#arc: apparitions

[scatcrccio]

❝ OH, FUCK OFF YOUR HIGH HORSE, JACKIE…. obviously we're all holding onto you because of guilt. You were the only one out of all of us who didn't deserve the shit that was handed to you. We were in the wrong and you were just, always the fucking little angel. ❞ She's speaking out of turn again, and she knows it. Of course, she does. It isn't even really at Jackie specifically that she's projecting onto but at herself because she is the one at fault here. Hating on herself more and more like a self-loathing piece of garbage with nothing better to do but to wallow in self-pity and grief.

How fucking pathetic. Seriously, how much more pathetic can she even get at this point—? Jesus. Even the repetitiveness of her own internal monologue is getting old real quick. ❝ Guilt, jealousy… name it, that's what it is. ❞ If she were currently standing, she'd probably be stumbling all over herself but instead, she's on the floor. Wishing the glass of whiskey was still in her hand as she begins to laugh.

❝ We were all fucking scared and selfish out there. No one gave a real shit about anyone but themselves, let's be honest. ❞ There was too much truth in that and she can't name a single person who could say otherwise without it being a damn lie. They all knew and yet, they continued to lie to themselves and everyone else around them because it was just, easier that way. Natalie too lets her head fall back against the foot of the bed near where Jackie resided, eyes glancing over at her who now seems like nothing but a blur in her mind but still present.

❝ I wish that too. ❞ She does admit, sighing out softly in a daze. ❝ I don't know if you could hear me but, do you at all remember what I said to you that day? When I brought your bones back to the plane? My apology. I… I meant it. Every word. Was the first honest thing I think I ever said to you. ❞

Jackie was surprised that shoving Natalie seemed to have an impact. Honestly, the drunk had probably just stumbled over something. Never had the dead girl had a real ability to impact the world around her -- she thought she did, once. When she was alive.

God, what Coach Martinez had told her really was the beginning of the end, wasn't it? Influence was what made Jackie important, but what good did that do when she couldn't influence the team to safety? And here -- she wished there was a way to make Natalie feel better about herself, but they both knew she was too far gone for that.

"Do I have a hold on people? Or are you all holding onto me for yourselves? Whether it's guilt or jealousy, whatever." It was easier to be introspective when you had all the time in the world. The afterlife was lonely, and mostly, Jackie only saw things in glimpses of the eyes of her teammates. When she appeared to Shauna, she knew what Shauna knew. Here with Natalie, she knew what Nat knew.

"We were kids, Natalie," she sighed. Jackie would have offered a hand to help the older woman stand but she really wasn't sure how this apparition thing worked. "And maybe I was angry at Shauna, and maybe that doesn't make any of it any better... I was scared, Nat. Scared and selfish, and yeah, maybe I gave a shit about the team as best I could but I can probably count on one middle finger the number of people who gave a shit about me out there."

One middle finger, raised furiously and pointed in Shauna's direction. But Jackie didn't feel that way, not really.

The girl crossed her legs and sat down on the floor. Her elbows came to rest on her knees and she sighed. "Choices were all we had out in the woods. And most of them fucking sucked. And maybe we only made the choices to feel like we had any sense of control out there." Jackie leaned her head on the foot of the bed. "I wish I could take it back. Do it over. But I guess I'll never know what flavor of fucked up adult I'd become, huh?"

[mysterious-secret-garden]

Frank E. Schoonover - Vision of Joan of Arc.

[rusiachibi]

My second Art Fight attack! This is of @prettyholic7 's Jojo's Bizarre Adventure OC. Thank you for the opportunity to draw her! It was very fun trying to mimic the jjba style.

[catboybatman]

The 2000s were such a weird era for Batman/detective comics its like back to back mid and garbage runs

[scatcrccio]

HAND REACHES OUT ONCE MORE, ANOTHER ATTEMPT at touching him the way she used to when he was still around. A simple notion that now became far more meaningful than she realized before. But then he disappears, and a light whimper automatically leaves her when the chair becomes empty once more, confusion gracing her features until she hears the sound of his voice again causing her to turn around on the floor. Her heart sank at the sight of him laying upon the bed, like a tainted memory she'll never forget; the way his arm is bent and propped up behind his head and that subtle hint of a smile gracing his face.

❝ Travi-… ❞ she can't even bring herself to say his name in full as she begins to crawl her way towards the edge of the bed where he now resides. It's the tone behind the endeavor that makes her desperation obvious and yet, when she reaches for him again, she still can't quite manifest a corporeal sensation that makes him viable to touch. The fact of this only infuriates her more, face crashing into the messed-up comforter before she finally begins to scream and cry out of sheer frustration. Fingers curling and gripping into the sheets, no longer listening to the words that he'd said because they honestly didn't matter.

Not when they were just about the motel or where they've previously stayed in passing, she doesn't care about any of that, sneaking their way behind the back of whoever he'd be seeing at the time. She just wants him there, wants to be able to have him hold her the way he used to with a comforting embrace that made her once feel even somewhat safe. The others might have felt as if it was Natalie that got them all through the wilderness, but she wouldn't have been able to do so had it not been for Travis by her side, holding her hand and encouraging her with every bit of encouragement that kept herself going.

He may have had his moments of being hot and cold with her at times, but when he was kind, he was the most important being she'd ever come to know. Her head turns and lulls against the corner of the bed, another light scream before she finally sobs out, ❝ I-… I can't. I can't do this without you. ❞ He'd been her own personal saving grace out there, regardless of not always having him around after they'd gotten rescued, but at least he was still somewhat available, even when he wasn't. It all seemed so overly dramatic, pathetic really, and she knows how this must look, but she doesn't care in that moment.

He wasn't there anyway; he was nothing more than a memory now and a figment of her imagination. Still, she's trying to cling onto him as much as she can even if just in mind to keep him solid. When she does look up at him again, her makeup is smeared with eyeliner grazed across the corner of her eyes after brushing her face against the comforter and she crawls her way on top of the bed, laying herself down next to him even if she can't cradle him the way she wants to.

She can still smell him, his usual cologne and aftershave she'd grown so accustomed to throughout the years that never changed. Not realizing that she was drowning while still attempting to breathe and take that inhalation of breath. Mind playing tricks in more ways than one.

Travis had never given much thought to how he would die. He knew, at least, that it would be either directly or indirectly be caused by his addiction. That he would slip up and use again and that would be the final time or it would catch up to him eventually via a heart attack, stroke, or something else. Taking his own life, though, that had never been in the cards for him because he knew he couldn't go through with it. That at the last second he would change his mind, but he also feared that if he did go through with it, he would mess it up. That something worse than living with the pain and guilt that tormented his mind would join it all.

So that night in the bar, he had no intentions of killing himself. He simply wanted to get as close to dying as possible without committing. It was reckless and there was a chance that it might not even work, that he wouldn't see what Natalie had seen or what Lottie had seen. But he had to try and well, you know how that went. The minute he began to feel the last bit of air in his lungs leaving him, he knew he had fucked up. That he should have listened to Lottie and the rational side of himself that had warned him against doing it. It didn't matter much now did it? Woulda. Coulda. Shoulda.

Death was one consequence that Travis couldn't escape paying and dealing with. He wasn't suffering anymore, not really, but he was still there. Bound to this earthly plain and because of her, because he couldn't leave her like this. She was the only one that he feared hurting if things did go south that night, knowing that he would break yet another promise made to her. That Natalie would be the one to suffer in her grief of losing him and he could see it in full effect right then and there. And it pained him or at least it would have pained him if he could physically feel anything.

The desperation and enthusiasm in her voice and movements, he knew him being here was cruel. That he was adding to her pain or that he would once she realized what was going on; that he wasn't really there. Because in truth, he could have simply been a hallucination brought on by her mind trying to comfort or torment her, making her see him as she did the last time. He wore the same faded blue jeans, work boots, and flannel he had that night and other times before. Whatever this or he was, it was for Natalie to interrupt, he was simply there.

