#I think he imposed extreme standards of perfection on them and himself that have done so much harm to miles & franziska.

[quietwingsinthesky]

laying on the floor thinking about franziska & miles….

[oftenderweapons]

The Studio - Namjoon

Pairing: Namjoon x reader (nicknamed Vixen)

Wordcount: 9.7k words

Genre: smut, angst, fluff

Rating: 18+

I told you I’d be back really soon ;) Tonight there’s a lot on schedule! I’ve been working on this piece for two weeks, since it carries a lot for both Namjoon and Vixen, emotionally speaking. It means a lot for me too, since to me it was truly a challenge in terms of the different levels of knowledge that Joon, y/n and the narrator hold. I think I’ve grown a lot in terms of writing even from Tiktok Towel Trick, which I wrote last May, but I’m really proud of myself comparing to what I used to produce a couple years ago.

Now, let me introduce this fic. The piece takes place two or three months after the two have started sleeping together (ideally late January or February). In this piece Vixen visits Joon at the studio after a bad fight and Joon’s self-imposed isolation. The two feel like they’ve come to a dead-end as they wait for the other person to cut ties. Namjoon is suffocated by his job, his tendency to lash out at his closest ones when he’s stressed and his previous traumas; Vixen is locked in her head, shut out by Namjoon and repeatedly accused of infidelity, as a sign of Namjoon’s lack of trust. Will the two manage to work things out?

Description and trigger warnings: The piece was written referring to Namjoon’s Rkive as in his vlive log. There is ANGST. Loads. There is some crying and it is not Vixen’s. Longing and miscommunication. In terms of filth: so much dirty talking the walls exude holy water by now. Unprotected sex (STAY SAFE GUYS!!!!!!!!), DDLG/daddy kink, Masturbation paired up with Voyeurism and Exhibitionism, Fetishism (Shoes, tights and lingerie), Oral (female receiving), Cumplay (eating), Marking, Spanking, Angsty doggy fucking followed by a very soft ride on the sofa. That should be all. Fluff alarm: Namjoon doesn’t want to lose his little fox and Vixen just wants to cuddle her big teddy bear Joon. 

Wordcount: 9.7k

Here is my masterlist

Enjoy!!! 

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Standing in the main corridor of the studios felt very strange. You looked around, uncomfortable, while the receptionist at your side stared at you, waiting. "Don't worry, he's busy all the time. We can wait, no big deal." The fact that you'd been greeted by Namjoon's driver at the entry desk had helped you get to the studios unannounced. "That boy always gets caught up on something. He shouldn't make you wait." He tutted, looking at you with a kind smile. 

"____? What are you doing here?" Taehyung smiled at you brightly, close behind him Hoseok and Yoongi approached with heavy-looking bags on them. 

"Oh, hi. I sort of stopped by for Namjoon." You bit your lip, smiling embarrassedly. 

"He's still in his room. I can show you the way." Taehyung said, grinning. 

Yoongi seemed to be observing him closely while Hoseok looked absolutely oblivious. 

"No, I only have to give him this." You showed them two small bags, one containing food and the other a few things he had left at your place. 

You tried not to let your heartbreak show. 

"Maybe you could bring them to him, I don't want to distract him." 

You smiled but you felt the tears welling up. 

Yoongi's glance moved to you. It felt scorching. "I think you should bring those to him. I think he'd like to see you." His serious tone made you realise that maybe he did know what was happening. Maybe he did know better. 

"I think he'd rather not see me right now." Your lips tightened in a thin line. 

Both the guys turned to Yoongi. "Go, I'll see you tomorrow."

They both patted him on the shoulder and waved at you, Taehyung hugging you close. "It'll be alright. I'll see you."

Taehyung smiled at you, his cute cheeks popping upwards. Maybe it had to do with the fact that you had just granted him an exclusive piece by one of his favourite photographers. Maybe he was just friendly, maybe he simply liked you because he deemed you a decent human being. 

Right at his heels, Hoseok gave you a cute wave, saying bye-bye in a cartoonish voice. 

Beside you, Yoongi shook his head, still sporting a fond smile. "Uhm, I never know whether I should introduce myself. Anyway, we've never met before, so– I'm Yoongi. " He said with a tiny smile, his cheeks jumping upwards. 

You introduced yourself with a small bow. 

"You are just like he described you. He talks about you a lot." He commented. You blushed, almost feeling like dissolving into thin air. You never thought you would meet his friends like this. 

Yoongi looked at your face. "You're exactly his type — in the best way possible." He blushed. "Let's go." He said, leading you. "I actually want to say a few things." He threw his bag on the floor, getting comfortable on the sofa in the common room. "How are you doing?" 

You stared at your feet. "Decent enough."

"I'll be honest, ____. He hasn't been doing good. Not even decent, in my opinion." Yoongi announced, as if trying to prepare you for what you were going to see. "I feel like telling you a couple things about him. He can be hot-headed, and an absolute pain in the ass. He is a perfectionist, and a terrifically clumsy one at that." Yoongi huffed out. "He holds himself to extremely high standards and punishes himself whenever he feels like he's not delivering. And he has the horrible tendency to lash out when he's stressed. He just takes it all out on those who are closest to him." Yoongi patted the spot at his side, inviting you to sit. "I'll be inappropriate, maybe, but I have to say it. You don't have to stay at his side."

The sentence was like a slap to your face. It had never come to your mind to part ways with him. 

"You don't have to put yourself through his tempers and tantrums. You need to be ready to handle those emotionally. If you aren't, I don't think you'll be able to go for the long run." Yoongi looked at you in the eye. "Sorry if I overstepped, usually people come to me to talk, I'm not used to giving unsolicited advice." He blushed and laced his fingers together, laying them on his thighs. 

"I don't want to let go of him, Yoongi." You confessed. 

"Then you should go bring this stuff to him in person. And remember, you don't have to be his therapist. If you want, you can be his partner, walk by his side, but it's not your duty to carry him." The man was incredibly smart and thoughtful. And sensitive. The more you got to know him, the more you understood Namjoon's adoration for him. 

"Thank you so much." You bowed your head briefly, placing your palm on top of his hands. 

He moved one on top of yours, patting gently. "Let's go find your grumpy bear, uh?" 

With a groaned "aigoo" He pushed himself up, standing on his feet like an old man before bending to catch the strap of his bag. "This way." 

He led you through the winding corridors until you recognised the door to Namjoon's studio. "Go on. Knock politely and be smart. Discuss. Negotiate. Compromise. And be kind to each other." He gave you the official salute and left. 

You found yourself staring at the door, wondering if he'd roar at you for interrupting him. 

The room sounded quiet. 

You counted to three. Knocked. 

"Come in." Said his voice with a weak rumble. He was probably distracted. 

His studio was warm and welcoming, if a bit clustered. The lights were low and yellowy, coming from his desk and contrasting with the white gleam of his computer screen, still you could see everything perfectly in the slight penumbra, your eyes perusing your surroundings. It was easy to see why his apartment felt like a hotel room: he barely spent time there while this place really felt like home. It felt like stepping into his soul. Small sculptures and toys and collectibles were neatly lined in his bookcase together with some books. Then the baby shoes. Art catalogues. Candles. Art. A drape too big for the wall, but still there, a painting, probably from Yoongi, since you vaguely recognised his style. On the back wall, you noticed two drapes embroidered in traditional patterns. The floor was covered in thick cream carpets with geometric prints that reminded you of tribal symbols. And sweet lord, that was his wooden, swoon-worthy, customised low table, matching with the piece by the door holding one of his bonsai. A comfy couch with a fluffy, warm blanket, and embroidered pillows. You were mesmerised. You didn't have time to take it all in, your glance running from the upright piano to the microphone standing beside his chair. He didn't turn around, he kept staring at the screen, typing every now and then. His beautiful desk was crowded with stationery, electronic devices, a keyboard and all kinds of knicknacks. 

"What is– oh. Hi." His expression was ice-cold. 

"Hi. I was passing by, I wanted to bring you some stuff you'd left at mine."

His heart froze. This is the end then.

He'd been avoiding it for almost two weeks, hiding from you in his studio, even though the only things he could write were heartbreaking blue rhymes that had Jimin and Jeongguk exchanging pitying glances. 

The beginning of this tragedy was almost comedic in its stupid futility. It was just him incapable of perfecting a pre-chorus. A dumb verse or something. He had called you, talked it out but apparently all he did was just turn down your ideas and suggestions, snapping at you until you exhaustedly told him that you were tired and needed some sleep. He took that as you umpteenth sign that you didn't care about him — which you both knew was entirely wrong — and caused a huge fight which ended on you telling him to go fuck himself, at which he unceremoniously replied that he was okay with that since you were clearly already fucking someone else. 

You didn't bother correcting him, since no matter how many times you told him, he always seemed to get back at you being unfaithful and uncaring. You were done justifying yourself, apologising for things you had never done. 

"Uhm. I also brought you some food. I didn't know if you had already eaten."

He looked at you like you had finally lit a candle in a dark and cold room. 

Your heart broke some more. You asked yourself if there was any more breaking to do, at this point. 

You figured there was the moment you heard his hoarse voice speak. "Let's eat together."

You didn't have the guts to deny him. 

You laid the bags on the small table and took off your coat. He stood on his feet immediately, crossing the room in a few broad steps and hugging you to his chest. 

Let it hurt. You told yourself. It heals faster like that. 

His palms settled at your waist and his eyes closed. He breathed you in. He had never felt something really end. His exes were like a song slowly slipping into a diminuendo until they became silence. His interest burned out, his curiosity simply died down and the feelings never seemed to grow fully. They felt like a balloon which was never supposed to be blown that big. This thing with you was like a song being stopped mid-chorus, silence biting in where it wasn't supposed to be. Is this what the end feels like? He asked himself as he held you tighter, one of his hands climbing up and burrowing into your hair. He pressed your face into his chest, where his heartbeat was so strong and so loud that you asked yourself if you could somehow amplify it, if your body could register it and replay it once you were alone in your bed, mourning over this. "You feel taller." He said, noticing how your forehead reached his lips instead of slotting under his jaw. 

"I still have my heels on." You replied. 

"Wanna take 'em off?" He asked. 

You shook your head. "No, if that's not a problem. 

He breathed out heavily. He interpreted your refusal as a sign that first, you were keeping your tough-woman shield up — which he couldn't blame you — and second, you weren't intending to stay long. 

You tried to part yourself from him. "One more second, little Vixen. Just a second." He whispered. 

You allowed him. 

"Come on, dinner is getting cold." You said softly. 

He didn't let you go, he simply loosened his grip and dragged you to the sofa. He was willing to keep you as close as he could until you ripped the bandaid off, unraveling this small spell that had turned his life into a perfect, dreamlike snowball. 

Sitting on the sofa, he made you sit beside him, your side sticking to his from shoulder to hip to knee to ankle. 

It was all too much but you didn't have the strength to part from him. He bent down and opened the small boxes. 

It was fried chicken. 

Like the first time at his place, at two am, naked in his bed after he had owned you in every way that mattered. 

He loved fried chicken. And now it would always mean you to him. 

No chimaek after fucking with anyone else. He wanted to keep it for you, in case one day you decided to come back, and he would say he had never done that with anyone else, that he had been waiting for you. Because some part of him told him that you would come back. 

Both your brains were going on the same path, already mourning someone who was right there in that moment, but already felt so far away. The room was quiet but both your minds were screaming, thinking so loud that the silence was welcome. 

"I got you fried chicken. I know you love it." 

I love you, his brain replied. But his mouth stayed silent. It was too late anyway. 

"Thank you." He said brusquely. He reprimanded himself for sounding so harsh. 

"It's okay." You said quietly, using the lid to grab a couple pieces out of the ten or so. You didn't feel like eating and he always ate two thirds of the box anyway. 

He exchanged one of your wings for a leg. "You prefer the leg." He said with a shy smile, trying to make up for the coldness he had shown previously. 

You had been sleeping with Namjoon for three months now, spending all your spare time together at his place, sometimes moving in for the weekend, the both of you leaving your job early so you could spend Friday afternoon together and go on small dates. He usually had his schedule on Saturdays and Sundays too, so it wasn't uncommon for you to spend several hours alone at his place. You had made small improvements, making his house feel more like a home with small handmade crafts. And when he came back, you would usually try to keep it chill but eventually you ended up in bed, or on the sofa, or the kitchen counter. Or the carpet on the corridor leading to his bedroom. Or the shower. Let's just say that you would be all over each other. 

You thought how different it would be now, and how difficult it would be to get him out of your system. 

"How is it going." You asked quietly after you swallowed your first bite. 

"Tough. I'm polishing some stuff, but this is the part where I doubt everything and want to rewrite all of it." He explained, his fingers gripping the chicken with a precision and finesse that reminded you of his delicate, careful side. 

"You'll get through it. You're a pro by now. And I'm sure you have excellent taste. You know what you want and you'll find your way to it." You praised him, rubbing your shoulder against him since your fingers were dirty. 

He leaned his head on your shoulder, shrinking down to reach you. "Thank you."

The more time passed, the more you realised he still hadn't said sorry for what he had implied during that phone call. 

"That's okay."

"How have you been doing?" He asked, trying not to let his worry show. It still showed, though. 

You decided on being honest. "I've been missing you."

He paused eating. "I've been missing you too." He put down the chicken, using the ball of his wrists to press against his temples. "I'm sorry about what I said that day. I know my past relationships and nerves are not valid excuses for how I treated you, but I got swallowed in those and I dragged you in."

You looked at the leg and finished munching on it, stripping the bone of the last few strings of meat. You put down the naked bone, licking your fingers. "You never talked about your most recent ex." You commented. 

He picked up his head. "To put it simply, I was her side piece." He said, plainly. "She was getting married to someone else. And she messed around with me." He looked at his feet. "At the beginning I didn't know. It lasted around eight months, as she was waiting for her fiancé to finish his military service. After I discovered it, we kept going for a couple weeks, but I found the whole thing so upsetting and disgusting that we parted ways. Her fiance forgave her and they got married a while ago, a few weeks before I met you." He snickered sarcastically. "I even sent them flowers." 

You blinked distractedly. "Joon, I'm so sorry, baby." You brushed your forehead against his arm. 

"It's cool. I mean, it's not since I'm still traumatised by it. I've been talking about it with my analyst, but it's been a while since I last went, almost three weeks, because this project had been swallowing me whole — after chewing me a little, clearly." He had his exhausted laugh on. 

You felt like you needed to talk about the whole story about that girl, but right now he didn't seem in the right mindset to do that. For now, knowing that he knew he had a bias and he was tackling the issue with a therapist was enough.

"Have you been sleeping, babe?" All the breaking up was momentarily suspended. There was something to save here. You had a lot you still wanted to save from this. 

He seemed relieved when you called him that. Don't get your hopes up. He shook his head. "A couple hours at a time. Small naps when I'm tired."

"Okay, so once you're done eating, we're gonna take a good, long nap."

He didn't want to sleep though. He wanted to hold you close, kiss you, make sure that he did everything he could to make you stay. The meal continued quietly, and as soon as you were fed he asked you about your job, how it was going, if you had any new clients or if you had met any new artists. You replied to each question fully, telling him about curious accidents and little inconveniences. 

And he listened. He had missed your voice and it felt good to listen to someone who wasn't himself or the boys' voices over speakers and headphones. 

