#even if the art is DISTURBING and VIOLENT

[swan2swan]

You know how it goes.

[parkersgnome]

⭐️Mima Rants⭐️

I remember coming across slideshow on tik tok this about a year ago, and even *I* (as someone who used to be grossed out by proshipping) thought was ridiculous…

This is the title of the slideshow.

Just a heads up guys, just like our favorite ships, None of these stories are real.

And if they were based on actual events, wouldn’t it make more sense to make a video about that instead of making up shit that never happened?

But, Let’s go through each of these as if they were real stories, shall we?

First one

“Caleb uses the internet to deal with his trauma”, Alright, I’m gonna stop you right there.

Isn’t “Staying off the internet is beneficial for your mental health” something we learned in, idk, fucking grade school? Cyber safety PSAs in middle school? Something that dozens of people have screeched from the top of their lungs since social media was invented?

Who the heck told him that being on the internet was going to help with his trauma and improve his mental health???

His feelings are valid, I get that. He has every right to be disturbed by Sage’s writings and fantasies. However, it seems that Sage isn't encouraging these actions in real life and keeps them strictly within fiction. As long as it’s in text or art, Sage has every right to express his fantasies.

Anyways, Caleb should seek a better therapist who can teach him better coping mechanisms like going out for walks, yoga, baking, or some other fourth thing instead of browsing social media where there’s a good chance he can run into something that makes him uncomfortable.

Next one…

“Jackie is 10-”

Yeah no no no no no no.. no… NO.

10-years-old. That’s, like, what? 4th grade? Shouldn’t Jackie be watching cartoons, playing with toys, or better yet, playing outside? Why did her parents give her internet access? Why aren’t they monitoring what their elementary schooled daughter is watching online?

If Charlie was going out of her way to promote this to minors then I would say she’s in the wrong, but this story never implies whether her content was specifically targeted to and/or letting minors come on to her account.

I've never seen proshippers create accounts specifically targeting children. If Charlie makes it clear her content isn't for kids, then it's not her fault if some random little girl she doesn’t know ends up consuming it.

If Jackie started to think this was normal, then it is her parent’s fault for neglecting her online safety and allowing her to access adult-targeted content at an age when media literacy is at an all time low.

The last one

“dEGenErates LiKE hiM 🤓” 💀💀

Once again, unless you can present to me a REAL LIFE incest/pedophilia case where proshipping was involved, this is not a valid argument that fiction affects reality.

Alas, we're treating these stories as if they were real. If Trey feels compelled to SA his sister after seeing writings or drawings of problematic ships, this suggests he’s likely an untreated mentally ill individual, especially since he can't differentiate fiction from reality.

What? If Trey played GTA V and started shooting and robbing a bank because he wanted to be like Trevor Phillips, should we consider banning violent video games?

As proshippers, we do not endorse real-life criminals and genuinely terrible people. The essence of proshipping is that all negative or degenerate actions should be confined to fiction. Understand?

End of discussion.

Anyway, as ridiculous as that slideshow was, please refrain from harassing or bothering the artist who made it. They have the same freedom of speech we do, and stooping to harassment and bullying wouldn't make us any better than antis who promote such behavior.

[spacelazarwolf]

i was going to put this on my other blog but this is important.

so someone posted this:

and not even getting into the fact it was not a “park for families”, the replies look like this:

these are all horrific. but the most disturbing one is this:

i wear a magen david every day. many jews do. it’s on my ritual items, it’s on my art, it’s on the rainbow flag i plan on putting on my front porch in my new apartment. i would ask if you knew that you are inviting violence against jews, but i think you know that’s what you’re doing and i think that’s the point.

this is genuinely terrifying, and i cannot believe people are still reblogging from the people saying these things. i’m sure this is going to get screenshotted, as most of my posts do by this crowd, as more “proof” i’m a (((zionist))) but i have made my stance incredibly clear so it’s obvious anything i say will be twisted. but these tags, especially the last one, are beyond unacceptable. it is blatant, violent antisemitism.

when we say you can advocate for palestine without being antisemitic, this is what we mean. you literally can just not say any of these things. you can say “wow it’s horrible that they did that” you can even say “it’s fucked up that they’re using a jewish symbol like that.” but engaging in holocaust revisionism and explicitly stating that the magen david, the globally recognized jewish symbol, should be considered a hate symbol during a time where jews in the diaspora are being targeted and attacked, shows me you don’t give a fuck about palestinians. you just hate jews.

[fliflaflux]

Lux of Candlekeep

Name: Lux Race/Subrace: "Drow" Gender: Female Sexual Orientation: Demisexual Age: 39 [30. Flamerule, 1453DR] Height: 4'7 Class: Wizard [Bloodmagic] Deity: Bhaal Jergal Alignment: True Neutral Background: The Haunted One

Class & Path Features Wizard [Blood Magic]: The blood magic school is an extension of the Tal'Dorei Campaign - for such a 'special' bhaalspawn, however, I found it quite fitting. To quote the description of the class from the Campaign: “Blood magic - also known as haemocraft - is a rare art that harnesses the latent powers of a creature's life force to enhance the caster's own abilities while manipulating and weakening the enemy's body from within. Some of the more macabre mages, seeking to enhance their arcane pursuits, turn to the hemo-art to amplify their spells by donating the blood of their own lives to reach new heights of terrifying magical prowess.”

Even on the Sword Coast, this kind of magic would put most wizards off. It incorporates parts from the school of necromancy - coupled with the macabre manipulation of the life force of living beings, this magical art does not make friends. However, Lux is unaware of this at the beginning of her journey and has to learn it through trial and error.

Background information

Although Lux was shaped into the form of a Drow (At least they assumed she was a Drow - she does look a little strange for a dark elf.) , she did not end up in the Underdark. As a foundling, she was first found in Waterdeep and came to Candlekeep via several detours. Finding a Drow baby above ground was strange enough. But it didn't take the scholars and wizards much to realize that there were other things wrong with this child. So she was taken into the care of some local wizards.

For most of her time at Candlekeep, she was treated less as a growing child and more as a research project. It didn't help that most of the Keep's residents and apprentices preferred to steer clear of the strange Drow girl. Not only did she have a special talent for necromancy, but she also tended to throw violent tantrums and generally exhibited quite disturbing behavior for a child. This ensured that she spent long stretches locked up.

The urge that had always slumbered within her finally awoke in her late teenage years. With the Urge, Sceleritas Fel also appeared in her life. A being who was kind to her without much in return - even more so - who practically adored her. So it wasn't difficult for her to follow his whispers and make a bloody escape from Candlekeep.

[...]

[whimsicalish]

I've been thinking about why Art is such a comforting character to me and one of my recent posts and people's additions to it finally helped me put it into words I think.

I've seen people describe Art as terrifying and scary and creepy and their worst nightmare and I've seen people say Art is like one of their biggest fears- and I honestly don't find him scary and creepy at all.

I think it's because I'm neurodivergent and kinda see myself in him? Not the whole murder thing, obviously- but his mannerisms and how he just sticks out, how weird he seems to everyone around him. He doesn't fit in and he doesn't even try. He's very unapologetically himself (even if that includes him being all violent and evil 😭)

Him getting all excited over different stuff- whether that be seeing Santa or being excited to, you know, kill someone- it feels very familiar. I get so excited over the things I find interesting and fun.

David saying he sees Art as asexual, that anything sexual is very disconnected from Art for him, is another thing that makes him a really comforting character for me, as someone who is very much sex repulsed.

He also helps me with my intrusive thoughts in a weird way. My intrusive thoughts aren't really anything like the stuff we see in the terrifier movies, but they're still very upsetting for me and disturbing.

Having something that's disturbing like this in a similar way, where I know it's just fiction and isn't real and where I can somewhat enjoy it? It feels nice. Reminds me that my intrusive thoughts are just that- thoughts. They're not real. None of those thoughts are real and they're not going happen nor are they something that reflects me as a person.

Art the clown is such a weird comfort character and I'm honestly really thankful for the terrifier movies. They're funny and disgusting in the best way possible and Art the clown is a delight to watch being evil on screen.

[temis-de-leon]

Please make sure to take care of yourself 🥺 Write whenever you feel like it and when you have the time but don't force yourself to write 😤 - Romance Anon

Crush hugging him because of a horror movie - 500 F.C.

Characters: Diavolo x gn!reader

Main Masterlist

500 followers masterlist

Requested by: Romance anon

A/N: Toni Colette, the woman that you are. And thank you Romance, for your never-ending patience <3

C/W: a bit suggestive there at the beginning, pinning, very vague description of Hereditary's ending

.

He would be lying if he said having you so close to him, practically sitting on his lap, while moaning a myriad of ‘oh my God’, ‘please, God’ and, his personal favourite, ‘Dia, Dia, Dia…!’ wasn’t affecting him in the slightest. It was, and heavily; he just wished it took place under different circumstances.

Mainly because he was low-key freaking out too, although not as much as you.

Having seen a fair number of sinners, he knew some mortal minds weren’t simple or kind, which made the darkness of life and the suffering of others a rather pleasurable affair for them. It was fascinating, apparently, a broadly studied aspect of human society, and not just one of many media genres, that propelled the pharmaceutical and therapeutic intervention businesses; a cause and a consequence, something that should’ve been avoided or couldn’t have been helped.

And yet, out of all horrors, you chose a demonic possession movie? Were you trying to tease him?

Paimon wasn’t even that bad once you got the chance to meet him properly! He was an erudite whose knowledge covered all the arts, philosophy and science. A friend of Lucifer’s, keen on reciprocity foremost and eager to start a conversation with anyone who offered him the same amount of time and interest as he did. Unfortunately, Diavolo had the tiny suspicion you wouldn’t be in the mood to meet the captivating demon, nor his demanding dromedary, after watching the disturbing movie, but you should really give it a try!

He could still understand you, though.

“Oh, dear” he said in a quiet breath as the boy on the screen slowly turned around and miraculously missed his mother crawling on the walls.

Your eyes, which had been previously peeking between your fingers, closed shut. You turned to press your face against his chest again and he deeply hoped your fear kept you from noticing the rapid beating of his heart and the way his hand closed around your waist to bring you closer. His cheeks burned, not bothering to hide an enamoured smile. There was no use in doing so when you were trying so hard to disappear from the world amongst the creases of his uniform.