Sad twitch of lips brought the smallest of smiles to his face at her enthusiastic greeting. It did not last nor did his position in that chair at the table he had never sat at before. With her final batting hand to touch him, Travis disappeared for a second before he reappeared on the bed that he had never laid in. Arm was placed behind his head to prop it up as he crossed his ankles and looked towards her. "Ya know...I can't remember if we ever stayed here or not..." he murmured, disregarding her comment and question for the time being. "Probably stayed in somethin' similar, huh?" he mused, eyes looking away from her to look at the walls.

[askglassanon]

Very. If you go without sleep for too long, you start to hallucinate. It's bad. -🐝

*Glass whines, laying her head on their shoulder and tapping once on* .. / -.. --- -. .----. - / .-.. .. -.- . / -.. .-. .. ..-. - .. -. --. / - …. .-. --- ..- --. ….

.- / ..-. . .-- / .- .--. .--. .- .-. .. - .. --- -. … / .-- --- ..- .-.. -.. -. .----. - / …. ..- .-. - / -- . - Glass

[salingers]

hayride.

[joel miller x f!reader]. summary: visiting home depot with your dad's best friend, joel miller. [and, him eating and fucking you, in the hay field located behind the store]. warnings: 18+ mdni. age gap. agoraphilia. anal fingering. au. begging. brat!reader. cream pie. daddy!joel. daddy!kink. dirty talk. dom!joel. jealous!joel. language. no outbreak. oral sex. no use of 'y/n'. praising. smut. unprotected piv. use of 'good girl'. use of 'slut'. word count: [about] 2,600. a/n: hi, more october-set smut, before the month's over. thank you for welcoming me into the fandom, by supporting my debut, october's end. cover by me, divider by @saradika. @saradika-graphics. <3

A decade’s fleeted, since the last time that Joel Miller’s arcing, bedroom window’s framed your body; You’re nearly an apparition.

Your mere silhouette’s evoking long-neglected memories for Joel; Your private school’s fussy graduation. Whistling, from the bleacher’s humid, metallic plank. Joel’s abruptly blinking away his proud reverie.

Your haphazard, gauzy curtains aren’t proffering any privacy. Your dresser’s girlish; A dust-ladened and weathered wicker. You’re scrounging the half-dozen drawers, sorting teenaged remnants, Joel’s guessing.

It’s arguably morally awry, that he’s guessing at all. You’ve unearthed an ivory-colored pair of panties. You’re sampling the garment’s width, against your clothed waist; Your index finger’s hooking the pliant underwear and slowly stretching. Joel curses, “Fuck’s sake.”

Joel’s denim-clad groin’s growing taut; You’re unbuttoning your pants. His conscience’s hollering, QuitWatchingQuitWatching. Then, Joel’s belatedly swiping his curtain’s panel shut. The plaid, trembling fabric’s punishing him. You’re right there.

Your peripheral’s revealing that brown, tartan material’s now obscuring Joel Miller’s looming, perusing shadow.

Your phone’s deeply droning, near plummeting from your nightstand’s uneven, wickered top. You answer, “Hi.”

Dad’s beginning, “Hi, you.” Before, “Room ‘lright?” 

You aimlessly nod, “Yeah. Need ‘t paint it, though.”

The flat, stark white’s reminiscent of an operating room. A scalpel amid your dominant, gloved hand; Your abandoned internship. You’re certainly color-drenching this bland, interim room.

Dad’s conveniently chirping, “Y’know, Joel’s headin’ over ‘t The Home Depot. ‘Jus asked if I needed anythin’ for work.”

You humorously say, “The Home Depot?”

Dad amusedly huffs, “The one ‘n only.” Then, “I’ll dial ‘im back. Tell ‘im ‘t bring ‘ya.”

You’re nervously inquiring, “He won’t mind?”

Dad’s chuckling, “Kid, seriously? ‘S just Joel.”

He hasn’t been just Joel, since his absurdly sexy appearance in Dad’s FaceBook album, dorkily titled, ‘Fishin’ Missions’. Dad’s askew lens, recording Joel’s roughened, veiny hand, sizably surpassing his fish’s ample breadth; His arm’s rind, rugged and sun-freckled.

 That heathered-gray muscle-tee; Hued identically to Joel’s own silvery threads. Accentuating. Your horny musing’s interrupted, when the doorbell’s nostalgic ding’s reverberated. A leadened, salacious feeling’s pin-balling your rib’s conical-shaped cage.

You’re descending the stairway’s carpeted tread. A once-over’s rushedly ensuing, amid the entry way’s gritty mirror. You’re timidly turning the front door’s bulbous knob; Your skin’s avidly warming.

Joel’s gruffing, “Waitin’ on an invitation?”

You’re feignedly snark, “Go ‘head, Miller.” 

Joel’s arousingly large. His belt’s leathered and suppled; Tapering his tender waist. You’re deliriously visualizing biting it. Your teeth’s individualized grooving, engraving Joel’s every-day accessory.

He’s beckoning, “C’mere. Settlin’ in okay?”

Your pulse’s embarrassingly hurried, as Joel’s hugging you. Your nose’s upturned, against his collar’s corduroy lapel; His inherent aroma’s autumnal. A heady medley of burnt cinnamon, earthy hay.

You breathlessly retort, “Y–Yes. ‘Jus fine.”

His beard’s deliciously graying and scruffy; Bristling you. Joel’s inching away; A hand’s kneading your elbow’s point, “Grown. Ain’t ‘ya?”

You’re muttering, “Think anythin’ in my ‘ol dresser’ll fit?”

Joel rasps, “Be fittin’ somethin’ ‘a mine. Talkin’ like that.”

You teasingly tut, “Oh? Promise?”

His jaw’s tightening, “G–Get in my fuckin’ truck, ‘lready.”

The retail store’s unmistakingly orange and tan exterior’s materializing onward. Joel’s hushedly threatening, “Got ‘t behave.”

You’re amusedly assuring him, “Me? ‘Course.”

He’s backwardly parking. His arm’s generously imposing against your seat’s cushiony spine, “Lot ‘a clients ‘a mine, in ‘ere.”

His chin’s abutting along his broad, reaching shoulder’s top. Joel’s delectable, lofting nose’s leading his prominent side-profile; His pursed, upper lip’s capped under an impressive, stiff mustache. Your cunt’s pulsating. You need to rabidly rut against Joel Miller’s aging, sun-tinged face.

You’re resignedly sighing, “Fine.”

Joel replies, “Bratty fuckin’ girl.”

His accent’s aggressively Texan; Languid. Syrupy. You’re involuntarily leaking, beyond your underwear’s cottony corral. The archaic radio’s uttering early-seventies Linda Ronstadt, until Joel’s halting the ignition.

You murmur, “Any cute clients?”

Joel’s apparently unimpressed; He’s agitatedly rolling his coffee-shaded eyes. Tutting, “Best be ‘lone, when I find ‘ya.”

You’re unpromisingly shrugging, before evacuating his Ford’s heated interior. Whispering, “See ‘bout that, Miller.”

Your skin’s momentarily rasped, from the atypically frigid, October wind. The store-front’s decorated seasonally. There’s pallets, upon pallets, of pumpkins; A uniformed variety of classic orange and creamy white.

You’re distractedly mulling around carving or painting pumpkins, while Joel’s unexpectedly wrapping his freshly-shedded, heavy chore-coat against you; His hand’s comfortingly scrubbing your shoulder’s taut blade.

Joel’s deeply humming, “Better, darlin’? Hm?”

You’re instantaneously arming the clothing item’s perfectly tenderized sleeves, “M–Much, Joel.”

You’re leaning, subsequently touching his torso’s muscular crest. Joel’s thumbing your collar’s curving bone, “Warm, here?”

You whine, “Yes.”

Joel’s beginning to crane downard, until he’s chinning your shoulder’s trembling shelf. You’re gasping, as he’s fingering your loaner, Carhartt jacket’s bottom button, from behind. His arm’s caging you.

His calloused pinky’s reaching, before flitting your pant’s folded fly, “And, here?” He’s wagering, “Warmer?”