As you were both done with dinner, he guided you to the bathroom, standing behind you as you washed your hands. He took some soap, foaming it up between his hands before he caught your left palm within his, pressing and rubbing them together to clean you up. And then he laced his fingers with yours, lathering your digits in bubbles and making sure that the sticky sauce from the chicken disappeared completely. He moved to the other hand as you laid your head against his chest at his collarbone, tipping it back so you could stare at him. You were sure you had never adored someone this much. He turned slightly to look at you, smiling softly. He bent down and pressed his lips to yours gently. No man, no person in the world had ever touched you or kissed you like he has. No one has ever talked to you like him, showed you their world like he has. He reluctantly parted from your lips. 

He led your joined hands to close the tap, moving to the hand dryer. It felt all too intimate. 

"Joon." 

"Let's get back to my studio, yeah?" He whispered in your ear. You nodded. 

He laced his hand with yours. 

Once you reached the studio, he quietly dragged you to the sofa, pulling at your arm so that you fell with your ass on his lap. He hugged you again. "I am so sorry about what I said. You have told me countless times that I'm the only one."

"You hurt me, Namjoon." You said quietly. 

It felt like a slap, his full name. 

"Let me make it right." He kissed your cheek and your eyes fell shut. "I want you."

And you wanted him too. You thought yourself crazy for wanting a man so complicated, someone who had disrespected you, who had repeatedly and blatantly demonstrated his lack of trust towards you. Still, when you needed reassurance, affection and devotion, your bodies always came into play, talking with a language so simple and obvious to each other that you simply nodded, whispering "I want you too."

With his index finger he turned your head, kissing you square on the lips and forcing you to part them, his tongue sweeping in your mouth, making your head spin with the intimacy and intensity of it all. 

Let him take you, if that would reassure him that you only thought about him, you wanted only him and no one else. 

His free hand curled around your thigh, climbing up under the tight knee-length dress you were wearing. The woolen grey number was the first thing to come off as he tugged it over your head and off his way. "You're so gorgeous," He murmured painfully, looking at you and taking in every small detail. "A work of art, little Vixen." He kissed your shoulder. 

You smiled shyly, trying to straddle his waist. He toyed with the lace covering your breasts and nipples, teasing them with his fingers until they pressed hard against the fabric. Next he fooled around with the waistband of your tights, making you stand between his legs as he dragged the nylon down your thighs and calves. He stared at your feet, where the garment bunched up, noticing your black stilettos. "Off." He whispered, tapping his foot against yours. Once you took off the shoes, he bent down to help your feet out of your tights. He bit your leg harshly, leaving a mark behind. "Heels on again, Vixen."

Smiling darkly, you slipped them back on, shivering a little, but so happy to wear your favourite black lace set and stilettos for him. 

"Walk for me?" He asked, making you put on a little show. 

And God, did you enjoy it. His jaw went slack at the Brazilian cut of your panties, exposing to his hungry eyes the perfect curve of your ass, the way it swelled fully before meeting with the back of your thigh. 

That was his favourite place to bite. And spank. 

You did a small catwalk with your back to him, reaching his chair, which you turned around from his desk to the sofa. Facing the chair, you bent forward, your thumbs catching the fabric of your panties at your sides and pushing them down as you bent forward, offering him the whole panorama. 

He groaned. "I'm gonna get an heart attack, baby." 

You smiled at him viciously over your shoulder, letting your lower piece of underwear fall to the floor. Next you dragged your full palm up the curve of your ass, smacking it playfully as your fingers made their way to the clasp of your bra. 

"You're gonna kill me, Vixen." He cried out. 

Bra undone, you let both strings fall down your shoulders, removing one side first and letting the garment dangle from the other side, making your arm fall and drop the delicate lace ordeal. 

Your smile disappeared in an innocent pout when you turned around, completely naked except for your shoes. 

"I'm gonna sit here." You announced, waiting for his approval. 

He nodded eagerly. "Make yourself comfy, Vixen."

You sat down, crossing your legs and propping your elbows on your knees. Shyness was not a word in your vocabulary in that moment. Your only intention was that of distracting him from whatever it was that was mauling his brain. 

"Are you going to make me wait, Joon." You teased demandingly. 

He stared at you, meeting your glance. "Stay there and sit still." He ordered before grabbing the hem of his sweater and pushing it upwards, taking off both sweater and undershirt in the process. His upper body appeared, a bit skinnier than two weeks ago but maybe it was just the distance and the slouching position. His sweatpants were taut around his lap and you bit your lip as your eyes traced the outline of his length. He laid his palm there, stroking himself over the cotton. "Missed you so much, baby." He groaned and huffed. His eyes closed, his hand grew tense, stronger and heavier. Licking your lips, you kept staring at him, squeezing your thighs as he touched himself for you. 

He was hot, all the time, but this… This felt like a fever dream. You were soaked. Thank god his chair was leather and it could be cleaned easily.

He moaned your name, his eyes struggling to open enough to look at you. His voice was so deep and needy, mixed with heavy huffs. "Namjoon." You whined. 

He opened his eyes fully, his hand coming to a halt. It was like a cold shower. He was reminded why you were doing this, why you had come to this, the sudden distance that had come within the two of you. "What is it, baby?" 

You pushed your ass against the chair, looking for friction. "Come here. Touch me." You begged. 

It pained him seeing you so needy and whiny and stressed. "Listen to me, baby thing. Listen very carefully." He wanted to reassure you but he couldn't come to you. "I need you to touch yourself, little one. Can you do that for me? I promise I'll touch you after you cum, baby, but I want to see you first." He asked, palming himself again. 

You licked your lips. "Can I?" You questioned innocently, placing your palm on your thigh, your fingertips grazing your crotch. 

"You can, doll. Do it for me." He growled, pushing his fingers under his waistband, grabbing his hard on at the base and stroking it as you parted your legs, exposing your wetness. You were beautiful, naked on his chair, dragging your middle finger along your dripping slit. Your other hand grabbed your breast. 

"You're a vision, Vixen. You're magnificent, pretty thing."

"I want your tongue, daddy." You mewled, your finger dipping inside, emerging covered in glossy wetness. 

He groaned, taking his cock out of his pants, moving the waistband to his thighs. “I’m gonna eat you later, pretty doll. I’ve been starving for weeks for that sweet cunt of yours.” His erection immediately sprung up, arching to his belly button, the lower tendon looking so inviting along that thick vein that always had him throwing his head back whenever you traced it with the tip of your front teeth. As your fingers met your clit, eliciting a whine from your throat, he used four fingers to press on the vein, his thumb already playing with the tip. His hands always looked incredible whenever he used them on himself, strong fingers and spidery tendons making the vision sinfully erotic. However, he was lost in you as much as you were lost in him, his lips parted, his breath panting while you opened your legs wider, using two fingers in small upward circles that teased the underside of your clit. You felt a chill run down your spine, your legs trembling and closing a little with an involuntary reflex. You giggled at that, closing your eyes and moving your grip to the armrest of the chair. Your upper body inched forward a little and your hand stopped. 

“Too much, babygirl?” He asked and you smiled brightly, nodding. 

You’re gonna miss it, the way she smiles when you’re doing it right, his brain reminded him and as a way to shut it up, he stroked himself faster, with more pressure, his spare hand brushing his abdomen and moving upwards, spreading over his pectoral, scratching the skin there before his thumb and forefinger curved around the base of his neck, pressing there. 

You observed the motion, unpausing the movement between your thighs and humming as he gave you his desperate stare, the one that meant that he couldn’t take it anymore, that he was on the verge of it and even the smallest addition to the current situation would have him screaming and cumming.

“Joonie, lemme get close. Cum in my mouth, Joon, please.” You whined. 

“No, naughty girl. Stay there and cum for daddy.” He groaned. “Come on, baby, I’m waiting for you.” He said, with a harsh and strained command. 

Arching your neck, you started moving faster, opening your legs as far as the armrests allowed, but they only allowed an inch more than what you already had. Huffing with disappointment, you closed them and propped the back of your right knee on top of the armrest and repeated the gesture with your left leg, spreading yourself wide, almost hitting a split with your legs bent at the knees. 

“God, you’re the dirtiest. You stretching it out for me? You’re so good, showing daddy how wet you are for him.” He teased, using that raspy voice that he knew always drives you insane. 

With short, quick breaths you brought yourself closer and closer to the edge. “Daddy, please, keep talking to me.��

His hand slowed down. “Need to hear my voice, babygirl?”

You nodded and he snickered. “Then I’ll talk to you, little one. You know what I’m gonna do after you cum? I’m gonna crawl to you and kneel between those wondrous legs of yours. I’m gonna push your ass to the edge of the seat and feast on you like I’m trying to die eating that pussy. And do you know what you’re gonna do, Vixen?” He provoked. 

You shook your head. “What am I going to do, daddy?” You questioned innocently, your words stumbling a few times as your breath got stuck somewhere in your throat.

“Oh, little fox, you’re gonna grab my hair and push that lovely cunt on my lips and tongue, fucking my face so hard and fast, pressing your sexy heels on my naked shoulders. I want to hear you gasp for air because I make you cum so good you forget to breathe, you forget how to speak.”

“Joon, I’m cumming.” You cried out, your legs starting to quiver and your clit getting too sensitive to stand the movement of your fingers, slipping them inside and pushing them in slow circles around your cervix. 

His fingers moved back to the tip, the other hand massaging his balls. “Take it, Vixen, that’s it baby. I’m cumming, ____.” He moaned your name, spilling his release on his lower stomach. 

You were still staring at each other with your chests heaving, eyes wild, hands stained by your pleasure. It was always the two of you. Always getting caught up in each other, always getting tangled in each other's fantasies with this constant lust pulling you in and never having enough. You wondered when the hunger would stop, when you would grow tired of his insecurity and possessiveness, when he would find out you're too kinky, too needy, too fucked up for a busy man like him to handle. 

He cleaned his hand with one of the unused paper towels from dinner, crumbling it and throwing it in the box with the garbage from dinner. 

"Joonie." You whispered, waiting. 

"Coming, baby fox." He replied, standing up and taking off his sweatpants and boxers, walking straight to you. You closed your legs, a bit cold and embarrassed now that your high was over. Standing right in front of you, he cupped your cheek, making you look up at his face, however, even though your head was tipped back, aimed at his eyes, your glance hung low, staring at the droplets smearing his abdomen. "What are you looking at, spoiled little fox?" He said, with a sardonic smile. 

"I wanna lick."

He grinned and scooped some liquid with his digit, bringing it to your lips. 

Parting your lips, you licked your lower one first, then you let your tongue dart out and swipe at his finger, carefully sucking it into your mouth before he lowered his eyes, staring into yours and smirking seducingly as he pulled his digit out. You smacked your lips and savoured his taste, your eyelids falling shut as you hummed at his flavour. 

His cock, once half soft, was now hardening again, swelling intermittently and slowly rising to his navel. But Namjoon's eyes were focused on your face. "Want more?" He asked once your eyes opened and your gaze focused on his face. With a sex-addled, lazy grin you nodded, opening your mouth. 

He grinned right back. "Such a hungry little girl."

Impatient, you grabbed his hips, pulling him towards you and licking his belly clean. He groaned, observing you closely. 

I'm going to teach her some patience and some manners, he thought darkly. However, he immediately reminded himself that he would never have the time, your liaison coming to an end.

With this unfortunate thought, he cupped your face. "I'm the one supposed to be eating now, ____. Let me take care of you, darling." He said, before falling to his knees. Immediately he pushed the back of the chair to the table, so that it wouldn't cartwheel out of his grasp. 

Once more you asked yourself how many times he had done that before, thinking about how the relationship with the bride-to-be must have been mostly sexual, since you don't usually have much romance and dates with someone who is taken. Even though he didn't know she was taken. Whatever. 

In that moment he was there, kneeling before you, placing your heels on his shoulders, cupping your ass and tipping it forward so he could easily and comfortably give you that first, glorious lick from your hole to your clit. "Taste so good." He said, nuzzling his lips side to side as he spoke, mixing the movement to the vibration of his voice. He bit the small tattoo at the top of your thigh, where it met your pelvis, just shy of your hip bone. "Sexy little thing." He kissed it. "Drove me insane since day one." As usual, he sucked at it, causing a dark purple mark to bloom over it. "Fucking perfect."

He laid his tongue flat against your slit drawing the tiniest circles with the whole length of it. 

You hand-combed his hair back, holding it so you could look into his dragon eyes. He looked vicious and dangerous and so cunning, so smart in the most atrocious way. 

"Namjoon." You moaned, your hips arching closer to his mouth. 

He snickered cockily, moving his tongue slowly back into his mouth, allowing only the tip to wander up your crevice and reach the apex of your labia. He delivered a set of ten licks, slow and curling perfectly against your nub. "Are you good, little fox?" He asked. 

You nodded and pushed his head back between your legs. 

He laughed loudly, fighting against you. "I'm not done talking, brat." He bit your lower belly gently. "I'm gonna pump your clit with my mouth, Vixen. I'll suck it twenty times, then I'll let you rest until I'm ready again. I'll keep going until you cum. Remember that after twenty I'll pause. This could easily turn into edgeplay, baby, so you'd better get very horny very fast. You okay, Vixen?"

He checked on you and you nodded, impatient to simply have him on your clit.

"Be verbal, little girl." He reprimanded.

"Yes, daddy."

"Good girl. Let's get started."

He wasted no time. He wrapped his lips around your clit and started sucking, sucking so hard that you knew the following day his jaw and ears would hurt. At pump fifteen you already knew you needed more than twenty to cum. And as twenty arrived you whined but you felt confident that the next set would suffice. 

This time you felt your edge at twelve, still you needed more. You were getting wetter and wetter, so soaked that his saliva and your slick mixed up and made you feel uncomfortable between your asscheeks. 

"Joon–" You said, at which he mumbled "language" in between two pumps. 

"Daddy, I want your fingers inside." You said, indulging his every whim. 

He fumbled around with his arms, securing you with his left, making sure that your backside wouldn't get too close to the edge of the seat, and cause you to fall. His right arm moved back to your front, his index and middle finger coming to your entrance and waiting, his drool sliding from his tongue down your slit and directly on his fingers which, now lubricated, slipped in with no friction or resistance. The pressure was mind-blowing, your head spinning. "Daddy, please."

"Please what?" He said, hitting his pause. 

"Make me cum. Let me." You asked, as meekly as you could. 

"Why should I, uh?" He teased. 

"Because I am a good girl." Because I love you, said an obnoxious part of your brain. 

"Then I need you to say it one last time, Vixen. I know I've tormented you, but I need to ask it once and for all. Is there anyone else?" He said, his voice almost breaking. 

"No, Namjoon. I swear to God, there's no one else. I promise it. I swear on everything that I love the most. Please." You begged, hoping that he would feel the desperate honesty in your voice. "Please. You're my only daddy. I have you, only you. I am yours." You said, and God if it felt right, if it felt true, being his, belonging to him. 

Tell him you love him, your brain said again, but you refused. 

He smiled brightly at your declaration. "We're done playing, if you want to, Vixen."

You simply nodded, batting your lashes at him. "I want to."

"Then hold tight because I'm not going to stop until you're fucking my face and screaming my name and shaking on this seat. Understood?" He warned you. 

"Yes, daddy." You replied. 

