in 2021 i’ve made an actual play with my best friend, who’s also an artist, with great paper dolls and a great scenario! it was for a college exam, we got the highest score. :3

i started taking it all seriously in 2014, when i went to my first art school. it was small, literally one room, and there were lots of other classes in the same building, like singing, dancing (i did that too at some point), etc. then i moved to the bigger one, that was solely for arts, but i didn’t make it past the first year due to health reasons. so somewhere in the mid-10s.

When you felt the urge to share your art with other people? When did you start posting your drawings on social media?

when i saw other people around me doing it. it was 2014 when i first shared my art online (got a lot of hate because it looked bad lol), and then it was 2016 when i made my first tumblr acc and posted some anime art with some consistency. now i post here and on another platform, just duplicating the content lol

Your first/earliest drawing. What were your impressions of it back then and what are your feelings now?

i tried to find pictures of these first paper dolls but couldn’t, fuck, so here we have…

some OC i did in 2014, i don’t even remember the name anymore :/

i did this after i watched my first anime 😭😭😭 i made this picture back then too, at my iphone 4, don’t judge me

i was proud as fuck because look he has ✨cool hair✨ and it’s a ✨full body✨ but no hands ofc lol

i mean, it looked great for me back then, so i haven’t change my thoughts about it lol i also have no idea what i wrote in the upper corner, i used google translate 😭😭😭

Your first fanart ever

also couldn’t find it, it was jeff the killer fanart, also somewhere from 2014 😭 but! here i have my first digital fanart… 😭😭😭 i spend i think 6 hours to draw this, i didn’t know about layers or anything really so here it is lol

Your first gallavich fanart

holy shit, it’s from may 2022! old habits never die, 7x10 is always in my heart

When you had bad days and things didn't work out, what inspired you to keep trying?

nothing, actually. if i will try to find any inspiration, i will get angry and irritated as fuck because nothing’s working out SO i’ll relax and go play brawl stars 😎

Show your old piece that you strongly dislike and tell why.

this… spend too much time on it just to realize it wasn’t that good as i imagined, the dress look like it was made out of cardboard, i don’t know, it just… doesn’t work. i had worse, yeah, but i have a soft spot for them. this one should be somewhere from 2018

HONORABLE MENTIONS TO THIS PIECE OF SHIT. IT WAS FUCKING 2019, WHY THE FUCK DID I RANDOMLY START TO DRAW LIKE THIS??? just for comparison, picture underneath is from 2019 TOO.

Show your old piece that you very like and tell why. What's the difference with the previous?

let’s go with this, it was 2017 :3

soft, cute, an attempt to do a new art style. i don’t know, theis pictures seem cozy!

Show your old piece that you were very proud of back then.

ACE ATTORNEYYYY >:333

both are somewhere in 2020-2021

fuck, i love ace attorney

Do you do any practice sketches or warm-ups before you draw something big?

mmm not really, only a quick sketch with some guidelines so at the beginning my pictures look like this

(yes, this is ian filming mickey while mick is giving him a bj)

Sketch vs Final. Show your process.

damn should’ve kept mickey’s face lol

Your most recent drawing.

can’t show the most recent one, it’s for an event, but this one is the only finished one FOR NOW, but i also have this little piece here, idk if i will finish it (aaand i forgot mickey’s tattoos)

Give yourself some praise! Look at what improved in your art!

literally YOU GO GIRL!!! KEEP DRAWING NO MATTER WHAT!! i improved as fuck, went through a lot of shit and breakdowns but here i am, being confident and loved by other people and, most importantly, artist who have a much higher skill! i love that. i did great

Any advice you'd give to your earlier self?

just keep going. don’t be shy and don’t erase everything is one small thing is wrong. don’t start an arguments when somebody says “i’m better at art that you!!”. and, maybe, use a hard drive to save shit-

Set a goal for yourself for the coming year.

i want toooooo… i don’t know! i want to try line-less art style, get into more challenges, etc, everything i can :3 and maybe open commissions

aaand i’m tagging… come on, show us your secrets, don’t be shy 😈

@deathclassic @spookygingerr @gallapiech @heymrspatel

@deedala @burninface @vintagelacerosette

[chibishortdeath]

Free will strikes again, these were some really fun doodles :3. I think Simon is allowed to be a little visual kei sometimes. Idk I just know he’d vibe with it. Explanations under a cut—

And also a couple unfinished doodles that were just intended to be rough pose/anatomy practice sketches, but ended up accidentally more detailed than intended 💀💀💀. It’s nothing graphic, but ⚠️slight artistic nudity warning⚠️ anyway in case d(>_< ).

Hehehe, this is based off of a photo from Malice Mizer live, it’s Simon in place of Mana and Fuma in place of Gackt. Very fun pose to draw!!! Especially cause it’s a pose with a whip and also cause idk why but I find poses with one or both arms up pretty easy to draw. And yeah yay, Fuma inclusion yippie :3!

I don’t have any other explanation for why this exists other than dresses are cool. So I made him one :D. The coord has a half caplet that connects to a shoulder paldron on the other shoulder by chain with a little cross. Under that there’s a blouse and skirt combo with patterns similar to his SQ armor and some rose thorn patterns around the ends of the sleeves and collar. Over that is a corset and under is a cage crinoline made to look like crosses peaking around the edge. Shoes carry outfit motifs like the roses on the bow tie and headdress and the lace throughout. Also, an eyepatch with cross on it because yeah, cute :3. I’d probably wear this if I had uh any skill in sewing at all (TwT ).

A not chibi version of the above outfit! Except probably without the crinoline with how the skirt fabric is sitting lol. Tbh I think Simon would probably be fine with this for a little bit and then get uncomfortable about having so many layers on. I don’t think he’d like tights at all 💀💀💀💀💀💀💀. Hmmm I’ll have to draw a version of it that’d be more comfortable for him hmm maybe tomorrow.

Another Simon holding Dracula’s heart artwork. Shout out to how this guy just carries this thing around for so long lol.

Simon facing off against his worst enemy: stairs! This one was practice drawing characters in backgrounds, since I’m so rusty at actually drawing those two things together (ToT ). I can draw a separate background fine, but the second I have to put someone in it I just completely forget what I’m doing XD.

This one is also a practice! He’s running up to the altar in Drac’s basement. The lighting was fun for this one, but I forgot to draw the whip in his hand 💀.