You’re groaning, “Ngh. Y–Yeah.”

Joel carnally scolds, “Filthy fuckin’ girl. A–Askin’ me ‘bout other men? While your pussy’s pre-heatin’ ‘f me?”

His finger nail’s raking your zipper’s aluminum teeth. Joel’s tauntingly whispering, “Ain’t brattin’ much, now.”

You’re begging, “L–Let’s leave.”

He’s instantly moving. You’re incoherently stunned, as Joel’s adopting an orange-colored cart, “Find ‘ya in the paintin’ section?”

You’re spluttering, “J–Joel. ‘S not what I meant.”

Joel’s winking, “Darlin’, I know what ‘ya meant.”

He’s ambling ahead, bypassing the automatic door’s yawning jaw. Your dominant hand’s flexing, electrocuted in palpable pleasure; It’s reminiscent of Mr. Darcy. You’re involuntarily summoning an image of Joel, dressed as the aforementioned aristocrat, participating in Halloween.

Joel’s robust shoulders, heaving against an incompletely unbuttoned, wispy shirt. His chest’s foggy-toned, furling hair. His head’s rain-rustled, curly strands. A high-waisted trouser; Ascending his belly’s delectable slope, whilst canopying his cock’s dilating weight. You know it’s big.

You’re unfocused; Footing the hardware store’s threshold. There’s an assortment of motion-triggered, Halloween decorations erected nearby. You’re curiously setting one, an animatronic ‘Boogeyman’. The creepy distraction’s festively futile. Joel Miller’s still permeating your skull.

The paint attendant’s named ‘Ruger’. A gun manufacturer namesake’s befitting, given Ruger’s camouflaged, distressed t-shirt. He’s an Austin, Texas quintessential, twenty-something male; A ‘modernized’ mullet-and-mustache duet? Check. A smothering of ‘patchworked’ tattoos? Check.

He’s flirtatiously greeting, “Sugar. How can I do ‘ya?”

You’re brandishing an array of complimentary paint-swatches, against his counter’s crest, “Do color-matchin’?”

Ruger’s endorsing, “Best ‘round.”

You’re inwardly wincing, but Joel’s abruptly approaching. So, “Ain’t doubt it. Clothes shouldn’t be an issue?”

Your palm’s routing your breast’s pocket; Ruger’s murmuring, “T–That jacket? ‘Moss’ by Carhartt. Got codin’.”

You’re falsely enthusiastic, “Really? You’re the best.”

Ruger tosses an isolated thumb, signaling to his computerized, machine mixer, “Told ‘ya.” Asking, “Color’s goin’ in your bedroom?”

You’re agreeably nodding, “Yep.”

Ruger’s grinning, “Lucky paint.”

You begin, “You? Feelin’ lucky?”

Joel’s reprimanding, “Lucky that I ain’t kill ‘im.” Before, “Passin’ at my girl. Gettin’ paid ‘t do that?”

Ruger’s answering, “N–No, Sir.”

Joel’s deeply repeating, “No.” Then, “Two gallons ‘a Sherwin-Williams. Emerald. Matte finishin’, both of ‘em.”

You’re second-handedly embarrassed and incapable of meeting Ruger’s apologetic, parting peer. Joel’s efficiently emptying his cart’s plastic-composed basin, before rehoming his kindred supplies, upon the check-stand’s laminate surface. You muse, “Emerald’s two-hundred dollars ‘a paint?”

Joel’s genuinely offended, “Ain’t payin’. I’m gettin’ it.”

You’re avidly insisting, “Don’t have ‘t do that, Miller.”

Then, Joel’s rapidly reaching outward; Yanking your belt’s fraying loop. You’re firmly tugged against him. He drawls, “Want ‘t do it.”

His breath’s cinnamony and smoky; An inebriating merging of gum and cigarettes. You dizzyingly respond, “Y–Yeah?”

Joel’s languidly leaning, before brushing his nose’s point against your ear’s lobe, “Yeah.” Whispering, “Paintin’ your bedroom the color ‘a my jacket? What’s that ‘bout, darlin’ girl?”

You’re shyly stammering, “D–‘Dunno.” Accusing, “Sayin’ aloud, ‘my girl’? What’s that ‘bout, Joel?”

Joel’s grinning, “That? Want ‘t find out?”

You’re panting, “Oh?”

His palm’s barreling behind; Stuffing his pant’s pocket. You’re savoring the rattling sound of his key-ring’s recovery. Then, Joel’s rapidly shoving the mixed-metal wad inside your rear-pocket. His bulky hand’s harshly kneading your bottom’s fleshy heft; Your cunt’s thumping.

He demands, “Go ‘head. Right behind ‘ya.”

You’re ocularly rummaging around Joel’s unkempt vehicle. American Spirits. Matches. A thrifted, Patsy Cline cassette. Big Red. Coins. A dog-eared, John Steinbeck novel. The sexual suspense’s dampening your sternum; Sticky. Sweaty. You’re beginning to desperately undress.

The Carhartt coat’s discarded. Your flimsy henley’s unbuttoned. Joel’s egressing from Home Depot’s aromatic interior, before pausing at the Garden Center’s check-stand. No way. A hundred-dollar note’s being thrusted, from Joel’s girthy hand, unto the cashier’s gloved palm.

This broad, burly man’s buying you fucking pumpkins. He’s pensively plucking them. His brow’s furrowing; His forehead’s wrinkling. Joel’s literally examining them, heeding any blemished gourds. You’re bewilderedly blinking, as Joel’s palming them, like they’re… Basketballs.

Your waist’s winding, impatiently rutting against his truck’s benched seat; Your pant’s denimed seam, slotting your cunt’s drooly entry.

Then, Joel’s jerking the back-seat’s door ajar. Asking, “Pick ‘em ‘lright? Did ‘ya see?” His scruffy chin’s jutting, at his quartet of pumpkins.

You’re swallowing, “Y–Yep. Thanks, Miller.”

Joel’s gruffing, “C’mon. ‘Course, pretty girl.”

His arm’s effortlessly flexing, tanned and veined, amid transferring his plastic-bagged supplies. Joel’s guessing, “Need ‘t be fucked, in ‘ere?”

You shamelessly moan, “Mhm.”

He’s teasingly whistling, “Yeah? Ain’t far from home, baby.”

You’re grumbling, “T–Too far.”

Joel’s patronizing, “Gettin’ cocked, in ‘ere? ‘S really slutty.”

You sigh, “Don’t care. C’mere.”

The shopping cart’s rapidly returned, before the driver-seat’s groaning under Joel’s jeaned ass, “Needy pussy.” His construction boot’s tamping the brake’s pedal, “Ain’t it? Get ‘t fingerin’. Feed me somethin’ warm.”

Your brassy button’s unhitching; Your toothy zipper’s buzzing. You’re hurriedly shrugging the denimed material downward; Ankling it. His mouth’s prematurely parting. Your underwear’s transparent, flooding in arousal. Joel’s dangerously speeding, departing the feebly-populated parking lot.

He’s feverishly warning, “There’s an empty hay field, ‘round back. Bit ‘a off-roadin’. Yeah?” Directing, “Give ‘em.”

Then, Joel’s toughly tugging your panty’s waist-line. You’re shamelessly obedient; Your fabric restraint’s promptly removed. His beefy, index finger’s impatiently suspended; Pumping. Your pussy’s watering his passenger-seat’s cushioning; Your underwear’s encircling Joel’s commanding digit.

The all-terrain truck’s bumpily impeling, devouring the barren field’s acreage. Eyes involuntarily shutting, Joel’s blindly steering, inbreathing your underwear’s deluged gusset. His nostril’s flaring. His cock’s pitching, prodding below his crotch’s denimed rein; You’re stuffing your pussy’s well.

Joel’s harshly moaning, “Listen ‘t that. Cryin’ fuckin’ hole.”

You’re whimpering, “M–Mm. Ngh.”

