#preguntitas

[monicalestrangesblog]

Extrañamos tus piecitos :(

Ahi tan 😘

We miss your feet :(

Here they are 😘

[littlekiing]

ronditas de preguntas??? 😜

[crepusculona]

Damn girl, you so sexy. There's so much I'd love to do to you. The combo of that ass with that pretty face should be illegal. Dangerous!

I was ready to be so mean in response before I clocked the username. Hola, mi cielo. Welcome back to the thunder dome that is tumblr.

I look forward to working our way through the list when you visit 🥰😘😘

[notes-diaries]

[septiembrre]

Hi!! Are you still writing brio fic? 😭😭 are you still gonna update one of your stories?

Hi, friend! Ergh, the honest answer to this right now is no. I don't want to keep stringing folks along. I still think about my wips a lot... but truthfully there's been no writing happening.

Okay, but right now I opened one of my WIPs (please, don't let this inspire any hope in me). A fandom friend had given me a writing prompt for an alternate perspective of Satisfied through the weekend. And like...

He thinks about her a lot–petty thoughts mostly–trying to undermine her and shit. He sees her everywhere, even when he’s with other people. It’s the worst.Sometimes he can even sense when they’re in the same room. Like now–his palms itch and a pinprick of tension snags deep in his left trap–tell-tale signs Elizabeth’s lurking about. 

His gaze casts out into the bar. It fades away when he sees her.

First off, he’d pick her out of any crowd. 

Second off, what she’s wearing—

Hijo de su puta madre. 

He can’t help it. His gaze drops to caress the outline of the dress. A few seconds pass before catches himself. But, it’s no use. There’s already something simmering, deep and twisted inside of him. 

She’s all dressed up. The usual blue, the gold and now the little accents of red? Fuckin’ incandescent. 

 The dim light of the restaurant catches on the gold of her hair, washes her pale skin making her look like something out of some. 

He ain’t ever been a guy into Singer Sargent or Rosetti. They ain’t his people. But if one of those dudes had painted a portrait of Aphrodite? It’d look like her. 

+

Except the guy sitting with her ain’t the typical dumbass.

Except – 

No fucking way.

+

A sigh answers him. “Chris. Pura basura, remember?”

“I don’t need a fuckin’ pep talk.”

He hangs up, puts the phone in his pocket. It’s quiet in the alley, but his his blood is hot, furious and pulsing. Rage, muffled like cotton balls, fills his ears, tunnels his vision. For a moment, he sees red.

Then, he laughs. 

He hates her. And he also really doesn’t hate her. Like sometimes… sometimes he even– It’s like he can’t make up his mind. 

Except that he has and it’s both. 

And the thought, of her trading him in for some fucking bottom feeder. A gun for hire. Serial-killer-ass white dude. Like?

Why can't I let myself have nice things? Eesh, I can update if I do actually start sincerely working on a WIP.

[canelonbombim]

Tantas preguntas sin respuestas, acaso alguien podrá responderlas? Algún día podré responderlas acaso yo?

[puras-maricad4s]

¿Cómo se puede separar los sentimientos del placer?

[yayavrv-18]

Dime tu, si te mando un texto, ¿lo contestarias?

O, le temes?