#even if the art is DISTURBING and VIOLENT

[swan2swan]

You know how it goes.

[galactic-rhea]

what do you like about Anakin?

-gestures at the enterity of my blog- Welp, I dunno what gave you that impression, I think we can say I don't like him too much.

In all seriousnes, though, I do love him, greatly! I think he's an amazing character. I'm very biased in this aspect because as I have said before in this blog, was getting into SW what took me from a long and awful period of depression and art block and brought me some interest into actually creating things!

Partly my love for Anakin comes from yes, the fact that my expectatives were stupidly low for him (and SW in general). But not only he's one of the most impactful and well known villains in the history of cinema, but he's really compelling and complex, and as much at it really hurts, the tragedy is so very well crafted, the contradictions of his character can be painfully viceral because another thing I love about him is that he's an imperfect victim (and you can see this in fandom); he does show almost by the book every bad and maladaptative response to complex trauma, but the movies don't soften the blow at all.

Yeah feels like i'm channeling Padme with the "i actually like him with the red flags*

Anakin/Vader is the perrrrfect monster that the systematic failure and opression of failed organizations and institutions and apathy and cruelty create. He's the Star Child for 'Product of a failed system', he's twisted, violent, insecure, contradictory, an enforcer and yet all that he wanted was to free slaves and have a family, he loved so very deeply, he even loved Palpatine, and in the very end; he did manage to stop the horrors! Because the very same love! And that was so refreshing.

He's everything I could ask for lol

He's cool and pathetic and funny but also tragic and sad and relatable and a hero and an ultimate despicable monster! He's a cute kid that risks his life to help strangers and you can not not like, he's an awkward teenager with an impossible crush and daddy issues that murders in disociative rage for his mom, and he's a disturbed traumatized albeit charismatic general who's loved by everyone who's close to him who's overenjoyed about being a father, and he's also a sleep deprived, groomed, manipulated and deeply conflicted man that sold his soul to the devil and burned the world down only to retaliate against his wife and cause her death, and he's also a servant and an enforcer tortured and suffering with nothing to live for but his master and the Empire in a mockery of destine and the desilusion of peace after 3 years of war..and then he's a repentant ghost that learned to stand against his master for the love of his son, because even monsters have someone who loves them. He was born like a literal prophetized divine hero but spent most of his life as a slave. Truly what a character, love him!

He's such a contradictory character, he was so capable of absolute lows and evil but he did impossible feats for good as well; bc the guy that kills children is also the guy that was concerned about slavery and a great master and general and a lovestruck husband.

Really he needed therapy, I have always thought that Luke is pretty close to what Anakin could have been, had not the whole universe aligned to mess him up over and over and over.

And I find him so so very relatable and cathartic, personally, bc of a lot of (traumatic) things in my life despite being a very calm and not quick to anger person lol, but that's a story for another day!

[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.

[cronchyyysantiago]

Helwo again. I got another one. If shrimpo did gte twisted what would he look like? My design idea was ichor covering his mouth but with teeth on it! Like this! Also fan art that I'm making for you!

OOOOH! This is a really cool question! If Shrimpo had twisted, it would have been either in the fight with Scraps or around the same time Finn twisted!

I did draw his twisted form, but forwarning! This drawing is GOREY. it isn’t realistic, but it does still have the potential to disturb!

There is info on the very bottom that’s quite intresting, but I’ve put a random image at the bottom along with it so you can quickly scroll past the drawing and read it without having to see it too clearly!

THANK YOU FOR THE FANART HOLY 🥺 I can’t believe that Rejuvenator is so liked, it's crazy.

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I liked the idea you had for his twisted form, so I implemented it! But as for the other details, his bracelets would become part of him and his eyes would be scratched out- because of Scraps-

Also, Toons twist by getting ichor into their bodies via their eyes, mouths, deep cuts, etc... Toons once twisted rely heavily on their fight-or flight response at first. The longer they stay twisted, the more of themself they lose- and the more amnesia they have once rejuvenated!- For Shrimpo, he’d be incredibly violent, usually biting other twisteds in the jugular. Explaining why he has the ichor on his mouth!!

Another fact about my twisteds, they don’t attack people they had a strong bond with before they had twisted. For example, Twisted Scraps wouldn’t attack Twisted Goob, since despite her mind being completely altered; she still knows that she loves her brother, not wanting to cause him any harm. Even in a Twisted state.

[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

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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.

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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!

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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.

[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.

[lrithill]

Unzipping You (pt. 1)

Hello everyone, this is my second fanfic about Art the Clown.

I love this character because I feel like with him, I can be as violent, comedic, and… strangely romantic? as I want.

This is kind of a slow-burn story, I love diving deep into the psychology of the characters, and I want you to immerse yourselves completely in the story.

I was thinking of leaving this fanfic as it is. However, if you’d like a second part, let me know in the comments or by leaving a like.