He’s greedily ringing your plunging wrist; Yanking. The rapid removal’s obscenely squelchy. Then, Joel’s immediately slurping your index and middle finger’s balmy glaze; Your thumb’s pinning upon his chin’s graying, scratchy underside. The truck’s recklessly slowing.

Joel’s haphazardly parking. The halting, howling tires begin spewing an autumnal confetti; A misting of dry hay and auburn leaves. You’re suddenly hoisting against Joel’s bulging lap; He’s instantaneously hammering, before spitting out your moistened finger’s duet.

And, Joel Miller’s finally kissing you. His groan’s pouring, beyond your esophagus. Licking your mouth’s rippled roof; Siphoning your tongue’s humid pad. Your naked pussy’s pouncing upon Joel’s clad cock. He’s thumbing your cheek-bone’s divot and cupping your jaw-line’s hind; Whimpering.

He’s arousingly exhaling, “Ngh. ‘S fuckin’ tasty.” Then, Joel’s dropping horizontally. Laying, “Fixin’ ‘t guzzle ‘ya.”

His head’s hedging the passenger-side’s door; His boot’s budging the driver-side’s door. You’re drawing upward, as Joel’s guiding you. Your dewy hole’s ramming against Joel’s awaiting face; He’s nosing your clit’s distended mound. Your innard thigh’s twitching, “G–God. Feel fuckin’ good.”

 Arousal’s rigorously sopping Joel’s beard. His mustache’s coated and creamy. Your behind’s leveraging; Ass firmly spreading. Joel’s maneuvering and manhandling you. He’s lapping, nearly pornographically swigging. You’re internally levitating; Your spine’s liquefied, “A–Ahhhh. Joel, Joel.”

Joel’s innocently whispering, “What?” Then, “Asshole’s puckerin’. Need pluggin’?”

You’re deliriously nodding, Yes. His center digit’s tantalizingly traveling below. Brushing your clit’s crest; Scooping your cunt’s slick. Your fluttering, furthest hole’s aching, against Joel’s circling, finger’s pad. He’s beginning to tandemly traverse; Eating. Fingering.

Your stomach’s tightening, as Joel’s knuckling you. His head’s nuzzling; Shaking. His beard’s rigidly whiskering, across your core’s folding, before he’s relentlessly sucking. Your clit’s flickering; You’re blindingly cumming. Joel’s airily humping; His cock’s englarging.

He’s hoarsely speaking, “A–‘Atta girl.” Praising, “Drippin’ inside ‘a my fuckin’ ear?” Sniffling, “Up my fuckin’ nose? Good, wet girl.”

You’re dizzyingly horny, “Miller. PleasePleasePlease.”

Joel’s grinning, “Please?” 

Your puffy pussy’s eagerly lowering, “Yes.” You’re gyrating, against his lap’s ridge, “Fuck. F–Fuck me.”

He’s grunting, “Fuck ‘ya? Fuckin’ slut. Keep beggin’.”

Joel’s leaning upright and sitting upward. Your disoriented shirt’s being tossed away. Licking your throat’s trail; Skimming your nipple’s peak. You’re nakedly stamping atop his torso’s towering mass. Your skin’s goose-bumping, “Ngh. P–Please, Daddy.”

His brow’s amusedly arching, “Y–Yeah?” Demanding, “Who’s.” Thrust. “Your.” Thrust. “Daddy?”

Promising, “You.”

Joel’s approvingly nodding; His driver-side door’s thudding open. His arm’s muscularly solid, whilst effortlessly upholding you. You’re burrowing, at his throat’s protruding, pulsing vein, as he’s regressing vertical. His anterior boot’s pressing upon decaying hay; A gelid gust of wind’s wreathing.

He’s attentively mumbling, “Shiverin’? Let’s warm ‘ya. Hm?”

His beard’s balmy and cunt-scented. You’re being settled, amongst his driver-seat’s aged upholstering. You’re amorously fidgeting, as Joel’s flitting his belt’s metallic prong. The accessory’s yanked from his fading Wranglers, as Joel’s abutting the cushion’s edge; His zipper’s deliciously drawing.

The belt’s noisily plummeting; A leathery slap, against the floor-mat’s rubbery surface. Your waist-line’s eagerly grasped, whilst Joel’s positioning your pussy’s twingeing hole. He’s hissing, during an arousing upheaval, of his cock’s entirety; The seeping tip’s bypassing his belly-button’s nook.

His t-shirt’s becoming translucent, as pre-cum’s dampening it. You’re following the ample shaft’s terse twitching. Blurting, “Need. That.”

Joel’s attractively smug, “This?” He’s robustly swatting his cock, across your clit’s cummy summit, “Think it’ll fit?”

You whimper, “F–Fuckin’ make it.”

He’s lowly whispering, “Dirty fuckin’ mouth.” Then, Joel’s abruptly and aggressively entering, “Go ‘head. Keep mouthin’ off.”

The truck’s boisterously creaking, as Joel’s ruggedly rutting. Your cervix wall’s convulsing, crowning his cock’s head. Your shiny spend’s glossing Joel’s graying, pubic tuft. His groin’s angrily clobbering, striking your cunt’s doused expanse. You’re incoherently stammering, “N–Ngh.”

Joel’s responding, “Can’t hear ‘ya, bratty girl.”

You’re painfully stretching, inside-and-out. His jeaned, lower-portion’s gloriously grating your thigh’s rear. Your right-side leg’s hooking through the steering wheel’s median; Your left-side leg’s perching, against Joel’s widening shoulder’s tier, as he’s weightily falling forward, “Say somethin’?”

Your limb’s achingly pinned vertically; Your body’s contorting, creating an indecent, ninety-degree angle. His focused, sun-wrinkled forehead’s grown moist. His furling, silver-tinged strands begin cascading. The benched seat’s dilapidated stitching’s imprinting, decorating your back’s extent.

Your taint’s repeatedly thwacked, by Joel’s brimming balls. His angle’s hitching, hitting that spot. You’re shrieking, “A–Ah.”

Joel’s accordingly bottoming-out, “Doin’ good. Stretchin’ well. Ain’t it?” His hip’s briskly oscillating, “Good girl. Good pussy.”

You’re shuddering, “D–DaddyDaddyDaddy.”

The pleasure’s pouring. Your cunt’s palpitating; Your spine’s taut. Joel’s resultantly stroking, maintaining his pacing, but drilling harder. He’s licking, crossing your hung jaw-line’s road. His tenderized t-shirt’s feathering, against your exposed nipples, over-sensitively tapering them.

Joel’s rasping, “C’mon. Flood my fuckin’ truck.”

His tone’s arousingly languid. That’s it. You’re breathlessly cumming. Every extremity’s tightening, before blissfully dissolving. Your vision’s brightly impaired. Your climaxing moan’s fractured, as Joel’s ingesting it. His mouth’s restorative, whilst being ruining. You’re whispering, “Flood me.”

He’s whimpering, “Y–Yeah?” A prominent vein’s materializing, against his throat’s girthy rind, “Ain’t wet ‘nough, ‘lready? Greedy hole.”

Then, Joel Miller’s hotly erupting. His length’s flinching. Your fatigued, flittering hole’s wringing him. His aging brow’s bunching; You’re caressing his cinched expression. Your right-side leg’s being removed, amidst the steering wheel’s medial opening. Joel’s comforting, “Hurtin’?”

You’re indifferently shrugging; Joel’s unconvinced. His palm’s expertly massaging your leg’s weary ligament. You’re pathetically sighing, making Joel laugh. He’s kneading your knee-cap’s exhausted muscle, before fingering your calf-tendon’s aspiring knot. You stammer, “T–Thanks, Miller.”

Joel’s questioning, “How ‘bout Lowe’s, ‘morrow?”

You’re grinning, “Sure. If ‘ya sleep-over, tonight.”

[nautls11]

ok but hear me out: riptide x slay the princess (big ol yap sesh and closeups below)

Chip: The Spectre

109, obviously, but also the spectre’s yearning for what once was, wanting back her “freedom” of the life she had before. The parallels between the spectre’s longing and Chip’s longing for his life with the Black Rose Pirates work so well together. Another factor is how Chip needed to learn that he was not alone anymore. He had a crew, friends, captains, siblings. Through his ups and downs, he learned respect, trust, honor, and responsibility; he learned to love again with a fiery passion he had not felt since he sailed alongside Arlin.