This one was an attempt at drawing a skeleton and keeping the same proportions in a drawing of someone (Simon) who is uh not a skeleton. Fun fact! It took me like 5 tries to get the skeleton to not just look like Papyrus Undertale cause holy heck do the skeletons from that game take a hold of some part of your art style and never let go 💀💀💀💀

CASTLEVANIA JUDGEMENT HAS HATS??? AS LIKE AN UNLOCKABLE?????????? So obviously I had to draw Simon (x2) with the bow options. Pink probs looks really nice with his hair tbh. And the striped bow was black and white so it fits with the Judgement design’s outfit. If I ever actually play this game again (I suck so bad at it), I’ll be trying to get these for the very important reason of Simon cute. :3

—

Ok now these two. The first one was a different attempt at that Mana pose, but a bigger scale and a bit less exaggerated. I ended up having to do a ton of edits to it cause I kept making things too big or too small lol. And the second one is just a couple dynamic posing practices. They’re also excuses to draw more arm up poses cause they’re fun X3. He was just supposed to have like a generic placeholder rectangle er um uh there, but some of the sketchy lines ended up looking like what’s supposed to be in that spot, so I just didn’t wanna risk these being on main tags out in the open 💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀. Though, tbh, I’ve seen more explicit things on the tags so eh, better safe than sorry tho (- w - )

[mentalknot]

What do you mean by “I could see the graph?”

I mean the above statement quite literally, and strongly believe it’s a quirk many neurodivergent individuals share.

The phenomenon is best described using an analogy to the social “intuition” neurotypical people feel when meeting someone, that 6th-sense that says “this person is good/bad/going through something.” It’s a type of intuition I will never understand, yet I find the idea of it beautiful.

My original model for the graph was built around motivation to model “language,” specifically any phrases (in the highest level of abstraction, genuinely anything you want a “phrase” to be) organized on the relation of “meaning.” Specifically, we say a phrase has “meaning” if we can describe that phrase in terms of another distinct phrase. Otherwise, we say the phrase is “meaningless,” which is somewhat of a phrase itself…

Now, it’s probably quite obvious why I keep this initial motivation hushed; I sound crazy, especially given the deviation from many syntactic models of language used for years. I have no intention to continue with that motivation. However, the abstraction I’d developed made sense to me, and eventually I realized that the best way to model such a relationship was with a rooted graph.

This is where the “intuition” part comes in, like an animation in my mind, I could build the thing up, remove edges, alter the recursive step, anything; it was my personal playground of abstraction.

I worked for weeks to truly understand and describe the structure I’d thought up. I ran to friends and advisors attempting to draw it and saying

“please tell me if I’m crazy so I can direct attention to my work.”

However, even with how admittedly scattered my initial explanation was at first, they didn’t discourage me; it was terrifying. I refused to believe that I’d truly thought of a novel graph purely in my head. But I fell in my core that this could be constructed.

And then, I wrote an algorithm in my Python, which I’ve now brought into more formal mathematical language, and it looked exactly how I’d imagined.

I have a million different questions about the basic graph theoretic properties of this object, captivated by the structure alone, although finding a “use” for this graph could be nice as well I suppose…

In summary, I did “see” the graph, my brain tends towards mathematical patterns way many tend toward social intuition. I find extreme abstraction quite comforting, and truly believe I’m not unique in this way.

I love math because it finally gives me language to explain my mind, but I was also lucky to have the right mentors. Many neurodivergent people believe they’ll fail at math because they are introduced to the field through pure computation, which feels unnatural to us.

I dream of a world where someone can develop an early course in mathematics for neurodivergent teens, so we can grow up loving the unique nature of our brains instead of constantly questioning our sanity.

Thank you for reading this long brain-dump, and enjoy a few variations of the graph :)

[swabsandcream]

A New Start [Part 3]

Detective Dick Grayson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Dick and Y/N have been assigned to conduct a stakeout for their robbery case, which leads to the two of them having to experience some unexpected events. 

Warnings: Mentions of violence, mentions of blood, swearing

It was roughly four-thirty in the morning. The sun hadn’t come up yet, and the streets of Downtown Detroit were remarkably quiet. The entire city was asleep, except for Y/N and Dick, who were sitting in an inconspicuous car right across the street from the suspected drop-off location, which was a storage unit. Y/N was not a morning person at all. In fact, she didn’t really have a chance to get any sleep after she left the station last night. Her conversation with Rodriguez about the Robin case caused her to draw an entirely different conclusion than she had before. A conclusion that involves her partner, who was sitting in the driver’s seat. They didn’t say much to each other since he picked her up from her apartment, making it a little awkward between the two of them as they panned their surroundings looking for anything suspicious. Y/N turned to look at Dick as he pulled something from the cooler he had in the backseat of the car.

“I can’t believe you brought an entire cooler to a stakeout. What did you even bring...beers? Any kind of liquor?”

“Well, if I knew you were an alcoholic, I would’ve brought more than a bunch of soft drinks.” Dick chuckled, watching Y/N roll her eyes at his remarks while he popped open a can of Vernors and took a sip.

“The hell is a Vernors? I never heard of that.” Y/N reached into the cooler and grabbed a cold can of Vernors, hesitant to try the new drink.

“Me neither until I got here. They definitely don’t sell these back in Gotham. It’s honestly not bad, try it.” Dick sat back in the seat, observing his partner’s reaction as she took a small sip of the carbonated beverage. 

She let out a loud belch shortly after, causing both of them to laugh hysterically. Then the car grew silent, and their eyes were locked onto one another just like the day before. Y/N couldn’t allow herself to get lost in the lustrous eyes of the man sitting next to her again, not after what she had learned during her secret investigation. 

“It’s funny you mentioned Gotham, because I’ve been thinking about how you and Robin are both from there.” Y/N was attentive to Dick’s actions as he immediately stopped looking at her, letting out a sigh of disappointment as he set his soda can down to bury his face in his hands. Ignoring his gestures, Y/N continued to push for a verbal response.

“And now both of you are here, of all places, at the same time. Isn’t that strange?” Dick raised his head out of his hands and looked over at Y/N, annoyed by the smug look on her face, like she has it all figured out. 

“Still not over the Robin thing huh? Hope you didn’t forget what I said yesterday Y/N. I do like you, but that doesn’t mean I won’t-”

“Report me to Nelson? Be my guest Dick, and I’ll be sure to tell him about how you’ve been working with Robin this entire time.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Tyler Hackett. Rodriguez told me all about it last night.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about Y/N.”

“I don’t huh? The main suspect in a child abuse case gets off easy, and you were fucking pissed about it considering the fact that you were hellbent on locking him up.”

“Y/N please-”

“Rodriguez said once Hackett was found not guilty you went on this big rant in front of everyone saying something along the lines of understanding why Batman and Robin do what they do. Then a week later, Hackett is in the hospital with life threatening injuries by Robin, coming all the way from Gotham. There have been several crimes taking place since then, and he hasn’t made another appearance since then.”

Dick was eerily silent, trying to process the fact that his fear had ultimately came true despite his meager attempt to keep her from pursuing this issue any further. She had most of it figured out, but the most important detail was left out of her theory, which gave Dick an opportunity to satisfy her hunger for the truth.