(Spoiler I did it)

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/775766245714853888/unzipping-you-pt-2?source=share (Part 2)

(Spoiler again: I did an epilogue)

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/776114225232887808/unzipping-you-epilogue?source=share (Epilogue)

Warning: Shooting, hostage situation, sexual tension…

There’s fluff and comedy, intertwined with the disturbing and tense atmosphere. I really want to capture the essence of Art and Terrifier.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I did!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

All of this was, in part, your fault – though it was also Art’s, really.

Art had had a run-in with a man at a bar. It turned out the guy was pretty strong and had given your clown quite a beating. What this man didn’t know was that every minute that passed was another minute for Art to come up with ways to kill him.

As expected, Art managed to knock the guy out. He took him to an abandoned basement – ripped off a couple of his fingers and partially skinned his face-- what he deserved, nothing more.

He was going to keep torturing him for what he had done, but then he thought that maybe he could have some fun with you as well. This guy had pissed him off, and he wanted to enjoy himself a little –not do all the work alone.

Art has a bad habit – though to him, it’s hilarious – to let you see his victims before he kills them. He leaves the room with the victim tied up, pretending to go get something, only to let you walk in. He does this to give them a sliver of false hope, making them believe you’re someone who has found them and is going to help – only for Art to show up again and watch as they realize you’re not going to stop him.

You don’t like doing this much, but Art seems so excited to see you act, to watch you lie to their faces… You don’t know why, but you love seeing him happy, his radiant eyes striking a sensitive chord in you, unequivocally.

You walk into the room and give your best performance as a savior, going through the motions of calling the police, blah blah… like always. But this time, something was different. The victim was staring at you intently, their predator-like eyes locked onto you – He wasn't buying it.

Fear paralyzed you the moment you realized it.

With sheer brute strength, he broke free from their restraints, rushed toward you, and pinned you down.

Art appeared as if he had teleported.

The man was threatening to break your neck if Art didn’t let him go.

At that moment, you were terrified, tears streaming down your cheeks –until you looked at Art– and saw something you had never seen before in him: Fear.

Art looked completely shocked—his face contorted, hands trembling… “Is he afraid of losing me?” you thought, adrenaline rushing through your veins. “Impossible…” you answered yourself- and for some reason, that hurt you even more than the man’s arms constricting your neck.

The victim, who was now the threat, demanded Art give him a phone to call the police. Art, reluctantly, obeyed. He obeyed.

Art didn’t know what to do. He had never been in a situation where he had to protect someone. The thought startled him – "Protect…?" he wondered. Had you somehow gotten under his  skin? – He quickly swatted those thoughts away like annoying flies.

The enemy called the police, at the very moment he freed one hand to talk, you swiftly sprayed him with pepper spray – He lets out a cry of pain, blinded – Art could be a bastard for making you do these things, but at least he gave you something to defend yourself with.

Only this time, it was all too sudden—you didn’t stand a chance to react

You broke free from the man’s grip and ran straight into Art’s arms. He was already holding a gun, his demeanor black as tar, and he emptied the magazine into the man’s chest… even when no more bullets were coming out, Art didn’t lower his arm, the empty magazine clicking hollowly.

Click click click click…

–ART, STOP!!!– you scream like a stupid little girl.

All you needed in that moment was the warmth of his body, his heat surrounding you, his stormy calmness…

Art finally lowered the gun and snapped out of his trance, realizing -with an unsettling thought- that the moment he felt your arms around his waist, he seemed to take a breath for the first time in what felt like forever. Those thoughts creeping back into his head, laughing at him.

He was getting weak.

With no time for anything else, you both hurried down the stairs toward the building’s exit. The police were arriving, sirens blaring in the distance, closing in within minutes.

The rain intensified, raindrops sliding down your faces, and the flashing lights of the police cars blinded you, red and blue stains clouding your vision.

Luckily, Art knew all the shortcuts and led you through the darkness like a seasoned predator, slipping away, even sneaking past the officers – a true Houdini.

That’s when you spotted a motel in the distance – a sad neon sign flickering above it, the name barely readable as some of the letters had burned out.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The motel on the outskirts of the city was gloomy, damp, and reeked of cheapness—but none of that mattered to you, because you were safe, and you were with him, any place seemed strangely pleasant when you were by his side.

You both figured that in this rundown place, no one would come looking for you. It seemed abandoned, and the owner, judging by his appearance, seemed to be there for… other reasons. He didn’t even question you before handing over an old, rusted key—not even when he saw your companion, whose appearance was… to say the least, suspicious.

—Are we safe here?—your voice is a barely audible whimper, you're trembling.

Art nods. He has evaded the police countless times. You could say that the Miles County force isn’t exactly the most competent—not that he’s complaining.