“I offer you absolution, and you take my hand in yours.

You felt the pain you caused another, and you were willing to sacrifice everything you thought was you to set me free.

Without sin, there is no redemption.”

“This one is vaporous. She is a dream of a life she could never have, but that longing has given her so much capacity for Kindness. She will make for a yearning heart.

Do not mourn her — she will finally be able to hold What she never knew.”

Jay: The Cage

I was heavily debating between Jay and Gill for this one, but the Cage’s final confrontation is what sold Jay for me. Her constant fear of abandoning her blood family because she has already lost so much (her sister, and soon her mother), that abandoning the last shred of family she has left would be losing everything. It is her inaction which drives much of her conflict, balancing the line between Ferin and pirate, because no matter which side she turns to, she is always afraid, because she always has something to lose. There are times where she feels like she can only watch from afar and see what will happen (especially in the case of lizzie’s war), but she must understand that inaction is most often a deficit. She has proven herself time and time again to others, she just needs to prove it to herself.

“Fear is a chain around the neck and a needle in the eye.

It was fear that made our prison, and it was fear that told the lie that

our spirits were not free to choose.

But together we left it all behind, and found a world free of burdens.

We found the beauty in accepting our dance.

This construct is a machine of fear. It has no place in our divine hearts.

Shatter it. Leave with me.”

“This one is a body that convinced herself she was only a set of eyes. She will make for a watchful heart.

Do not mourn her. She is now what she wished that she could be.”

Gill: The Drowned Grey

Unlike the others, I couldn’t really find a princess that fit gill as well as the others did, so I decided to do a more specific moment of gill’s story for his princess: his oath of vengeance and dunjon arc.

The Drowned Grey is a story of hurt, loss, and rebirth. Gill loses everything; his friends, his closest companion, and is taken away from the life he once knew to be trapped in an endless white void, to be judged by the apparitions of those who had always judged him before. He is raw, violent emotion, rage being the only way he knows to understand his pain, and thus inflicts it onto others. His actions endangered those who wanted to help him be because all he could process was his loss. And that loss he screamed at the elder’s with his entire soul, only to be swept away in the dark depths of Niklaus’ control. But after the anger, was his rebirth. He was never meant to remain in an endless void for eternity, and Born anew in the eye of a leviathan’s storm, the violence and grief was left behind him in the cold icy storm. He had his catharsis, leaving those demons behind him in the darkest depths.

“I kill you. You kill me. Back and forth we go, faster and faster and faster. I kill you. You kill me.

Hollow eyes watch from the dark corners of a forgotten place flooded by emotions left unspoken. The tide rises.

I kill you and me.

An ending is a passion that can only be expressed with a moment in time. It is a seed for a new beginning. To linger on an ending is to rob it of its life.

And without me, all that's left to do is linger.”

“This one is guarded sorrow. She saw herself as alone but in the end had courage to share with another. She will make for a deep heart.

Do not mourn her - she has finally been heard.”

anyways uhh thanks for coming to my tedtalk, i lowkey wanna do this for other campaigns, currently thinking about prime defenders and the suckening so ye 👍👍

[tracklessreason]

Hi. It's me again.

WHERE THE FRICK IS BUMBLEBEE?! Sorry, let me calm down and retry.

Thank you for answering my last ask, I can't help but notice how no one knows where Bee's ghost is. And Megatron is the one looking into the Matrix... Is he haunting Megatron? Trying to stop him from doing it? Helping him?

Is Optimus's ghost following Ratchet around like a sad puppy?

Also just the pairings- Jazz with Megatronus? THat sounds... like fun.

Do the primes miss the other Primes and ask their host if they can check on the other bots that got shrapeneled? Maybe one of them asks if they can find a way to talk with the others... or maybe they can talk trough the hosts... maybe... (ah ah possessed arc)

(PS I really vibe with Hive's whole deal, he is very cool :D and I'm devastated that I'm the one that discovered how he explodes)

Hug hug!

Hi again!!! Don't worry, Bee is still here!

His spirit is just...struggling. He's weak at first, flickering like a dying light bulb. He hasn't left the fractured core of the Matrix still in his corpse, but his soul signature is so weak no one can find him. He's just sort of trapped there for a while, in the burnt out room he died in. Until Megatron of course.

Megatron breaks into the autobot base, walks past every sleeping mech he could easily have snuffed, and steals the Matrix core, and by unintentional extension, steals Bumblebee. Now at first, Bee is rightfully upset. He hates being at the gloomy decepticon base, he hates Megatron for taking his voice, he's just mad. Time passes as Megatron tinkers with the core, and Bee regains strength enough to....throw things???

It shouldn't be possible. Somehow this unstable remnant of the Matrix doesn't contain him, but merely houses him, and as he grows stronger, he can appear as an apparition to Megatron. He uses it almost solely to hinder him. With no voice (even ghost Bee gets no respite) all he can really do is mess up Megatron's workspace and insult him through pantomime. Really he doesn't understand why Megatron puts up with it, but aside from the occasional fit of rage at his antics, the decepticon leader ignores him as much as possible and puts his all into trying to restore the Matrix.

Before long he starts having one sided conversations with Bumblebee. Its mostly complaints at first, and insults towards him and the autobots and whatever else goes wrong in his life outside of this little workshop Bee cant leave. It soon gives way to more private matters; intentionally or not, Megatron is revealing his very convoluted, very mixed feelings about Optimus Prime.

The war has gone on too long, why couldn't that idiot just see things from his perspective, he deserved to die, he will be brought back, how could his oldest friend just leave him like this...

To Bee it sounds...exactly like how Optimus felt about Megatron, just drowned in molten anger issues. Against his self preservation instinct, Bee decides to work towards putting this whole mess to bed. Nothing better to do.

With what limited knowledge and communication he has, he does his best to try and help Megatron fix the Matrix. They have spats still, and plenty of set backs, but things smooth over when Megatron (begrudgingly) admits to feelings of regret over taking Bee's voice. As an olive branch, Bee explains something to Megatron that he's been dying to know: how Optimus died.

Things sour fast. Megatron is determined to murder Starscream, Bee is frustratedly trying to explain that if he does so, this little partnership of convenience is over, and he will ensure that the Matrix is never restored. The end of the war relies almost solely on Megatron reeling in his damn anger, and Bee doesnt intend to allow any slip ups. He has no idea how this will end when Megatron leaves the workshop that night.

On the other side of things, the Primes are having a real...weird time?? The ones without hosts can communicate with each other, but the other four are basically cut off from all but their hosts. They don't have the ability to take control anymore, and even if they did, their hosts are nowhere near as easy to possess, nor as willing, as Hive Prime was. Ratchet especially has threatened to tear the Matrix metal from his frame and grind it to dust if Prima so much as thinks about trying it. The other three hosts are similarly put off.

Once again the Primes are relegated to giving advice, but it's not advice anyone seems to want, and yeah, it's mostly because of the wild pairings. Megatronus is constantly clutching his pearls over Jazz's laid-back attitude and deliberate ignorance of his wishes. Prima's calm rationality does little to temper Ratchet's snappy demeanor and only really gets on his nerves (how can you be so calm after what you all did?). Ironhide straight up refuses to acknowledge Quintus. Drift is probably the only one feeling alright with all this. Alpha Trion is generally reasonable, and isn't interested in having control over Drift's form, nor was he interested in it with Hive, so they just vibe like college roommates.

It's uncomfortable, but the Primes are used to sharing space. The worst part is actually sharing it with fewer mechs than usual. The Primes all miss each other to varying degrees, but for the most part are either too egotistical to admit it, or think it improper to mention.

Of course, grand prize for worst ghost time currently goes to Optimus. Dying, watching Bee suffer, feeling his friend's life force extinguish...