“Ok. You got me. Robin and I are...acquaintances. Back in Gotham I helped him keep tabs on criminals like the Joker and Scarecrow, and if I ever need a favor, I just gave him a call. I don’t like to call on him, but I couldn’t let Hackett get away with what he did to that little girl. Son of bitch better be lucky I...he didn’t kill him.” Dick was staring out the window as he told this strategic lie, avoiding eye contact with his partner in hopes to not get caught. “Despite what everyone’s saying, Robin’s not a bad guy. It seems like you’re one of the few people that actually understand that, so thank you.”

“No, thank you for telling me the truth. I promise I won’t tell anyone about it. Robin is great and all, but I admire how passionate you are about helping people, especially innocent kids.” Y/N reached out for Dick’s hand that was resting on the armrest and put her hand on top of his.

Dick looked down at their touching hands and back up at Y/N, who was glaring at him. Once again, they were caught in a moment of silence, but this time Dick wanted to take advantage of the opportunity. He slowly switched the position of their hands, putting his on top and slowly gliding his hand up and down her forearm. Y/N remained motionless, taking in the feeling of her partner's hands continuously stroking her left arm. Aroused by the tension, Dick decides to take it a step further by leaning toward his partner, being close enough to feel her quickened breathing on his face. Y/N's mind was screaming for her to retreat, but her body remained in place. Her lips parted slightly in preparation for what was about to happen next.

They both knew it was wrong to be doing this when they're supposed to be working, but the anticipation was much too high to dial it back now.

"We shouldn't." Y/N's voice was barely above a whisper.

"I know."

With that, the detectives were sent to an aura filled with pure, unadulterated bliss as their lips intertwined. Neither one of them had experienced a feeling like that in a very long time, allowing themselves to get lost in each other. Dick took his unoccupied hand and grabbed hold of her thigh, pulling her closer to him despite the obvious obstacle in between them. Y/N cupped his face with both of her hands, parting her lips wider to grant him entry with his tongue. The kiss grew more heated by the second, and Y/N had abandoned all hope of regaining self-control. She threw the leg he was grabbing over the armrest, preparing to get on top of him, and then a phone started ringing. The sound of Dick’s ringtone made Y/N pull away from his lips, retracting her leg and shifting back into her seat. Dick was yanked back into reality as he started patting himself to find his phone, which he eventually located in his back pocket. He read the caller ID and promptly answered.

“Hello? Yes, we’re here. Just play your part and don’t do anything stupid. If they sniff you out, you know what to do. Alright, bye.” Dick hung up the brief phone call and looked over at his partner, who was looking out the slightly fogged window, slumped in her seat with her arms folded.

“That was the informant I was telling you about. He just said that they’ll be here in a few minutes to meet a potential buyer for the jewelry.” He didn’t receive a response or any form of acknowledgment from his partner who remained in the same position. 

“Y/N? Did you hear what I just-”

“Loud and clear.” She said with a big sigh, avoiding eye contact with the man she just got done having a make out session with. She couldn’t belief how she just let herself lose control like that. After everything that happened between her and her last partner, not to mention she just met this guy two days ago. 

"Are you upset with me?" Dick's question didn’t receive an answer. "Listen, we clearly both like each other so there's no point of trying to hide it."

"Dick, you don't understand. My partner back in LA...he was more than just a work partner to me." Y/N finally turned her head away from the window, meeting eyes with Dick.

Now he understood why she was being so resistant towards him. She didn't want to get too involved with another partner in fear that she would end up losing him just like the last. Little did she know that her new partner was highly trained to deal with high-risk situations.

"So, you got a thing for detectives then?" His words caused Y/N to snicker, turning away from him with an eye roll. He brought her attention back to him once he grabbed her arm.

"You don't have to worry about me getting hurt or killed on the job. If anything comes up, I will handle it. I promise." He spoke in a very calm and reassuring tone with a smile, releasing his partner's arm in the process.

The moment between them was abruptly interrupted by the sight of a black SUV pulling into the parking lot of the storage unit. Dick swiftly grabbed the binoculars he had in the armrest and put it up to his eyes to focus on the site. Y/N prepared the earpieces connected to the wire the informant was wearing. She gave Dick one, and she had the other, both of them putting it on and watching as the scene unfolded right across the street from them.

"I really hope we can trust this guy. If he screws this up, we'll be fucked." Y/N's concerns were turned on deaf ears as Dick proceeded to watch the criminals begin to converse.

Three of them that came out of the SUV all at once. All dressed in black suits and ties, standing idle right in front of the storage unit. One of them was the informant, playing his part as Dick and Y/N listened to the group's conversation from a distance.

"So, the buyer's not here yet. They're all just standing out there waiting for them now." Dick serving as the commentator, while Y/N continues to look out the window.

"...wait. Something's not right." Y/N snapped her neck towards him.

"Dick what are you talking about?"

Dick put down his binoculars and quickly reached for his bag right next to the cooler. He rustled through the bag and pulled out a handgun, cocking it and handing it Y/N. Her heart started racing, confused about what was happening and starting to panic.

"Dick what the fuck is going on!?"

"It's a set up. They know we're here."

Before Dick could explain further, a black SUV pulled up a few spaces behind them and stopped. The doors opened, and five masked men with guns jumped out of the car and rushed towards them. Dick and Y/N quickly got out of the car, Y/N shooting at the men and taking cover in front of the car. She reached out for her partner, who was nowhere to be found.

"Dick!" She screamed in terror, afraid to move from her crouched position in front of the car. She couldn't see what was happening, but she heard a few gunshots and a lot of grunting. She had absolutely no clue what happened to her partner.

He's dead. They killed him. There's no way he could've made it. Maybe he ran away. He fucking left me here to die! What am I gonna do? Y/N's thoughts were running rampant while she remained crouched, holding the car for support. Then she realized she couldn't hear anything. No gunshots, no grunting, nothing. It was dead silent, then there were footsteps and heavy breathing. The sound grew louder in Y/N's direction, her state of panic intensifying as the footsteps got closer. By the time she could see the shoe of the person approaching her, she jumped up from in front of the car and shot the gun, completely missing her target.

"WHOA! Y/N, it's me! Don't shoot!" Dick held his hands up as if he were surrendering. Y/N's hands were violently shaking, her body frozen in place and tears flowing out of her eyes.

Dick slowly approached her until he could remove the gun from her hands, then brought her into his arms. She cried into her partner's huffing chest, relieved that he was alive but angry about him leaving her so suddenly. Then she realized that his shirt was wet, she opened her eyes and saw blood stains coating his shirt and a little bit on her face.

"What the fuck!" She stepped back from him, wiping her face off and getting a better look at him.

He had blood all over his shirt, and some splattered on his face. She looked over at the five men, who were all laid out on the ground, bloodied and lifeless. She was speechless by the sight, unable to comprehend how a detective was capable of taking on five armed men all at once without any kind of weapon. She looked across the street where the SUV was, but they had disappeared.