Still, you had asked him to watch the film together and he would be more than damned if he disappointed you in such a trivial matter, so he forced himself to look at the screen intensely, even when a naked man loomed from the shadows and the boy had to run away for his life, tripping and falling and barely climbing to the attic on time.

“I have to say, MC” he mustered, eyes open wide as the woman (Annie?) violently banged her head against the trap door while Peter cried in desperation from the other side. “I can’t understand the appeal of watching this. When you said you wanted a movie night, I thought you’d choose something… tamer”

More romantic is what he wanted to say. Diavolo had hoped to understand love from a human standpoint and see what you liked in order to do the same. Rose petals and champagne by the fireplace? Or shopping and dining in the most expensive places in the Devildom? Dancing in the rain? Stargazing? As observant as he was, he had no clue whether you reciprocated his infatuation, so, sadly, he preferred having your full attention on him whenever he showed his feelings; and at that moment not even an emergency would’ve made you let go of his embrace. It's not like he would ever complain about that, anyway.

“I didn’t want to watch the movie alone” you finally whimpered, letting go only enough to look up at him. “And I figured if someone could make me feel protected it would be you”

Your glassy eyes vaguely reflected his speechless expression and, suddenly, he was aware of everything. The weight of your body against his, bringing warmth and comfort, the smell of your clothes and the softness of your skin; your scared pouting and embarrassed blushing. Not knowing what to do with it anymore, he let his free hand awkwardly drop over your calves and immediately almost imploded when you instinctively tucked even closer.

There was no noise for a blissful moment, save for the heavy breathing and the buzzing coming from the speakers, and Diavolo briefly asked himself if a horror movie was still a good background for a love confession.

Then, a wet sound; a sawing motion.

You slowly turned to the gigantic TV, impending doom in your expression quickly morphing into heavy distress when the mother appeared once more on the screen. Your appalled scream almost made him cover his ears before you hid your face in his chest one final time.

“OH MY GOD, DIA, OH MY GOD”

Diavolo just hoped Barbatos wouldn’t ask any questions in the morning.

.

.

Taglist: @ilovecandys2010 @ollieoven @kingofspadesdelusion @whimsybloom

[padfootagain]

Love in Verses (XIV)

Chapter 14: ‘Why should I blame her that she filled my days with misery’

Hi! Here is new chapter! Today, we have… Christmas shenanigans, and Andrew’s family! Some misogyny in the academic world. Also, Saoirse’s back!

I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 3578

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

No Second Troy

Why should I blame her that she filled my days

With misery, or that she would of late

Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,

Or hurled the little streets upon the great,

Had they but courage equal to desire?

What could have made her peaceful with a mind

That nobleness made simple as a fire,

With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind

That is not natural in an age like this,

Being high and solitary and most stern?

Why, what could she have done, being what she is?

Was there another Troy for her to burn?

The room was quiet as Andrew finished reading the poem. Unusually quiet. The heavy kind of silence that filled a room after art had drawn emotions from the depths of all the hearts who had listened. Even Andrew was uneasy at the thought of disturbing it now that it had settled in, now that it filled every corner.

Saoirse wasn’t sure what was the reason behind such an emotional response to the poem. The words were beautiful by themselves, of course. Her professor had introduced the poem right before reading it out loud, and perhaps the aching came from knowing that Yeats had written this poem for Maud Gonne as she rejected him once more, and was choosing to marry another man. Of course, such sentiment, phrased with such poetry, was emotional. But Saoirse couldn’t help the thought that came to her mind, as she was pretty much certain that such pain came mainly from her teacher.

There was something in the way he read poetry that tugged on her heartstrings every time. The way his deep, quiet voice moved across the words in such an intimate way that she forgot she was in a classroom. But this time, he seemed more emotional than usual. His voice shook in the middle of a verse, his tone was deeper than it should have been. His hand was slightly trembling as he readjusted his glasses upon his nose, his head still bent as he kept staring at the page.

But then he looked up again, a small smile tugging at his lips, as if he hadn’t shattered Saoirse’s world for a moment. He put down the book on his desk, buried his hands in the pockets of his grey pants, leaning back against his desk. Like it was easy to read like this, like life could go by unchanged after such a moment.

There was a flash of mischief in his gaze, and then his smile widened a little.

“Sassy…”

Some students chuckled at the comment, but Saoirse didn’t. She was still struggling to find back her footing into reality. And then Andrew looked straight into her eyes, seemed to notice her distress, frowned a little at the sight. He checked his watch. There was but five minutes left to their class for this week. He moved on.

“Erm… so… this is the poem you’ll have to work on for your essay. I’ll remind you of the specifics I want for this exercise, but I’m already warning you about something tricky with this poem, because… like… there is a trap you must not fall into. As you could be tempted to… erm… focus only on the love side of the text, and you absolutely must focus on that… but it’s Yeats. You can’t dismiss the political context in favour of a purely romantic reading, especially considering Gonne’s own convictions about an Irish independence. So… be careful not to minimise that side of the poem.”

He gave them more instructions for the essay, and Saoirse wrote down all the details, even though she couldn’t shake the thought that the way he had read that poem… there was something so personal in there, something that seemed to echo within him, or maybe it echoed within her…

The class was dismissed, Sean heaved a tired sigh, rubbed at his eyes before he started packing. He was sitting next to her, the way he always did. And she liked that. They were friends…

“I need to head to the library before our next class,” he told her. “I haven’t finished preparing Y/L/N’s class for tomorrow. I need to finish reading the excerpt and write down some notes, or I’ll be too lost during tomorrow’s lecture.”

“I’ll help you if you want. I’ve finished it.”

“Ha, but that’s because you’re so fucking organised… a real pro…”

She rolled her eyes, but smiled anyway at the gentle teasing. Meanwhile, Andrew had walked closer and he was now standing in front of her, a worried expression painted on his features.

She blinked up at him. He seemed a little shy now that he had to talk one-on-one with her, although the smile he offered her was benevolent.

“Are you alright? You seemed upset at the end of the class, I just wanted to check in on you…”

He stared at Saoirse with expectant eyes, and she couldn’t help the surprise that was painted on her features.

“Erm… yeah, I’m good. I’m just… I guess I was really touched by the poem, that’s all.”

“Oh… alright. Good. I thought you were upset over something else like… the workload or something.”

“No, no… I just liked the poem a lot.”

Andrew chuckled at that, visibly relaxing. He hummed, his hands back into his pockets.

“Hmmm… such a sucker for longing, this William…” he joked, making both of his students chuckle.

“Yes, and… I don’t know… the way you read it… I was genuinely touched by it.”

He blinked, tightened his jaw a little, but the same kindness was still written in his eyes as he answered.

“Hmmm… we all find parts of our lives that connect to poetry, and art in general. That’s why we make art, that’s why we engage with it too. We all have emotions to express and understand and process, and whether it may be through our own production or through the work of others… what makes a piece of art worthwhile is how relatable it still is, despite the passing of time.”

Slowly, Saoirse nodded, pondering on her professor’s words. It made her want to dissect every piece of art she had ever encountered through that scope, through that longing for communication, for being understood, for speaking when words failed…

“Well, have a nice week then, and good luck for the essay. And don’t forget to have fun over Christmas despite your studies!” Andrew smiled as they parted.

As Sean and she walked out of the classroom, heading for the library, she remained lost in thought. December had come now with its load of grey clouds, biting cold and the first layers of ice over curbs, rooftiles and windows. There were no leaves left on the trees that grew across the courtyards, but the grass was still as green, even if patches of it were tainted with white. As she breathed, condensation clouded her world, and it made it as unrecognisable as her own thoughts.

Yes, her professor had spoken with emotions that made the text more beautiful than it should be, but there was more to it, a reason behind how upset she still was about the whole thing. Something personal, a reason that was there, in her chest, and yet she couldn’t fathom what it was, couldn’t put a name on the problem.

“Shite! Those fucking steps are so slippery! Jesus Christ!”

Sean laughed as he had almost fallen, walking up the few steps leading towards the entrance of the library. The round sculpture that decorated the space before the entrance was visible behind him, although his body, as he bent over with laughter, was hiding a part of it.

She stared at him as he laughed, the sound infectious enough to draw a smile on her own lips. When she reached the first step, he reached out to her, holding gently the sleeve of her warm coat, with a smile on his lips that told her in silence I’ve got you, I won’t let you fall.

The tugging at her heart told her that maybe, just maybe, a part of the answer was there…

Andrew was humming a tune you didn’t recognise but you didn’t really mind. On the contrary, as you read an article on your computer screen, the sound made you smile.

He was in a good mood, clearly, had been all day. The upcoming Christmas break was at fault, without a doubt. He had mentioned that he would spend a lot of time with his family in Wicklow for the holidays. He would spend New Year’s Eve with you at the party Frank and Sam were throwing though, but Christmas was a precious moment he wanted to spend with his parents and his brother. Only a few days left of work, and you could both take a break from reading articles, preparing classes, grading essays…

You looked at him for a moment, or rather, you stared at him, that was a more appropriate verb for your action. He kept on humming softly, you didn’t care what the song was. It was a soothing sound, one you could have been lulled into sleep with. He was focused on typing something, you had no idea what. He had let his hair loose today, was wearing his glasses that reflected the light of his computer screen. He was wearing a brown shirt that fitted him a little too well to your liking.

Too well, indeed… it wasn’t helping your torturous thoughts.

You had to stop thinking about that kiss. It was nothing special, it didn’t mean a thing. And you didn’t want Andrew at all, you wanted Frank. You wanted Frank and you knew it, so why were you staring at Andrew like this now? Why did you keep thinking about that drunken kiss?

Or… to be fair, kisses…

He let out a triumphant exclamation, turned to you with a grin. You had to pretend that you weren’t already staring at him.

“I’m done! Christ, the exams are going to kill me one day.”

“Finished the questions?”

“For all my classes. It’s done. I’m not touching it again, not changing anything, that is enough.”

He checked the time on his watch, but it was barely 11 o’clock. Too early for lunch break. And yet, his leg was trembling, you guessed he felt restless.

“Want to take a walk?” you asked. “A coffee?”

“Aren’t you busy?”

“I’m sick of this article, it’s not even a good one. Let’s take a break!”

He grinned, the kind of bright smiles he seldom wore. Oh, he often smiled, but this kind of bright grin, of relaxed joy… he seemed to save those only for people he truly felt comfortable with. Your heart felt all warm at the thought that you were one of these people.