"Then hold tight, baby fox. I'm gonna eat you alive."

"Try." You challenged him. 

And that's when he pounced. His pumps became longer, impossibly tighter, and the small pause between one and the next became shorter. Your eyes locked with his, brows knitting together, lips parting in a mewl as you threw your head back. "Namjoon. Please, daddy." 

Smirking, he mixed the pumping motion with a barely-there curl of his tongue, teasing your clit with such delicate pressure that you couldn't even wrap your head around the incredible amount of tension that it was causing in your body. Your hands tightened in his hair, your moans dissolving into small giggles. 

He wanted to tell you how good you sounded, how pretty you looked, how he wanted to see this every day for the rest of his life. He loved seeing you this happy, this carried away. He loved your morning voice and your late night cuddles. He loved breakfast in bed and midnight snacks and three a.m. quickies. He loved watching you take off your bra from under your t-shirt before going to bed, he loved seeing you shiver as you went to the bathroom early in the morning, clad in his t-shirt, plain cotton briefs and a pair of socks even in the dead of winter, since he always kept you warm under the covers by holding you close. He wanted to confess it all: the heartwarming wonder he felt staring at you had when you focused while reading and studying, when you brushed your hair, when you got dressed before leaving for the day, when you stood at the kitchen counter, cooking, with your back to him, and again when you applied lotion all over your body after showering, when he kissed your nape, standing behind you and donning the zipper of your dress. 

However, he stayed silent, showing it all with the reckless ministrations of his mouth as your chest blushed, your hands grabbed his hair almost painfully and your hips snapped, your mouth opening in a silent scream. 

You hadn't even bothered telling him you were cumming. He knew anyway. His mouth became more gentle, resolving to small licks while his fingers massaged your walls deep and slow, perfectly responding to the contractions of your muscles. "Here, pretty thing." He murmured, his hair tickling the skin of your stomach. "I've got you, baby. Shhh." He calmed you down, your breath coming in heavy pants, your heartbeat going like crazy. He rubbed his soaked fingers against his thigh, briefly cleaning himself before coming up to your face, cupping your cheeks. "Are you okay, little one?"

You nodded with your eyes closed, getting sleepy. 

He caressed your face. "Open your eyes for me, baby girl, let me see your pretty eyes." 

With a beatific smile you tried to look at him, eyelids lifting, taking a few seconds to focus on him. 

"There she is, my moonshine." He cooed, pressing a kiss to your lips. "You look really happy, baby thing."

You simply moved your head in a nod. 

"Do you want more, little fox?" He asked, still fussing over you. "Can you take it just one more time, babe?" 

Licking your lips you nodded again with a giggle. 

He smiled. "You keep nodding, baby. Are you saying yes to daddy?" 

"Yes, Joonie." You whispered slowly. 

"Good girl. Can you walk, Vixen?" 

"Yes."

"Great. I want you to kneel in front of the coffee table, darling." He commanded, rising to his feet and helping you stand up. 

This would be the last time, he decided. 

He would allow himself your heaven just one more time, then he would hold you close for a few minutes, clean you up, accompany you home and let you go. He wasn't man enough to look into your eyes. He was weak and unfair. He turned you around with your back to him, his erection brushing against the small of your back. Once you were in front of the table, he moved your hair to the side, skimming the curve of your ear with his lower lip. "Kneel, Vixen."

You did. 

He kneeled behind you, moving the books and magazines on the floor, away from the two of you, while the traces of your dinner were thrown into the bag, which he would discard later. With an empty table, he pushed his palm from the small of your back to your nape, making your front adhere to the table and making sure that your hair was out of the way. "I know you love this table." He murmured. 

"I do."

"I do, too." His heart felt like a burden. Without further hesitation, he grabbed his length and rubbed his tip against you. "You ready, ____?" 

"Please."

With a groan he slipped in, the filling sensation causing a loud whine on your behalf. "Quiet." He reprimanded. 

You got a little scared at his dark voice, knowing that at this point you'd better obey. However, it lasted little. Once he bottomed out, he growled, bending down to your neck. "You good, little one?" He said, his sweet persona back in place. 

"Yes, daddy."

He was breathing heavily through his nose as he sucked at the skin of your neck, marking you. As soon as he was sure the mark would bruise and stay for at least a couple days, he released your skin. "Do you want your spanks, baby girl?" 

Your eyes rolling with pleasure, you hummed. "I want them so much, daddy. Spank me, please."

He simply breathed. "With pleasure, little one." He knew no one would ever be this good to him. 

His chest parted from your back, a small shiver settling in instead. 

The first smack was harsh, angry. You clenched around him and he thrusted in violently, growling. 

The second one hit the tender skin of your outer thigh, where it met your ass. "Daddy." You whined. 

"Quiet." He chastised again, his voice strained. He hammered into you four or five times. 

"Daddy, it hurts." You cried out, at which he stayed silent, simply spanking you again, twice, without rubbing soothingly at your skin. You emitted a shrill huffing sound of complaint, at which he answered with violent ramming into you, using both hands to push you onto his lap. 

This was not how Joon usually did it. This was not normal. With worry distracting your mind, you turned your head, looking at him. His eyes were closed, droplets falling down his cheeks. Was it sweat or tears? 

"Namjoon?" You asked, alarmed. 

He shook his head, biting his lip. "You good?" He asked, eyes still closed. 

"Stop." You murmured. 

He obeyed, exiting your warmth and opening his eyes, still avoiding your gaze contact. "Did I—?"

"Look at me." 

He shook his head. "I can't." 

"Namjoon." You reprimanded. 

As your eyes met his, you noticed they were rimmed with tears, and he was biting his lip to hold back a sob, shaking his head in shame. 

Your initial shock was followed by an overwhelming sense of tenderness for the beautiful, delicate man in front of you. 

You quickly decided what to do. 

You turned around fully, facing him as you stood on your knees, your hands caressing his cheeks. "What is it, Joonie bear?" 

He simply frowned and hid in the crook of your neck, desperate. 

"What is it?" You asked again. 

He nuzzled even more into your chest, inhaling the damp feel of your skin. "I just want it to be a good memory." He huffed with a broken whisper. 

A memory? "Why would it be a memory, Namjoon?" You asked, confused. 

"If it's our last time, I wanna be good to you." He said, and you could feel every ounce of sadness in his voice. 

Last time? "Joonie bear, why would it be our last time?" 

His shoulders shook with sobs as he stopped holding back his tears. "I've been a bastard, it's okay if you want to go." He tried saying in his most composed voice.

You frowned in confusion. "No, Namjoon."

"You want to leave me. It's okay. I need it only one last time."

You shook your head, trying to grab his chin and make him look at you. However, he strongly opposed. 

"Joonie." You murmured, hugging his head and caressing his hair. "I'm not here to leave you." You whispered. "I want to be with you." You continued. 

He shook his head even more. "I was dumb. You have every right—" 

"No." You kissed his head, caressing his shoulders, hugging him tight. "I'm not going anywhere." 

He looked up at you, his face covered in tears. 

"Oh, baby bear." You cooed, touching his cheeks, kissing his forehead. "Don't cry, Joonie." He disappeared even more into you, hugging your entire figure, dwarfing you. "Don't cry, my love." You whispered, the word tiptoeing out of your lips. He sobbed harder. "I'm so in love with you, Joonie bear." You crooned, offering him all your soul in those simple, childish words. 

"You love me?" He asked, confused, alarmed, petrified. 

"I love you, Namjoon." You repeated. 

He completely forgot his messy face and brought his lips to yours, his mouth melting into you eagerly as your tongues spoke a language that came so natural to both of you. 

Breathless, he parted from you. "I love you. I love you so much." He pressed tens of kisses on your face with such speed and pressure that you felt like disappearing into him. 

"I love you too." You giggled, trying to clean his face. 

You both laughed, elated, his hands coming to your waist, holding you closer and closer. "I wanna make love to you." He whispered. "Let me love you."

"Missionary on the carpet or cowgirl on the sofa?" You asked. 

"Why choose when you can have both?" He wiggled an eyebrow. You smiled. He smiled back. "Let's get on the sofa." He replied gently. "You'll catch a cold with your sweaty back on the freezing floor."

"But no missionary on the sofa…" You cried out like a child. 

He smiled. "Do you want missionary so bad?" He kissed your temple, smiling. 

"I guess I'll be happy with anything you want." You pouted, still doubtful. 

"C'mere." He said, getting even closer. You slipped your stilettos off and he picked you up by the back of your thighs and with some strength you didn't know he had, he carried you to the sofa, careful not to step on your shoes. "I'm going to sit. Careful with your legs." He warned, plopping down as carefully and as gently as he could, mercifully avoiding to sit with your calves underneath him. 

"Don't worry, I won't make you ride me, baby." He kissed your brow. "You're too tired for that." He cradled you to his chest, offering you a bit of his body heat. "Can you push it inside you for me, love?" He asked seducingly, kissing your neck. 

You smiled and reached between your bodies. He was already pulsating, you knew he would come undone in a few strokes. Slowly, you lifted your hips and pushed his tip inside, making him groan. 

"You're always so tight, babylove. Fuck, you feel amazing." He sucked at your neck some more, drawing a twin bruise to the one you had on the other side of your throat. "I feel like a fucking teenager with you. I can never get enough." His hips jutted a little, pushing into you while his forearm around your waist pulled you down, his hand gripping your ass. 

"Daddy." You breathed out, your forehead pressed against his neck as he bottomed out. 

"Yes?" He replied, soothing you with long caresses down your spine. "Does it hurt, doll?" 

He had so many nicknames for you but you couldn't wait for your next. "No, daddy." He held your face away from his shoulder. "Are you sure babylove?" 

Your face stretched in a slight grimace. "Maybe."

He giggled and kissed your cheek, sliding down to your mouth. "I'm sorry, Vixen." He pressed his lips to yours once and then again. "I'm so sorry, baby. For everything." He combed your hair back. "I can't promise you I'll never hurt you, but I can promise I'll try to make it better every single time." He held you close as your brow furrowed. "I love you." He whispered, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing on your lower back. 

"I love you too." You said right back. "But please, Joonie…" 

"Need me to move?" He asked.

"I want you to cum." You murmured. 

He smirked and nodded. "Want me to finger you?" He asked, already drawing short thrusts into you and helping you ride him with his forearm around you. 

"Yes, please, daddy." You whined.

His right hand left the crown of your head, coming to the top of your thighs and beginning to draw small circles at the apex of your labia, the flat of his thumb wide enough to cover your bundle of nerves entirely.

"Would you like to take your time, Vixen?" He asked kindly, knowing that sometimes it took you a bit longer than him to actually get worked up. 

"I just need you to keep going exactly like this. You're perfect, Joonie."

He grunted and started pushing into you from below. "Like this?" He said, his voice a tad strained. 

His thrusts were low and deep, curling just enough to hit your sweet spot. He realised you started holding your breath. Usually that meant you were close. 

He bent his head, looking down where your bodies joined. It was hypnotizing, his thumb drawing perfectly identical circles. He started kissing and licking any and every inch of skin that came close to his mouth, your shoulder, your chest, your neck, sucking whenever he managed to grip the skin for long enough to bruise and mark. 

When you started shoving yourself on him, bouncing in earnest, he kept his cool and stopped fooling around, staying focused on lasting long enough, doing the exact same thing, knowing that with a few thrusts delivered just right, you would become like putty in his arms and he could just get crazy and chase his high. 

With your lips parting in a high pitched moan, you pressed your hips to his two more times before your chest collapsed into his with a tired whimper. "Take what you need." You murmured before propping yourself with your forearms against the back of the sofa, lifting your hips. Your face was pressed at the crook beneath his jaw, your tongue blindly chasing the droplets of sweat sliding down the column of his throat. He emitted an animalistic groan before his palms thudded heavily against your glutes, gripping your hips so hard that both his knuckles and your flesh turned white. And then he started ramming into you from below. The sounds in the room were a mix of his grunts, the smacking of flesh and the wetness between your legs, but more quietly, under all those layers, in between a groan and the next, there were his whispered love declarations, which poured out of his mouth like prayers, until he was so close, so fucked out that he could only repeat 'I love you', over and over, interrupted only by a final howl as he spilled inside you. 

In all of this you had tried to stay quiet, shushing him and kissing his neck, not sure that you were allowed to mark him. 

You laid both exhausted, his body sliding sideways down the sofa, trying to rest on the seats, his head laying on an armrest as his ankles dangling from the other. You covered him like a blanket, your hair draping over his chest and tumbling down the edge of the sofa. 

You were both sweaty and messy with cum and drool, still you simply laid there, until you felt too cold and shivered. 

"Blanket?" You asked. 

He shook his head. "I'd better dress you and take you back at mine. I can go home tonight. There's no use working late. I need to rest anyway."

"Are you sure." You asked, touching his face. 

He kissed your wrist. "Sure."

"I have to clean your chair first. I should have some wet wipes in my handbag." You mumbled. "And I should clean myself too before I drip on your lovely sofa."

He hummed, tired, fake-crying as he said "I don't wanna get up."

"My bag is right beside the sofa, just stretch your arm backward." You directed him. 

He fumbled around a bit, moving the bag from behind his head to your side, where you could easily reach inside. After a bit of rummaging, you fished out your wipes, making a quick work of pulling him out and cleaning yourself. 

"Cold." He muttered with a pout, which you kissed away from his face. 

"Come on, baby bear, get up and get dressed. I wanna shower with you and shower you in kisses." You pampered him, trying to convince him to get ready to leave. 

He whined as you sat up, quickly dashing to recoup your underwear. Once you were wearing it, you cleaned his chair, quite happy when you noticed that it wasn't half as bad as you though. When you turned, you noticed he was staring at you, already completely dressed, your dress in his hands. You moved closer.

"Up with your arms, love." He said gently, and for a second you realised that your simple and emotional confessions weren't a mirage caused by arousal or desperation. 

You followed his instructions as he helped you wear your dress, slipping it over your head and helping you find both sleeves. Next he gripped the hem at both sides, delicately rolling the fabric down your body. Once it reached your knees, he let his hands skim back up your hips and waist, crossing his wrists behind your back before squeezing your ass. He stared at your throat. 

"Will I have to wear a turtleneck for the next ten days?" You asked, slipping the neck of your dress aside and checking the damage. 

"Sorry." He murmured. 

"It's okay. I like it. I'm just teasing you." You said with a playful smirk. 

"Brat." He mouthed with a snicker, bending down to pick up your tights. 

You tutted, stealing them from his hands. "Let me do these, they're tricky."

He simply stared, his body trembling with a new tide of arousal at the mannerism you used to put on the garment, rolling up one leg between your thumbs and forefingers, pressing your toes against the stitching and dragging the nylon up your leg. He had seen this scene in an old Italian movie, but seeing the gesture in real life helped him understand the frenzy that the main character experienced after such an act. After you repeated the movement on the other leg, his mouth practically salivating, he watched some more as you fixed the gusset and the waistband, stretching the garment around the curve of your ass. 

"Call me whenever you need to wear those." He whispered in marvel and agony. "I might take them off you just to see it all over again."

You smiled coquettishly, grabbing your coat and wearing it. 

He kneeled in front of you, holding one of your shoes. "When's your birthday?" He asked, making you lift one foot as he slipped your heel on. 

You frowned, the connection unknown to you. "Mid-november. Why?" 