"Those guys at the storage unit were a decoy. My informant must've cut a deal with the guy behind all this." Dick’s demeanor was completely calm, despite his heavy breathing he has completely fine. Almost like it was another day on the job. Y/N thought she had him figured out, but quickly came to terms with the fact that she hadn’t.

"Are you Robin?"

"What?"

"Don't fuck with me Dick Grayson. I don't care if you know karate, taekwondo, or whatever. It was five on one, and you were completely unarmed."

"Not completely." Dick reached in his pocket and pulled out a bloody throwing star, carved into the letter 'R'. He handed it to Y/N, confirming her suspicions.

She didn't know how to feel about this revelation. There was so much to unpack, but the fact that she made out with the one and only Robin had taken over her train of thought. Dick stepped closer to her, closing the gap between them.

"Why did you lie to me?" Y/N looked up at his blood-stained face.

"I didn't want you to look at me differently. We both know that I've done some things that I'm not proud of, but I need you to know that I've always had the right intentions."

"I know Dick, and I trust you." She grabbed his hand, putting the throwing star into his palm and closing it for him. “The question is, do you trust me? Will you let me help you instead of you creeping around by yourself?” He snickered, smiling down at his partner in amusement.

“Of course. No going off on my own.” He said smoothly. With his face only inches away from Y/N’s, he decides to take the opportunity to kiss her once more. She cupped his face with her hands as they proceeded, until Dick broke away and looked over at the bodies again. 

“We should probably call this in huh?”

“Yeah, we should. But how exactly are we going to explain this?”

“We were under attack, I tried to stop them, and my badass partner took them out with the gun I gave her.” His fake explanation put a smile on Y/N’s face as they both stepped from in front of the car to get back inside. Once they got in the car, Dick called into the station about the bodies and drove off with Y/N by his side. With the two of them working together in the grimy streets of Detroit, there was nothing that could possibly stop them. 

~ Part 4? Maybe? ~

[ozwuv]

I love your art! So, I was wondering if you have any drawing tips you could give?

Hiii thank you so much for the kind words, I am really glad you like it!!! :’3

As far as tips, this is kind of a broad question that I think it varies widely in terms of how you want your art to look. Personally, my main priorities are fluidity and character interaction, so that’s what I focus on even though it means I don’t really draw elaborate backgrounds and such. I’m sure I could become better at other things if I tried, but I’m not a professional nor am I trying to be, so I just focus on what’s fun to me.

Putting the rest of this under a cut bc it's gonna be long

As for actual advice, I have three big rules which I think have helped me continue to enjoy drawing as long as I have, which is the most important thing to me. I started drawing as soon as I could hold a pencil, and it's been my main outlet for good and bad times throughout my whole life (I am 26 now). Other people liking what I draw is a treat, but as long as I have fun, that’s ultimately what matters to me. That said, please keep in mind I am speaking solely for myself here since everyone draws for different reasons and in different ways.

The first thing is avoiding perfectionism at all costs when drawing, because it sucks the fun out of the process and ruins the visual fluidity in whatever I’m working on. An example of this is that I don’t like to go back and revise lines I’ve already placed, because the more I try to polish them, the stiffer they look. Even in digital art I try to roll with mistakes instead of erasing, or just completely undo the line I placed and try again. 

The other thing is something I actually picked up from dog training which is arguably my biggest passion in life. There’s a common saying amongst dog trainers: No “one more time” — which essentially means that when find yourself thinking “one more time,” you need switch gears immediately and do something else because you have hit your frustration threshold and every attempt from then on will be frustrating & counterproductive for both you and the dog. 

This applies to pretty much every aspect of life for me, but it made a huuuge difference when I started to consider it within the context of drawing. If I just stop whatever I’m frustrated with and go back to it later, 99% of the time I can pinpoint exactly what bothered me and how I could have fixed it. I’m typically not the type to work on something over various sittings, so even if I don’t finish the picture I was working on after coming back to it, being able to pinpoint what went wrong about it is a lesson I can apply to whatever I work on next.

The third rule ties into the last one, which is just not pushing myself. If I’m not having fun with a drawing anymore, I’m not going to force it. If it’s not coming out the way I want it to, I’m not gonna push it. Any time I've pushed through frustration to finish something, I wound up disliking how it came out. This isn’t really realistic for someone who is a professional (or aiming to be), but for me who just likes drawing anime characters for fun, it’s perfect. Because of this, I haven’t dealt with constant art blocks like I used to. I definitely still have them, but they're usually brief and not distressing to me. I feel like I’ve kind of stagnated the past several years, but at the end of the day I have a blast when I draw and that’s all that matters to me!

There's a common sentiment that everybody hates/is embarrassed of the things they drew in the past or even right after finishing and/or posting them. But it doesn't have to be like that, and imo it shouldn't. I think that just means there are some things about one's process and mindset that need to be reflected on.

Hopefully that helps somewhat, but YMMV if your priorities are more in the vein of constant improvement and/or being a professional :] I know this was kind of an abstract response, so if anyone has specific questions feel free to ask lol

[peaches2217]

Genuine question (you don't really do this but I'm too scared to ask anyone else 😭) but when I see Mario and Luigi fanart/fanfics the artist/writer sometimes adds a disclaimer saying "NOT A SHIP" or "PURELY FAMILIAL" etc. Why? Everybody knows they are brothers, even people who barely know Super Mario series, nobody is thinking of it in any other way. Of course it is not a ship. It confuses me that they feel the need to defend themselves just because they are drawing two brothers being happy 😅 Sorry for bad English lol

Never apologize for “bad” English (though your English is perfectly fine)! Writing in a tongue that’s not yours by birth is hella awesome and more than most native English speakers would ever attempt. You’re golden! 💗

Sadly, you’d be surprised. There’s a shocking number of people who either 1.) ship them or 2.) think that any display of verbal or physical affection is indicative of romantic or sexual attraction, because they’ve got weird internalized holdovers regarding affection between siblings and/or affection between men. Just the other day (yesterday I think?) I got an anon suggesting that I stop writing Mareach fics because the Brothership trailer “proves who Mario loves more,” and while I’m not sure if they were suggesting that you can’t love more than one person at a time in any manner or if they’re suggesting Mario’s love for Luigi must be romantic/sexual in nature… you see where the holdovers come in.

I’ve seen perfectly innocent brotherly love art reblogged under the mariocest tag, and I’ve seen what LOOKS like wholesome brotherly love art, only to find that same artist has drawn them making out or, uh, going at it. So, sadly, such disclaimers do need to be made sometimes. Some people are just sick.