“You seem particularly happy today,” you pointed out, unable to refrain the fondness in your voice.

“I am!” he nodded as you walked out of your shared office. “My brother is coming over for Christmas. I’m relieved, he was working on a project in Mayo and wasn’t certain to make it. But he’ll be here to pester me about how to cook meat, and claim that the best Star Wars movie is episode five when…”

“We all know it’s Rogue One.”

“I can’t believe you’ve just said that, I’ll act like you haven’t said anything.”

“Rogue One is excellent, what are you talking about?!”

“It is excellent,” he nodded. “It’s definitely the best one after the original trilogy.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“I’ll ignore your terrible taste in Star Wars movies if you’re free some time this week.”

“Free?”

“You keep on claiming that you’re a killer at Mario Kart, and yet all I hear are words, and I don’t see any proof to back up that claim of yours.”

“Oh, so you want to get your arse kicked, then? Suit yourself, I’m free whenever you want.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“My place.”

“I’ll bring the wine.”

“Deal.”

You hoped he hadn’t noticed that your playful banter had lost some of its strength as he mentioned alcohol. Or more precisely, the prospect of getting drunk with you, which, last time, had led you to…

No! There was no need to think such thoughts! You didn’t want Andrew, you wanted Frank, and that kiss was a drunken mistake. Andrew had agreed, hence showing that he didn’t see you as more than a friend either. He wanted Sam anyway…

You heaved a sigh as you entered the cafeteria though. In front of the coffee machine, Ian and Patterson were chatting together. You tried to ignore them, but they greeted you and Andrew politely before returning to their conversation. They remained nearby while Andrew was preparing coffee for you both.

And of course, they were talking about their favourite topic of conversation… criticizing women.

Or rather, their second-favourite topic, you reckoned. They loved gloating about themselves more…

“Of course, the sources were all over the place, if women were rigorous enough, they would have more access to research jobs…” Ian said, making Patterson chuckle while Andrew was glowering at them over his shoulder, but decided to say nothing.

You threw them a disgusted look as well, one that didn’t go unnoticed. But you weren’t in the mood for arguing today. All you wanted was to escape the room with Andrew and go back to laughing with him…

… and maybe thinking about his lips again.

“Oh, I bet our ‘expert’ has something to say about that,” Patterson said, looking at you with a mocking smile.

“Not today, no,” you shook your head.

“Why not? Too tired? Busy week?”

“Just… not interested.”

“Not interested?”

“In wasting my time on you,” you clarified.

Andrew turned to you, a surprised yet impressed look on his face. Meanwhile Ian and Patterson were stunned by your tone.

“That is barely polite…” complained Ian.

“Oh, sorry… was insulting half of humanity not impolite, perhaps?”

“Now, that’s quite enough, we weren’t employing that tone!”

“God, you’re insufferable, both of you.”

Andrew blinked as he stared, stunned by your sharp tone as well. Although, he didn’t seem bothered by it in the slightest. He was rather… impressed.

“Insufferable… that’s highly unprofessional.”

“And you’re highly irrelevant 99% of the time you open your mouth, so maybe spare us all the boredom?”

Andrew couldn’t refrain a laugh, drawing glares from your two colleagues, but he couldn’t have cared less.

“I hope you don’t have a good day,” you concluded the discussion with a tight-lipped smile, taking the cup of coffee Andrew was handing you, and he followed you out of the room while Patterson and Ian were fuming after you. You ignored them though, merely walked back towards your office.

Andrew was staring at you in silence still, and when you turned to him, you threw him a questioning look.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” you asked, making Andrew finally look away, blushing.

He shrugged.

“Nothing, just… I like that side of you.”

“What side?”

He laughed, gently nudging as you walked down a corridor together.

“Your ruthless side. You’re kind of… terrifying, when you want to be.”

“And you like being scared?”

“I’m not scared. Just… impressed. Intimidated as well. You’re intimidating.”

You tried to hide the way you were smiling by drinking some of your coffee. The fact that Andrew was rolling up his sleeve as he changed the topic of conversation back to something lighter again wasn’t helping…

“Mom!”

“I don’t want to hear it…”

“He started it!”

“I am too old for this…”

“I didn’t start shit, you loser! You’re the one who started this!”

“You have no taste whatsoever… and you pretend to be an artist…”

“Oh, sorry, professor, do you want to grade my essays or are you simply going to lecture me on ‘how to be a boring arse’?”

“I swear to God…”

“Stop it! Both of you!”

Both Andrew and Jon fell silent, glowering at each other from across the table.

“I swear, you two… how old are you both? You’re still bickering like you’re a pair of five year-olds!”

Andrew opened his mouth to protest, but one look from his mother made him fall back to silence.

“You boys are too old for this,” she stated, a final statement that would close any debate, and both of the brothers knew better than to argue. “And I am too old for this.”

Meanwhile, John was looking at the scene from his own spot around the table, trying hard not to laugh. While Raine was pouring herself some water, there was the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips as well.

“Jon, I’m glad your project in Mayo is working out fine, honey,” she congratulated her eldest son. “Tell us more about it.”

And Jon did, he talked about the new short-film he was shooting, talked about his colleagues, about his difficulties and the fun he had as well as their meal went on. Meanwhile the rest of the family listened and questioned and teased and joked around. And it was such a lovely afternoon. Outside, rain was pouring but in the Byrnes’ home, it was sunny and bright. Warm with love; the kind of love that whispered in the quiet that everything would be alright, eventually.

Andrew had missed this. If he didn’t live far away from his parents’ home in Wicklow, he didn’t come that often. Not as much as he would like, at least. He had a busy life of his own, after all. Jon had been away for three months, and he would rather die than admit it out loud, but Andrew had missed his brother terribly. The place felt empty when they were not all gathered together.

It was the day before Christmas, and in a few hours they would all be heading to see their relatives and spend the evening with them. Andrew would be driving, Jon and their father would criticise his itinerary, claiming to know a better route, while Raine would hum to whatever tune would be on the radio, and in the trunk there would be the food they spent their day cooking, enough of it to feed a whole battalion.

But for now, it was still just the four of them. And Andrew basked in the radiance of it all, in the simplicity of an ordinary day spent with the people he loved most on this earth, without adventures or anything exciting happening except creating memories.

He watched his brother babble about his job, his mother pouring everyone some water without asking if they wanted any, his father sneaking a piece of food to Elwood under the table.

Andrew wished he could live this day over and over and over again…

“What about you, Andy?” John asked after a short silence. “Preparing for exam season?”

“Everything’s ready,” Andrew answered with a tired sigh. “Just… busy.”

There was a moment of silence, and Andrew knew the next question that would come before his brother would ask it out loud. He had been expecting it all day, after all.

“And… what about Sam? Are you still in contact with her?”

“Yeah… erm… I’ll see her for the New Year, actually.”

“Is it really healthy to keep seeing her like that?”

“I want to keep seeing her.”

Jon narrowed his eyes as he stared at Andrew, in that way he hated so much. The way that made Jon the big brother judging the bad decisions made by the youngest.

“I really hope you’re not hanging onto her.”

Andrew grew quiet, knowing what would come, he had been expecting it, and in all fairness, his family was right. It wasn’t healthy to cling onto his ex that way, to want her back, to attempt to get her back when she was engaged to another man.

He couldn’t help it though, he just… couldn’t help it…

“Andy…” Jon heaved a sigh that withheld so much unspoken judgement it made Andrew’s blood boil.

“I haven’t asked for your opinion…”

“She treated you so bad, Andy! She broke your heart!”

“I’m not asking for your opinion, Jon!”

The room grew quiet again, until Raine reached across the table to hold her son’s hand.

“You do whatever makes you happy, Andy. That has always been what we have wished for both you and your brother. That you would both be happy.”

“Thanks, mom.”

“Now, that being said… I think you deserve better than her.”

Andrew rolled his eyes.

“You’re my mom, or course, you do.”

“No, your mother’s right,” John added. “Sam is lovely, but… you deserve to be treated better. I think… I think you could be loved better. I think you could be happier with someone else.”

“Alright, let’s talk about something else,” decided Raine. “What about that new colleague of yours? That you keep on mentioning? Y/N?”

Andrew’s face lit up at the sound of your name, but he didn’t notice. His family did though, and they all shared a look.

“She’s well! Adapting, trying to get her footing at Trinity, I guess… but she’s doing okay.”

“You’re becoming good friends, I reckon.”

“Yeah… yeah, I think we can say we’re good friends by now.”

“Hmm… and nothing more?”

“Mom…”

“I’m just asking!”

“Nothing more. None of us is… looking for anything like that at the moment anyway.”

“Hmm…”

“Don’t ‘hmm’ me… There’s nothing there, just… we’re just good friends. Really good friends.”

Why did this answer felt like lying though? Why was his heart dropping as he spoke the word ‘friend’?

For a second, the mere blink of an eye, he could feel your lips on his and…

No! No… it didn’t mean a thing…

“Anyway… she shut Ian and Patterson up the other day, like… it was crazy.”

“Really?”

“Hmm… yeah, like…”

Andrew started rambling about you, failing to realise that he jumped from one anecdote to the next. Raine and John exchanged a knowing glance, smiled.

They merely hoped their son would wake up soon.

[pythonees]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ FLOWER POWER — xavier thorpe

REQUESTED: anon

WARNINGS: 18+, aged up characters, fairy reader, sex pollen (dub-con), frottage, fingering (f), unprotected piv sex, requited-unrequited love, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, crying

A/N: anon you are speaking my language! this is my favourite trope omfg. some flower knowledge required if you wanna know exactly what the flower looks like tough it's not necessary

Your favourite place to be is the greenhouse, full of so much colour and life you could barely picture yourself anywhere but there. The love you had for plants and wildlife stems from your fairy genetics, able to control plants and compel animals to your will.

There were some days that you would spend your time in there way into the night, only noticing how much time has passed when a random couple would come by and disturb your fun with their giggling and less than pg noises. Then you'd have to sneak out without disturbing them and making an already awkward situation worse.

On others you would be accompanied by your friend and longtime crush Xavier, who would come to see how things were going and to make sure you got to meals on time. He'd always have to drag you out, forcing you to take a break from your plants and to instead take care of yourself. It was one of the many things you liked about him, they way he took care of you.

