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acewithapaintbrush · 2 years

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I just thought about this.

What if Pepa saw Dolores In her room in distress and couldn't take no more noise, Dolores wanted her mom to sing her a song like she did when she was younger.

Later the both were found sleeping together by the family.

I combined these two asks and it's not 100% exactly what you two wanted... Hope it's still okay

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Bruno taps her on the shoulder. It's a light touch, nothing more than his fingertips brushing her dress. Pepa knows what that means. Usually he is much louder when he's trying to get her attention. He will give her braid a short playful tug or he will snip her temple with a finger. Despite the heavy burden his gift has left him with, her brother is and will always be a little brother first, with all the brattiness that comes with that. And Pepa will always be the big sister first and make sure to deliver that outraged squawk and retaliate in style by kicking his shin.

But not when it's the soft touch to the shoulder. She knows what that means and so she turns around carefully, making as little sound as she can, holding the skirt of her dress so it rustles a little bit less than it normally would.

There is Bruno, standing at her back. In his arms he is holding Pepa's most precious treasure besides the one just beginning to grow inside of her.

Dolores, so small, so vulnerable, buried into his chest, her small hands pressed to her ears so hard her arms are quivering. Her face is squished against his ruana and Bruno keeps hold of Pepa's gaze while at the same time constantly whispering into his sobrina's left ear. Any other child wouldn't have heard him over the hands and the folds of fabric. But Dolores is not like any other child. She is a Madrigal. She is Pepa's daughter. She is blessed.

She is cursed.

Pepa has to strain her hearing to make out the words, the soft and rumbling whisper whose only purpose is to drown out all other sounds.

"And Maria is not actually Maria, she is Carmen, the evil sibling. At least everyone assumes she is the evil one, but she is just misunderstood, you know? She was just dealt a bad hand. She is not so bad, people just need to give her a chance."

Pepa wants to smile. His silly Telenovelas. She wonders where he gets all those ideas from.

She doesn't smile. Her baby is overwhelmed and in pain, how could she smile right now?

Instead she steps closer, putting down her toes first and rolling the balls of her feet with the utmost care. Lolo still winces as if her Mama had stomped her foot.

Pepa catches Bruno's eye.

'Bad day?' she mouths.

He doesn't stop his tale, just nods and widens his eyes. A very bad day, then.

Pepa sighs noiselessly (not for Dolores, nothing is ever without noise for Dolores) and winds her arms around her daughter. Her arms entangle with Bruno's for a second. For just a second, the three of them are joined in a hug, the vulnerable child trapped in the middle. But then Pepa pulls away and Bruno let's go.

Dolores whines for a heartbreaking moment, clearly reluctant about the change of hands, but then Pepa starts to hum and her baby latches onto her instead, pressing her face into Pepa's hair. The woman is so glad that she's chosen the lavender shampoo that morning. The smell always calms her daughter down and now Pepa does smile after all as she can hear her child take a deep breath, audibly sniffing her hair.

Bruno is still standing there, his arms hanging in the air. He looks a little bit lost, she thinks. Misplaced. Helpless.

Pepa doesn't stop her humming and instead brushes her foot against his calf since her hands are full. Her brother snaps out of his daze. His eyes focus and he nods at her.

'Tea?' he mouths and she simply smiles. She doesn't want to nod, doesn't want to disturb her daughter who has stopped shaking, but he knows her.

Her brother glides away on bare feet, almost soundlessly, and Pepa follows his example and slips off her slippers. The tiles are warm against her feet and she silently thanks Casita.

****************

When Bruno finds them later in Pepa's room with the tea, Dolores is much calmer already and the two of them sandwich her between them on the sofa and start to sing a song for her to distract her. It's mostly Pepa who sings, with Bruno humming along.

Dolores has her head pressed against Pepa's mostly flat belly, listening to a heartbeat only she can hear at this point, and has her feet up on her Tio's lap.

Felix and Julieta find them like that, hours later. Dolores has long since fallen asleep listening to new life, and Pepa and Bruno are sitting side by side on the sofa with her. Also asleep. Their heads are resting against each other, Pepa's one arm curling around his bony shoulders, while her other hand rests on Dolores' head.

Julieta and Felix share a smile and retreat. Felix will just have to sleep in Dolore's room tonight.

#encanto #encanto fanfic #bruno madrigal #pepa madrigal #answered ask #bruno my beloved #pepa my beloved #dolores madrigal #dolores my beloved #encanto ficlet #one sentence prompt #Hope you see this anon!