He held your other shoe and you held onto his shoulder as you lifted your other foot, wearing the black stiletto. "I loved seeing those on you tonight. I might buy you another pair or eight as a birthday gift."

You shook your head and laughed. "I don't need a sugar daddy, I'm happy with my plain, regular one." He rose to his feet and you grabbed his cheeks, planting a big, fat smooch on his mouth. "I'm actually very, very in love."

"Hello, Actually Very, Very in Love. My name is Head Over Heels — he pointed at your shoes — in Love. Pleased to meet you."

You laughed and he felt his heart explode with joy, his nose brushing against yours with Eskimo kisses. "Your bag." He said, bending to pick it up. "My bags." He said, collecting his tote and the small paper bag with his belongings that you had brought him. He neared his desk, checking the various devices. "Equipment off, computer off–" He mumbled as he moved the mouse to shut down the system. Meanwhile you fixed the low table, putting the magazines back on top of it. He switched off his table lamp and moved towards the door. "Dinner." He reminded himself, picking up the trash bag by the entrance. "You ready, Vixen?" 

You hummed in confirmation. 

"Let's go." 

[oh-boy-me]

Demon Outfits Discussed

The wait is over :) thank you for your patience and all the lovely comments on the casual discussion!!

I feel like it got longer this time, so I hope it’s all an enjoyable read!  Also, I apologize for the ugly pictures--it was the easiest and fastest way to both have all the design in one image and also prevent it from stretching so far.

Like last time, please don’t take this too seriously; we love these boys and Justin doesn’t know them but has no grudges against them.  We’re just harping on their fashion sense.  Absolutely no hate is intended towards the boys or the design team!

Participants in the discussion were

Jo ( @jodaneko ), our art major with storyboarding/character design experience, who finds they have more in common with Satan each passing day.

Justin ( @justinlester0629 ), our fashion expert, who dressed up and filled a wine glass with water for the occasion.

Noodle (Me), our untrained eye who owns the Barbie as the Island Princess video game on three different platforms.  It’s not even that good.

Featuring emergency guest star Megan ( @maggo77​ ), my sister who is physically near me as we look at the backs of their designs for the first time.

Edit: Distracted by the pretty jacket, we made a mistake when putting in Levi’s silhouette rating.  It’s the worst.  2/10, not 6.

Lucifer:

“Boy looks like he’s about to swing open the doors of an expensive mansion during a debutante party and give some SCATHING NEWS.” —Justin

“Short shoulder cape and a long split butt cape lol” —Jo

Jo has realized that based on both outfits, Lucifer doesn’t want people looking at his butt.  Possible reasons are: he doesn’t have one, or Diavolo someone was getting distracted.

His shoes match his outfit.  After last time that’s all I care about.

A triple popped color, and how many layers is the middle one?  Is that a book?  Dude has like 27 collars.

The forehead diamond is very important and it’s great that there are diamond buttons to match it.  But uh.  How about those red diamonds on his sleeves.  They.  They sure are there.  (I actually like the red accents and that they match his gloves; I just can’t take the diamonds seriously.)

  Lucifer 🤝 Some Horses Diamond on the Forehead

The peacock motif is HERE and we’re all living for it.  HOWEVER, the feathers on the cape and coattails should have matched, OR there should have been more lime green because there’s so little of that color.

The pants have a pleat in the front, which Justin says means he responsibly irons his clothes, and Jo says only heightens the fact that under the capes this is a marching uniform.

Can he fly?  Jo says these are baby wings that can’t support his weight, and his cape has a hole for the top pair but blocks the bottom pair?  Can’t believe Lucifer handicapped himself for the sake of fashion.

The red makes it regal and the wide flowy design makes it imposing.  Good job, Lucifer!  I might actually be intimidated if I saw you.

Definitely the classiest outfit.  You can tell they put care into it.

Mammon:

“BITCH MY BODY CANNOT TAKE THIS KIND OF SEXY, I THINK I AM OVERHEATING!  NO MORE FURTHER COMMENTS, YOUR HONOR.  HAUTE AND HOT.” —Justin

The whole thing does amazing with only three colors.  We’ve noticed the trend of black and white + one color, but I mean hey.  It’s working so far.

Damn those pants sit low.  No wonder literally all of you wear belts.

The leather jacket?  The studs and harness?  Bless.  Justin calls it “the perfect blend of stylish and ‘I’ll see you tonight *wink*’”.

Kind of don’t like how the belts connect to the pants, though.  It looks better in the back.

“He found a really cool jacket, but it didn’t pair with anything so he just didn’t wear anything.” —Jo

Honestly though?  We’ve all made fun of Mammon for having big hoe energy in his outfits, but like, he knew he had wings and planned his outfit to accommodate for that.  He’s the only one who didn’t cut holes in his outfit.  Maybe Mammon was the smallest hoe after all.

Also if there’s a motif it repeats elsewhere, like the studs and diamonds on his jacket and pants.  Did he and Lucifer have a “tastefully putting diamonds on my outfit” battle?  Because Mammon definitely won.

One of the charms broke off the belt loop and he never bothered to replace it, and honestly thank god there isn’t two of those anymore.

Torn between wishing the boots were tighter to match the rest of the outfit and saying “yoooo they’re open in the back!!!”

Ok so so far we’ve said generally only good things, but there is one major issue with the design: Its gravity.  Everything points down, his tattoos, the diamonds, even his wings.  The center of gravity in the image is his shoes.  Bitch loved his shoes so much he made his whole outfit point to them.

Either way this was universally considered the best and I mourn Justin who doesn’t know how far Mammon’s standards are gonna fall from here.

Leviathan:

Diagonal zipper

“Levi what the fuck.” —Megan

He looks like an e-boy.

Honestly it looks like he borrowed something from Justin’s wardrobe for Pride but he didn’t know how to put it on.

APPARENTLY the biggest hoe.  Abs that he shouldn’t have coming through a mesh t-shirt.  I thought Mammon’s pants were low, but Levi’s whole-ass ass is out.  Ok Levi, I see you.

The shirt pattern is good but he probably leaves it partially unzipped because it’d look really dumb fully closed.

Justin loves the funky pants pattern and Jo likes the pants but not with the outfit.  It’s because the devs were too coward to give him a thick tail base so his pants had to fill that role by sharing the pattern.

The shoes are good, and not just because they incited Justin’s deep-set hatred for Christian Louboutin and his uncomfortable red-bottom shoes.

Justin is offended that he’s hiding his suspenders; either show them completely or not at all, no in between.  Jo’s not fully convinced it isn’t just one suspender.  What are his suspenders doing?  What are they attached to?  Are they holding anything up?  Apparently not.

Jo pointed out that if you squint the belt on his waist looks like fangs and the orange dots on his sleeves looks like eyes so it’s like theres a snake head on his outfit.  Cute!

The gloves are throwing us off though.  Why is Levi of all other brothers need gloves?  I bet he has sweaty hands.

Ok really, does his sweater unzip all the way into two pieces?  Or does it hang by that tiny thread underneath the tail hole?  There’s even a button, just in case.

Can’t believe this antler-sporting, suspender-wasting nerd went diagonal zipper on us because we beat him at a trivia game.  Should have just zipped his hood.

Satan:

HONEY.

“I hate everything about this.” —Megan

First of all, he’s straight up wearing Lucifer’s casual shirt.  Does it only button down the back?  Can he take it off?

Then he spilled bleach on his pants.  Like I get what they were going for but with the white on black that is literally just bleach stains.

Incredibly differing opinions on the belt.  He got it in the cowboy department.  Justin adores it.  Jo despises it.

And are those… athletic slip ons?

And now the elephant in the room.  The ribcage made of ribbons.  The ribboncage.  The idea is great!  I love that they gave him a skeletal theme without throwing him into a Hot Topic.

But if you take the ribboncage and feather boa off he’s literally just wearing a dress shirt and some nice jeans.  And that’s the problem with Satan’s demon form.  Not that it looks goofy.  It’s that they took risks but then hid all the risks behind business casual.

Also Megan said that the back of the ribbons look like a rock climbing harness.  Someone (probably Justin) said the front reminds them of the underbelly of a green cockroach.  Ew.

The feather boa would look better if it was over something you wouldn’t literally wear at the office.  (And also didn’t look so much like worm on a string.)

“He is going to Dragcon 2020 and is definitely going to take a picture and ask to lip sync, but accidentally start beef with Acid Betty.” —Justin

On a good note, loving how the tail fades to highly radioactive green.  Feels dangerous.  Megan pointed out that it’s a pretty wimpy tail, though.  Jo enjoys the self-conscious posture it expresses.

That’s basically the only good thing we have to say, though.

I just????

Merry Christmas.

Asmodeus:

The kanji on the picture is just saying that the coattail is the same on both sides.

Ok now with that out of the way, HONEY.

I’m sure he says that to others but I hope he says it to himself too when he looks in the mirror.

Starting with the good.  The wings?  Adorable.  The heart-shaped hole to accommodate them?  Adorable.  One of the only good adjustments.

And I love that the tips of his horns look venomous, like a scorpion tail!

We love a good floral design and a good twin tailcoat.

But once again, the shirt just has too much going on.  The flowers.  The buttons.  The brick-pattern stitching.  The brooch.  The long collar.  The fact that if he closed the last button it’d end in a diamond covering his crotch.  Sometimes less is more, Asmo.

That scorpion brooch is the best thing to ever grace my computer screen and it shouldn’t have to share the spotlight with the rest of his shirt.  It should have wrapped around his arm and been paired with some more jewelry.  Then he could have ditched those giant cuffs.

The bleeding heart tattoos are a really good idea!  But they should have been angled better and not like someone else put them on at the roller rink.  And maybe they shouldn’t have been outlined in pink.  Those aren’t tattoos, those are gaping holes in his arm.  Is he ok.

I’ve been avoiding the pants, but.  The pants.

“Oh dear god. Oh no that’s… I thought you were a designer…” —Jo

One side is buckled the ENTIRE way down, and then the other side is COMPLETELY plain.  It’s too extreme on both ends.  It should have been only half a leg of buckles.  Not whatever this is.  I still don’t think he can bend that leg.

The shoes are ok but they COULD have been a stiletto so.

Jo is DONE with these demons’ inability to wear socks.

We expected better from you, Asmo.  I hope you have to fasten all those buckles every morning as retribution.

Beelzebub:

He said “how many belts can I wear on one outfit.”

Justin said it’s like Barry B. Benson and Post Malone had a beautiful baby boy, and Obey Me! is cancelled for creating a sequence of events that could lead to me hearing that with my own two ears.

The jacket?  Stunning.  “It’s steampunk mixed with Jack Sparrow, mixed with Billie Joe Armstrong,” says Justin.  It’s got puffy sleeves!  And there’s objectively too much going on with the jacket, but since it’s a leather jacket I can forgive it.  Justin and Jo can’t.

I’m not sure why they keep giving him weird jacket collars but I prefer belt number 9 to fur.

“Why is it bucked in the back?  Couldn’t it have just been a jacket?” —Megan

Good that the black tank isn’t only black, but he has so little color on his outfit that it would have been nice for it and the matching pattern on his boots to have been a color besides gray.

I don’t mind the belts down the leg because they’re not too in your face.  Jo wants the white belt to be thinner.  Justin wants him to just pick one and go with it.

Poor Beel, he can’t do his lil thigh pat pose without his right hand being assaulted by studs and that bear trap-shaped buckle.

Justin feels like the cowboy boots are too wide up top and it’s probably because they’re FAKE cowboy boots.  I don’t know why he didn’t just get cowboy boots instead of putting fake coverings over his dress shoes.

Can’t fault the twin belt, though.  And the wing hole isn’t terrible.

Idk I guess.  They knew what they wanted to do at least.  

That seems to be the pattern with Beel: they know what they want to do, but something weird happens in the middle of it.

Belphegor:

“I don’t know which Teletubby let their son go through the it’s just a phase mom phase, but they should be ashamed.” —Justin

A toddler who just learned how to cut holes in paper got a hold of his hoodie.

Is it a hoodie?  A jacket?  A poncho?  The cow print actually isn’t terrible.  At least it had the decency to be unique in its spotting.  And the actual presence of blue is very appreciated.

On the topic of colors, Jo is calling the devs out on their apparent fear of color.  “Put the pink elsewhere, cowards,” they say.

We actually don’t hate the horseshoe, and using it for the belt buckles is actually really clever.  Even if 75% of them are doing literally nothing.  Feel like he didn’t need that many.  Could do without the bottom one, maybe even bottom two.

There’s a teeeeny tiny cowbell on the back?  Megan apparently finds that VERY important.  Why do they go to such great lengths to remind us that Belphie’s a cow?  Beel doesn’t rub his hands together 24/7.  Mammon doesn’t even get bird wings.

Just like Satan spilled bleach, Belphie has tar pants.

It’s nice to see a change in pant style, but.  Am I biased because I hate harem pants?  Maybe.  Are these harem pants too short on him?  Yes.  Maybe they were supposed to be parachute capris?  But it just looks he outgrew them too fast and Lucifer won’t buy him new pants yet.  At least they look comfy.

If he puts his keys in those pockets will his pants fall down?  Probably.  That’s a problem considering his are the only pants that look like they could hold any keys.

The shoes are fine.  I can enjoy a high topped sneaker.  …Is that a security tag?  Did he steal his shoes.  Belphie stole his shoes.

On the tiny tail hole, I appreciate that Belphie went for modesty.  But I hope it’s impossible to wear these outfits outside of demon form because I don’t want him walking around with a tiny hole right above his ass.

Honestly he doesn’t even look like a demon?  He just looks like… a cow.

There’s one more aspect of their demon forms that I didn’t feel comfortable forcing into a smaller space than it deserved: Silhouettes.  Jo puts a lot of weight on silhouettes and their role in character design.  Is it dynamic?  Is it recognizable?  Jo ranked them as such:

1. Lucifer: 9/10.  Care and effort were put into this design and it shows. 2. Mammon: 7/10.  Points deducted for most of it being form fitting but otherwise still manages to get a passing grade. 3 (tied). Beelzebub: 5/10.  His wings have actual mass but his horns being mostly hidden by his head reduce his score. 3 (tied). Belphegor: 5/10.  Evens out since his clothes aren’t as form fitting as the others but they also kind of turn him into a blob. 5. Asmodeus: 4/10, and only because he’s got multiple wings and that his tailcoat breaks up the bottom half. 6. Satan: 3/10, for the fact HIS BOA carries most of the work in altering his silhouette. 7. Leviathan: 2/10.  The tail and horns prevent this from being a total flop.

Our (surprisingly unanimous!) ranking of their outfits (not counting Megan her opinions deviated) were:

Mammon

Lucifer

Leviathan

Belphegor

Beelzebub

Asmodeus

Satan

In conclusion, any M-rated fic that doesn’t have it take demon Satan 20 minutes to take off his shirt is too unrealistic.