Most of the flowers wouldn't get past a seedling, withering up and dying the second the roots started to grow, the combination of flowers too different to grow despite you putting all your magic into it. Those days Xavier knew he'd have to bring food to you, listening in confusion as you rambled to yourself about what went wrong. But that day was not today. Today was a lucky day.

The flower you had created looks... funny. It's small with a few blooms, looking like a mix between a corpse flower and a tulip, but hanging upside down like a lily of the valley. The spadix sticking out from the flower is long and corkscrewed, a pinky purple colour that looks almost like jelly. The spathe goes from green to a deep black not typically seen in naturally occurring flowers. It's enticing to look at, with an odd smell that you can't quite place from where you're standing.

You walk around the flower, looking over it to see Xavier finally sitting down at one of the desks, drawing away. It's hard to stop yourself from watching him when he's in his element, face scrunched up cutely as he concentrates on every stroke of his pencil.

Xavier has been drawing every single flower you make, helping you fill out the journal you made with his art. You however have been staring at it for a few minutes, not knowing where to start in figuring out if it does anything. It's always hard to tell just what type of plant you've made from just a glance. Splicing together flowers is one thing, but infusing your very emotion based magic into the seedlings means that the end result is very... unpredictable.

You don't really remember the mood you were in when you created this, it had been a busy week of tests that had gone by in a study induced haze that you thankfully don't remember. The good news is that even if it's poisonous it won't kill you, it'll just make you violently ill for the next few days. You've only had that happen twice, thankfully, and when you're alone.

You've never had Xavier in the green house with you when you're trying to figure out if a new plant does anything, but you had been sick for a few days and hadn't been able to check on it, and he had missed hanging out with you. So you let him tag along. Now you're not so sure about your decision.

You carefully put yourself between the flower and Xavier, grabbing the bucket full of worms to start some tests. You use a stick to scoop one out, holding the wriggling worm up to one of the flowers to see if it reacts. After a few seconds of nothing happening, you gently nudge the worm against the petal. It starts to move, but not in the way your expecting a carnivorous plant to.

All of the hanging flowers lift up to face you, the inside of the flower a fleshy looking pink. The flowers start to shake just slightly, and you lean closer to try and get a closer look. That's when a haze of white pollen shoots out from the flower, hitting you right in the face. In your surprise you inhale sharply, sucking in a lungful of the mysterious pollen that stings your eyes and burns your throat. You drop the stick in a rush to wave away the plume of pollen, stumbling away from the plant.

Your name is called from behind you, but you're too busy rubbing your sleeve against your closed eyes, trying to get it off. You feel hands grip your shoulders and spin you around, pushing your sleeve away to dab gently around your face with his own sleeve. All you can smell is the familiar scent of sandalwood, weak but enticing and somehow able to overwhelm your senses until all you want is to get closer to wherever it's coming from.

When Xavier stops cleaning your face you slowly open your eyes, finding your gaze hazy and your head fuzzy. Xavier takes a deep breath through his nose, sniffing at the pollen that transferred from your face and onto his sleeve.

"Whatever that shit was smells good," he says, going back in for another sniff. You find yourself leaning in towards him, wanting, no, needing to be closer to him. You move so fast you stumble over your feet, Xavier barely grabbing your upper arms in time to keep you upright, "Woah there, you alright?"

You nod your head lazily, taking the last step needed to press your face into his chest. You wrap your arms tightly around his waist as you rub your face against him. Xavier huffs out a laugh, wrapping his arms around you to rerun the impromptu hug.

"You could have just told me you wanted a hug you know," Xavier laughs, and you can feel it against your face from where your pressed into him.

You tighten you grip, turning your face just enough so that you can mumble out, "You smell really good."

"Thank you? It's the same cologne I always use," Xavier laughs, a hand absently rubbing up and down your back. It leaves a hot trail on your skin that instantly spreads, until it seems to burn. Your skin is tingling and you can feel the tell tale wetness of arousal in you panties and that's when you know you've fucked up letting Xavier come in here with you. You know what type of flower you made.

You open your mouth to warn him about what you know is going on, when he dips down to sniff at your neck, nose pressed to your skin, "you smell good too, like vanilla and lavender."

With him standing so close and nosing at your neck, you can't hold back to quiet moan at feeling that tiny bit of skin to skin contact. It makes the burning you feel under your skin start to feel good, thighs pressed tightly together for some sort of friction.

Tucking your arms in between you, you slide them up until you can cup his face, pulling him away from where he's been smelling at your neck so that he can face you.

"What's wrong—" you cut him off with a kiss, desperate and needy as you moan against his lips. He kisses back almost immediately, the hand that was rubbing up and down your back going up to cup the back of your neck. His big hands feel great against your skin, more contact to stop the seemingly insatiable burn.

His tongue swipes tentatively against you lip, and your eagerly licking your way into his mouth before you can even think about it. Xavier's hands tighten at the back of your neck, holding you in place as he forcefully slows the kiss down. You whine impatiently, but let him do as he wants as you let your hands drop from his face and to his chest.

The buttons of his white shirt are annoyingly small for your rushing fringes, roughly pulling at the fabric as you undo the buttons. You get about half way down before Xavier seems to realize what it is your doing, hand quickly gripping your wrists to keep you in place as he pulls away from the kiss.

"Wanna touch you," you whine before he can say anything, leaning foreword again. You've got his arms trapped between your bodies, making sure to press your chest up against his for good measure. He swallows roughly, and you watch the bob of his adams apple as he stares down at you, pupils blown wide, "Please, Xavier. Wanna get my hands all over you."

"Shit, yeah, okay." Xavier lets go of your hands, and the second you're free they're back to their previous task, pulling and tugging at his shirt until it's hanging open. His tie is yanked open and off, thrown to the side without a care in the world. You splay your hands out, running them up and down his chest as you watch them with awe. Every bit of skin you feel against you makes the burning go away, makes the haze of your brain laser focused to Xavier and his skin and getting it all over you as soon as possible.

You trail your hands up his chest to loop them around his neck, tugging him in for another kiss. This time it's Xavier's hands that are roaming, gliding up and down your sides, stopping to fiddle with the hem of your shirt before repeating the pattern over and over.

"Please," you whisper against his lips, going right back to kissing him with a burning need that rivals the burning of your skin. Instead of taking your shirt off like you thought he was, he lets his hands roam further down, giving your ass a quick squeeze as he goes by before he's hiking one of your legs up, wrapping it around his waist. You quickly do the same with the other, moaning as he lifts you up against his body.

You're quickly turned around and deposited on a nearby empty table, Xavier leaning over you as he deepens the kiss. You keep your legs wrapped tight around his waist, using it for leverage to roll your hips up into his. You both moan, Xavier's hips stuttering against yours at the sensation.

When he pulls away you let out another needy whine, trying to pull him back to you. He does come back to press a quick peck to your lips, but then pulls away again. His hands go to the top of your blouse, fingering at the top button.

"Can I?" He asks, a flustered smile overtaking his face when you nod enthusiastically. Your tie is removed first, with a lot more care than his was, placing it on the table next to you guys. He takes his time undoing the buttons of your shirt, eyes roaming over each new inch of revealed skin like you're a work of art. It has your heart pounding, eyes wide as you watch him watch your body become more and more revealed.

When the last button is undone he slowly pushes your shirt open, exposing you to him. One hand braces him on the table while the other settles low on your stomach, slowly roaming up your body, over a bra covered breast and along your neck before he's cupping your cheek, leaning down to press a quick, searing kiss to your lips.

"God you look beautiful," he says, staring down at you in awe. You wriggle under him, holding your arms out for him. He laughs with a shake of his head, but leans down to meet you in a kiss. You roll your hips again, swallowing the moan Xavier let's out eagerly. When your hips keeps rolling up against his he meets you thrust for thrust, the constant pressure against you clit making you see stars.

Xavier's hand leaves you face to place roaming kisses down your body, stopping at you skirt to flip it up to reveal the grinding of your bodies. You know there must be wet spot on your panties from how soaked they feel, and by the way Xavier stares do at them with wide, hungry eyes.

"Wanna touch you, can I?" Xavier says, fingers running along the band of your panties. You nod eagerly, unwrapping your legs from around his waist so that he can take them of. He's not as slow about taking the panties off as he was with opening your shirt, wide eyes never leaving your exposed cunt as he drags them off and drops them on the floor, leaving you in just hiked up skirt.

His hands smooth up your legs and over plush thighs before he's using his hands to force your legs up and open, staring down at your glistening wetness. You place your feet up on the table as you let your legs fall open, like you're a fine art display for him to enjoy. He slowly runs a finger up through your folds, and it sends a heavenly shock of arousal through your body. He gently rubs his finger against your clit, making tiny, agonizingly slow circles.

"Xavier!" You whine, rolling your hips up against his hand, "please."

"So needy," he laughs, but does as you asks, sliding his finger down through your folds and slipping a finger into you. There's no resistance, walls soaked with arousal as your body greedily sucks his finger in. He gives a few experimental thrusts before he's adding a second, the satisfying stretch of his thick fingers making your eyes roll back.

You buck down against his fingers, urging him to go faster. The burning is easing up even more with his fingers inside you, and you're desperate to make it stop so you can think again instead of being controlled by your pussy and the pollen.

"More, need more," you whine, fucking yourself onto his fingers. You feel a third slip in with the others, and you let out a satisfied moan at the feeling of being filled.

Xavier doesn't even have to move his hand, keeping them still as you roll your hips, watching as you desperately chase your high. But it doesn't come, even though you can feel it constantly at the back of you head, lingering.

You lift your foot off of the table to toe at his jeans, pushing at them until he gets the hint to take them the hell off. He gives your cunt a few more thrusts before he's pulling his fingers out of you, undoing he belt before dropping his pants and boxers in on go, letting them pool around his ankles.

His cock is beautifully thick as it sits between his legs, tip flushed and shiny with pre. He wraps the hand still covered in your arousal around his cock, giving himself a few thrusts before he rubbing the tip up through your folds. That touch alone brought you close to the brink, a long moan escaping you as the head of his cock brushes up against your clit.

You're in limbo as he continues to tease you, tip just barely pushing into your waiting hole before he's pulling out and gliding it up to your clit again. Slowly you lay back on the table, the surface ice cold against your over heated skin.

"Xavier please fuck me. Please, please please." You beg, tears forming in the corner of your eyes as you desperately roll up into him just as his tip teases at your hole again.