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whumpiary · 2 years

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VAMPIRE TUCKER TAKE MY MONEY 💸💸💸💸💸💸💸💸

just a fun little ditty while all other writing routes are blocked. thank you for the inspo/encouragement anon! definitely indirectly inspired by the likes of @deluxewhump and @ashintheairlikesnow

content warnings: blood, blood drinking, some light murder, supernatural addictive substances

A square of silvery light streams in through the window, highlighting dust motes, half a frame of abstract wall art, a stain of bright red on tangled white bedsheets. Almost everywhere else, the blood is rendered dark and colourless by the shadows. But in that one little quasi-spotlight, it shows its colour: vibrant and enticing. Full of theoretical life. The hand of the body it was drained from, of course, lies lifeless and perfectly manicured atop the mess, the pale skin turned almost luminous by the glow of the streetlights and the moon.

It’s all quite artistic nonetheless, Tucker muses. Shame he doesn’t have a camera.

He wipes his mouth clean on a blanket before dropping it to the floor without ceremony. His meal had been a messy one tonight. It had wriggled.

He idly sucks his fingers clean of blood, picking up a book from the bedside table of their would-be host before putting it down again. He picks up a small metal trinket and does the same. An old ticket stub, a picture frame, an uncapped bottle of cheap perfume. All human’s little knick knacks were the same.

Up on the windowsill, his companion sits perched, not unlike a cat, a silhouette of bent knees and shoulder length curls from the moment they’d been welcomed inside, when their host had asked him if he wouldn’t be more comfortable on the arm chair in the corner. Such courteous last words.

Tucker, frankly, is sick of all the pouting.

“Come on Cassius,” he sing-songs. He licks blood from where it’s pooled in his palm. “Come get your supper from the nice dead lady.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Oh,” Tucker tuts, bottom lip jutting out in an utter mockery of sympathy. “I don’t believe you.”

The little thing curls his arms around himself, curling oversized jacket tighter around his body. “M’not.”o

He shivers as he’s doing it, letting out a little huff of breath that would fog the window if he were mortal. Tucker closes the distance between them slowly, licking blood off his fingers with each deliberate step.

“You know if you had a little drink you wouldn’t feel so cold,” Tucker says. He walks fingers up Cassius’ arm, only to get shrugged off when he gets to the shoulder. “Or so grumpy.”

“I’m not-“ Cassius huffs air through his nose again. “Fuck off, alright? I’m not cold. I’m not hungry.”

“But you are grumpy.”

Cassius tries for a little shove. It’s far too easy to step sideways and have him miss, tumbling forward off the sill as he over corrects. Tucker doesn’t give a chance to steady himself. He grabs his hair and pulls him backward, kicks his knees out for good measure so he can look down on him. He always likes looking down on him.

Cassius claws at Tucker’s hand, baring teeth, cute little fangs on display. Tucker smiles down at him, serene and satiated from feeding. He feels a little blood-drunk tonight, a fun floaty feeling sitting hand in hand with the sudden rush of strength and vigour.

“You’re being a baby,” he says with a sigh as Cassius writhes in his grip, far too weak to actually get anywhere. If he’d had a little drink maybe he’d have been able to put up more of a fight. He hadn’t had a nip in near three days.

“You didn’t have to kill her.”

“Oh is that what this is about.”

“You said it wouldn’t be like this.”

“I said it didn’t have to be like this, not that it never would.”

“I don’t think that’s why you’re so grumpy, though,” Tucker murmurs, almost conspiratorial. “You didn’t mind the killing on Friday.”

Cassius tugs a little against the grip in his hair, sneering. “That was different.”

“Why?” Tucker says absently as he straightens the fold on his sleeve. “Because he sleazed on you?”

He gets a glare for that one. “No.”

“Me think the boy doth project too much,” Tucker muses. He taps the little thing on the nose, laughing again as Cassius swipes at him like an irritated cat. “No, no. I know what you need. And it has nothing to do with your little vigilante vendetta situation, does it?”

Cassius gives him a flickering glance, far too transparent, before looking away again, glaring out the window at the here-and-there raindrops spattering the glass. The apparent nonchalance doesn’t cover the itch needling just below the surface though. It’s obvious. Tucker knows what he wants. He knows what he needs.

Tucker brings his own hand to his mouth, eyes on Cassius as he presses the pad of an index finger to the very tip of one fang. He feels the familiar pierce the flesh. The sweet, sharp sting of a needle point. And Cassius can smell it. It’s there in the minute flare of nostrils. The tiny parting of his lips as he sucks air in. Thirsty boy.

Tucker brings his hand down to inspect the single droplet of blood swelling up on the curving swirls of his own fingerprint, “You want dessert before dinner, sweetheart?”