[stxphxn-strange]

human error/i don’t expect perfection

a/n: i started writing this, before 9am and my day was already not going to plan. my solution as always is to write hurt/comfort for my college au, so here we are. ily and i’m sending y’all well wishes♡

Stephen was hit with overwhelming relief when he finally got home, the clock singing her melodic chimes to announce the changing of the hour. It was 2 in the goddamn morning, and Stephen was just so sad and exhausted. He almost felt like a chain was tugging at his head and heart, leading him towards self loathing no matter how much he tried to resist. Stephen’s entire night consisted of trying to put on a smile, trying not to berate himself in front of others because he made a mistake. That was the problem. Stephen made a mistake, a really small error during a simulated surgery that he and Christine were using to study. It was a mistake so small and so easily corrected, but Stephen wanted to be perfect. The sheer presence of the mistake was unacceptable to him and his insatiable need to be flawless. 

Some of his classmates thought Stephen was an arrogant and haughty kissass who would trample anyone in his quest to prove that he was better, smarter, and more innovative than his peers. That wasn’t true, but Stephen let them think that. It was simpler than explaining that he’d internalized every bit of criticism he’d ever received and that he was just trying to be good enough for himself. It was easier than telling people that he felt the need to prove his worth to his mother in the hope that she might accept and understand him better. That was none of their fucking business. They could think Stephen worked himself to exhaustion so he could flex about what a hard worker he was, he didn’t care. 

He just wanted to be good enough. 

But first, he wanted to sleep. 

Stephen took his water bottle out of the fridge and made a steaming mug of tea, holding fire and ice as he headed towards his bedroom. He was hoping to find Anthony asleep and relaxed in bed, a sight that could always make Stephen smile. He wanted to take a hot shower and curl up in bed next to his boyfriend, and he wanted a lazy morning after a restful night. There were no classes tomorrow, which meant they could maybe catch up on sleep, or just spend time lounging around together with no pressure from the outside world. 

But Anthony wasn’t in bed. He was pacing around in the bathroom, brushing his teeth restlessly. He’d had a shit day and was still clearly quite upset, his eyes red and puffy from crying in the shower. After harshly washing his face in an unsuccessful attempt to hide the fact that he was crying, Anthony sighed deeply. 

Stephen, eager to get ready for bed, softly knocked on the door. “Hey, I’m home.” 

“Oh hi, I’ll be out of your way in a minute,” Anthony replied. He pulled the door open and walked across the room to pick up a towel that had fallen. Scowling at it, he hung it back up where it belonged. 

“You okay?” Stephen asked, leaning against the wall. 

“I’ve been better,” Anthony said. “You?” 

“About the same,” Stephen replied. 

These kinds of greeting conversations were much shorter when they were tired or upset. There was an understanding that they weren’t upset with each other, but down about something. 

Anthony reached out to silently ask for a hug, relaxing a little bit in Stephen’s arms. “Today wasn’t good.” 

Stephen hummed and drew him close. “It really wasn’t.” 

Anthony yawned, exhausted and swaying in Stephen’s safe embrace. He felt like he was going to fall, both from physical and mental exhaustion, but trusted Stephen to catch him every time. 

Sure enough, he did. Stephen hugged Anthony tighter and kissed the top of his head, holding him close to his heart. 

“Go to sleep, Ant,” he murmured. “I’ll be there in a minute.” 

“Okay,” Anthony replied. He yawned again, begrudgingly letting go of Stephen and stumbling into bed. 

He wanted to sleep and had every intention of doing so, but then he started thinking about his day. Not by choice, because Anthony could happily forget today if his mind would only let him. He replayed every conversation, memory, and action that caused him to feel as hollow and worthless as he did right now, not realizing that he was shaking as he tried not to cry. Stephen’s tiredness disappeared when he stepped out of the bathroom and was affronted with the sight of Anthony sobbing into a throw pillow. He crossed the room in long strides, laying beside his partner and hugging him close.

“What’s wrong?” Stephen asked, tracing circles on Anthony’s back.

Anthony just sighed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does,” Stephen replied. “Even if it’s the smallest thing in the world, if something is important to you then I’m going to listen. I’ll want to listen.”

“I’ll tell you later... can we just stay like this for a bit?” Anthony asked. His tone was so soft and passive, indicating that he’d trip over himself to redact the request if needed. He hated asking for things, always feeling imposing and undeserving of the time and attention he received.

But Stephen was already shifting into a better cuddling position, pulling Anthony into a strong hug and giving him gentle, loving kisses. Stephen was grateful for these moments where Anthony allowed himself to be vulnerable, grateful for any chance to show him the love he deserved.

They were both instinctively caring and fiercely loyal to the people they were close to, but awful at taking moments to show themselves the same kind of love and care. They both felt like they hadn’t earned love, like they couldn’t exist without owing something to someone. There weren’t enough ways to show supportive people how appreciated they are in the same way that nothing would ever be powerful enough for the couple to prove their worth to any naysayers. Stephen generally didn’t listen to criticism, he didn’t care what most people thought of him. A select few, his mother for example, could make him feel like shit 13 seconds into a conversation and leave him rattled. Sometimes when Stephen failed, he heard her voice and the negative things she’d told him. He usually dealt with these thoughts by thinking about encouraging memories or things Anthony told him, which helped to recenter him. That strategy didn’t work all the time, but enough to help Stephen get through the day.

Anthony was extremely sensitive to criticism, but great at hiding his emotions. He’d had to from a young age, Howard Stark being himself, so it wasn’t easy to tell when something upset him unless you knew what to look for. Sometimes he built a barrier to keep his emotions to the side, throwing one feeling on top of another until the foundation broke and emotions overwhelmed him. Today was one of those days, where something he thought was insignificant was the hump that broke the camel’s back. He wasn’t good at letting himself be upset and had a hard time surrendering to his emotions right now. Even as Stephen reassured him that it was okay, that he was safe, it was still hard for Anthony to let himself talk about what was wrong. That often led to nights like these, with the weary couple holding themselves and each other together with the threads of love and understanding and years of knowing each other.

Despite exhausting himself from crying, Anthony could still see that Stephen was upset. “You okay?” He whispered, caressing Stephen’s cheek with his hand.

“Just frustrated. The practice Christine and I were doing didn’t go according to plan,” Stephen replied. “It was so close to perfect, but I fucked up one little thing.”

“Did you try your best?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did you fix the mistake?”

“As fast as I could, yeah.”

“And I assume you wrote everything down in that absurdly neat way you take notes?”

Stephen rolled his eyes. “Absurd is a bit of an extreme descriptor, don’t you think?”

“Hmm... no,” Anthony mumbled. “It’s absurd but shows how careful and dedicated you are to doing well. You have an immensely strong work ethic, you always do as much as you can, and you try as hard as you can. We’re still learning, we’re still in school. It’s okay to mess up, and it’s okay for you to mess up.”

Stephen nodded, his eyes fluttering shut as Anthony continued to caress his cheek. “You need to take your own advice, my love. You don’t have to hold yourself to impossibly high standards either.”

They tended to say the same thing in different words, ranging from delicate and sweet to extremely blunt.

Anthony smiled sadly, leaning in for a kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Stephen murmured against his lips. “Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

Stephen always phrased his questions carefully. His intentions were always clear, showing that he was inviting Anthony to talk with him rather than insisting and forcing him into a vulnerable state. Too many people had done that to both of them.

There was no consequence if Anthony didn’t want to talk, and tonight he didn’t.

“In the morning?” He suggested, still a bit too timid to directly say no.

Stephen nodded. “In the morning.”

“I still just want to be close to you, in your arms,” Anthony whispered.

Stephen smiled and gave him a feather light kiss. “Stay as long as you like, I’m always here for you.”

tags: @stark-strange-love2 @h3mmy @kiwidino @chocopiggy @maya-custodios-dionach @majesticnerdynerd @ocforeverything @spooky-n-spunky @doctorstephenvincentstarkstrange @thespacecryptid

[scnofcain-blog]

( MUSE H )  charles michael davis ? no, i’m certain that’s just rowan ( he/him ), a member of the cain family. the thirty-four year old greengrocer is known to be extremely patient and also very spiteful. when i think of them i picture freshly pressed white shirts, hushed conversations behind closed doors, & the sound of rustling leaves. ( cami + nineteen + she/her )

hey guys !! cami here, gmt bitch, real tired person. please accept my man. 

also a sidenote: i am not a very consistent person so me using a medium gif here, a gif icon on a starter and an icon on a different thread? likely.

when the big four families settled and accumulated power, they were in equal footing. wealth, respect, ambition. the cains' reputation, however, took quite a dip in the last few years. marianna cain was the only child and heiress to the cain legacy - whispers told of her yearning for more, perhaps marriage to someone from the other important families to cement her growing relevance. instead, she picked an engineer with no relevant name or status, and dressed him up with her own surname, by then just dangling to survive oblivion, that was likely to take it away.

together, marianna and nathan revitalized the family businesses, and soon the wealth began to flow in again, uninterrupted. their mines, especially, saw a level of development unheard of since the settlement. regardless of their success though, the choice made by the heiress in a critical time told the others that the cains did not search for power, that they were not a TREAT. for as much money and jobs as they generated, the cains were to be underestimated, as they still are.

rowan was the firstborn. the pregnancy was very high risk, providing many scares to the entire family through the journey. the delivery of the premature baby nearly took marianna's life, and rowan's was hanguing by a thread for a bit as well. the rather traumatic experience deterred the family from having any more biological children, but they weren't satisfied - only a few years later, they adopted a baby boy, whom they named roman.

the small family thrived for some years. marianna and nathan were hands-on parents, always present in their children's lives despite their own busy schedules. love, nurturing and a sense of union never lacked in the house, even when the two contrasting boys butted heads and argued. somehow, the two seemed to cushion any fall.

rowan accepted a feeling of duty from a very early age. no one imposed it on him but the boy himself, as there was this seed of ambition buried inside him fighting to burst out. with his soft nature and passion for the quieter things in life, no one would have guessed he'd one day turn into a sharp businessman, but rowan carved that path for himself. his surname was on those documents his mother signed and on the side of those trucks and on those plaques. he could always feel the responsibility they emanated.

growing up, he didn't devote himself to studious pursuits. instead, he moved semi-permanently to one of the many countryside houses his family owned, and during the week followed around relatives and advisors to learn their trade hands-on. slowly, they began giving him some actual jobs, but even then, past the age of twenty, it felt like his parents were easing him into it, protecting him from failure.

( death tw, parental death tw ) rowan had turned twenty one the previous month and his brother was barely sixteen years old. during a tour through one of their newest facilities to an investor, the platforms shook and everything collapsed. under the rubble were buried HUNDREDS of people, including mine workers and the two cains. very few survived, and the heads of the family were not lucky. the accident came with not only grief but guilt, as lawsuits began piling up, both from relatives of the deceased and survivors of the event. the cains hadn't just died, no. they had taken the lives of over a hundred people in a disaster beyond imagination.

rowan's pragmatism got him through most of it all. there were businesses to be run and a reputation to repair. without nearly as much experience as necessary, the man took over more and more positions until, shortly after, all the roles his parent's had occupied were replaced by him. one man doing the job of two, because no one else could do it right. no one else could uphold it to the same standards and plans as those two. because if someone else took even just a bit of the weight that was crushing him to the ground, he'd be able to breathe, and rowan didn't wish to do so. a busy mind left no room for mourning.

meanwhile, his younger brother grew more and more out of control. marianna and nathan had been an integral part of their lives even as they grew older, acting as the glue between their clashing personalities, softening any friction that would arise. without them, and with how each of the boys chose to deal with their hurt, the two drifted apart. hard as he tried, rowan could never be their parents, nor could any of his kind words undo the damage of losing them in such a brutal way. eventually, those words earned hard edges, louder ones, frustration mingled with worry - no one would recognize them now as the siblings they once were.

roman calmed down eventually, refocusing his life a bit more and finding worthier pursuits. his older brother sits on the office his mother once owned, spends most of his nights in his childhood home, still takes care of lawsuits that keep pouring in from the collapse. it is as if rowan's clock has stopped, leaving him stranded in a role that isn't his and in a constant reminder of the tragic day that tore the family apart. in a sense, he resents his little brother, who was able to walk away from it all.

recently, however, the two began spending more time together, even though it has led mostly to arguments, their views clashing against each other again and again. the climate of insurrection spreading through creon comes as the perfect wave which the cains would ride onto reignited glory: still sitting in a very low point, the family has united to discuss the power struggle, their views on the right of an oligarchy, their opinions on the rebel groups, they ALLIANCE with some of them. behind closed doors, the cains hide from the reputation that follows that, that makes them weak. they reconvene in the one whisper they never tried to kill, that they were allies of the common man, who had no power, no status, no name.

nathan cain often spoke about his insatisfaction with the way creon was run, and his older son absorbed every word he said, clinging to it with devotion. as he grew older, his eyes turned to books, to the search for how things were done before those four decided the world was theirs to rule. many of the revolutionary rhetorics in streets now resonate with the debates he'd have with his father, the suggestions, the unconformity. from within of the system, rowan was raising questions from the very start, and now the time has come for him to whisper it just a bit louder.

HEADCANONS:

despite being a self-proclaimed not-intellectual, rowan has an impressive personal library, many of the books in it being non-fiction and earth classics.

have you seen the powerhouse that cmd is? rowan might be just a little too into fitness. catch him in his morning jog. catch him growing kale. fight him.

his obsession with work and duty make him a very unreliable person, especially to loved ones. it is certainly one of his biggest regrets, yet he doesn't seem to be able to hop off of that moving train: he's lost most touch with his brother, his most recent relationship ended with a fizzled out engagement a year ago, friends keep walking away... life is kinda passing him by and so are all the people he wishes he could keep close, yet he always does the exact opposite.

in the last few years, rowan has shifted the family business focus from the mines to the many plots of land they own. not a single one has been neglected, and creon is currently facing a bonanza of produce and livestock - the trucks with the cain logo on the side are a common sight everywhere, and they have very much monopolized the pantries and fridges of creon.

just as hands-on as his parents before him, rowan is constantly visiting both the farmlands and the places where they end up. the optics are great, and it truly has brought a feeling of proximity between this big family and the rest - how much of this is propaganda and how much is genuine is a bit up for debate.

his patience knows no bounds, except for maybe his brother. rowan is the definition of laying low and waiting, seething, preparing. it is near impossible for most people to get a rise out of him, to make him show anything but politeness and good spirits. he is, however, a very resentful person, and can hold a grudge for far longer than most would assume.

no matter how much he rises up, rowan will always see himself as an impostor, in a place he wasn't fully prepared to take over, in a role that wasn't his, in a life he didn't pick. while he does his best to act as the good negotiator, some people have and will pick at his hidden core and insecurity, and it is very much a way to get inside his head. 

character parallels: julia wicker, aaron burr, annalise keating, robb stark, jack pearson, scott mccall, terry jeffords, jackson avery, setev rogers, laurel lance, randall pearson, chloe decker, clarke griffin, harvey kinkle, daisy johnson, alexander hamilton & alan zaveri.