He might as well be a husk right now, full on silent treatment is all he's capable of at the moment. The other Primes know better than to try and speak with him. This is their doing to begin with, the channeling of their energy that strained Bee so heavily. Optimus follows the elected council around during the days, but at night he sits outside the room where Hive's body rests. He was there the night that Megatron broke in.

It takes immense effort to travel far enough out from the base to go see Megatron, and he needs several cycles to recover after every attempt, but he keeps doing it, knowing he could fade away permanently. When he gets there, he's too weak for Bee or Megatron to detect him. But he can hear their talks. He misses them both more than words can say.

(Sorry the response is so long, lol. This ask really got the gears turning in my head. I hope at least that makes up for being the one to find out that Ending 3 Hive dies bloody. I'm really flattered to hear you like him! For me that's quite high praise coming from you. Hug hug!)

[apod]

2024 October 28

STEVE: A Glowing River over France Credit & Copyright: Louis LEROUX-GÉRÉ

Explanation: Sometimes a river of hot gas flows over your head. In this case the river created a Strong Thermal Emission Velocity Enhancement (STEVE) that glowed bright red, white, and pink. Details of how STEVEs work remain a topic of research, but recent evidence holds that their glow results from a fast-moving river of hot ions flowing over a hundred kilometers up in the Earth's atmosphere: the ionosphere. The more expansive dull red glow might be related to the flowing STEVE, but alternatively might be a Stable Auroral Red (SAR) arc, a more general heat-related glow. The featured picture, taken earlier this month in Côte d'Opale, France, is a wide-angle digital composite made as the STEVE arc formed nearly overhead. Although the apparition lasted only a few minutes, this was long enough for the quick-thinking astrophotographer to get in the picture -- can you find him?

∞ Source: apod.nasa.gov/apod/ap241028.html

[seirindono]

TMS - Author's note (Arc 1)

Today I'm stepping up to talk about TMS for a while. It's going to be a lot of blah blah, no TLDR, so hang in there or save it for later if you're brave enough, haha (¯▿¯)

So, another chapter of TMS draws to a close, with the difference that this time it's a whole saga that's coming to an end! That's a big relief for me, given that we recently celebrated the comic's 4th anniversary! That's almost the entire duration of my college life, and that's both an impressive and terrifying achievement lol.

The comic is divided into 3 arcs, each separated by an interlude. The first runs from part 1 to 8, with 201 pages total (wow!). In it, you are introduced to Mel, a young skeleton with a rather unclear past, who accidentally arrives in a a foreign timeline, along with other well known skeletons. Nowadays it's just an isekai haha. Throughout the arc, she proves to be a cautious Monster, quiet and somewhat withdrawn compared to the other skeletons we come across, notably Rus, Blue and Axe, who each got their own sequences.

Still, Mel in the last few scenes is starting to show more initiative, and the interlude will make this even more obvious, but we can expect her to open up a lot more during the next Arc, about her past, motives, goals and thoughts.

I could go on at length about what's in store for us in the interlude, but given that it's due for release sometime in 2024, I'm going to talk about the general story line instead. Although we follow Mel who is foreign to what's going on in this universe prior to her arrival, the other characters and events suggest that strange phenomena are taking place in Ebott, leading many people to become embroiled in a highly unusual affair. Crossing timelines, earthquakes, mysterious apparitions in the forest, something is afoot and the situation seems to be at a turning point when Mellow gets here.

Everyone has their own way of dealing with the situation and what to do next. Some are serious and pragmatic, like Black, others optimistic, like Blue, and others, like Papyrus, find themselves completely backed into a corner, forced to do their best to fix whatever needs to be.

A special case, however, is Axe, whom Mel meets in the forest as she investigates Mt. Ebott. The two have diametrically opposed views of their current condition. One wants to return to her world by any means necessary, regardless of the advantages of a peaceful world. The other, not so much. Both refuse to talk about their past and ignore the other's circumstances, but a sense of familiarity drives them to try to convince the other to stay or go. These are two stark positions to reconcile, and while we can expect Blue and the other skeletons to have their own views on the subject too, Mel and Axe are strangely "committed" in this interraction and resort to violence, spurred on by a unknown substance that causes Axe to momentarily lose control.

Mel is wounded, Axe unconscious, and the status quo disrupted. Other consequences follow this confrontation, and several questions are raised: Can Blue really help Mel when Axe accuses him of having already given up on going home himself? What is this mysterious entity Axe came across a few days earlier? The vibrations? What was that substance that made him go berserk? And what made him stop? Can we trust Mel and what she tells us? And many others.

Because as I'm sure many of you have come to realize, Mel has proven to be a rather unreliable narrator (or at least character since you don't follow her actual POV). Blatantly lying or omitting facts to others and readers alike, it's hard to know her next move and whether she's genuinely forgotten important infos (for it's well established at this stage that she has hazy memories and that they continue to deteriorate. The same applies to her health).

In the same way, each part of TMS so far has raised more questions than it has answered, but I can confidently say that the road is paved for Arc 2 to answer and put in perspective most of them, ahah.

Ah, this is also the moment when I can announce that ALL skeletons will be featured in the Interlude. Should be. Hopefully.

I'd also like to point out a few narrative changes for Act 2! The central characters, in particular. Original cast characters such as Undyne, Metatton and a veiled character will be more formally introduced, but we'll also meet up with characters we've already bumped into, but in a much more concrete way, such as Frisk and Alphys. I can't wait for you to get to know them! You can also expect more pov changes, more elipses and so on. Things are moving fast.

But that begs the question. When is it due? As said before, the first Arc lasted 4 years and I'm entering my last (and most crucial) year of college. I still don't know if I'll have time to get much of it done in 2025, but on the other hand, I'd like to strike while the iron's hot lest TMS be discontinued after a 1-year hiatus and my entry into the working world. Student loan, life and all. There are still plenty of things I'd like to bring to this project, and I now have the skills to actually carry them out, but on the other hand, the time involved has also increased exponentially.

Tbh with you, as an animation student, it's been one of my dreams since 2020 to do one of TMS's sequences in animatic or full anim, or even a trailer for the comic! But as a solo team, it's just unreasonable and I know it. But the parasite ----. Don't get me wrong, I could, but it would take me months and it's just not realistic when 80% of my time has to go into professionnal work that goes into my portefolio or adult stuff. I can't affort to invest time in solo-ing it or to recruit and lead a team over one side project of mine ( ´ ▿ ` ) So we'll most likely stick to classic pages.

But the same goes for collabs, community events, side stories, asks, edits, dubs, testing other platforms, regular animatics. Love all of that. Really. But I never have the time to because, man, I'd love to actually finish TMS someday ahah. It all comes back to the age-old problem of “lots of ideas, little time”, and it's so frustrating but, it's a choice I have to stick to, so bear with me as I vent my frustration. Just for tonight (´ ∀ `, *)

So, yes. Act 2. Next year? Probably? It's a long interlude, so you'll get smth in the meantime, but it's likely to decide the future of TMS and whether Act 2 sees the light of day as I imagine it or if...well, something else replaces it.

bringing back this doodle cuz it seems fiting lol

Anyway, I also wanted to thank you for your engagement with Part 8!

I don't know how other comic artists experience it, but for me it's a very isolated work, and as much as I love working alone, I enjoy the interaction with readers most of all.

Seeing people losing their mind over a serious scene, or chuckling at a dumb gag, or just simping over the characters and art. It's just great, and very rewarding. Likewise, I have a blast answering questions about the TMS universe, reading tags and receiving memes, witnessing people go increasingly mad with messages full of indecipherable screams and hearts. Makes me giggle and kick my feet everytime and I can't wait to drop the next lore bomb or funny scene bwahahah

And while we're on the subject, I'd like to say a special word of thanks to the legions of rebloggers who make it their business to spread the word about TMS. You sweet, lovely, candy scented folks. And to my dear mutuals - with whom I interact objectively so little - who have no idea how a single message or note from them drives me bonkers. Thanks for dropping by. And of course to my super Patreons who support me despite the sparse updates, but to whom I'm more than grateful. Love you all.