Cassius keeps his eyes averted, pressing his little lips back together until all that’s left is a thin line of a mouth. He shakes his head, dark little mane of curls tugging in Tucker’s grip.

Tucker tuts his tongue, pouting again for a moment before bringing his hand closer in to Cassius’ face, “You sure, baby?”

He can barely contain his amusement at Cassius’ twisting hands, white knuckled around the hem of his own hoodie, at the little twitch of his nose as he tries not to smell it, tries not to look. Another little shake of the head.

He was good at denial, Tucker could grant him. Years of practice from a sire who kept him hooked on vampiric blood while refusing to turn him properly all the while. What did that do to a person, exactly? Turn them into something unlike a person at all, he was sure. Even for the likes of them.

Tucker hums in thought. He reaches his hand forward, dragging the droplet of his own blood over the little thing’s lips, an uneven line over the Cupid’s bow, dragging down at Cassius’ bottom lip for a moment as he goes, his teeth glinting in the glowing light.

And that does it, doesn’t it? Another little intake of the breath, deeper and more primal than the first, and Cassius’ eyelids flicker. His eyes snap to Tucker’s with naked hunger, pupils dilating wide and black as a predator’s ready for the hunt. If the thing had a pulse, Tucker’s sure he’d be able to hear it from where he stands.

Cassius lasts maybe a second longer before his pink little tongue darts over his lips, laps up the blood. He’s desperate for it. Stranded in the desert, ten miles from water.

He lurches forward for more only for Tucker to pulls his hand right back with a grin, “What do you say, sweetheart?”

There’s barely enough hesitation for the thing to swallow. “Please.”

Tucker laughs, the sound melodic against the uneasy rhythm of the rain picking up outside. He brings his mouth to his wrist, fangs piercing the flesh there with ease. It’s a good thing he still has one hand keeping Cassius’ head in place or he’s not unconvinced the young little creature wouldn’t snap up and bite just to get his fix faster. So cute when he’s deseprate.

As it is, he suckles on to Tucker’s wrist like a starving pup on a teat as it’s offered. all that fight melting away to a deep satisfaction as he drinks, eyes closed in a surrendering bliss.

“Nothing but the best for you, hm?” Tucker croons. “My little connoisseur.”

Cassius speaks around a mouthful of wrist, “Shut up.”

Tucker hums with a smile, tilting his head as he ruffles Cassius’ hair. Cassius makes a protesting sound that fades quickly to a low vibration in his throat as he continues to drink. If Tucker didn’t know him better he’d almost call it a pur.

“When you’re ready to play nice again you’re going to clean up this mess,” he tells him. “Have a little snack for the road and then see what we can take from the good lady’s stuff to sell on. Got it?”

When there’s no response beyond the obscene suckling of blood Tucker sighs, gripping the young thing’s jaw with a thumb and forefinger pressing into his cheeks. It puckers his lips, forces him to unlatch, hazed eyes flickering up with near confusion as he refocuses on the here and now instead of his little fix.

“Got it?” Tucker prompts again.

Cassius nods in his grip, blood smeared lips parted to take in shaky, unnecessary breaths. It’s a cute little habit. His eyes can’t stay on Tucker’s face, just keep sliding to the little piercing marks on his wrist. Tucker rocks back on his heels with a plaintive hum.

“Better watch yourself,” Tucker warns him, waving his arm like a forbidden fruit. Dilated pupils follow it like a cat tracking the swing of a pendulum. “If you’re not careful, you’ll rot those little teeth.”

He taps the tip of Cassius’ nose again, the creature shaking his head like a dog to get away from it. Tucker laughs before giving his wrist back over and Cassius attaches to it like it’s the answer to life itself. Perhaps to him, it is.

There’s another little humming vibration. A noise of relief. Tucker laughs again and cards his fingers through Cassius’ hair, for once the liytle thing too enraptured to shake him off. It’s hard not to have an affinity for a thing so reliant on you, isn’t it? Made you feel godlike. Affectionate, even.

“My little junkie,” he croons. Blood smears from his fingers through Cassius’ dark hair. “What on this godforsaken earth would you do without me?”