[tariah23]

Omgggg

Sksjsks I went onto my insta and saw that someone liked this… old Jolynes from like, 2015-17 or so that I never got to finish (they’re all on my old laptop… I will rescue my files one day… this was my old cartoony style. I’ve revamped it a LOT. It used to be so much more loose… I kind of wish that it still was because it made the style look more simplistic and free? I’ve always been a huge fan of simple art styles!) I remember making an attempt at drawing every canon Jolyne outfit that I could find (at least the official colored drawings, not the ones from the manga since that would’ve been too much for me. I have the Jojoveller (I bought the Jojoveller back when it first came out from Japan and paid like, almost $200 for it orz….. should’ve waited for the price drop lol. I have every JJBA artbook tbh. But that helped me track down most of the official Jolyne stuff. Not all but a lot of it!) I’d drawn up at least 20 outfits at this point. At least I think so? These were just some of them. Hopefully, I’ll be able to retrieve my drawings again… the faces that I used to draw on my old style used to be so ugly, sorry.

Here’s an example of this same style but revamped to now lol…

(Yuki wip…. The bodies have more standard anatomy but the hands are still blocky like??? The faces are prettier tho…. Has it lost a bit of personality? Maybe… I do like my new style tho… But could I still even call it a cartoony style, especially since it looks more anime than before :/…. Uh, I’m thinking too hard on this :(….)

Another example is this Rengoku… it’s a little diff from the Yuki one despite being the same cartoon like style? (Barely cartoon anymore…) I don’t usually draw the nostril slit for this style but I did so for Yuki since it just looked better… idk if I’m gonna start doing that or not, I’ve literally been driving myself insane over deciding if I want to start drawing nostrils or not… for this Rengoku, it’s definitely more accurate to the style that I was pushing for but hm….. Similar to these Makima’s…. I didn’t draw the nostril…

I like to keep the ears very simple in this style as well and again, look at Makima’s hands. They’re supposed to be blocky like this hehe. The Yuki wip is more of an improvement of this same style but I’ve been so all over the place with it… I feel so bad, omg. The most polished example that I could find immediately of the original cartoon style was of these Shinobu’s… see how round and free everything is!?

Don’t even get my started on the chibi styles…. I have a handful… because I’m indecisive. The Sukuna wips are from a new chibi style that I’ve been thinking about and I rly like it… The Kak/Oc chibi was for a commission that I had sm fun drawing for. I still like the style! I’ve always loved when artists left the pupils white for some reason? I wanted to do that, too! I forgot to color the lineart in the girls skirt lol….

This style with Sanemi and Uzui is rly cute to me as well… I will not be retiring it. I kind of hate the old chibi style with Josuyasu tho. Hideous to me. And overly complicated. I don’t really like chibi styles that have TOO much going on, especially if they’re not as cute since chibi’s are supposed to be cute. I said ugly but beauty in art is subjective sjsjs… if they’re pretty and cute than idc. So I technically have three chibi styles that I like.

Ohh actually, I have two other chibi styles….. fuck, I just don’t have any pics of them that I’ve uploaded, only saved as files. One isn’t really a serious style at all tho, they were for fun (experimental) and the chibi that you can see hanging in the corner of Yuki in the wip above is of another simpler style as well…

[rewordthis]

The struggles of art, are not for everyone.

It’s really not, indeed.

You have to like the process first and foremost.

If when putting the tip of the pencil down onto paper your main thoughts are how you’re bad, how you won’t have any progress, or hope you’ll be as good as those famous artists you follow on here or Twitter, then you’re really doing it wrong.

I’ve been drawing for forever and I still don’t seem to make anything better than before but having an old drawing around always puts things into perspective. I draw because it gives me peace of mind. If it just gives you anxiety then sure, it’s not for you.

And in the end, what I love the most about it is the sensation of my pencil-tip scratching that blank void that a sheet of paper is. Not the prospect of earning likes, a following, or money from it. I have tons of art that’ll never see the light of day for many reasons, that I’m so hang up on the fact that I made it. I was in my best condition when I made those pieces, in the right headspace, I was whole. The muses guided my hands these times, God smiled down on me.

What can I say? I’m a girl of simple things.

But the whole debate about whether AI is a medium for creation or easy theft, has soured my mood.

I do NOT consider AI art when its main ‘reference’ is straight up stealing and plagiarising someone’s sweat and tears. Before feeding it your favourite artist’s (or writer’s) work to mince and chew it up like it’s nothing in order to vomit a halfassed attempt at creation on your part remember this, the artists and writers the works of you used, are real people. They breathe, they eat, they cry. They pour TIME into their works. Time that you do NOT respect. They put feelings into their works. Feelings that you do NOT respect. For some of them, it’s also their main income. Income that you DEVALUE by stealing what is considered a unique trait of their trade!

You will NEVER learn anything nor get better at anything other than stealing that way. Because you haven’t known the value of hard work. The value of putting a chip of your soul into what you make. The value of living inside every work you’ve ever CREATED. You never lost sleep, food, or a piece of your sanity trying to make something from scratch. Trying to make it work. Trying to give birth to something unique.

What pitiful existences really, are those who can’t value someone else’s soul enough to respect it…

Anyway… this is getting heavy for me so I’m not going to rant over this anymore. I just want to say that I’m going to release some basic everyday steps for those who really want to learn drawing to follow on their own. Art takes time. Great writing takes time. It also takes for someone to be happy each time for what they were capable of creating.

That said, let me be clear that these mini exercises aren’t gonna clinch you a job at mappa, nor are they going to teach you proportions or whatever else those tutorials promise you, they’re specific to making you understand how 3D and observation works in order for you to be able to pick the elements you need every time you make a new piece. That’s all!

Progress isn’t jumping from 3yo art to fucking Rembrandt. It’ll suck ass before it even looks remotely decent!

Make sure to have that☝️printed and posted on your wall. That’s an order! *flexes whip*

Ok, I’m kidding, but seriously that’s your only motto from now on if you want to get better.

And now let’s prepare the ground for your exercises.

What you’ll need first is either a normal pencil or a 2mm one. No 0,5’s or whatever… in general NO mechanical pencils. Personally I’d recommend starting with a wooden pencil, though.

A good eraser that doesn’t smudge. It doesn’t matter what colour or brand as long as it erases the graphite well and without too much mess. Remember, NO SMUGES! *Forgot to say, a charcoal eraser will be a good friend, if it’s affordable. (Sorry for forgetting that.)

Now, hardness:

Find your typical hand writing pressure in the table below.

Generally the harder you press, the more difficult to erase. So bigger pressure (aka black marks, scratches etc) is 5.

5 4 3 2 1

2H H HB B 2B

How it works:

If you’re 3 you’ll need:

H: tracing

HB: outline

2B: shading

If you’re a 5 you’ll need:

2H: tracing

H or HB: outline

B: shading

If you’re 1 you’ll need:

HB: tracing

HB or B: outline

2B: shading

If you are 2 or 4 you’ll have to go through trial and error. Sorry. Just keep in mind that depending on where you lean; extremes or average (3), you follow the guidelines above.

For example, I am a hard 5 (if not 5,5 lol) so at some point I resorted working with just 2H and HB. I only ever use B when I need something to be black— which admittedly happens rarely. It’s only a few times you’ll need to depict actual black.

