#old finger head

[batcavescolony]

Katniss is such an unreliable narrator. She says "Then something unexpected happens. At least, I don't expect it because I don't think of District 12 as a place that cares about me" girl you deliver strawberries to the Mayor, you hunt and trade for the district, when you fell at Prim being chosen someone caught you, when you went to Prim people parted for you, when you volunteered EVERYONE stopped. Idk how to tell you but I think you're a pillar of the community.

[hinamie]

10 years later

[electrozeistyking]

Tiny Disassembler Tries To Put Himself in Second Food Coma; Girlfriend Won't Let Him

(you better believe that first time was an accident)

[robotsafari]

beast’s castle 2nd visit was insane

[carma-tjol]

aoba you will always be famous to me…

[plusultraetc]

UA faculty sitcom scene that's just Snipe crumpling up scrap paper and doing trick shots into the recycling bin

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

I know it goes against everything people usually picture for them but Pecco acting as Valentino’s alpha would actually break my brain in the best of ways

i'm having trouble getting my thoughts to work but bear with me

They’ve gone out to celebrate Pecco’s Pramac contract—he’s going to MotoGP, Ducati’s already talking about a factory seat if things work out. It’s a bar in Pesaro Valentino likes, not full of moto fans, always willing to cut him some slack.

And Pecco’s doing his thing—small peccoisms that Valentino barely registers after so many years. Holding the door so everyone can go in first, making sure there’s always a water bottle on the table, taking the worst seat at the table.

He’s happy, clearly. So, so happy. And Valentino, too—this featherlight, indulgent thing filling his chest.

So he keeps touching Pecco—his arm, his thigh, his side. Their usual Ranch touchiness ramped up in the cramped booth, with the alcohol, with the loose joy floating around.

And he lets Pecco scent him.

Valentino doesn’t mind it. Pecco’s scent goes sugary when he’s like this, thick salted caramel at the back of his throat, not at all like an alpha's.

Around midnight, after five or six shots that Pecco keeps diligently bringing to their table—smiles this crooked, gummy thing, eyes fever-bright, I'm going to get my first paycheck soon, yeah? A real one.

Valentino shrugs, gets on his feet. "Gotta piss."

It’s true, technically. But he’s been jittery for hours now, skin three too small, eyeing up some omegas across the room. Restless and sort of horny for no reason. No reason that he wants to talk about, at least, this handful of thorns digging into him.

Pecco springs up immediately. The whole night, he's been on his feet, laughing, light, very, very gentlemanly.

"I can go with you," he says, quick, vowels clumped together. It's not an offer.

Valentino’s mouth twitches, teeth fine pinpricks of pain inside his cheek. He doesn’t mind it, exactly. And Pecco had offered it earlier too, when Bez got up, before Luca and Franky decided to tag along.

Still.

"Allora—ah, okay, Francesco."

The restroom is large, lit with earthy yellow lights, smelling clean. Eucaliptus or whatever, stuff that upscale bars can afford, along with a dedicated cleaning staff. Not the kind of place that Valentino celebrated his own premier class contract.

It's Pecco's scene, though.

He's all the way to washing his hands when someone walks up to him. She’s an omega, pretty—dark hair, dark eyes, sharp cheekbones. But she's scowling at him, lips pulled back in a snarl, lipstick on her teeth. She could be Spanish, maybe. A moto fan on the wrong side.

Her arms cross, tan against her sparkly red top. The whole situation drips molasses thick around him, slow. "Is he even out of liceo?"

Valentino blinks. The woman points with her chin to the door, toward Pecco standing just outside. Like a guard dog, or one of those overly excitable, overly defensive dachshunds that he's been talking about adopting.

"That’s creepy," she hisses, "you’re—what, forty? Forty-five?"

He stares at her, shame churning buttery in his throat, blood pounding in his ears. Pecco’s face is doing something antsy and pinched. It's dark, and he looks young. Younger. Eighteen years between them. Luca's age.

Valentino swallows what feels like a chokeful of bleach, tongue numb inside his mouth.

He's twenty-one, he could say. Which is better than liceo. But it tastes over-defensive as soon as he thinks about it, the kind of jackrabbit answer that reporters would tear apart. He's my employee—way fucking worse.

"We aren’t—," he spits out, tries to.

There's this hooking oh shit tugging at his guts. Same split second of panic he gets when he's high-sided off the bike and is about to hit the asphalt, to find how bad it was.

Valentino scurries out before she can twist the knife again. Keeps feeling her eyes on the back of his neck like a cattle brand.

Pecco’s waiting just outside, eyes wide, nostrils flaring as soon as he crowds into him. His hand clamps around Valentino’s bony wrist mostly on instict.

"Was she bothering you?" Pecco asks, voice pitched to a whisper. He's sticking to his side like glue, scent gone sharp. Unhappy. Pecco is always unhappy when he thinks he isn't doing well at the little tasks he makes up for himself.