WANTED CONNECTIONS:

the other cains. that can be the ones in the family page or, as long as you message someone else from the family, any other relative !! they are very much united, especially right now, when it comes to the politics of creon and the times of rebellion, so this could lead to some interesting strength for the cains or even weakness if your character doesn’t agree with the way things are heading. backstab us pls. be the snitch.

ex-fiancée. him and rowan broke up a few months into their engagement, mostly because of how little time, attention and love really the cain gave him. things might be !! sad and awkward, or more angsty if we wanna throw in some other stuff that lead to the collapse of the relationship, or even a little flame that is still there and that is killing the both of them !! hurt me 

a new chance. someone love this man then. commit the same errors as those before him and think that this time it will be different. hurt yourself

look at him. someone dick down this man. he might not have the time or emotional vulnerability for a healthy relationship but he certainly can find a break to go have fun !! 

rebel rebel, your face is a mess. the cains are threading dangerous territory with the opposition to the big four families, by getting closer and closer and trying to allign themselves with their movement. this could lead to some interesting friendships, alliances or full on mistrust and clashing of ideas !! rebel leaders and just your good rebels ready to rise up or at least hear the others out, vote cain for the people i guess

fight him. maybe one of your character’s relatives died during the infamous collapse of the mine. maybe you just don’t like the persona of the man of the people who, simultaneously, is sitting on a fortune and on power. maybe you think he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. anyway, fight him

an old friend. someone who somehow has stuck by his side through all these years. they’ve been friends since they were just children. life has moved on and they’ve both changed a lot so bring me some drAMA

pals pals pals. even though most of his come and go, mostly by his wrong doing, someone please befriend this man. take him out for drinks. pls. 

[melissagt]

Rumor has it that Darth Akori'ira has a pet nexu.

Thank you! This turned into a rather long response, but I’m happy with it!

The Caraboose (posted on AO3 as well!)

Feelingthe warmth of the ceramic mug seep into the palms of her hands, Lanasettled back into the overstuffed armchair across from theall-but-named Director of the Sith Academy on Korriban. Well, one ofthem, at least. Her appointment had been to meet with both of theAlliance agents, not just one. But, Cytharat had been called upon tosettle a rather deadly dispute between acolytes. Some things neverchanged, it seemed.

Sheallowed her eyes to take in her surroundings – the mismatchedfurnishings, the mishmash of artwork gracing the walls, the two desksset back to back…one perfectly ordered, the other a perfectlyordered mess. Everything that spoke of two complete opposites beingstuck together. Yet somehow, it worked. Lord Cytharat and the Wrath were quite the team. They played ‘Good Cop, Bad Cop’ like professionals. They got results, and they got things done. 

Shesipped her tea in silence, regarding the tightly wound woman beforeher. One knee bouncing over the other, a sheathed sword aching to bedrawn. The Twi'lek may have hated being forced to sit idle, impotentand useless, or so she called it, but she certainly had a way ofmotivating people into action. And Cytharat played off of her more‘extreme’ nature perfectly. It was the perfect cover. Rebuild themight of the sacred institution of the Sith, and recruit for theAlliance on the side.

“Haveyou identified any more promising new pros-” Lana’s words caught inher throat mid-sentence as she felt a cold, wet somethinggraze over the side of her hand. She looked to her left, nearlyjumping out of her skin (which by her standards meant a slightwidening of the eye…perhaps an arch of the brow…certainly nothingthat would actually give away her surprise) at the sight of a verylarge, very hungry-looking nexu smiling at her. “Oh, hello there,”she stated, as if the concept of having a nexu snuffling at one’sshoulder was the most normal of occurrences in the galaxy. “I’dheard rumors that you’d taken on a new friend, Lord Wrath.”

“Oh,Shake n’ Bake?” At the sound of her voice, the nexu let out alumbering chuffle and promptly trotted-paced-stalked the few stepsover to sniff at the Wrath’s shoulder. Nudging a giant clawed paw offof the arm of her chair, the Twi'lek had to lean to the side to seearound the feline’s imposing frame.

“Shaken’ Ba-?”

“Don’t.Ask.” The Twi'lek shook with laughter, her amusement clear as dayas she took in the sight of Lana’s rather righteous version of aquirked eyebrow. “But no, she’s not mine. This…this is Nik’sbaby,” she added, giving the thickly muscled cream-colored hide aseries of patting slaps with the palm of her hand.

Atthat point, the over-sized tooka took it upon herself to try andclimb into the Twi'lek’s lap, which did not work. Letting out asurprised screech at being stepped on, Lord Akori'ira ratherunceremoniously grabbed at the nexu’s jewel-encrusted collar anddirected her off the of the chair, pushing a hand firmly against theanimal’s rump to prompt her to sit down.

“C'mon,Bacon, you’re acting like a spoiled brat,” she scolded.

Lanahad to hide the curl of her smile with a sip of tea, thoroughlyamused at the scene before her. Here was the Empire’s Wrath (orshould it now be changed to the Alliance’s Wrath, even though itdidn’t have the same menacing ring to it), a woman who was well knownfor her short span of patience, coddling a three hundred pound housecat like a child.

“Sohow exactly did our nefarious pirate associate end up with…”Seeing that Shake n’ Bake (that was simply ridiculous, but whatever,she could do for a laugh) had finally settled down on the floor,lolling a very large head up against the Twi'lek’s calf, she let herwords trail off, and instead finished her sentence with a wave of herwrist in the animal’s general direction. Nexu were not exactly knownfor their friendly natures, and were generally best left alone in thewild.

“Well,to hear him tell it, he’s had Bacon for a long time…sinceshe was just a cub,” she began. The Wrath let an arm hang off overthe arm of the chair and idly stroked at the bristly fur at the topof the animal’s head. “Back when they were on Taris for the firsttime, him and Nox…” she shifted in her seat, her restlessnessgetting the better of her momentarily, “they came across along-dead female, caught in a trap. Her mother…” Bending to theside slightly, she looked down to see that the feline was nowengrossed in the process of washing her two giant-sized front paws.“From what he said, Bacon was half-frozen, three-quartersstarved, completely covered in parasites, and probably wouldn’t havemade it another night on her own.”

Leaningback in her chair, Lana took another sip of her tea, legs idlycrossed in front of her. “She’s still a wild animal though…”

“Ohyes, she has to run. A lot. And hunt. Otherwise, she gets toodifficult to handle.”

“Theycouldn’t possibly have kept her on the ship for long.”

“No,she was on Dromund Kaas, and then when Nik bought the estate onAlderaan, he had her moved there. Plenty of room to run and nobodyfor miles except for herds of deer and nerf to hunt.” She chuckledthrough her nose, her single lavender eye staring off at some distantspot well below the stone floor. “I bet he bought that land just asmuch for caraboose here, as he did for Nox. He’s a sack of mush whenit comes to his girls…don’t let anybody tell you different.” Hergaze came back to focus and she looked Lana right in the eye, a grintugging at the side of her lip. “Don’t tell him I said that,though,” she laughed.

HisGirls. Lana had to hand it to Andronikos, if it wasn’t for hisincessant hounding about Darth Nox’s definitely-not-deaddisappearance, the Alliance would have gotten off to a much differentstart, or perhaps not at all. From the pirate himself, to the Wrathherself…along with the Wrath’s twin sister (who was currently onTython seeking out candidates from the other side of the galaxy), toCytharat, and even Theron Shan…and all of the contacts they broughtwith them…they were all there because of one person who was hiddenaway, unreachable and likely frozen in carbonite. All but dead.

Lanahad worked with Darth Nox for a time, though she felt that she’dnever really gotten to know the woman. Know of her yes, butshe’d never been allowed into the Inner Circle in the same way thatothers had. They’d never fully trusted each other (which shegrudgingly had to admit was probably Theron’s fault, in part).Perhaps it was for the best…someone had to stay objective andpractical about matters. And practicality dictated that one personcould hardly seem worthy of such trouble. Surely they could findsomeone else to put up as a figurehead for their little undergroundoperation.

But,the person she would have chosen to lead, the person who would havekept the Empire together without the need to form a separate faction,was dead. Darth Marr’s death had left the Empire crippled by a powervacuum. And Sith did as Sith always do…they fought amongstthemselves, rather than focusing on the true threat – the EternalEmpire.

Ifthey couldn’t have the man himself leading the vanguard, then theycould at least have the woman he personally groomed to lead. Theloyalty that Darth Nox inspired in those who chose to share theirlives with her…that was what they needed.

“That’snot like you, Beniko…”

“Hmm?”Lana murmured under her breath. “I apologize, Lord Wrath, it justgot me thinking…”

Shaken’ Bake suddenly sat up on her haunches, poised as if she’d heard avery interesting noise off in the distance. She made a snufflingchuffle again, her split hairless tail swishing back and forth on thefloor behind her, then started to lap at the white fingers danglingby her face.

“It’seasy to forget that we weren’t the only ones uprooted by this…turnof events,” she mused. Grimacing, the Twi'lek pulled her fingersaway from the slobber and promptly wiped them dry on the side of thechair. “Nik told me that Nox used to joke around about Baconbeing a total daddy’s girl, but ever since she disappeared, thecaraboose has needed extra attention. It’s been a couple years now,but she still knows something is up.”

Lanaleaned forward to help herself to a second cup of tea, yet anothertug of a smile pulling at her face when she thought for a momentabout the seeming miracle that the table and tea service it borehadn’t gone crashing to the floor from the nexu’s meandering. “Isthat why she’s here with you, then?” she asked with no lack ofcuriosity on how the beast got on with all of the acolytes…or ifthere had been any accidents sinceher arrival.

“WhileNik and Theron are off playing Find the Spy, or Hunt the Spy, orwhatever Spy Stuff they’ve been up to? Yes. For whatever reason, sheseems to like me,” she chuckled. “Who would have thought thosetwo would have ended up thick as thieves?”

Nodoubt it was a surprising turn of events, considering Lana hadbeen present the first time the two men had laid eyes on eachother…with Nox standing in between them waiting for all hell tobreak loose.

If looks could kill…well, for the Force-blind at least.

“Andthe acolytes…there haven’t been any…?”

TheWrath laughed, leaning over to slap-pat Shake n’ Bake’s side again.“They know she’s off-limits,” she responded, shifting in her seatso that she could reach to scratch at the base of her tail,apparently a much-loved rub spot, if the beast’s grumbling purr wasany indicator. “She gets her daily run down in the lowerwilds…harasses the tuk'ata. Drives Lord Renning crazy. And if shetakes a liking to any particular acolyte? Well, those are the ones wesend to you.”

“That’squite an interesting selection process…”

“Isn’tit though?”

[sparklyjojos]

hey i sent you an ask but internet problematic here so i dunno if it was sent? As someone with no experience with neurodivergent people i was hoping you could elaborate what you have previously said about Kars in JORGE JOESTAR (and other characters maybe) seeming neurodivergent. Like, i'd love to know your headcanons about jojo characters regarding this, as well as reasoning for the headcanon's (optional, but i'd love it)

(wow this one sure took me a long time to answer, sorry!)

oh boy, this would be an extremely long post if I included all other jojo characters I headcanon as nd so I’m just going to focus on Jorge (the Japanese one) and novel Kars for now

this won’t be a “this character definitely has x thing”, but just pointing out traits and dialogue that may interest someone who wants to headcanon/write these characters as nd

am I going to be reaching with some of those? yep! but if the Jorge Joestar novel itself taught me anything, it’s that:

so, you know. I see what I wanna see.

(tw: mental illness, trauma, ptsd, suicide - all in the Kars segment)

Jorge:

 – the sheer difference in introductions is telling: English Jorge talks at length about his family, his classmates, his gay puppy crush, and anything else you’d expect to be major concerns for a kid. Japanese Jorge? social life haha what social life, HOPE YOU’RE READY FOR 10 PAGES OF PUZZLE SOLVING

 – no really if the very first thing someone says after seeing all your memories is that you sure spend a lot of time on puzzles then that’s some deep interest you have, a bit of a stereotypical hobby there but whatevs

 – hyperfocuses a lot??

 – (exasperated Kars who’s been trying to get his attention for a good minute:) “You have a bad habit of not hearing when people speak to you.” (Jorge:) “Yeah, if I’m focused on something else. Sorry. What?”

 – tunes out of one phone conversation with Bruno like 3 times

 – figures out how time-based Stands work specifically because he has experience with his internal sense of time getting royally fucked up whenever he’s deeply focused

 – was inattentive (and hyperactive?) as a young kid to the point it affects how the memories on his disc look like: “I was a fidgety child, and the image rarely focused on [Joseph] for long. I wasn’t interested in his story.”

 – visual thinker, good with patterns, can make complicated mental maps and solve slide puzzles in his mind

 – his memory is really good until it isn’t (as far as he’s concerned Funny Valentine’s Stand is called Dirty Whatever)

 – very particular about meanings of words and names, etymology (his arc starts and ends with him pondering over the kanji of his own name, knows latin names of various species like Hydrangea or Ursus maritimus and what they mean literally, that “sorry that name’s taken” line when Rohan calls something a Beyond, etc)

 – doesn’t like (is distressed by?) clutter and things/details being WRONG. (“If details don’t add up right I get agitated, and start searching for a better way. This trait has lead to my room being very clean, and made me a great detective.”)

 – infodumps to Rohan about polar bears of all things, and there’s a moment when he stops talking almost mid-sentence after mentioning they’re called Ursus maritinus and instead of speaking out loud he just thinks to himself that “The scientific name was given by John Phipps in 1774” as if he just realized that’d be Too Much detail to share, I feel you Jorge

 – (after Erina says he has a characteristic soft smile) “I do? I mean, I guess people do say I look like an idiot.”  

 – gets urges to laugh at very bad times (”Cars’ whispered response had an air of such grim realism that I almost started laughing, but he was watching me suspiciously. Whoops.”)

 – sometimes blurts out things, often fails one-liners, even when he pre-plans what he’s going to say something else may come out (“I’d thought of all kinds of things to say, but what actually popped out in that moment? (…) I have no idea what I meant by that last bit but I said what I said and had to live with it.”)

 – sometimes impulsive, like yeah let’s just get up in the middle of the night and search through a 10 km^2 area on a bike for something unprecised while you have several death threats to your name, this can’t possibly backfire

 – (after Jorge quite literally blows himself up by impulsive carelessness) “Cars was still laughing. “You really don’t think things through.“”

 – small point that’s made moot by paranormal things like that being real in the jojoverse, but his tendency to see signs and messages meant for him everywhere and in every event, and insisting on coincidences not being mere synchronicity gives off a different vibe than intended (at least at the beginning before he knows Stands and Beyonds are a thing)

Kars:

 – honestly I could just slap the definition of “neurodivergent = with their brain functioning differently from what’s seen as ‘normal’ in the population” here and point at his backstory in this book and be done with it

 – remember everything I’m writing is on top of his canon image of an asocial genius scientist with poor affect (or, in the anime, varying between stone face and painfully exaggerated expressions) who has a connection with nature and animals, which I guess can? be seen as some type of autistic coding (unfortunately in this case it dovetails into “a loner with autistic traits = snaps and kills everyone” type of coding sooo maybe let’s not go there)

 – novel Kars talks about how when he was younger he didn’t even know that feeling sympathy and wanting to have emotional attachments with others –was a thing– (apparently his race wasn’t capable of it??), and he had to sorta consciously try to understand and learn it through reading human fiction. It came off to me like he relates better to fictional characters (and maybe animals?) than to his race or humans, too

 - ^^(that backstory’s a bit unclear with how it’s told; either just like his race he doesn’t have the drive for social bonding, empathy etc. and his understanding of others is made purely on the intellectual level - that’s relatable for some nd people - or he DOES have those things in a drastic difference from everyone else of his race, which I guess makes him nd by definition. It’s… complicated.)