Sounds like a farewell message. It's not lol. Just making sure they get the love they deserve.

The post is getting long and I'm kind of done pretending I know how to write organized notes so to wrap things up, here's an exhaustive list of what I'd like to get done this year and/or discuss in more detail another day. •Make a new masterpost (for Act 2) •Analyze/Comment certain sequences from Act 1 to clarify or give context •Redraw and rewrite part 1 and 2 •Make more bonus content again *ahahahahahaha*

•Re open or close the Discord (partially abandoned and it's all on me, but I'm still mulling it over).

•Finish the Interlude and enjoy and nice hiatus

And that's about it? Congratulation for reading this and making it this far! You were there!

Be well, and see you next time.

Seirin-

First part | Prev | Next (INTERLUDE)

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[tomicscomics]

05/24/2024

Continuing from the previous cartoon, St. Joan of Arc plans to out her rival as a fraud... by having a SLEEPOVER?! (Yes, this actually happened in real life.)

___

JOKE-OGRAPHY: 1. The Source: This cartoon is based off of characters and events mentioned in St. Joan of Arc's trial. Here are the relevant passages (translated by W. S. Scott): "Asked what [Catherine] said to her, [Jeanne] answered that this Catherine said [...] that a woman appeared [to her], a white lady, dressed in cloth of gold [...]. [Jeanne] asked Catherine if this Lady appeared every night; and if so, she would sleep with her. And she did so..." 2. Explanation: When asked about Catherine de La Rochelle during her trial, Joan is very curt. When her assessors press for details, Joan eventually shares more. Catherine apparently claimed that an apparition came to her each night -- the White Lady -- and gave her counsel like Joan's Voices. Joan was ironically skeptical, and asked Catherine if the White Lady appeared every night. When Catherine said yes, Joan asked to sleep over to see the Lady for herself. Strangely, Catherine obliged.3. Pierronne the Breton: Besides Joan and Catherine, Brother Richard's club of mystics also included two Breton women -- one named Pierronne, and another who remains unnamed (to my knowledge). Even after all my studying of Joan's life story, I still only just learned about these Breton mystics a couple weeks ago, and I'm already scheming toward including their harrowing fate in a future May of the Maid / June of Arc. 4. Historical / Fiction: The story of Joan sleeping over at Catherine's is historical fact, based on Joan's own words, which I find absolutely hilarious in and of itself. Exactly what led up to this sleepover, however, is only communicated in minimal detail, so I'm filling in some details before getting into the sleepover itself in the next cartoons. I may even redo this story arc someday and tell it in a totally different way, while still being just as historically accurate. In this cartoon, I had Pierronne suggest the sleepover initially, so that I could use another historical character to offset the tension between Joan and Catherine. We'll see how that plays out as the sleepover commences in the next comic!

[mysterious-secret-garden]

Eleanor Fortescue-Brickdale (1872-1945) - Joan of Arc Praying, 1919.

[heartbreakprincewille]

Erik is a metaphor for the Monarchy

This season has given me so much to think about Erik and Wilhelm's idolization of Erik, and how it plays a dual role in Wilhelm's arc as a character.

I think Erik represents Wilhelm's motivation to carry forward the legacy of an institution which is slowly crumbling in its relevance (in the fictional Sweden atleast, I have no idea about the geopolitical scenario of the real-life monarchy in Sweden). Yes, Wilhelm does come from a lineage of a family relevant in history, but not only he is too young to understand that burden but he is also someone who does not feel a personal connection with that burden, unlike August(which ironically also stems from his love for his father). But he does feel that personal connection to Erik, not only because they are brothers but also Erik seems to be the only one Wilhelm can fully be vocal about his thoughts until he meets Simon. Erik is what separates Wilhelm from that burden of legacy and responsibilities.

But then Erik dies. Erik's death not necessarily represents the death of the monarchy, but it's still the death of the stability that the system thrives on. Royals want everything in control, and we can see that a lack of control runs everything berserk in that system. Erik's death is the beginning of the legacy weighing down on Wilhelm in full force, how the monarchy is just a system that thrives in perpetual succession and does not care if a spare fills the shoes of an heir unwillingly. He is expected to mould himself in the image of Erik, and the personal connection Wilhelm lacked with the Monarchy takes the shape of Erik in his mind- he believes that he is doing good to Erik's memories if he steps up as a suitable Crown Prince, but in the end, he's just catering to the system, not Erik. Even if the system is full of lies and secrets and he is forced to part ways from his authentic self.

But then he realizes that he does not want to part ways with himself, and how he stands apart as an individual when he is with Simon. Trying to get Simon back was also an attempt to reclaim his individuality, and the more he tried to gain everything back by the easiest way possible, the more he lost Simon and got pushed to the deep end. The Monarchy still loomed on the horizon, he still wanted to uphold Erik's memory by complying with the mould his mother and the Royal Court has been preparing for him. But when he gets Simon's love back, he also gets back his individuality, and how it leads to an epiphany only his free self could have made in his speech.

The illusion reigns supreme even in his relationship with Simon, because Wilhelm thought that he can be a Crown Prince and Simon's boyfriend at the same time, but the more they progressed with the burden together, it became clear that what Wilhelm wants to be is at clear odds with the system he is being prepared for.

Then the illusion shatters with August's confession. It's utterly heartbreaking that Erik and his homophobic actions put deep cracks in Wilhelm's illusion because in the end, he was still his brother. But he will forever remain scarred by the possibility that maybe Erik could have not accepted his individuality and his love for Simon. His first safe haven he found as a child, and which continued to be one when Wilhelm's grief became too painful, all shattered by a revelation he had no answers to. And suddenly all the comparisons with his older brother became a suffocating chain around his head, and he explodes in a rage of fury to his parents.

Erik was not only a literal figurehead of the institution, but he was also a phantom manifestation of the Monarchy for Wilhelm's character. The ever-present apparition of a system he does not thrive in.

[robin-evry]

Is dead yuu right with you?

Tbh, I was a little confused at first because since are you referring to yuu who is similar to a ghost or a zombie or are you referring to yuu who is literally dead.

So I decided to create this, I hope it will satisfy you.

𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃!𝐘𝐔𝐔 👻👻

a ghost is the soul or spirit of a dead person or non-human animal that is believed to be able to appear to the living. In ghostlore, descriptions of ghosts vary widely, from an invisible presence to translucent or barely visible wispy shapes to realistic, lifelike forms. The deliberate attempt to contact the spirit of a deceased person is known as necromancy, or in spiritism as a séance. Other terms associated with it are apparition, haunt, haint, phantom, poltergeist, shade, specter, spirit, spook, wraith, demon, and ghoul.

( English is not my first language )

In this scenario, yuu died during the dwarf mine cave arc, they died by having their head being pierced by the pick axe of the monster. After their death was announced Crowley decided to hide the death, because it will stain the reputation of the school and their body was buried in the forest near the cave or was cremated and spread around the forest.

The good thing is that they have returned as a ghost unfortunately because they don't want to leave their friends and grim.

Ghost!Yuu appears ethereal, with a translucent form that resembles how they looked in life, but with a faint, ghostly glow. They still look exactly the same as when they died, but they do have an left open wound from where the pickaxe pierce them in the head.

they can speak, but only in whispers or vague, fragmented sentences. Some students can hear them better than others, while others may not hear them at all.

They have the ability to influence the physical world in small ways—moving objects slightly, chilling a room, or writing messages with frost on windows.

People can still see them but it's very vague the next thing you were walking in the hallway and then ghost!yuu would appear to walk past them. They can disappear or reappear but they can't control this ability.

They cannot appear in photos only if the camera has some magic in it to detect them, or they will appear but it's very vague only showing their outline that they were there.

Whenever their spirit is near, the temperature drops significantly, and lights flicker or dim. Some of the more sensitive students feel chills down their spines or notice frost forming on windows. It’s an eerie reminder that they are always watching, even when they don’t make themselves known.