Valentino makes himself smile. "No, no," he says, the words soapy and slippery, harmless little lies. "Just a fan."

Pecco's hand slides from Valentino’s waist to the small of his back, fingers digging into the knobs of his spine. His scent goes thick around them—this sugar-sweet, dizzying cloud.

Valentino's absolutely certain that the whole bar is staring at them.

Pecco scents him again, deliberate now. Drags his jaw over Valentino’s scent gland until Valentino feels scraped raw by the wiry hair of his patchy subtle. Until he might as well be touching his nerve endings bare-handed.

Horrifyingly, though, Valentino feels his cunt pulse around nothing, hot.

Wet.

[gojoest]

lowkey had a very scandalous idea earlier this week, still very undeveloped though

[harpershigh]

I'm in the jahstele brainrot again send help

[bugwolfsstuff]

I wonder if Mr D talks shit about camp Half-Blood to his mother and his wife during the times he's allowed on Olympus

[guentzel]

idk im of the opinion those in glass houses should not throw stones. or whatever.

[stormyrainyday]

sunday snippet/mayblade prompt -galaxy from wwity (chapter 3: galaxy soup)

Gingka was used to sleeping with his head resting on his bag and back in the grass. Ryo used to let him spend evenings camping beneath the stars with Hyoma at his side. They never tired of talking about the stars, though Hyoma had long since learned the names of all the constellations above. “Why do they call them Ursa Major and Minor?” Hyoma’d asked once. June was the best time to lie like this in the open air, the sweet smell of summer around them.  “One’s bigger and one’s smaller, but they look pretty similar,” Gingka had replied, slightly confused.  “No, I know that. I mean why are they called Ursa? They don’t look much like bears. They’re more like spoons.”  Gingka laughed. “What would you eat with a spoon that big? Galaxy soup?” He didn’t miss the way Hyoma flushed in embarrassment. “Forget I asked.” “Well it’s a good thing there’s two spoons for us. We can drink galaxy soup together.” It was stupid, Gingka knew, but Hyoma’s lips twitched even as he rolled his eyes, betraying his amusement.  Their cosmic soup spoons hung bright above him that night, with Polaris hanging off the handle of Ursa Minor. It wasn’t too late for it to guide him home.  Become stronger, Gingka, Ryo’s dying words rang out in his ears, guilt pouring in alongside them. Hyoma’s voice echoed behind them. You’re going to avenge Ryo. Plainly spoken, careful not to be accusatory, but Gingka hadn’t missed the hurt, the fear of being left behind. But there was understanding too, and permission, in that last battle, in their last night.  He tucked the foolish homesickness aside. If he wanted to get stronger, he needed to go on alone. He knew this.  And still. The bears, their spoons– they taunted him all night, even when Gingka shut his eyes against their light.

[ricexmilk]

[barschter000]

I am physically unable to think about them at their canon ages

[foursaints]

saints i was thinking about ludora as not just a blond/blonde ship but both of them also having super long, silky hair too and then i was giggling over how lucius would have like a one hundred step haircare routine, he’s brushing it every night before bed and then again in the morning, he carries a comb at all times just in case etc etc and then pandora like maybe, and that’s a big maybe, brushes her hair once a week? if she remembers? doesn’t use any fancy product except like regular shampoo & conditioner and the like and yet her hair is always still so soft and ethereal looking and lu is so so offended…. anyway i’ve been obsessing over lucius a little recently and ur posts about them have not been helping at all i love them

KARA WERE YOU THE ONE WHO CALLED HIM A PATHETIC CUNT-SERVING WORM?? i cannot stop thinking about that... scream.

you get it! there is something so hilarious about lucius being obsessed with Appearance and Pureblood Propriety and Tailors and 60-Galleon Hair Oil and Having A Massive Stick Up His Ass At All Times and then (maybe because of this) falling HARD for this dirty, half-haunted unearthly porcelain doll of a girl that looks like something left behind at the flea market. she's humming lullabies under her breath, picking twigs from the bird's-nest tangle of her hair, and he's watching this thinking... Oh. I'm in fucking trouble

[interrogatormentors]

so what can you tell us about eridan, mr helmsman? :)

ErIIdan Ampora II2 the Head AdmIIn of the DC ReIIchenbach and actIIng Head AdmIIn of the HBC Conde2cen2IIon. He II2 ten 2weep2

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old and II2 one of the younge2t troll2 two receIIve the po2IItIIon 2o 2oon after hII2 a2cen2IIon. HII2 blood

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ca2te II2 cla22IIfIIed a2 vIIolet. He II2 the IImperIIal Con2ort of Her IImperIIal

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Conde2cen2IIon and he

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II2 legally cla22IIfIIed a2 the moIIraIIl of

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the IImperIIal Helm2man.