The little bit he slips in has you both moaning loud and long, Xavier resting both hands on the table as he lets his head hand between his shoulders. His cock continues to slowly slide into you in a way that makes you think it's never going to end, just filling and filling until you swear you can feel him in your stomach. But then he bottoms out, hips pressed flush against yours as he pants above you.

Your walls flutter around him, gripping and trying to pull him in deeper. Xavier groans above you, hips jerking slightly at the sensation. He stays there in you for a moment, still as a rock as he slowly starts to catch his breath. When his breathing is back to normal and he's no longer on the brink of spilling into you, he slowly pulls out, hands gripping the edge of the table by your head tightly.

His thrusts are slow and deep as he splits you open over and over. At first it's great, just being able to feel him in you to soothe the burn. But just like everything else, it's not enough, you want, no, you need more. You can't roll your hips with how close your bodies are pressed together and you choke back a sob of disappointment as you wrap your arms around him.

"More," you whimper, still trying and failing to roll your hips in the tight space between your bodies. You can feel your eyes watering again, staring up at Xavier as he pushes up from your body to stare down at your face, "Please Xavi, need more. Please please please—"

"Hey, shhhh. I'm gonna take care of you, okay pretty girl? Gonna make you feel me in you for days." Xavier whispers right in your ear, voice husky and deep from arousal. The table scrapes across the floor as his hips snap forewords, slamming into you hard enough to have you wailing, head thrown back in pleasure.

Xavier mouths at your exposed neck, hips jackhammering into you at a brutal pace. The wet sound of you dripping pussy fills the room, and through the slowly lifting haze of your arousal, you wonder if there's a student close enough to hear the obscene sounds coming from the greenhouse. But you don't care, mewling in pleasure as Xavier bites at your neck, soothing the abused spot over with his tongue.

Slipping your fingers into his hair, you hold him against your neck as he sucks hickey after hickey into your skin. The overwhelming sensations going on has your walls fluttering around him, choking on a moan as you come harder and quicker than you have in your whole life. Your legs are shaking, head thrown back as you feel the pollen induced haze finally start to lift, the burning heat dissipating.

Xavier gently slides out of you, ignoring your whine of disappointment as he takes himself in hand, furiously jerking himself off as he stares down at you with half lidded eyes. You slowly push yourself up on shaking arms, wrapping an arm around his neck to pull him into a kiss. Your other hand drops down to wrap around the one still jerking himself off, and the brief touch against his sticky erection is all it takes before he's spilling between you, hot cum coating your stomach and breasts.

You're both panting, the sweat on your bodies rapidly cooling in the night air. You shiver, breaking the kiss to wrap your arms around his waist and snuggle into his chest, chasing the warmth of his body.

"Not that I'm complaining," Xavier says, out of breath as a hand soothes up and down your back, "but where did that come from?"

"Flower," you mumble sleepily, a small smile on your face as you tighten your arms around him. Xavier's entire body goes tense in your arms, and the hands that were soothing up and down your back are now gripping your wrists, forcing you to let go of him as he holds them between your bodies, taking a step back.

"Flower, what do you mean..?" He looks back over his shoulder, staring at the new plant you created before his head whips back around, staring at you with wide, horrified eyes, "The pollen. That's the only reason why you— why this happened?"

He lets go of your wrists as if they're burning, quickly pulling his pants and boxers up. His hands fumble with the belt, and you slowly push yourself off of the table and onto unsteady legs.

"Xavier," you call, but he just shakes his head, turning away from you as he buttons up his shirt. He's walking towards the door at the same time, abandoning his things so that he can just get out. Get away from you.

Your wings flutter out, flying you across the room and in front of him faster than your unsteady legs could. He ducks his head when you get in front of him, turning away from your half naked form, "Move."

"No, Xavier. Not until you listen to me," he doesn't try to move again, but he keeps his face stubbornly hidden behind his hair. When your sure he won't try to bolt you take a steadying breath, reaching out to hold his hand in two of yours. His hand stays limp in your grip, but he doesn't pull away.

"This is all I've ever wanted," Xavier scoffs, trying to pull his hand free so he can leave again, but you're quicker, holding onto him tightly so he can't leave, "It is! Not like this, with one of my weird experiments blowing up in my face, but like, after a few dates. I always pictured our first kiss to be after some cute date, on one of those late night walks you like to force me on. Or maybe in your shed where you always look the most comfortable, face all scrunched up when your concentrating and I just can't help but kiss you. I just— this doesn't have to change anything if you don't want it to, but I'm not lying when I say that this was a dream come true."

Your left flying in front of him in silence, waiting desperately for the words to sink in. It takes so long you start to feel your throat close up, thinking the worst, but then he's slowly lifting his head to look up at you, and you can't help but gasp. His eyes are red and haunted, tears streaming down his face and dripping off his chin.

"I didn't..?" Xavier trails over, getting choked up as a fresh set of tears roll down his face, "I didn't take advantage— you actually want me?"

Your heart drops to your stomach, and you quickly let go of his hand to cup his face, wiping the tears away as gently as possible, "No, no no no. I love you, okay? So much. I might have been a bit out of it but I wanted you. Still want you, okay? You did nothing wrong."

He stares up at you, still crying, but instead of that fearful look in his eyes they're filled with hope, a small smile taking over his face. His hands are shaky as the land on your bare waist, barely even touching you at all, "You love me?"

"So much," you say without even a moments hesitation. Your thumbs are still gently rubbing over his cheeks, even as his tears have dried. The smile you get is blinding, his grip tightening on you as he pulls you closer for a kiss that makes your toes curl.

When he pulls back he looks happier than he's ever looked in a long time, hand reaching up to cup your cheek. You lean into it, a probably dopey smile on your face as you stare down at him.

"Love you too. Didn't think I could have this. Have you," Xavier confesses, pulling your flying body closer to his. He presses a quick kiss the the top of you breasts that your bra doesn't cover, right over your pounding heart.

"You have me, for as long as you want." You reply, carding your fingers through his hair. You stay like that for a while, his face pressed into your chest as he breathes you in while you soothe your hands over whatever part of him you can reach.

"Want you forever," he mumbles into you skin, and you can't help the wide grin that takes over your face. You cup his cheeks, tilting his head up so he can face you. You press kisses all over his face, smothering him with all your love before you give in to his huffing and press your lips together.

"Forever sounds perfect."

©︎ pythonees — do not, under any circumstance, repost, plagiarize, modify or translate my work.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Hi there! As a new fic writer, I was wondering if you had any writing advice (in general), but especially for writing dead dove. Do you have any advice on how to make your writing impactful and more emotionally devastating (lol)?

I’ve always thought writing that hits a reader so hard that it effects them emotionally—as if they’re a part of the story themselves—are some of the best written (and my personal favorites to read).

Thanks so much!

the most important and effective advice in general that I can give anybody when it comes to writing, is that ‘practice makes perfect’.

however, it’s also important to note that I am by no means saying my writing is ‘perfect’ — because you (general you) stop learning and improving your skills the second you believe what you’re doing has already reached the point where it’s ‘perfect’, and that’s where it becomes a problem. there’s a difference between being proud of yourself and your work (which you should always be) and thinking that your work is already ‘perfect’. 

so what I’m saying is; as long as you’re willing to keep learning, you will only keep getting better. always practicing, always learning.

your first ever work may not be as satisfying as you want it to be, and that is okay. looking back, the first ever fic I wrote almost 8 years ago would not be satisfying if I wrote it recently — considering how my writing style has changed, as I’ve found (still am continuing to find) what represents myself best in my works, and how I’ve learned and improved my skills — but that fic was still my creation and I still am proud of myself and of the art I’ve created; the thing is that I’ve practiced and learned and I’ve come a long way, and that’s what really matters.

as for writing dead dove, my advice would be ‘don’t hold yourself back just because you think this is too violent or too disturbing’. as I’ve always said, there is no such thing as ‘too far’, ‘too graphic’ or ‘too triggering’ when it comes to any form of art. 

that being said, content warning is just as important. warn your potential readers beforehand about what they might be getting themselves into if they decided to give your writing a read. this doesn’t mean you have to ‘spoil’ your fic to them, just let your readers know what kind of content is in the work — for instance, child death, blood and gore, non-con, drug use, human trafficking, etc — so that your readers can decide for themselves if the work is too much for them.

but that does NOT mean you should stop writing about This Specific Topic You Love to Write About just because it’s too triggering for your readers. why? because, while your readers should always be appreciated, you don’t write for them. you write FOR YOURSELF.

write what you want to read.

write whatever you want.

you, the writer, are the priority of your work.

don’t write something you don’t want to write just because it’s what your readers want. 

don’t hold yourself back from writing what you want to write just because your readers don’t like it.

the most important factor about writing fanfics and/or original works is that writing should be something you enjoy. not a job (even if you write original work as a career), you should always have fun doing what you’re doing. that’s how you can do your best.

the trick to writing an impactful and emotionally devastating scene is if YOU are invested in what you’re writing enough that words come from within yourself. and you can only be invested in what you’re writing that much if you love and enjoy what you’re writing.

it’s more difficult to love and enjoy what you're doing, if you’re doing it to please other people.

you see where I’m getting at? it’s all about your love, enjoyment and passion as a writer. 

you don’t write for your readers. you write for yourself, and your work will attract to it the right readers who love the same thing you do. and that’s how you successfully write an impactful and emotionally devastating scene that can make your readers cry.

don’t think about whether or not your writing will have enough impact on your readers when you write, because thinking about that will only distract and prevent you from reaching your best potential. just be invested in your writing. 

don’t think about whether or not your readers will like this; because worrying about whether or not your readers will like it will also distract and prevent you from doing your best.

if you want your readers to feel as if they’re a part of the story themselves, you yourself have to be emotionally invested in it that you feel like you’re a part of the story yourself. and that can only happen if you’re doing it for you. not for your readers. not for anybody else. but for you.

repeat after me ‘I am the priority of my writing’. 

again, be invested in your writing. write whatever you want to write, no matter how disturbing or fucked up or violent your work gets, write whatever you want. just don’t forget to tag all the trigger warnings properly.

you don’t ‘try to attract people to read your work’. you get invested in your work, you write whatever you want, out of love and passion, and your work will attract the right readers to it.

I have no doubt you will become one of the best writers out there, anon. keep learning. keep writing. I’m rooting for you.