You love how confident he is, even after taking a brutal beating from his victim, even after having to run through the rain in the chaos, he still manages to keep a cool head and think clearly. “A man who gets things done”, you think.

Art and you climb the stairs of the motel in search of your room. The ceiling lights flicker as you walk past. “The lights always flicker when Art walks by”, you notice. The windows muffle the sound of the rain, and the sirens are barely audible now—a sign that they’re moving away, to your relief.

Art invites you into your “vip” room with a gentlemanly gesture. You love it when he does that, and you can’t help but laugh and prance in like a lady. Art loves it when you play along with his little performances.

You feel relief upon seeing that there are no cockroaches—at least, none visible. The smell of old wood isn’t entirely unpleasant. It seems like the owner gave you the only room that doesn’t have leaks also.

You head to the bathroom to change. You’re freezing. The only thing you want at that moment is a pajama and a soft, warm bed… well, maybe something more.

And then it hits you.

You realize you don’t have pajamas. This wasn’t something either of you had planned for, and now you’re left with two options: stay in your damp clothes or strip down to just a tank top and panties… “at least it's not thong”.

"This is just great" you think sarcastically. "Though… Art has never seen me in my underwear before…" You find yourself blushing at the thought. A familiar heat rises to your face.            

You shouldn’t be feeling this way at the idea of Art eye-fucking you… but there’s something about that clown… that lures you in… in a way you’ve never felt before…

Of course, you know Art well enough to realize how foolish it is to think he’d ever feel anything even remotely intimate toward you.

Though… you can’t shake the image of Art’s expression during the shooting. It’s burned into your mind. "What was going through his head?" you wonder. "Why didn’t he just shoot right away, freely?"

HONK HONK

Art’s horn jolts you out of your thoughts—it’s as if he’s saying, "What the fuck are you doing?!?!"

—I'm coming, Art… it's just that I realized I don't have my pajamas… do you mind if I—You don’t even get to finish before you’re interrupted by a ridiculously sexy whistle, straight out of Who Framed Roger Rabbit. That bastard… he may be mute, but he sure had good lungs.

—Close your eyes while I cover myself with the sheets, please…—  you sound miserable — unless you want to take a peek…— you add playfully, immediately regretting it. 

Art would kill you without a second thought if he ever found out you had feelings for him.

You timidly emerge from the bathroom doorway, first peeking out your head, then your shoulders, then your chest—until, finally, you gather the courage to step forward and walk towards the bed where Art is waiting for you – your long legs quivering .

Nothing could have prepared you for what you were about to witness: There lies Art—still in his suit—reclining like he’s posing for the cover of Playboy Clown Edition (which, let’s be honest, he totally could), wearing a… seductive smile? One hand resting behind his head, the other slowly stroking your supposed spot on the bed, it’s giving low budget romance novel protagonist vibes. He’s inviting you to join him, and the worst part? It’s kinda working.

You freeze, and his response is a double eyebrow raise, his expression still.

You know you’re bright red, and he knows it too. You have to admit—you’re a little wet… actually, quite a lot.

Finally, Art drops his little game and sits at the edge of the bed. Now, at last, you join him. The bed creaks slightly under your weight.

—We’ve never slept in the same bed before— you say nervously.

To which Art responds by raising his palms in a "not me" gesture, before throwing himself onto the floor, as if he’s about to sleep underneath the bed— imitating a monster straight out of a classic bedtime horror story.

—Get back up here, silly.— You both laugh. You grab onto his clothes to pull him back onto the bed, and that’s when you realize—Art is freezing.

You know he doesn’t wear anything under his suit, and that’s why he won’t take it off, even though it’s soaking wet.

You also suspect that he’s still stiff and sore from the fight with that man earlier.

The weight of the situation sinks in—the two of you, sitting on a king-sized bed, alone in a godforsaken place, lost to the world… you are each other's world right now.

No words were needed. In that dark room, with shadows dancing along the walls and death lurking in every corner of your story, there was something real.

Something strange, something bizarre… but also, something beautiful.

You dare to lift a hand to Art’s neck and gently stroke it, pressing gently. At first, Art tenses up, his eyes wide—but then, he relaxes and lets you.

You massage his neck until your hands slowly slide down to his shoulders, to which Art responds by closing his eyes, a faint, silly smile forming on his lips.

—Do you like it?— you ask softly.

Art responds with a “so-so” gesture, as if you weren’t doing a good enough job. But he’s just messing with you—of course, he likes it, and you know it.

—Lie on your stomach— you suggest —I think your back needs my attention…

You look at him and notice genuine uncertainty on his face, side-eyeing you.. You can tell no one has ever touched him like this before.

Art hesitates for a moment before lying down. The truth is, he’s exhausted, and a massage wouldn’t be the worst thing. Though he’s not even sure how it is supposed to feel like, he guesses that it’s… satisfying. 