– on the topic of “consciously learning how to sympathy” - there’s a few times in the novel when he’s a prick not because he wants to be but because he genuinely doesn’t understand why the other person would be upset (”Cars, sorry, but can you put me back at my old height?” “?…isn’t the view better?”), but if that person explains how the thing is upsetting he then backs off like “oh okay” (when Jorge is disturbed about the women’s heads thing - “Yeah. But I just feel sorry for them. I can’t watch this.” - Kars just goes “I see.” and makes them disappear). He still has to work on the “taking your private memories without asking” issue tho

 – that moment in the backstory where Kars became deeply aware of just how flawed and “not up to own potential” he was which launched him straight into unhealthy perfectionism and desire for control and power as a way of dealing with it? relatable

 – and that thing where him becoming much more chill is preceeded by the realization that he can’t ever - and that he doesn’t have to - become an infinitely perfect being without weaknesses, and that he’d still have worth and meaning even when he’s not performing to some ridiculous self-imposed standards?? GREAT, and I love to see lines like this one coming from him: “Cars smiled. “I have no desire to be the leadingman.””

 – he talks about how traumatic events and your emotional reactions to them (“feeling like you’re dying”) can damage your soul. Since he claims to have experience determining soul damage, and the only souls he worked with before belonged to 36 other Karses, we can assume he’s talking about himself as well. (and it’s kinda obvious that having everyone you love die in

 – ^^^also worth noting that even if Kars knew a lot about brains biology-wise, he missed out on practically all of modern psychology after 1939, so of course the way he relates to trauma and mental illness would be different, and more informed by what he learned having spent most of his life around ancient civilizations in the Americas - the concept of soul loss. And it’s not like the book doesn’t wink towards it in other places (English Jorge dissociating during torture is described as him having learned how to remove his soul from his body)

 – Light Dancer Kars speaks about how he wanted to commit suicide, then in the same paragraph says that he and our Kars feel “the same sadness”, which, wow. Earlier there are scenes where you can interpret Kars’s behaviour as passively suicidal; he doesn’t seek death, but if something (burning upon reentry while saving the humans, fighting Dio) did kill him, he wouldn’t mind that much

 – this one is very subjective because you can interpret these moments as just him being very lost in thought / focusing on healing (Jorge sure does), but: when faced with intense emotional stress - like hearing Light Dancer Kars’s existential speech, or almost getting killed because he chose to shield the humans from harm - Kars has a tendency to go non- or barely verbal, motionless, unresponsive to outside stimuli (including people trying to get his attention by calling his name) and staring at one thing / into space, ignoring even a zombie attack or that they’re pressed on time in alternate!Morioh. When I first read it I assumed he just dissociated really hard (ptsd-related?), or was in a shutdown

 – if you pay attention to what traits Kars seems to be holding in high regards - either through saying that X is a good thing about humanity, or bemoaning that humanity doesn’t have X (that he ofc does) - they’re stuff like creativity, perseverance, attention to details, pattern-based thinking, the desire to “figure stuff out”, and good memory. AKA traits often (though not always) increased in autistic people

 - at one point he says: ”In the end, you’re just another human. You see a mystery and think, ‘How odd!’ and put in on a shelf somewhere.” I’m sorry but even in context it sounds like “apparently people can see an interesting thing without instantly getting fixated and wanting to know and understand everything about it right there and then, what the fuck”

 – he tends to be either very invested in what’s going on or bored, no inbetween, and avoiding that boredom is a high priority (”And it seems I’ve run out of time to eat you all… But I wasn’t bored.”)

um yeah that’s all I can think of rn

[17thcenturyart]

Ask many of the great painters of the last two centuries who's the greatest portrait painter of them all, and they'd answer without hesitation, Velazquez, an artist who transformed both the image of the 17th century Spanish Royal Court and the process of painting itself, with a degree of realism that had never been seen before.

Diego Velazquez de Silva was born in Seville in 1599.

This was a Spain whose aristocracy was still luxuriating in the wealth of Columbus's discovery of the Americas just over 100 years earlier. His middle-class parents had tenuous aristocratic connections, so it was considered unusual for someone of his background to take up the craft of painting. Painting was seen as a lowly trade in Spain, on the same level as farm hand or blacksmith. But Velazquez was educated, and this meant he could attempt to rise above the status of a provincial artisan.

At the age of 11, he became an apprentice to this local painter, Francisco Pacheco, with whom we went to live for six years. And it was here that he began to learn the trade of painting.

This is Velazquez's first great painting. And in fact, it's a great painting by any standards, but even more so when you realize that he was barely 20 when he did it. It's called The Water Seller of Seville, and it shows a simple, everyday scene of a man selling water to two other men. Now, there's a guy here in the foreground. He's youthful. He has the glass in his hand. In the background, you can just see, emerging out of this extraordinary darkness, a figure who is drinking. And then, illuminated in an almost theatrical way, the water seller himself. And some critics have read this is an allegory of the three ages of man, from youth, to adulthood, to old or middle-aged, and maturity. Now, this type of painting is called a bodegone, which means literally "chophouse" or "tavern" in Spanish art. And it's a scene of tavern life. Now, in Spanish literature, the water seller is usually a symbol or a character of low life. But what does Velazquez do? He shows him unidealized, certainly, but not as a villain. He shows him as a man with quiet dignity-- a real man, an honorable man, going about his daily life. And that graphic sense of realism is utterly unprecedented in the art of Seville.

His teacher, Pacheco, was well-connected. And this proved vital for Velazquez's future success, bringing him to attention of the Count Duke Olivares, a patron of the arts, and a very powerful chief minister to the young king, Philip IV. Olivares showed an interest in the precocious talents of the young Velazquez and knew of his ambition to become a court painter. So in 1623, when one of the six court painters died, leaving a vacancy, Olivares permitted the 24-year-old to make the journey to the new capital, Madrid, to meet the king and to paint his portrait.

This full-length portrait of King Philip was one of Velazquez's first court commissions. It would've been a daunting task. The King was already the most powerful man in Europe, and Velazquez was a young, inexperienced artist. It's an imposing picture, though-- the way that the young Phillip, still in his teens, would have appeared to visitors-- aloof and without expression. The king is wearing a somber outfit, which suited Velazquez's own style at the time, which was dominated by a sober palette of browns, blacks, grays, and whites. But as well as capturing the king's distinctive image, with his pronounced Habsburg jaw, the picture fulfills a function-- to communicate the position of the new king to everyone who looks at the painting. The king's right hand holds a piece of paper, symbolizing his administrative duties. His left hand rests on a sword, emblematic of his role as defender of the nation. The picture's important on a personal level for Velazquez, too. It marks the beginning of a long and potent relationship between monarch and painter. Velazquez produced numerous portraits for the king over the next few years, redefining the royal image as the Duke Olivares intended. They were images of kingship as much as of a particular king. The effect was like a modern-day public relations exercise, promoting Philip to his subjects as a capable and suitable leader, presenting him in armor and out hunting.

Philip IV had inherited a vast collection of priceless art from his grandfather, Philip II, including an unrivaled collection of Titian's works. As a result, the young monarch's interest and knowledge of the visual arts began to grow. Incredibly for a court painter, Velazquez was given a studio in the royal residence of the Alcazar, sandwiched between the apartments of Olivares and the king.

The preferential treatment that Velazquez was a receiving at court started to generate a good deal of jealousy around the place, particularly from other painters, who spread the rumor that Velazquez could only do heads. The king wryly confronted Velazquez about this. And he shrugged his shoulders and said, they flatter me. I'm not sure anyone could do heads particularly well. But in turn, Philip IV decided to call everyone's bluff by holding a competition, which has become one of the most celebrated mythologized events in the history of 17th century art.

The competition itself was quite complex. It involved a commission to paint a painting for the Alcazar palace that showed Philip III-- Philip IV's father-- expelling the Moors from Spain. There were three other court painters involved. And the two judges, were well-versed in recent developments in arts, and favored the style of painting that was being undertaken by Velazquez. In the end, therefore, there could only be one winner. And sometime in the middle of 1627, Velazquez was duly proclaimed victorious. And from then on in, his position as court painter was virtually unassailable.

I think Velazquez gets the job, actually.

But for the ambitious Velazquez, the turning point in his career was yet to happen. He was 29 when he met the great painter and diplomat of the Spanish Netherlands, Peter Paul Rubens. Recent years in Europe had seen much political wrangling between the courts of England, France, and Spain. So Rubens had been sent by the governor of the Spanish Netherlands to lay the groundwork for a peace treaty with England. Rubens found time out from his diplomatic mission to study the art collection of King Philip IV, and Velazquez accompanied him, seeing the more experienced artist as the perfect role model-- an ambitious courtier and a successful painter. Undoubtedly motivated by Rubens, Velazquez requested leave from the court in 1629 to go to Italy and to broaden his artistic knowledge beyond the horizons of the royal collection. He spent most of his time in Rome, seeing the splendors of Renaissance and classical art and architecture.

The lessons that he learned in Italy are evident in this painting, The Forge of Vulcan, produced in Rome in 1613. It's a mythological scene. Apollo appears before Vulcan to warn him of his wife's infidelity with Mars, the god of war. In a wonderfully frozen moment, the workers stop dead in their tracks as they listen with disbelief to the revelation. It's here that we can see the creative genius of Velazquez. The bodies are pure classical creations inspired by his findings in Italy, by his studies of classical sculpture. But the faces and the expressions show Velazquez's developing brand of naturalism. Their reactions range from outright shock to disbelief, but it's done in a restrained way. All the emotion is shown on the face-- in the eyes, with a subtle tilt of the head, or a wrinkled brow. By studying directly from nature and not by rehashing the conventional ideas and techniques of painting, Velazquez had done what many others had failed to do-- breathe life and tangible emotion into the painted figure.

In 1631, Velazquez returned to Spain and embarked on the most productive period of his career. The Count-Duke Olivares had just presented the Spanish monarchy with another palace in tribute to them-- The Buen Retiro. And that palace needed decorating, and Velazquez was heavily involved. In the new, vast Hall of Realms, 12 battle scenes were commissioned, the most powerful of which was this one, by Velazquez.

It shows the surrender of Breda, an event that had taken place in 1625, when the Dutch city surrendered to the Spanish forces. So it's a relatively recent event, and the painting has something of a feel of a documentary about it. But Velazquez skews events to make a moral and political point. At the center of the painting are the two commanders. On the right hand side is the Spanish general, Spinola, on the left hand side, the celebrated Dutch commander, Justin of Nassau. Now, it never actually happened that Justin of Nassau presented the keys to the city. Instead, the Dutch forces left after three days. Also, it never would have happened that the Spanish general would've got off his horse and been on the same level as the Dutch commander.

But what this shows is the generosity of spirit of the Spaniards. And it's a chivalric image of the moral superiority of Catholic Spain. Look at the way that the general puts his hand consolingly on the shoulders of the man that he's just defeated. The way that Velazquez makes this painting successful is by focusing on the figures. He's identifying or empathizing once again with the common man. But he also drifts in and out of focus in the way that he paints them, rather in the manner that we experience looking at a crowd of people. Sometimes people's faces are in sharp relief. On other occasions, they fade into the distance.

And there's another nice little touch from Velazquez. On the extreme right hand side of the painting, clad in a rather elegant, gray-green jacket and hat, topped with a little white feather, is a self-portrait of Velazquez himself, looking out at us as we look at his work. And then, in the foreground in the extreme right hand corner, is a blank piece of paper that's been discarded there. This is where Velazquez should sign his name. But by this stage in his career, authorship is self-evident. And he's already emerging, not just as a confident artist, but as a cocky one, too.

During the 1630s, portraits of the king and the royal family form the chief part of Velazquez's work. But he also painted portraits of the hombre de placer-- the dwarfs and buffoons of the court. These entertainers amused the king with magic tricks, jokes, and general tomfoolery. Some were disabled, like the jester Calabazas, who Velazquez painted with great empathy. And in his Portrait of Sebastian de Morra, he portrays someone of considerable intelligence. There's dignity, even defiance, in his pose, and an intensity in his eyes. In these portraits, Velazquez loosens his technique. The faces model close to perfection. But he paints the clothes and the background with much more freedom, so that nothing competes with the confrontational gaze. The decade of the '40s was a bitter and turbulent time for the king. Revolts were occurring both in Portugal and Northern Spain. The Count-Duke Olivares had fallen from grace, and the king had him exiled. The powerful Spanish empire had begun to decline.

It was also a time of great personal tragedy for the king. In 1644, his wife, Queen Isabella, died, followed two years later by their son, Balthasar Carlos. Velazquez had painted numerous portraits of the young prince, including this one, which stands out from many of his other equestrian portraits in its use of luminous colors, which give a monumental pose a lightness of touch. It was a quiet time for Velazquez as far as painting for the court was concerned. But Philip had other ideas for the artist. Velazquez was ordered to visit Italy. His mission-- to acquire more works for the royal collection and hunt out young, talented artists to paint frescoes for the Alcazar.

Velazquez's year in Rome led to some staggering achievements, notably in the field of portraiture, beginning with this work. It's a portrait of Juan de Pareja, who was Velazquez's assistant. In fact, he was known as an artist's slave-- not an uncommon phenomenon in 17th century Spain. This was the man that crushed his paints, that prepared his canvases. But he was also an artist on the quiet-- a frustrated artist who, rumor has it, slipped his own pictures into Velazquez's studio one time. And when the king, Philip IV of Spain saw the work, said that this could never be the work of a slave, and so, according to rumor, lost his status as a slave and gained his freedom.

We don't know whether that's true or not, but we certainly know from the way Velazquez painted him, he was a man who Velazquez had a huge respect for, because this is an ennobling picture. He's almost a latter-day Othello. This is a man of Moorish extraction who is painted wearing an ornate lace collar and a large, chunky belt that amplified a status well beyond that of a slave. He also has these wonderfully piercing eyes that stare out and confront the viewer with a kind of noble disdain. The crucial thing, though, about the picture is the way it's painted and how Velazquez, using only four different shades of color, from white, to gray, to brown, to black, manages to produce what is, in effect, a symphony of mute colors. He brings them absolutely to life. The background is done with brush strokes that you can barely see. But as you get closer to the head, you could see them much more markedly. There's this layering or washing of different colors. And look here at the sleeve. Now, this is velvet. When you get closer, what you see are these slightly scumbled brush strokes of gray over the top of this dark browny-black surface. And that gives the effect of light dancing on the sleeves. And when you move away, there's a sense of lush texture.

And the response to this painting was very strong. It was shown in an exhibition in the Pantheon in Rome in 1650. And a number of artists from all over the world who were there in Rome, which was this Mecca for art, came to look at the exhibition and said, according to Velazquez's biographer, Palomino, that most of the work in the exhibition was just art. But this-- this was truth. Now, we can still admire this work now, in the 21st century. But what's extraordinary about it is that it was only an exercise for Velazquez, and that the real big work was just around the corner.

This is Pope Innocent X, one of the most powerful men in Christendom. Velazquez's royal links meant that he had access to the Vatican and an opportunity to meet this imposing figure face to face, and then to paint him. Velazquez depicts Innocent slightly turning away from the viewer in order to emphasize his remoteness from the mortal world. But he also seems to have got under the papal skin, and shows a mere man, impatient and slightly irritable-- a reminder that Velazquez would have been granted very little time in which to capture a physical likeness.