[mswyrr]

Well written female characters--written to be *people* first and foremost--are so fucking wonderful. Look at Wanda and Agatha: they have similar traumas and yet their personalities and how that shapes their responses is dramatically different and (IMPORTANT) those differences are not depicted as making one simply pure "good" and the other simply pure "evil." They just are who they are.

Their youth/maiden stage of life was violently torn from them and then, in adulthood, the motherhood they came to love* was taken from them and the love of their life too. Major, life changing traumatic losses.

And how do they respond? Wanda is all about withdrawing -- she tries to pull away from the pain and make a little safe space for her and the people she loves. All of her strength and power is aimed toward that subconsciously and, in her behavior, we can see the pattern is consistent. For her part, Agatha is all about rage and aggression. She does it charmingly, because she's a bit of a con artist, but the drive of that charm is pure aggression. People are going to hurt ME? Fine!! I'll hurt them first! I'll hurt them BETTER! I'll take all their power and then nobody can ever touch me. They deserve it, they would have done it to me if they could!

(The exception being someone like Jennifer, whose good intent and decency toward others was so blindingly obvious that Agatha kind of hated the sight of it -- it disturbed her and made her uncomfortable -- but she also respected it and didn't try to fuck with Jen)

They're like the perfect examples of the flight vs fight response. And the fact that trauma shapes responses differently depending on personality doesn't make some people inherently "good," it's just a thing, damage is carried different ways. And it can all cause harm to the people around you, depending on where you're at with it, even if your desire is just to flee and be safe. (And Wanda also seems to have a deep capacity for rage when pushed far enough, in expanding the hex, and a taste for vengeance - what she did to Agatha was nonfatal but by no means not violent). Connected to that: Women aren't a simple binary of bad and good. It's absurd to try to categorize them like that and it makes fictional representations thin and empty to do so. It makes artists who want to express the human condition in all its variety through female characters hobble their own art. And it's really beautiful when artists are brave and capable enough to fight their way out of those restrictions somewhat.

I love it. I just love every bit of it. I intend to rewatch Wandavision and Agatha All Along once AAA is finished to further compare and contrast.

*I don't buy that Agatha traded Nicholas for the Darkhold

[sforzesco]

 Then, on his arrival in Constantinople, after much counsel with himself, considering that he was already unequal to the amount of pressing business and believing that there was no room for delay, on the twenty-eighth of March he brought the aforesaid Valens into one of the suburbs​ and with the consent of all (for no one ventured to oppose) proclaimed him Augustus. Then he adorned him with the imperial insignia and put a diadem on his head, and brought him back in his own carriage, thus having indeed a lawful partner in his power, but, as the further course of our narrative will show, one who was as compliant as a subordinate. No sooner were these arrangements perfected without disturbance than both emperors were seized with violent and lingering fevers--

AM 26.4.3-4

this was one of those illustrations that was originally supposed to be a 5 page comic until I realized I don't know anything about later roman empire architecture or visuals or art or anything, so we'll revisit that later. maybe

for right now though, these two are fascinating. we have two brothers acting as one body, even becoming ill in tandem with each other, it's giving This Throne Is Cursed. like, the last time I read about emperors coming down with life threatening illnesses, it was Caligula, and that moment in his biography marked a very specific tone shift. I spent the rest of the (first) time reading about Valens and Valentinian waiting for something comparable to Caligula's reign to happen lmao (Dio 59. 8. 1-2)

and since Caligula was already on the mind, I started thinking about Tiberius: I think he would've loved these two since he had a whole thing about twin-ification and brothers and etc etc etc. ofc, Rome is both a Mouth and a Tomb, so it's going to go badly for someone/everyone eventually, but honestly I think that Valentinian and Valens were the best we could've hoped for. like it could've been so much worse

Tiberius and the Heavenly Twins, Edward Champlin

Failure of Empire: Valens and the Roman State in the Fourth Century A.D, Noel Lenski

⭐ I have a tip jar (ko-fi)!

⭐ and other places I’m at! bsky / pixiv / pillowfort /cohost / cara.app

[engelgabriel]

RANT i’ve been thinking about

ZD is such a thought provoking and self reflecting film and it sucks that most people view it from only one perspective or preconceived bias of what is taboo / “morally incorrect” in media. it has significantly larger meaning than just the “school shooter” movie. it’s hypocritical of people who are interested in, for example, slashers to criticize a fictional movie and or it fans because of the content material. lots of people find comfort or interest probably because of the deeper messages and emotions behind it, and relating to cal or andre because of (in my opinion) well representation of REALISTIC mental illness instead of “socially correct” mental illness isn’t bad. self-destructive and harmful behavior, even though it is negative, is unfortunately a major part of struggling with mental illness. OBVIOUSLY what they did is wrong; in no way does the movie try to make them out to be guilt free and their mental illness is not an excuse. however i dont think its crazy whatsoever for people to enjoy it because a significantly large amount of people in this fanbase are mentally unstable (no offense guys…) and i don’t think anyone should be painted as a bad person because you vent or even just cope with violent/dark media instead of harming yourself and or others irl. “art is meant to comfort the disturbed 🤓” OR WHATEVER.. putting emotion towards fiction in general helps me personally and methinks it is a great movie besides its cinematography and whateva… ok DONE

[obae-me]

The Brothers and their Nightmares

I was going to post this for Halloween, but things came up as they always do and I couldn't get to finishing it until now. Enjoy the late angst and spoops!

These are just dream scenarios I imagined the Brothers would suffer with, connected to both their Sin and the personal things they struggle with. Most of it is symbolic but could still be triggering for some.

TW: Hurt/No Comfort, Violent Images, Death, Blood, Angst, Nightmare Scenarios, Burning, Broken Bones, Disturbing Scenes that may upset readers. As Always, Read Safely.

Lucifer:

Displayed in a box. Preserved. Hung on a shelf for all to see. Trapped in a clear case with giant pins puncturing his wings and limbs in place. A perfect specimen.

The pain is immense. The torture almost unbearable, but this is where he belongs, right? To be shown off with Pride? To weather any struggles and pain to shine ever brighter in the light? A diamond only need be pressurized, cut, and polished before it's valuable.

Blurry faces of demons and angels and humans alike all pass him by, pointing at him and observing him with awe, sometimes fear, but nothing more. A living piece of art. He's searching for any familiarity amongst the crowd. The people he loves the most, the people he wants to shine for above all, the people he's suffering for!

Please! Give him a reason to endure this crucifixion! Prove to him that this is worth it! Let him know that he's enough! This prison must mean something! Don't say it was all for nothing! Everything he's worked for! Everything he's lamented over, toiled for! Look at him! Appreciate him!

But no one ever comes.

In the end he's left alone. The pins push deeper. The blood dripping from his eyes.

Just a caged butterfly.

--

Mammon:

Glistening palms. Shimmering faces. Gold as far as the eye can see. A perfect shining kingdom. Frozen lifeless subjects. This isn't what he wanted.

Come on, Belphie. Beel? What about you Asmo?... Satan?... No... Levi, please... Hells no... Lucifer!

Unmoving metal lips match each stiff jeweled eye. His hands... He- he had only touched them. That was all he did. Right? All he had done was love them. The Greed had become too much. In his ambition for glory, his corrupted embrace had tainted his family past the flesh. Motionless mannequins, that's all they were now. Cursed to shine till the end of time. His treasures that he had always craved.

Was this what he had wanted all along? No! He had created this all for his family! His friends! His loved ones! They were to all to gimmer with him! Not leave him alone! He did this. He always took things too far. Steal and cheat and lie until nothing remained! Rotten scum! Why couldn't he just listen? Why couldn't he just be better?! Give him a second chance... please. He can be better... Someone say something...

A destiny written in stone. Take. Even the lives of his brothers.

No matter how hard he tries, he only makes things worse.

Surrounded by the Fool's gold.

--

Levi:

Clanging, burning chains. There's a constant deafening buzzing in the air, the chatter of thousands of people. The voices rise and fall in rhythm, like the beating of war drums, or the increasing pace of his heart. He can't think, he can hardly see, and he can't breathe.

Millions of shining eyes stare down at his restrained body in the middle of a stadium. The blinding gazes singe his body, his skin melting off his bones. He's not the only one at the center of attention. Other people, other contestants are here to play the same game. Win, and get everything you ever dreamed. Lose, and be forced to burn with Envy and shame.

Every failed attempt of his makes the arena hotter. The infernal heat spills from the breaths of the crowd sharing his weaknesses to the world. They give his competitors the advantage, kicking him while he's down. The thrumming gets faster. It's not fair! He's trying so hard! Was he just doomed from the start? Was he born a failure? Hated by the universe since the moment of conception?! Is that why he's never good enough? Is that why all his brothers get to move on without him?!

His dreams always just out of reach. He's not good enough to be loved.

The bitterness eats him up from the inside.

Till he's melted into a pile of nothing.

--

Satan:

A mess of strings. The curtain is drawn. The show begins! It's the same routine day after day after day after day-- He can't take this any more!

He doesn't even understand this masquerade! The story he's forced to play out is gibberish, some fickle plot he can't even begin to fathom. Everything is foreign to him. The audience, the dance, his body, his Wrath. None of it is recognizable. And they chuckle like they know, like they enjoy his ignorance. Limbs are pulled in any direction the strings choose. Bones broken, lips sealed shut, he's pushed to the brink of oblivion once again.

But he worked so hard! Everything he's read, everything he learned, so he could stop feeling like this! He's not just a hollow doll, controlled by someone else's ambitions! He has thoughts, he has feelings! He might... not fully understand them yet, but he's trying! Tell him he's smart, that he's strong, that he's his own person! Let him stand on his own!

But only his mind is allowed to scream as the congregation watches.

A wicked dance until the strings are snipped. His opportunity to be independent. But instead, he falls into a lifeless heap on the floor.

Nothing without someone else.

The poor wooden plaything will never be real.

--

Asmo:

An endless winding labyrinth of mirrors. He runs, panting and crying as he tries to find his way through the illusions. Make it stop! Let him have peace!

The creatures are invisible to his normal eyes, only showing up in the reflections of the mirrors surrounding him. There's hundreds of them at least, crawling over each other to get to him. They don't even make a sound, silently scrambling towards him. An amalgamation of Lust. Each time they grab him, they take something precious from him. His fingernails, strands of his hair, his beautiful lips, the blush from his cheeks. They rip off of him as easily as tearing away a puzzle piece.