> You generally need a tracing pencil that won’t leave too dark visible marks behind when erased. People 5 and 4 will have to be a little careful though and not scratch the paper but that will come with practice.

> Your outline has to be enough to ‘stain’ the paper so you won’t lose your main sketch. It’s also correction time. Yey!

> Your shading shouldn’t smudge because you’re going to use layers. Yes. Even in traditional art you darken in layers, typically in as light moves as possible and in varying angles until you get the shade you want but that’s for later.

I personally don’t have any specific papers to propose to you (bitch you’re using basic photo-printing A4 papers wth lol). You’ll just need a hard surface, especially my 5 and 4 palls.

Ok, that’s it for today, folks.

Let me also slap a disclaimer here: I am NOT a professional art tutor. I just love art. 🤗

[girlinlotsoffandoms]

day twenty - can't breathe

notes: shoutout to each and every one of you for sticking with me as febwhump has turned into marwhump? Is that a thing? I don't know but I'm going to make it a thing.

read on AO3 or below

It was a mixture of pure adrenaline and decades of firefighter training that drove Kelly up the stairs and into the smoke box without a second thought. The moment a red flag had been raised about the oxygen tanks, Kelly put together what happened and sprang into action.

The smoke box was created to simulate the elements of a real structural fire, down to real smoke. It was dangerous to be in there without a mask, and Kelly’s eyes and lungs burned, but he had to find his last recruit. Martinez had already made it out, but Carr was still inside somewhere.

It didn’t take long for Kelly to find him but any time in the smoke box without proper equipment was dangerous. Kelly got Carr outside, got his SCBA off, and got him awake and breathing by the time the paramedics arrived. He made sure the paramedics checked on the two recruits first before they even attempted to check on him, even though Kelly was coughing and struggling to draw in a breath.

The fresh air helped but Kelly’s chest was still tight. He continued to cough and practically collapsed onto the stairs next to his recruits. Both were receiving oxygen and seemed much more with it than they had been just a few minutes ago and with Carr and Martinez doing better, the paramedics were ready to turn their focus onto Kelly.

Before they could, however, Chief Tiberg arrived and he wanted answers.

Part of Kelly felt bad for Mercer and the ass-chewing he received (on top of getting the boot from the academy) but the other part of him, the part who’s lungs were still burning, knew it was for the best.

There was another part of Kelly that was angry, not just at the situation but at himself. He looked at Carr, Martinez, Wiegan, and the other recruits, young future firefighters who trusted him to teach and prepare them, and he let them down. Kelly let them down and put them in danger by allowing Mercer to stay in the Academy. Kelly put their lives in danger because he didn’t want to make a hard decision.

Chief Tiberg made sure Carr and Martinez were okay to be released by the paramedics before releasing all the cadets for the day. Once they were gone, Kelly turned to face Chief Tiberg.

“This is my fault, Chief.” Kelly started. “I’ve had doubts about Mercer since the beginning and I should’ve booted him a long time ago.”

“You gave him a chance, Kelly. No one wants to see a legacy firefighter wash out of the Academy.” Chief Tiberg stated, clapping a hand on Kelly’s back. “Go home. I know you have a shift tomorrow. If Chief Mercer reaches out to you let me know. I’ll handle it.”

Kelly nodded and headed to his car. His lungs felt better after some breaths of fresh air but there was a familiar lingering tightness in his chest. His cough persisted as well, though it had lessened a bit as well. After all these years, Kelly could spot the signs of smoke inhalation easily. He knew that no matter how deep of a breath he took before entering the smoke box or how long he was in there, smoke was still going to invade his lungs, especially without an SCBA or other equipment. It was nothing new for Kelly and the fact that the symptoms were already lessening told him it wasn’t anything major–one less thing about this awful day to worry about.

He wouldn’t realize how wrong he was until hours later.

… … …

Stella had been concerned when Kelly came home smelling of smoke and still coughing slightly. When he told her the story of what happened, of Mercer’s involvement, and his trip into the smoke box, that worry only grew.

“You got checked out by the paramedics, right?” Stella asked.

Kelly shook his head. “I was more concerned about Carr and Martinez getting the help they needed. Besides, I wasn’t in there long.”

Stella leveled him with a disapproving look. “You and I both know it doesn’t take long.”

“I know, but I feel fine now. The coughing has stopped, my chest no longer hurts, and I’m breathing perfectly fine.” Kelly reasoned. “If I feel off at all tomorrow I’ll have Brett check me out at the station.”

“You better.” Stella scolded but if she was being honest, she’d have done the same thing as Kelly and she couldn’t necessarily be mad at him for that.

The rest of their day was filled with their normal day-off activities, but Stella kept a close eye on Kelly. She knew him like the back of her hand and could read him like a book—Kelly was fine.

That was until Kelly went to take a shower. He turned the faucet on and left the bathroom while the water warmed up. Steam had filled the room and when he stepped back inside the bathroom, Kelly’s chest tightened up and it was like he was back in the smoke box. He started coughing but those coughs quickly turned to gasping breaths as he struggled to breathe.

Luckily for Kelly, Stella had plans to join her boyfriend in the shower that night. She had been looking forward to a spicy make out session in the shower. Instead, what she found when she walked in the bathroom was her boyfriend fighting for air and his lips turning blue.

“Kelly!”

Stella quickly turned the water off, moved Kelly into the bedroom, and closed the bathroom door so the steam couldn’t reach them any longer. Stella quickly made her way back to Kelly who had precariously sat himself on the edge of their bed.

Stella dropped to her knees in front of him. “Kelly? Hey, look at me.”

“Can’t br-breathe,” Kelly gasped. This was worse than being in the smoke box or any real fire. This was his lungs and his body revolting against him, slowly suffocating him.

“I know, just stay with me, okay?” Stella begged as she grabbed her phone and dialed 911.

It didn’t take long for the ambulance to arrive. The paramedics weren’t impressed with Kelly’s oxygen stats when they first arrived and even after fifteen minutes of high-flow oxygen, his pulse ox stats were barely hitting the upper 80s.

Kelly was breathing better and contemplated denying the ambo ride to Med for a check up but a glare from Stella had him biting his tongue.

… … …

After oxygen, a chest X-ray, and four hours in the ED, Kelly and Stella arrived back at the loft. Ethan told him he was to avoid smoke and steam and he was by no means allowed to do anything but light duty for the next shift while his lungs healed. The stern lecture he’d gotten from April about not letting the paramedics on scene check him out was still ringing in his ears and he could see that Stella was upset; he had no intentions of upsetting her further.

They ate a quick dinner, silently, before moving into the bedroom to get ready for bed. Kelly stopped her before she could climb in bed.

“I’m sorry, for tonight,” Kelly said softly. “I really thought I was okay.”

Stella sighed softly and cupped Kelly’s cheeks. “I know you did. I just….I love you so much. I don’t want to lose you.”

“It’s going to take more than a little smoke to take me away from you.” Kelly promised.