#answered #blood cw #death cw #addiction cw #vampire au #am I ever gonna write about this ever again?#probably not!#was it fun as hell all the same?#sure!#hope you see this anon!#I know it was a little bit of a wait #digging my way out of the writers rut with a spoon and a bad mood

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bulldog-butch · 2 years

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How do you do the reblog trick (to avoid getting flagged!)

post whatever you actually want the picture to be, quickly reblog it and then go back to the original post and change the picture. what’s nice is even if the post gets flagged before you have a chance to change the original post, as long as you’ve reblogged it you can then go to your flagged posts and change the pictures and it automatically gets unflagged

#abdjdbdk i’m sorry i just realized i never actually finished this and posted it it was in my drafts #hope you see this anon!#asks #anon

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endusviolence · 1 month

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Rowling isn't denying holocaust. She just pointed out that burning of transgender health books is a lie as that form of cosmetic surgery didn't exist. But of course you knew that already, didn't you?

I was thinking I'd probably see one of you! You're wrong :) Let's review the history a bit, shall we?

In this case, what we're talking about is the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft, or in English, The Institute of Sexology. This Institute was founded and headed by a gay Jewish sexologist named Magnus Hirschfeld. It was founded in July of 1919 as the first sexology research clinic in the world, and was run as a private, non-profit clinic. Hirschfeld and the researchers who worked there would give out consultations, medical advice, and even treatments for free to their poorer clientele, as well as give thousands of lectures and build a unique library full of books on gender, sexuality, and eroticism. Of course, being a gay man, Hirschfeld focused a lot on the gay community and proving that homosexuality was natural and could not be "cured".

Hirschfeld was unique in his time because he believed that nobody's gender was either one or the other. Rather, he contended that everyone is a mixture of both male and female, with every individual having their own unique mix of traits.

This leads into the Institute's work with transgender patients. Hirschfeld was actually the one to coin the term "transsexual" in 1923, though this word didn't become popular phrasing until 30 years later when Harry Benjamin began expanding his research (I'll just be shortening it to trans for this brief overview.) For the Institute, their revolutionary work with gay men eventually began to attract other members of the LGBTA+, including of course trans people.

Contrary to what Anon says, sex reassignment surgery was first tested in 1912. It'd already being used on humans throughout Europe during the 1920's by the time a doctor at the Institute named Ludwig Levy-Lenz began performing it on patients in 1931. Hirschfeld was at first opposed, but he came around quickly because it lowered the rate of suicide among their trans patients. Not only was reassignment performed at the Institute, but both facial feminization and facial masculization surgery were also done.

The Institute employed some of these patients, gave them therapy to help with other issues, even gave some of the mentioned surgeries for free to this who could not afford it! They spoke out on their behalf to the public, even getting Berlin police to help them create "transvestite passes" to allow people to dress however they wanted without the threat of being arrested. They worked together to fight the law, including trying to strike down Paragraph 175, which made it illegal to be homosexual. The picture below is from their holiday party, Magnus Hirschfeld being the gentleman on the right with the fabulous mustache. Many of the other people in this photo are transgender.

[Image ID: A black and white photo of a group of people. Some are smiling at the camera, others have serious expressions. Either way, they all seem to be happy. On the right side, an older gentleman in glasses- Magnus Hirschfeld- is sitting. He has short hair and a bushy mustache. He is resting one hand on the shoulder of the person in front of him. His other hand is being held by a person to his left. Another person to his right is holding his shoulder.]

There was always push back against the Institute, especially from conservatives who saw all of this as a bad thing. But conservatism can't stop progress without destroying it. They weren't willing to go that far for a good while. It all ended in March of 1933, when a new Chancellor was elected. The Nazis did not like homosexuals for several reasons. Chief among them, we break the boundaries of "normal" society. Shortly after the election, on May 6th, the book burnings began. The Jewish, gay, and obviously liberal Magnus Hirschfeld and his library of boundary-breaking literature was one of the very first targets. Thankfully, Hirschfeld was spared by virtue of being in Paris at the time (he would die in 1935, before the Nazis were able to invade France). His library wasn't so lucky.

This famous picture of the book burnings was taken after the Institute of Sexology had been raided. That's their books. Literature on so much about sexuality, eroticism, and gender, yes including their new work on trans people. This is the trans community's Alexandria. We're incredibly lucky that enough of it survived for Harry Benjamin and everyone who came after him was able to build on the Institute's work.

[Image ID: A black and white photo of the May Nazi book burning of the Institute of Sexology's library. A soldier, back facing the camera, is throwing a stack of books into the fire. In the background of the right side, a crowd is watching.]

As the Holocaust went on, the homosexuals of Germany became a targeted group. This did include transgender people, no matter what you say. To deny this reality is Holocaust denial. JK Rowling and everyone else who tries to pretend like this isn't reality is participating in that evil. You're agreeing with the Nazis.

But of course, you knew that already, didn't you?

Edit: Added image IDs. I apologize to those using screen readers for forgetting them. Please reblog this version instead.