They're stripping him of his beauty bit by bit! How is he supposed to be loved like this?! If he's not gorgeous, than what is he? He has nothing left! This is all he has! He's not strong, or smart, or powerful! His physical charm is all he has! Please, leave him alone! He's supposed to be a jewel! That's all anyone ever sees him as!

He can't bear to look at himself. Every time he glances he's slightly different. Until he no longer recognizes the humanoid shell in the mirror. But he has no choice to keep looking if he wants to keep an eye on the monsters pursuing him.

A single fumble.

It's rather quick and painless as the souls each take what they want from him.

And leave him broken in shards on the floor.

--

Beel:

Screams echo from every direction. Buildings crumble as the earth shakes and the air hums. A moving living black cloud sweeps through the town. Where's his family? He has to help.

The sky a vast pool of crimson as the Celestial Sun and Demonic Moon cross paths and cast a torrent of blood down onto the merging realms. The ground beneath them all trembles, growling. It's Gluttonous. Every person he tries to save is always just too far away. They either get consumed from the plague of insects or fall into the gaping maws of the starving earth. And he still can't find his family.

Why? Why is this happening? Why isn't he strong enough to save anyone?! All the workouts, all the training, pushing his muscles stronger than any demon ever has, all so he can quit feeling so useless! He told himself he would be ready to take on anything! Even an entire army if he had to, just so he could save somebody for once! Lilith... Belphie… everyone... he's sorry... Sorry he's so weak. This is his fault.

The foundation beneath his feet begins to crumble.

His wings feel far too fragile to fly.

It makes sense that in the End of Days, no one would be there to save him.

He didn't deserve it.

--

Belphie:

There's something rotten in his chest. It feels like a pit in his soul, growing larger with every passing second. The sensation is agonizing.

It's something no one can see, but something he feels with every breath. It's very slowly stripping him of everything he is. His love, his memories, his desires... He needs to go find help. The House is laid out all wrong. Doors lead to where they shouldn't, hallways bend in the wrong directions. His house doesn't even feel like home anymore. Every step feels harder than it should. The supposedly easy task of getting help seeming more like an impossible feat. This rot is more than just Sloth. It takes what seems like hours to finally find his family. That's when he reaches out to them, trying to tell them what's wrong. But he can't speak for some reason.

Gestures and panicked grasping means nothing to his brothers. The desperation in his eyes goes ignored as most simply rub his head or push him off to the side, not taking him seriously in the least. But this hurts! He can't take the pain anymore! Someone help him! Don't push him away, don't treat it like a joke! Listen to him! Take what he has to say into consideration! He can't possibly speak over six other voices!

His efforts wasted, his energy depleted.

The rot ate away at his heart and left him numb.

And everyone walked away, leaving the boy who cried to cry alone.

[gardenwalrus]

Thelma Pickles, John Lennon’s first girlfriend at Liverpool College of Art, on her relationship with John 

My first impression of John was that he was a smartarse. I was 16; a friend introduced us at Liverpool College of Art when we were waiting to register. There was a radio host at the time called Wilfred Pickles whose catchphrase was "Give them the money, Mabel!". When John heard my name he asked "Any relation to Wilfred?", which I was sick of hearing. Then a girl breezed in and said, "Hey John, I hear your mother's dead", and I felt absolutely sick. He didn't flinch, he simply replied, "Yeah". "It was a policeman that knocked her down, wasn't it?" Again he didn't react, he just said, "That's right, yeah." His mother had been killed two months earlier. I was stunned by his detachment, and impressed that he was brave enough to not break down or show any emotion. Of course, it was all a front. When we were alone together he was really soft, thoughtful and generous-spirited. Clearly his mother's death had disturbed him. We both felt that we'd been dealt a raw deal in our family circumstances, which drew us together. During the first week of college we had a pivotal conversation. I'd assumed that he lived with his dad but he told me, "My dad pissed off when I was a baby." Mine had too – I wasn't a baby, I was 10. It had such a profound effect on me that I would never discuss it with anyone. Nowadays one-parent families are common but then it was something shameful. After that it was like we were two against the world.

I went to his house soon after. It seemed really posh to me, brought up in a council house. We were alone, he showed me round and we had a bit of a kiss and a cuddle in his bedroom. Paul and George came round and we all had beans on toast, then they played their guitars in the kitchen. I had to leave early because Mimi wouldn't allow girls in the house. She was very strict. She wouldn't let him wear drainpipe trousers so he used to put other trousers over the top and remove them after he left the house. We used to take afternoons off to go to a picture-house called the Palais de Luxe where he liked to see horror films. I remember we went to see Elvis in Jailhouse Rock at the Odeon. He didn't take his glasses. We were holding hands and he kept yanking my hand saying, "What's happening now Thel?" John was enormous fun to be with, always witty, even if it was a cruel wit. Any minor frailty in somebody he'd detect with a laser-like homing device. We all thought it was hilarious but it wasn't funny to the recipients. Apart from the first instance, where he mocked my name, I never experienced it until I ended our relationship. We were close until around Easter of the following year, 1959. At an art school dance he took me to a darkened classroom. We went thinking we'd have it to ourselves but it was evident from the din that we weren't alone. I wasn't going to have an intimate soirée with other people present. I refused to stay, and he yanked me back and whacked me one. He had aggressive traits, mainly verbal, but never in private had he ever been aggressive - quite the opposite. Once he'd hit me that was it for me, I wouldn't speak to him. That one violent incident put paid to any closeness we had. I took care to not bump into him for a while. I didn't miss drinking at Ye Cracke with him but I missed the closeness we had. Still, we were friendly enough by the end of the next term. Because he did no work, he was on the brink of failure, so I loaned him some of my work, which I never got back. I've never wondered what might have been. It sounds disingenuous, but I wouldn't like to have been married to John – that would be quite a gargantuan task! He would've been 70 next year and I just cannot imagine a 70-year-old John Lennon. I'd be fearful that the fire would've gone out.

- Interview within Imogen Carter, ‘John Lennon, the boy we knew’, The Guardian (Dec 2009)

Thelma also briefly dated Paul McCartney and later married Mike McCartney’s bandmate, Roger McGough, in 1970.

Thelma also gives more detail of her relationship with John in Ray Coleman's 1984 John Lennon biography. Just to note, she mentions towards the end of the section that their romantic relationship just petered out, and John was never physically violent with her - it's likely the case that by the 2009 Guardian interview above, she would've felt more free to speak about John hitting her as the reason for the relationship's end, rather than this being two contrasting stories.

A year younger than John, Thelma was to figure in one of his most torrid teenage affairs before he met Cynthia.  Their friendship blossomed in a spectacular conversation one day as they walked after college to the bus terminus in Castle Street. In no hurry to get home, they sat on the steps of the Queen Victoria monument for a talk.  ‘I knew his mother had been killed and asked if his father was alive,’ says Thelma. ‘Again, he said in this very impassive and objective way: “No, he pissed off and left me when I was a baby.” I suddenly felt very nervous and strange. My father had left me when I was ten. Because of that, I had a huge chip on my shoulder. In those days, you never admitted you came from a broken home. You could never discuss it with anybody and people like me, who kept the shame of it secret, developed terrific anxieties. It was such a relief to me when he said that. For the first time, I could say to someone: “Well, so did mine.”’ 

At first Thelma registered that he didn’t care about his fatherless childhood. ‘As I got to know him, he obviously cared. But what I realised quickly was that he and I had an aggression towards life that stemmed entirely from our messy home lives.’ Their friendship developed, not as a cosy love match but as teenage kids with chips on their shoulders. ‘It was more a case of him carrying my things to the bus stop for me, or going to the cinema together, before we became physically involved.’ John, when she knew him, would have laughed at people who were seen arm in arm.’ It wasn't love's young dream. We had a strong affinity through our backgrounds and we resented the strictures that were placed upon us. We were fighting against the rules of the day. If you were a girl of sixteen like me, you had to wear your beret to school, be home at a certain time, and you couldn't wear make-up. A bloke like John would have trouble wearing skin-tight trousers and generally pleasing himself, especially with his strict aunt. We were always being told what we couldn’t do. He and I had a rebellious streak, so it was awful. We couldn't wait to grow up and tell everyone to get lost. Mimi hated his tight trousers and my mother hated my black stockings. It was a horrible time to be young!’ Lennon's language was ripe and fruity for the 1950s, and so was his wounding tongue. In Ye Cracke, one night after college, John rounded on Thelma in front of several students, and was crushingly rude to her. She forgets exactly what he said, but remembers her blistering attack on him: ‘Don't blame me,’ said Thelma, ‘just because your mother's dead.’ It was something of a turning point. John went quiet, but now he had respect for the girl who would return his own viciousness with a sentence that was equally offensive. ‘Most people stopped short,' says Thelma. ‘They were probably frightened of him, and on occasions there were certainly fights. But with me, he met someone with almost the same background and edge. We got on well, but I wasn't taking any of his verbal cruelty.’

When they were together, though, the affinity was special, with a particular emphasis on sick humour. Thelma says categorically that John and she laughed at afflicted or elderly people ‘as something to mock, a joke’. It was not anything deeply psychological like fear of them, or sympathy, she says. ‘Not to be charitable to ourselves, we both actually disliked these people rather than sympathised,’ says Thelma. ‘Maybe it was related to being artistic and liking things to be aesthetic all the time. But it just wasn't sympathy. I really admired his directness, his ability to verbalise all the things I felt amusing.’ He developed an instinctive ability to mock the weak, for whom he had no patience.  He developed an instinctive ability to mock the weak, for whom he had no patience. In the early 1950s, Britain had National Service conscription for men aged eighteen and over who were medically fit. John seized on this as his way of ridiculing many people who were physically afflicted. ‘Ah, you're just trying to get out of the army,’ he jeered at men in wheelchairs being guided down Liverpool's fashionable Bold Street, or ‘How did you lose your legs? Chasing the wife?’ He ran up behind frail old women and made them jump with fright, screaming 'Boo' into their ears. ‘Anyone limping, or crippled or hunchbacked, or deformed in any way, John laughed and ran up to them to make horrible faces. I laughed with him while feeling awful about it,’ says Thelma. ‘If a doddery old person had nearly fallen over because John had screamed at her, we'd be laughing. We knew it shouldn't be done. I was a good audience, but he didn't do it just for my benefit.’ When a gang of art college students went to the cinema, John would shout out, to their horror, ‘Bring on the dancing cripples.’ says Thelma. ‘Perhaps we just hadn’t grown out of it. He would pull the most grotesque faces and try to imitate his victims.’ 