[arcielee]

Interview With a Writer

Artwork by @lonnson​​ 💜

Continuing with my series is @lonnson​​, who does not only create amazing pieces but can write as well. 💜 I cannot thank you enough for taking the time to allow me to gush over your story and answering my questions!

As always, you can look over the masterlist to see the other amazing authors I have spoken with. This series is just a BTS of some of the talented minds on Tumblr and ao3. 💜    

Story: Winterwood on ao3

Paring: Aemond Targaryen x OFC     

Rating/Warning: SA mentioned, graphic depictions of violence, major character death.

So, when did you start writing? I've liked coming up with stories since I was a kid but I never really wrote them down (I was more of an artist than a writer). I think my first "real" fanfiction was a crossover between Downton Abbey and a popular German detective audiobook series (very niche, I know 😅).

It was my first attempt at writing fanfiction and I have no idea if it was any good but at the end of the day it helped me get started on writing (hopefully) better stuff so it wasn't a waste of time.

What inspired this story? I really got into the gothic horror genre and dark fairytale retellings last year and read a lot of books with that vibe. 

The main bit of inspiration definitely came from "The Wolf and the Woodsman" by Ava Reid, which is about a girl and a one-eyed prince. When I watched House of the Dragon later that year, I immediately thought of that novel again. 

I also took some inspiration from fantasy movies I love, like Stardust or The Chronicles of Narnia.

I wanted to do creepy creatures to pop-up in my story, like the bat creatures that were inspired by the cliff ghasts from His Dark Materials. And I also love reading books about bloodthirsty faeries so I thought they fit the vibe (of Winterwood) as well. 

I also love the book "Vaesen" by Johan Egerkrans about spirits and monsters from Scandinavian folklore!

Can you explain your interpretation of Aemond? What drives him in Winterwood? What made him the way he is? I wanted to keep him relatively close to canon, because I do enjoy a good morally-grey character with villain tendencies. But obviously I also wanted to explore some stuff with him that's just my personal interpretation of Aemond.

In my story, Rhaenyra is Queen, Aegon has been executed and Aemond has been exiled to be a Night's Watch man. He's still ambitious and proud, but he's also been disillusioned by life. He can be testy and cranky but he's also feeling very lonely. He's done bad things during the war and they still haunt him. 

I also really wanted him to be somewhere on the asexual spectrum because I'm always drawn to characters who could potentially be ace in how they're portrayed in canon.

My take on Aemond is that he's never really experienced a lot of affection in his life and therefore craves but also fears it. He's interested in swordplay, studies and dragons but he's not a womanizer. And I really wanted to keep his "bad" traits. He's judgmental, testy and very, very guarded. He opens up to others at the speed of a glacier.

What inspired your character creation Lya/Skaðe? Her character kind of developed naturally as I wrote the first chapter. I didn't want her to be "Aemond's love interest", I wanted her to be the second main character of the story. 

She's as complicated as him and they're not so different from each other, which is why they don't get along at all in the beginning. They're lone wolfs, capable fighters and don't trust easily. Lya follows her own agenda and keeps some secrets that are potentially dangerous... Her name is spelled very similar to "liar" which may be a hint to her not being entirely trustworthy.

You already hinted at it, but you prefer to draw or to write? Drawing, definitely. I've drawn since I was a kid and it's still my main creative outlet. I think about fictional scenarios about 85% of the day (😅), but only very few of them are coherent enough to actually write them down. I'd LOVE to write a book though, that's the dream. Do you have a personal favorite story you'd like to share? If you happen to be a fan of The Suicide Squad, I loved anchorage by mentallyillmermaid on ao3 (I'm one of the ten people who are really into the Polka-Dot Man x Ratcatcher ship haha)

[zeldaseyebrows]

Chapter One of Sacrilege and Sororities is out!

This is the botw Grad School AU I’ve been talking about forever and finally am publishing. I hope you all enjoy!

Summary: After an assassination attempt, Link and Zelda must live together and navigate the impending Calamity, grad school, strange dreams, and their complete disasters of personal lives. One of those things is more difficult than the others.

Pairing: Link/Zelda, OG Link/Hylia

Rating: E

Excerpt:

“I hate him!”

Zelda narrows her eyes with the vengeful focus that comes after consuming copious amounts of spirits. However, her righteous anger would be more chilling if she wasn’t hunched over a toilet bowl in a sorority house bathroom. The cute sand seal printed shower curtain surrounding the claw foot tub destroys any sort of gravitas Zelda’s tirade could have possessed.

“So I’ve heard,” Urbosa replies.

So I’ve heard for the past hour, Urbosa thinks, shifting to get more comfortable on the cool bathroom tile.

Even though it’s already 2am, it’s still going to be a long night. But she’s a loyal friend, and would never leave Zelda in her darkest hour. Even if it means missing the party she’s hosting or getting puke on her skirt or having to listen to Zelda rant about her poor appointed knight and bodyguard for an egregious amount of time, Urbosa’s in it for the long-haul.

Zelda wipes her mouth with a piece of toilet paper Urbosa passes her then continues her drunken rampage, “He’s just so… short! And everyone thinks he’s such hot stuff, because he can do athletics and kill things and looks like –and I quote verbatim– a ‘sexy little androgynous jock stoner elf.’ But they don’t have to see him at 5 a.m. But you know who does?” Zelda smacks her hand against the toilet bowl in emphasis and raises her voice even more. “Who does have to see him at 5 in the bloody morning when that monstrosity of an alarm goes off so he can do push-ups and pull-ups and sit-ups and all the other ‘-ups’ and make me feel bad about myself?”

Urbosa, demonstrating her infinite wisdom, does not answer the rhetorical question. A crisp spring breeze flutters the lace curtains and sweeps through the bathroom. It brings the sounds of intoxicated women laughing and dancing and cheering. Urbosa wishes for the thousandth time that Zelda could just be a happy drunk like them.

Balling her hands up, Zelda shrieks, “Who does? I do! I do because my awful father made him my bodyguard and my accursed roommate. All because he pulled that dinky little sword out of the stone while he was camping.” Zelda contorts her face and pretends to brandish a sword but ends up bashing her arm against the toilet lid. “Oh, I’m Mr. Sir Link Perfect Arse Chosen Hero and I’m barely clearing 5’3” on a good day, but everyone and their mother still wants me. I’m so quiet and stoic and annoying and I wear a stupid little knit beanie and have a motorcycle and a ponytail because I’m soooo cool. Look at me!”

“His beanie does make him look like one of my ex-girlfriends,” Urbosa mumbles to herself then refocuses.

“He’s such a little weirdo and I think he’s in love with his ratty old crockpot. If he even can feel love, since he’s as empty inside as a kiddie pool after it gets drained because someone’s shat in it. He even named the crockpot. Its name is Brenda. Brenda the crockpot.”

Urbosa draws upon every single ounce of willpower she has in order not to burst out laughing.