They tried to communicate with the living by subtly manipulating their surroundings. They write cryptic messages in the frost on mirrors or use objects to draw attention to clues related to the mystery of the mine collapse. Ace and Deuce are the first to notice these signs, though they’re not always sure if it’s truly their or just their imaginations.

Since dead!yuu is not originally from this world making their ghost form more different than the ghost in twst. Their ghost form is more vague and they have limited access to communicate in the physical world unlike the ghost of twst since they can interact normally

They can pass through walls and objects at will, and can turn invisible when they want to avoid detection. However, they struggle to interact with solid objects, meaning they can’t always physically participate in daily tasks. But soon after enough training they will start to get better at interacting in the physical world

They can float or fly short distances, which makes traveling through the school easy. Occasionally, they finds themselves unintentionally teleporting when emotional, appearing in unexpected places without warning.

Though they can’t directly touch most things, they can subtly manipulate their surroundings—flickering lights, cold drafts, or moving small objects with enough focus and they can lower the Temperature of the environment they're in.

They can only speak in whispers or faint echoes, and not everyone can hear them clearly. Over time, they learn to control this, becoming more audible to certain people, especially those attuned to the supernatural.

They attend classes like any other student, though they struggle with certain tasks that require physical interaction. Teachers treat them with a mix of curiosity and respect, often assigning special accommodations so Yuu can participate. For example, in potion-making, they must direct Grim or another classmate to handle the ingredients for them. Over time, they learns to manipulate objects enough to contribute, albeit in unique ways.

Most students are initially wary of them, especially because they are a ghost. Some believe they bring bad luck, while others are fascinated by their presence. However, their personality (whether warm, curious, or mischievous) eventually breaks through these barriers, and they form close friendships with students like Ace, Deuce, and others. They also becomes known for pranking students, using their ghostly abilities to spook the more gullible ones like Epel and Sebek.

Even though their personality stays the same, dead!yuu is slowly suffering from depression, since they died here in twst, they realized that their soul would not come back to their original world or will be able to taste delicious food. Which may cause them to overblot.

attacks or magic cannot literally damage it usually phases thru their body.

During their first encounter malleus was admiring the gargoyles in ramshackle when dead!yuu pop their heads out and introduce themselves.

They also scared idia, they pop out there thru his monitor during an important game and he literally jumps back and faints, this causes the attention of Ortho who rush over his room ready to attack, after some explanation, they introduce each other and they would usually watch idia play his game during their free time.

Their magic allows them to interact with objects and people in a spectral manner. They can move objects without touching them directly, using ghostly energy. For example, they can open doors, pick up light objects, or create gusts of wind by channeling their spectral form. This ability could grow stronger with time, allowing them to manipulate larger or more complex things as they practice.

They can project ghostly energy to create shields or barriers. This magic is translucent, appearing like shimmering mist or ethereal light, and can protect others from harm, though it might be less sturdy than a living person’s magic. Over time, they could develop this magic to create temporary ghostly constructs—like weapons or tools—though these would have a fleeting nature and eventually dissipate.

They could possess objects and, in rare cases, people. When possessing objects, Yuu can animate them for a short period—think of a book flying off a shelf, a pen writing on its own, or even a weapon moving as if it were wielded by an invisible hand. Possessing people, however, is more taxing and would likely only be used in extreme circumstances. When Yuu does possess someone, it’s for brief moments, and they cannot control someone fully; instead, they might influence their movements or speech slightly.

They can fade in and out of sight, turning invisible or making parts of their body intangible. This allows them to pass through walls, avoid physical attacks, or remain unseen when they wish to observe something in secret. However, while invisible, their presence still leaves a chill in the air, and those attuned to magic may still sense them nearby.

They also have the ability to create mini ghosts or hollows that they can manipulate in their will These Hollows can come in different sizes depending on what the user desires The Hollows are able to fly and, being intangible, are immune to physical attacks. These ghosts can work as their eyes and ears around NRC. This ghost could take the form on how they were made, some ghosts were created to explode, work as clones for dead!yuu, can help reganerate magical energy if their friends are running low on magic, This ability is very versatile.

Their magic weakens significantly the further they are from the grounds of Night Raven College. Since their soul is bound to the school, they lose strength if they wander too far from its magical energy, meaning they can only fully access their abilities within the school or areas closely tied to it.

They cannot perform magic that directly manipulates physical matter in the same way living students can. For example, they cannot create fire, water, or other solid elements. Their magic is limited to more spiritual or ghostly effects, like influencing dreams, moving objects, or creating phantom constructs.

Get along with the other ghosts in NRC, they teach them how to interact and maintain their physical form for long as well how to pull pranks and use their ability.

Have a disdain for Crowley for hiding the truth from the world, he will excuse himself saying it jeopardize the school reputation as well saying they should accept being expelled then they shouldn't be in this situation this angered dead!yuu which causes them to make Crowley living days hell, obeject thrown around and other.

The Adeuce as well grim blame themselves for dead!yuu turning into a ghost, even though they said they were fine about it and that it wasn't their fault they still blame themselves for their unfortunate fate.

Grim was the most devastated by their death, and when they comeback as a ghost he refused to believe it and said they were just an illusion, after calming him down and talk to each other grim cried and wanted to embrace them but soon phased thru their body and he become more overprotective over them saying that it won't happen again.

[zeroducks-2]

Do you have an essential Dick Grayson comics reading list?? Especially sladick related 👉👈 I feel like I’m always hearing about fun interactions between them, but no one ever lists from what comics 😭🥺

Of course!

You can find lots of good stuff in Devin Grayson's Nightwing 1996. I suggest taking a look at #80 to #83, Dick and Slade have iconic interactions in those issues. Like this one!

(from #82 specifically)

There's also the whole "renegade arc" which spans from #110 to #115, and it has stuff like the Message Received in Dick's bathroom, and "Nightstroke". I feel we don't talk enough about Nightstroke lol.

I really recommend Nightwing 1996 in general anyway. Not all of it is good (we could really do without the racism), but it does have some of the most Iconic Dick Grayson Moments, and it's really fun and engaging. The whole Tarantula thing happens in that one btw.

For some of the more Old School flavor of both characters, I suggest reading some New Teen Titans issues from the 80s, especially The Judas Contract (yep the one with Tara), since it has Slade's first apparition and some really badass moments.

I personally am a big fan of that brief but memorable time where Dick was Batman and Damian Robin - I feel Dick's storyline really peaked with that arc and we never got even close to that ever again (it would be Batman & Robin by Grant Morrison, and I also HIGHLY RECOMMEND Black Mirror by Scott Snyder). Slade and Dick have a couple of memorable interactions during that run but nothing too significant.

For something with a more modern flavor, unfortunately there isn't much except Dark Crisis. You know, from where the whole "You were always the trophy, Grayson. Why would I waste my time with anyone else?" gayass speech comes from.

(this one, from Dark Crisis #2 specifically)

And then there's also that whole part with Dick and Slade fighting as their selves from pre-N52 and all that. I mean I'm not a fan of Dark Crisis, but at least Joshua made it gay and I love him for it.

I wouldn't be able to tell you with absolute certainty what are the "essential" Dick Grayson comics to read though, because unlike characters such as Barry or Clark, Dick has changed SO MUCH post reboot, especially when it comes to Tom Taylor's run. And as much as I tend to shit on Taylor's run and many more modern comics, I can't in good conscience call out of character the past 15 years of Nightwing/Dick Grayson. I recognize that Dick is sadly not the same character he used to be preboot, so most of what you read from before the N52 is essentially obsolete when it comes to Dick's personality (also his competence and the respect the superheroes community had for him tend to be spotty at best).

But yeah my point is that my "Dick Grayson essentials" are oldies, but they're still some of my favorite stories and I would highly recommend reading those over the modern slop that has been the Nightwing comics for a while now.

So to make a quick recap, for any Dick Grayson fan I would suggest reading Devin Grayson's 1996 run, The New Teen Titans by Wolfman and Perez, and Batman & Robin by Grant Morrison. Black Mirror by Scott Snyder is my all time favorite Dick Grayson comic.