Often, when he was with her, he would pass Thelma his latest drawings of grotesquely afflicted children with misshapen limbs. The satirical Daily Howl that he had ghoulishly passed around at Quarry Bank School was taken several stages beyond the gentle, prodding humour he doled out against his former school teachers. ‘He was merciless,’ says Thelma Pickles. ‘He had no remorse or sadness for these people. He just thought it was funny.’ He told her he felt bitter about people who had an easy life. ‘I found him magnetic,’ says Thelma, ‘because he mirrored so much of what was inside me, but I was never bold enough to voice.’  Thel, as John called her, became well aware of John's short-sightedness on their regular trips to the cinema. They would ‘sag off’ college in the afternoons to go to the Odeon in London Road or the Palais de Luxe, to see films like Elvis Presley in Jailhouse Rock and King Creole. ‘He’d never pay,’ says Thelma. ‘He never had any money.’ Whether he had his horn-rimmed spectacles with him or not, John would not wear them in the cinema. He told her he didn’t like them for the same reason that he hated deformity in people: wearing specs was a sign of weakness. Just as he did not want to see crutches or wheelchairs without laughing, John wouldn't want to be laughed at. So he very rarely wore his specs, even though the black horn-rimmed style was a copy of his beloved Buddy Holly.  ‘So in the cinema we sat near the front and it would be: “What’s happening now, Thel?” “Who’s that, Thel?” He couldn’t follow the film but he wouldn’t put his specs on, even if he had them.’

[...] It was not a big step from cinema visits and mutual mocking of people for John and Thelma to go beyond the drinking sessions in Ye Cracke. ‘It wasn't love’s young dream, but I had no other boyfriends while I was going out with John and as far as I knew he was seeing nobody except me.’  On the nights that John's Aunt Mimi was due to go out for the evening to play bridge, Thelma and John met on a seat in a brick-built shelter on the golf course opposite the house in Menlove Avenue. When the coast was clear and they saw Mimi leaving, they would go into the house. ‘He certainly didn’t have a romantic attitude to sex,’ says Thelma. ‘He used to say that sex was equivalent to a five-mile run, which I’d never heard before. He had a very disparaging attitude to girls who wanted to be involved with him but wouldn’t have sex with him. ‘“They’re edge-of-the-bed virgins,” he said.  ‘I said: “What does that mean?” ‘He said: “They get you to the edge of the bed and they’ll not complete the act.” ‘He hated that. So if you weren’t going to go to bed with him, you had to make damned sure you weren’t going to go to the edge of the bed either. If you did, he’d get very angry. ‘If you were prepared to go to his bedroom, which was above the front porch, and start embarking on necking and holding hands, and you weren’t prepared to sleep with him, then he didn’t want to know you. You didn’t do it. It wasn’t worth losing his friendship. So if you said, “No”, then that was OK. He’d then play his guitar or an Everly Brothers record. Or we’d got to the pictures. He would try to persuade you to sleep with him, though.  ‘He was no different from any young bloke except that if you led him on and gave the impression you would embark on any kind of sexual activity and then didn’t, he'd be very abusive. It was entirely lust. 

[...] Thelma was John’s girlfriend for six months. ‘It just petered out,’ she says. ‘I certainly didn’t end it. He didn’t either. We still stayed part of the same crowd of students. When we were no longer close, he was more vicious to me in company than before. I was equally offensive back. That way you got John’s respect. Her memory of her former boyfriend is of a teenager ‘very warm and thoughtful inside. Part of him was gentle and caring. He was softer and gentler when we were alone than when we were in a crowd. He was never physically violent with me - just verbally aggressive, and he knew how to hurt. There was a fight with him involved once, in the canteen, but he’d been drinking. He wasn’t one to pick a fight. He often enraged someone with his tongue and he’d been on the edge of it, but he loathed physical violence really. He’d be scared. John avoided real trouble.’

- Within Ray Coleman, John Winston Lennon: 1940-66 vol.1 (1984)

[kwamiwayzz]

After reading AverageAstronaut's fic (aka spaceboyden on Tumblr), the artist-Nicole headcanon has also occupied my brain. Artist Nicole was also a thing I was thinking about after the pilot came out.

The way I imagine it is after the route from the first game where Nicole ditches Crispin to go to the concert with him and decides to try and off herself (but then her mom catches her and sends her to the mental ward).

Jecka and Emily haven't heard from Nicole in a few days. They both get a little concerned and decide to go to Nicole's house to check in on her, but then they hear from her mom that she's been sent to the mental health facility after attempting. The two are worried and guilty for even suggesting to the suicidal girl to try and off herself. However, Jecka feels an extra layer of guilt because she didn't take Nicole's issues, that led up to her resorting to attempting, seriously.

Nicole's mom isn't really giving them details on where Nicole is staying (either out of being overprotective or just not caring that Nicole needs her friends that aren't just people from the mental health ward). But Emily figures out a way to trace where Nicole is at.

When they go to visit her, Nicole is surprised that she even has any visitors since her mom hasn't made too much of an effort to check in on her ever since she was thrown in there. She's more hollow and quiet, but still seems to have that sarcastic quip in her. But if Jecka and Emily keep visiting her, maybe parts of the "old Nicole" won't completely disappear from the meds and therapists who pretend they're trying to help people like her.

Nicole says she's stuck there until she turns 18, and Jecka decides to try and visit her as much as she can. Emily visits too during those two years, but with Jecka's guilt (and saviour complex), she's going to try and be there for her friend.

During one of her visits, she sees Nicole drawing. Nicole just tells her that it's something that the therapists recommended she do to "keep her mind occupied" or something like that. She thinks it's all bullshit, but still kept at it for some reason. Jecka thinks it's actually helping because she sees Nicole's room scattered with a bunch of loose sketches. They're filled with a lot of things. Some mundane. Some disturbing. At some point, Jecka ends up gifting Nicole a sketchbook so that her room wouldn't be such a mess.

Years later, after Nicole gets discharged, she ends up living with Jecka and Emily as roommates. She knows she's not "cured" from all her fucked up issues, but it's better than when she was stuck in all those hostage friendships and hopping from state to state with her mom. Having visitors from the outside on a consistent basis also probably helped her from turning into a complete husk.

While Nicole is out, Jecka gets curious about Nicole's sketchbook (the same one that she gave her while she was in the mental ward). When she opens it, she sees the same pictures she first saw (some mundane, some disturbing). There's a lot of messy lines, sketches, and drawings littered across the pages. But Jecka can also tell that there's progression with her art as time went on. She's actually surprised that Nicole kept at it and didn't just stop.

Some pages are filled with sketches of the room she stayed at at the mental ward. Other pages are filled with her mom physically abusing her. Some pages have her violently attacking various men (assumed to be the many stepfathers she has).

When flipping through the pages, Jecka stops at a section where there's all these drawings of the same person.

Wow, creepy much? At least that's what Jecka would say if this was Jeffery's sketchbook. But when she takes a second longer to look, she realizes that Nicole has been drawing her (Jecka) the whole time she was at the ward.

[kvroomi]

hi your kuroo rain fix was so cutee! it’s been a storm where I live so can I req the storm waking yn up and they’re watching it and then kuroo wakes after or something lol.

please feel no pressure to do this and take care :)

there’s a storm whispered against the window. it’s soft and unhurried, much like a lullaby spun by the heavens themselves. you awoke before the sun had fully risen, the bedroom drowned in shades of gloomy grey. it was enveloped by a kind of quiet that begged for slow moments and held breaths. kuroo was still fast asleep beside you. his breathing was even, face relaxed with a peacefulness that almost never showed while he was awake.

it had been a busy past couple of weeks.

you slipped out of bed as gently as you could, careful not to disturb him. barefoot and cautious, you wandered to the window; it was impossible not to be drawn to the symphony outside. the rain fell in endless ribbons, sliding along the glass and tracing paths that dissolved as quickly as they formed. further beyond the sanction of your home, the world was blurred and softened, as though nature had taken a brush to the sharp edges of crisp, white paper and turned everything into watercolor.

the storm wasn’t violent. it held no presence of angry crashes of thunder or blinding streaks of lightning. rather it was tender, intimate, alive. you leaned against the windowsill, letting the coldness of the pane seep into your palm. there was always a strange comfort in the rain—in the way it seemed to fill the silence without breaking it. you were content. though it wasn’t like it was difficult to feel that way to begin with—not when it felt like the kind of morning where the world held its breath for you and only you.

the bedsheets rustled from behind. you turned slightly, just enough to see kuroo waking too. his face was still half-buried in the pillow, and his dark hair was a tousled mess—strands falling over his forehead. his eyes opened slowly, blinking against the dim light.

“couldn’t sleep?” his voice was gravelly with sleep, softer than the rain.

“just woke up early,” you turn to fully face him, leaning your back up against the window and letting the coldness of the glass press against your skin.

“the storm is beautiful,” you continued.

he pushed himself up on one elbow, his gaze finding you before flickering to the window. a small, lopsided smile grew on his face. he stretched lazily, “guess i can forgive the rain for stealing you then.”

it’s silly the way he winks at you.

chuckling under your breath, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and pads towards you. once his arms slipped around your waist from behind, you moved forward as he rested his chin on top of your head. he watched the rain for a silent couple of minutes, while you basked in the warmth of him chasing away the cool air. together, you stood in quiet reverence, watching the rain carve its fleeting art against the glass.

“days like this feel slower,” his breath a warm brush against your skin. “like the world’s giving us permission to just… be.”

you hummed in agreement, leaning into him. there was something sacred in the quiet of it all: in the way his hands settled on your hips as if anchoring you to him and in the way the storm seemed to sing just for the two of you.

“do you think it’s like this everywhere right now?” you tilt your head up to meet his eyes. “the rain, i mean. or is it just us?”

he watched you, debating. “i think it’s cooler to think it’s just for us,” the playfulness in his voice balanced by its sincerity. “like a secret gift—a little piece of the world that belongs only here, only now.”

the storm outside felt far away. but here, you were both wrapped in something infinite and fragile. the rain continued, and you let yourself believe just for a little while, that it was meant for you.

a/n: thank you so much for the request and your kind, kind words!! i’m so glad to hear you liked the kuroo rain drabble 🙏🏻 it’s been pouring where i live as well so these past couple days have been super gloomy. stay safe!!

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