[get-wr3ckered]

| Karma- (GN Reader x The Bad Batch) |

Warnings: SW cursing but does that actually need a warning? Other than that I don’t think any warnings are warranted.

Wordcount: 1,200+

Notes:

Reader has an established nickname/ callsign.

While Reader is gender neutral, they're AFAB.

I think I’ve added all the appropriate warnings and tags but if I’ve missed something or tagged it incorrectly feel free to let me know and I’ll fix it asap!

Am I writing this without actually having started watching TBB yet? Yes I am. Am I praying that from the brief snippet we saw of the Batch in SWTCW that I’m doing their characterisation some semblance of justice? Also yes.

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

-Chapter Two-

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"Alright," Hunter voiced once they made the jump to hyperspace, drawing his brother's focus. He nodded to Tech who'd already had his datapad in hand, Cody's briefing no doubt at the ready. "What're we in for?"

Tech was silent for a moment. His eyes scanning quickly over the words in front of him. "Well, it's certainly not good."

"You don't say," Crosshair jibed. The eye roll that would've no doubt followed never came to be as Hunter shot a warning look his way.

Unbothered by Crosshair's words, Tech read on through Commander Cody's briefing. "It appears that a Special Operative known as 'Karma' has been captured by the Separatists, General Grievous to be precise."

Hunter gave a slow nod, gesturing for Tech to continue, seemingly unaware of the slight furrow that pulled at Echo's brows.

"They were to gather vital information on a new make of Battle Droid that has been giving the GAR particular trouble as of late." Adjusting his goggles, he continued. "They were assigned the task three rotations ago. I wonder why Commander Cody is so adamant about this 'Karma' being retrieved so swiftly. The Separatists have held Republic prisoners for considerably longer before any rescues were attempted."

"It's obvious isn't it?" Crosshair scoffed, Tech furrowed his brow and turned to his brother questioningly. "Commander Cody's got a soft spot for this one."

"Stow it, Cross," Hunter sighed. Crosshair's comment wasn't helpful, and even if that were the case, it wasn't any of their business. Turning his attention to Echo, Hunter took note of the thoughtful look twisting at his pallid features. "Echo, you good?"

Echo let out a quiet hum in response. He knew that callsign from somewhere and yet he couldn't quite place where. It was almost mocking him, the way the name nagged at him to remember something just out of reach.

"Echo?" Hunter tried again but got no response.

The furrow of Echo's brow deepened momentarily. The edges of a blurred memory began to clear up, a seemingly inconsequential interaction clawing its way to the surface... And then the realisation slammed into him like an out-of-control speeder.

"What?" Wrecker guffawed, exchanging a look with the others as Echo's demeanour dropped without a word. "You know 'em or something?"

"Or something," Echo muttered cryptically, his eyes widening a fraction as his mind danced with the memory of how he knew you and who had been the cause of your brief meeting.

Sensing his reluctance to speak further, Hunter turned back to Tech. "What's our ETA looking like?"

Turning back to the Pilot's controls, Tech looked them over briefly before answering. "We'll be dropping out of Hyperspace in a moment, by my calculations we'll be on the ground in eleven minutes or so."

"Let's gear up then."

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Alarms blaring was not an ideal wake-up call, but given you were currently stuck with the Separatists you supposed it could've been worse, a lot worse.

You weren't sure when you'd nodded off in all honesty but after three rotations of forcing yourself to stay awake, the small amount of unwanted rest came as a relief. The tired sting of your eyes wasn't as intense, your limbs didn't feel as heavy and the pounding in your head had dispersed a little. It seemed your impromptu nap had done a world of good.

Shimmying forward, as far from the wall as your restraints would allow, you peeked through to where the droids had been stationed... only to find them nowhere in sight.

'What the kriff is going on?' You silently asked yourself as you move back to the wall to give yourself some slack on the restraints.

While the alarm itself was somewhat concerning, this was the first instance since your capture that you had been left unsupervised and you were not about to waste this opportunity. Twisting your bound wrists behind your back, you manoeuvred your flesh hand to grasp the section of your prosthetic that connected to your arm. Working quickly, your fingers danced over the plastoid shell of your bionic limb, seeking out the release mechanism with practised ease.

Your prosthetic fell limp, a quiet clatter hanging in the air as it fell to the floor unceremoniously. Pulling your now hand-free wrist from the restraints was all too easy- getting the prosthetic back on without the use of your still bound hand however, not so much. It took a great deal of fighting with the limp hand and an uncomfortable amount of time trying to position it just right between your knees but eventually, you managed to click the artificial hand back into place.

With your hand firmly secured, breaking free of the remaining restraint was a breeze. The worn metal clasp that kept them shut didn't hold up when pitted against the strength of your artificial fingers. The small scratches left in the plastoid covering of your fingers were a small price to pay for being free of those damned restraints.

Pinpointing your escape route wasn't hard, you'd spent the majority of your captivity planning for this very moment. Crossing over to the left side of the cell, you made quick work of prying the vent cover from the wall, a silent thank you to the Separatists for being stupid enough to install vents in their cells passed briefly through your thoughts as you hauled yourself inside the small shaft, taking care to prop the cover back into place as best you could.

Climbing through the vent system, you aimed to put as much distance between you and the detention centre as possible. After several minutes of manoeuvring through the tight space, you paused briefly both to catch your breath and to try and get ahold of your partner-in-crime.

Sliding the plastoid panel that covered the back of your artificial hand to the side, you revealed the small blinking light of your comm. A sigh of relief fell from your lips. It was still active, the Separatists hadn't clocked the signal and put a block in place.

It really was a blessing how oblivious Separatist droids were sometimes. After all, who wouldn't check a bionic limb for built-in trackers or comms and such? Seppie droids, that's who.

"Hey Buddy," You tested, voice low as the clanking of metal feet echoed beneath you. "You reading me?"

A painful silence hung over you.

"Bewoop!"

Never in your life had you been so glad to hear the high-pitched beeps of a droid.

"For a second there I thought the Seppies gotcha," You mused, carefully inching forward through the vent system once more. "Please tell me this alarm's got nothing to do with you."

The sad sequence of beeps that crackled over your shared frequency wasn't comforting.

"Alright Buddy, it's not your fault." You assured despite the little droid admitting to having been spotted by a squad of battle droids. "You've got the data right?"

"Boop!"

"Good work little guy," You praised softly. "Alright, I need you to hightail it outta here with that data. If they catch you, they'll scrap you."

Another series of sad beeps came through, leaving you to shake your head at the droid despite it being unable to see you.

"Don't worry 'bout me, Buddy," You sighed. "Getting that data back to Cody is all that matters right now. I've gotten myself out of tighter spots, and I'll get myself out of this alright?"

With a quiet confirmation from the small droid, the comms channel went dead. Now all you could do was pray that Buddy got that data back to Cody.

It was out of your hands now.

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