His use of color is remarkable, as is his depiction of texture, as in the Portrait of Juan de Pareja, which he creates with a very limited palate. With only tones of red and creamy white, he distinguishes masterfully the satin of his cap, the rich velvet of the cloth on the background, and the glistening, ruddy skin of his face. It's one of Velazquez's most celebrated works. Francis Bacon, one of the great painters of the 20th century, who was inspired to paint various screaming versions of Velazquez's great pope, said that it was one of the greatest portraits that has ever been made.

On his return to Madrid two years later, Velazquez discovered that much had changed in the royal household whilst he'd been away. For a start, he found out of the king had remarried-- his own 14-year-old niece. And Velazquez immediately found himself back in the thick of royal duties. In fact, there was much to be done around the palaces.

Aside from the Alcazar, there were four other great royal palaces around Madrid that Philip IV used, the most spectacular of which was this one-- El Escorial, built by his grandfather, Philip II, as a mausoleum to the family, and in turn, housing the body of his father, the great Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V. And it was in this kind of magisterial environment, rather than an artist's garret, that Velazquez's career developed.

Velazquez's closeness to the king set him apart from other painters. There were a few painters at court, but they had mundane tasks, including restoring pictures and mending frames. But not so for Velazquez. In many ways, he broke the mold in the way that artists were seen in Spain-- the shift from being artisans to something more elevated. He was also given the job of restoring and decorating numerous rooms here the Escorial, including the sacristy and this fantastic chapter house. Along his trip to Italy, he came back with numerous treasures by Titian, Veronese, Tintoretto, and others, which he hung all over the palace.

From the moment that Velazquez arrived at court and was made court painter, he began to accumulate a number of different titles. And in 1652, he got his last and the most illustrious. This time, he was made Supreme Marshall to the court-- after a lot of political wrangling, where various other candidates were put forward, but Philip IV wanted Velazquez, so that was that. The job was mundane, as well as ceremonial. Velazquez was in charge of an army of service to look after the King's bedchamber-- to organize the linen, to light the fires, and so on. He was also responsible for organizing transport to and from the palaces. And more creatively, he arranged festivities and dances. But the job was important to Velazquez for two reasons. Firstly, it paid him a healthy salary. And secondly, it put him right at the heart of power, where the [? kudos ?] was immense.

Velazquez's creative energy and talent showed no signs of waning towards the end of his life. At the age of 57, he produced the most astounding, enigmatic, and challenging painting of his entire career. It's called Las Meninas or The Maids of Honor. But it's also known as the family of Philip IV. And what we see is Velazquez himself with his paintbrush in his hand, standing before an easel. And then, center stage, is the infanta-- the young daughter of the King and the Queen-- surrounded on either side by her maids of honor. In the background there's a chaperone and also a bodyguard. And to the right, and in the foreground of the picture, are two dwarfs, on of whom who kicks rather playfully-- perhaps cruelly-- the dog that's lying quietly there on the floor. Something has happened. Everyone, to a certain degree, looks startled. The infanta's eyes are just looking straight out. Her maid of honor still presenting water, but the dwarfs, too, are staring out at us. And the key to this is the background. There's a figure silhouetted in an open doorway, who's the palace marshal, the man responsible for the running of the palace. And he's looking. And then we look to the left. And this is a mirror. Some people think it's actually a portrait of the king and the queen. But look at the way Velazquez paints the light around it. It's a mirrored image. Now, some people have also said that Velazquez is painting the king and the queen, and that's a reflection of the painting. But the angles are all wrong.

This is a pictorial mystery. But it seems clear that someone or something has just happened in the foreground, where they're all looking out. And the most likely explanation is that the king and the queen themselves have just arrived. And this makes the picture a very cheeky, clever royal portrait, because it's unprecedented to show the painter and the royal subjects in the same image, but Velazquez is doing that. And so this time-honored quest for status is finally realized in a picture where he's showing himself as a nobleman, but he's showing himself sharing the same space as the royal family. And that's enhanced by the fact that Velazquez isn't painting in a small studio. He's taken over one of the grand rooms of the palace with pictures on the walls after artists like Rubens in which to paint his work.

And Las Meninas is a summary of everything Velazquez has tried to achieve as an artist. It's acutely observed-- almost scientifically so. Figures come in and out of focus. The detail is wonderfully controlled. The light is extraordinary. And there's a sense of a frozen moment captured, just like the bodegones in Seville. It's as if that nanosecond when something has just happened has been wonderfully captured and immortalized. And instead of us just looking at what Velazquez has painted, he casts us in a position as if we, ourselves, are being painted by Velazquez. So he's turning art inside out. He's mirroring and refracting. And it's a fantastic picture because you can never quite grasp it. It changes its meaning. It changes the way you look at it every time.

At the age of 61, the strain of his court responsibilities had taken its toll. After a large ceremonial function, he suddenly became ill. Velazquez died a couple of months later in the Alcazar on the 6th of August, 1660. Velazquez ensured that artists were no longer perceived as mere artisans in Spain. But he also subtly showed that art could be so much more than religious or political propaganda. At their best, his paintings were like mirrors through which men saw themselves and their world with perhaps more clarity than ever before.

[candycr4sh-blog]

The Workplace Concerns of an Abuse Survivor

ztížení společenského uplatnění Shortly immediately after a new staff started out at a community insurance coverage corporation, the veteran staff customers agreed that he was "incredibly pleasant" and "would go out of his way for you." They realized absolutely nothing about what enthusiastic these behaviors in his place of work nor the truth that he subconsciously viewed it as his house-of-origin. The floor floor serves as the basis on which all other individuals in a creating rest. So, too, does a person's upbringing-besides that it turns into the basis upon which his daily life rests. If it has entailed abuse, dysfunction, or even alcoholism, it is weak and can simply crumble, usually requiring a person to compensate for it with inflated and occasionally just about scripted behavioral traits other folks fall short to realize. He sees the entire world the way no other folks do. This foundation often calls for a human being to camouflage his deficiencies by portraying an picture opposite to that which he feels or believes about himself. He may well, for case in point, be perceived as staying outwardly welcoming and effortlessly getting alongside with others, but inwardly he churns with worry and insecurity, partaking in silent conflicts with others as he chews on the points they do that retrigger his very own untolerated ones. Insecurity, fear of errors, an lack of ability to complete the features for which he thinks he is incapable, and internal personnel conflicts could spark regular and spontaneous career resignations. Conversely, this continual will need to mask these insecure elements can change a person into the tremendous-employee, as he acts out his childhood need to obey and comply with every single rule and for this reason prove his ability and self-worth by volunteering for projects other folks prevent, overworking and -accomplishing, persons- and manager-pleasing, working overtime with or with no additional compensation, assuming enhanced tasks, and even having operate home, in the process turning out to be the quintessential "company man" without having other folks at any time comprehending his motivations. Ironically, this effectiveness and loyalty might guide to ever-increased positions for which he is not emotionally equipped, resulting in him to compensate for and protect up the significantly terrified inner thoughts with even increased dedication and work. In their extreme, these endeavors can exchange his nonexistent temperament right up until it becomes his individuality, as he is transformed from a human becoming to a human performing. Most of his misbeliefs about his inadequacies consequence from his regularly replayed essential guardian voices, which echo the authentic, but rarely pleased reception of his achievements throughout his upbringing. Like a computer system, his mind can only return what has been downloaded into it. Extended striped of boundaries at household, he is easily utilised and exploited by coworkers and supervisors alike. As a target cultivated by his upbringing, he can be taken advantage of and is aware no other signifies of survival. If his actions and responses could be voiced, they would very likely say, "I am significantly less than you, not deserving, and flawed. So do what ever you want and use me nevertheless you see in shape. I'll by no means protest or complain. This is what I'm applied to." But, except he has begun restoration or remedy, he is ironically not likely to be in touch with this voice or even realize why he submits himself to such utilizing ailments. Aside from the fact that he has been so cultivated, he subconsciously sights these men and women as current-time representatives of previous-time parents who ended up never ever content with what he did. The far more, in fact, that he submits to such habits, the a lot less worthy he feels, only supporting his misbelief. Related office incidents unknowingly regress him to his childhood when he was powerless and his dad and mom have been perceived as flawless and incapable of error, developing the essential misbelief that any mistreatment of him was owing to his own shortcomings and not their very own. To compensate for this dysfunctional and most probable abusive upbringing, he adopted nearly scripted roles, which he could subconsciously proceed to act out in his work location, as the only considered techniques of survival. The initial of these is "hero," whose origin and purpose are maybe the most tough to decipher, since he gets the "best particular person," carrying out according to the manual-recommended restrictions. Without a doubt, he might depict the standard by which other folks can only aspire. He is impartial, needs no one particular, is typically the one particular some others seek the advice of concerning methods, overachieves, and is flawlessly reliable and responsible, therefore masking the inferior and insecure inner thoughts that inspire him. Considering that the existing to his thoughts is little a lot more than a trickle, he turns on the juice to the productive aspect of him as if it ended up a gushing hearth hose, unsuccessfully trying to exchange one with the other. Skating on slim ice, he attempts to do anything in a perfect way until finally his pursuits grow to be the equivalent of his self-value. But any error may well shatter this fleeting experience. This get the job done immersion, furthermore, may be the totality of his existence. Although some others may perform within just corporation specified parameters to receive their paychecks, for illustration, they most likely also have families and other pursuits to whom and to which they return in the evening. The hero may not. Riddled with childhood-originating resentment, the "scapegoat"-the next purpose-was developed by the man or woman who was continually pressured to settle for the blame and load his parents or even other siblings would not, thus persuading him to get obligation for the mistakes or infractions of other people now. So acclimated is he to carrying the weight of them, in simple fact, that he may subconsciously develop the circumstantial catalysts which impose the burdens on him, enabling him to act out his a great number of similar childhood episodes and then lament about their unfairness and injustice. Whilst the scapegoat passively plots his childhood reenactments, the "misplaced baby"-the third part-silently slinks from them, as he had through his developmental yrs, now scarcely existing. Perceived as an unnamed, personality-devoid silhouette--whose kind, at moments, might look tiny a lot more than the shadow it reflects on the wall and just as dimensionless--his identification could be lowered to tiny far more than, "What's his title?" Sadly, he is identified by his lack or recognition. His nonexistent existence usually displays how he feels about himself inside. "Snicker, clown, chuckle" can be used to explain the fourth function, the "comic" or "clown," but, in both cases, that laughter is most most likely the veil that camouflages the person's inside unhappiness. Tapping into his spontaneous skill to find humor in most conditions and entertain his coworkers, the kid-turned-adult comedian turns lemons into lemonade for other folks, transforming personal interior unhappiness into exterior joy for them, enabling him, in the process, to attain a perceived level of basic safety by weaving a world wide web of acceptance all over him. These four roles, all adopted as defense mechanisms against childhood hazard, evolve into a life time of survival attributes aimed at self-safety, since the particular person once all over again subconsciously views the entire world as an extension of the 1 proven in his house-or-origin, forcing him to pave a route with the approaches that proved secure for him. Therein lies the factors powering an abuse survivor's habits in adulthood and the problems he brings to the workplace-his almost programmed, but unchallenged perception that the adult globe is a transplant of his childhood 1, leaving him fearful and hypervigilant of mother or father-resembling and -retriggering authority figures. Even with his ostensibly bonding qualities and pursuits, this kind of as his sense of humor, socializing at lunch, and holding the identical or similar-amount titles as his coworkers, he constantly feels as if he is not aspect of them, as if he were on the outside the house searching in, mainly because actual physical presence does not essentially ameliorate or exchange emotional absence and isolation. A human being can, in fact, be in a space with a dozen or additional others and however sense by yourself, because his distrust of them renders it hard to link with them on a social and consequently soul level. In truth, sensing a person's distance and emotional disconnection, some others may well exclude him from soon after-function or weekend social engagements, as if he silently conveys his deficiency of wish to join them, but this can ironically depart him damage and further solidify his misbelief that he is not worthy of their friendship. Accumulated, but unresolved childhood infractions, abuses, and traumas can retrigger and rekindle at employment venues, as individuals and incidents replay in the person's brain, progressively "taking away" him from the present and immersing him in his previous, his mirror neuron-saved tapes attempting to persuade him that the surroundings and those in it are not secure and someway detrimental to him. So powerful can these detrimental feelings and fears turn out to be, in actuality, that they could finally handle him right up until he possibly releases them by indicates of spontaneous anger outbursts or resigns. This, in essence, is an expression of the classic adult-little one dichotomy, as the former desires to be part of the world, performing as a experienced person, working, and earning cash, while the latter, mired in the internally fleeing interior child, seeks protection with no worry for the financial means to help him. Both equally are inspired by the need to have to survive, but on different amounts and from age divergent views. Due to the fact of regularly replaying traumas in an abusive survivor's head, he can neither check with for enable nor defend his actions, and is usually subconsciously diminished to the powerless and overcome little one that spawned his first debilitation. Practically nothing is additional terrorizing than a individual confrontation with yet another, due to the fact it transports him again to the many-and, most most likely, dangerous-kinds he previously endured. Throughout that powerlessness, moreover, he was never perceived as possessing been on the correct or triumphing facet. Paradoxically, when this sort of a particular person is appointed to positions of control and superiority as an adult, it provides a degree of safety for him, since it elevates him to the remarkable or winning purpose after represented by his abuser. Alternatively of currently being belittled and overpowered as a child, he now feels that he can exert these results on other people, and thus feels more robust and safer. In fact, this sort of person, to larger or lesser degree, can be classified as the generally-labeled "regulate freak," because he grew up in a chaotic natural environment the place deficiency of control led to his detriment and he now strives to regain it with this kind of a function at his career. In essence, he employs the identical misdirected system his abusive mothers and fathers did at his position of work. Conversely, when he does not suppose such a role, and is for that reason psychologically regressed to the internal youngster stance, he is reduced to taking regardless of what will come his way, whether it be added functions, responsibilities, or obligations that are not automatically paired with elevated payment, because he feels too unworthy to refuse them. Ironically, they may possibly signify an intangible "profit," which most likely only exists for him-specifically, proportionately assuming additional of a workload transforms him into an individual who is appreciated, who is seen as an ally, growing his diploma of safety. This summary is more sensible than it may very first look to be, considering that abused kids believe that that they are seen more as enemies than "friends" to their parents-that is, these who by some means get in the way, are burdensome, and not essentially wanted. Propelled by this sort of unaccepting key caregivers down a path towards perfection in his tasks-all in an try to compensate for his "imperfections" and elusively acquire that seldom furnished appreciate--he may translate this dynamic to the place of work, finishing work opportunities, features, and reports in a precise and complete fashion, and then expecting, but failing to notice, equivalent performance in his coworkers. Ultimately adopting the identical intolerance for their shortcomings as his mothers and fathers did for his, he only re-sparks the cycle in his personal lifetime, if he has not presently accomplished so with his very own little ones at home. This predicament might evolve until it makes the workaholic, or the man or woman who replaces his self-really worth with achievement- and monetary-really worth. As an abyss devoid of optimistic feelings, he finds it difficult to extract joy from friendships and interactions, and his immersion into get the job done permits him to prevent examining his unexpressed hurts. His function setting may be far more of an extension of his property environment than imagined, as the career hopper, frequently in search of new employment venues for the ostensible motive of landing "that ideal career," could subconsciously be in look for of "that best home"-or the one particular he in no way had, provided that he can believe in the "household member" staff residing in it.