And the fact of your hands caressing his skin stirs up something unknown inside him. Whatever you are awakening in him…. He wants more.

Art sprawls out, his body flat against the mattress. You’re pretty sure he has no idea that you actually have to sit on top of him to give a proper massage—and that thought amuses you.

With a quick motion, you straddle him, your ass pressing against his—and Art nearly jumps out of his skin like a cat that just got electrocuted. (He really thought you were just going to sit next to him.)

Art shoots you a sideways glance—you can practically read his expression: "Clearly, I’m not doing a good enough job at making you fear me…”, his eyes rolling back in exasperation.

You burst out laughing.

—Did you really think I’d pass up the chance to sit on top of you?— You give him puppy-dog eyes, your lower lip slightly jutting out.

He drags a hand down his face, like he’s questioning how all his life choices got him into this situation. But he lets you be –what could he do?

You find the zipper hidden beneath his clown collar—finally, you’re going to get this soaked suit off him. You’re worried he might get sick.

Although, realistically, the chances of Art getting sick is so low, it’s in the negatives.—This man probably has antibodies for diseases humanity hasn’t even discovered yet. You giggle at the thought.

You drag the zipper down, the sound echoing through breaking the silent of the room—you’re definitely unzipping more than just a suit.

You help Art slip his arms out, leaving his upper body completely exposed—completely bare, completely at your mercy. Just the thought makes you drool…

This creature, the embodiment of pure evil, now awkwardly vulnerable.

Your less-than-innocent thoughts quickly fade the moment you take in his scars. Old ones from the past, a collection of bruises of every possible color –from just a few hours ago–, and deep contusions littering his skin.

You can’t help but feel hatred toward the people who did this to him—it almost looks like he’s been whipped over and over and over again. 

He even has a strangely specific scar encircling his entire neck—you’re not asking about that.

For the first time, you run your hands along his back, and the fine hairs on Art’s skin stand on end at your touch. He squirms beneath you, which—much to your dismay—sends a wave of arousal through you, the friction against your core way too noticeable. “Thank God he doesn’t know”.

You stroke him delicately—his alabaster skin is beautiful, his slender body is beautiful, you’ve never seen a being so utterly beautiful.

You start massaging his back, applying pressure to every single knot of tension (everywhere), and Art can’t stop himself from letting out a small sigh of relief. His eyes are closed, and for the first time in a long while, he actually looks… at peace.

You use your thumbs to press into his muscles, and Art clenches his fists—not even he knows if it’s from pleasure or pain. You also notice that his body is radiating heat.

You take advantage of the moment, guiding his arms up over his head, letting his shoulder blades spread open. He seemed almost like surrendering to your touch, without even realizing it.

You’re salivating. The view in front of you is priceless—you don’t want this moment to end, and apparently, neither does Art, judging by how willingly he lets you do as you please.

Your hands wander down his sides—it’s not a massage spot, but Art doesn’t know that. At this point, you’re blatantly groping him. You can feel how ridiculously wet you are, your clit swollen and aching—you subtly grind down against his ass, pretending you’re just repositioning yourself.

Art lets out a low, guttural sound—something animalistic.

Art was squirming beneath you, tense and uneasy—like he wasn’t sure what to do with his body, his lower abdomen tightening, a sharp pulse of pleasure shooting straight to his groin –an undeniable erection coming on.

"Thank God I’m wearing pants," Art thought.

He had never felt this way toward a living human being before –the idea of you noticing? he’d rather drop dead on the spot.

—Relax, Art, I could do this all night if you want— you tease —By the way, did I ever mention you have a really nice back?— you say flirty.

To this, Art lifts one arm and makes a small circular motion with his finger, as if saying, "Your turn." Then, he raises his eyebrows twice, suggestively “Time for you to get a taste of your own medicine”.-- you could read him as an open book.

—Hoo boy, Art… are you sure you want to do this?— you ask, suddenly nervous. —I’m fine, I promise, you’re the one who needs taking care of.

Even though the idea excites you beyond reason. You are Niagara Falls at this point.

You slowly lift yourself off Art’s ass, and immediately notice the way he’s smirking at you—mischievous.

"What are you thinking…?" you thought –He sure worries and thrills you.

You lie on your stomach, and suddenly—his weight hits you like a damn truck. Good God, that’s way too much, it turns you on so much.

You can’t see him, but you can FEEL him. His presence, his darkness looming over you. He’s devouring you with his eyes— if he is an appetite; you’re a chicken wing to him, nothing more.

In this position, Art is confirming his suspicions—he wants you (oh…) so badly.

He thanks whatever higher power exists that you can’t see him right now, because if you could, you’d be staring directly at his throbbing, triumphant erection straining beneath his suit.

Art is so hard it hurts. He feels his cock twitching and leaking, aching for relief. God, you got him like this with just a touch…

But how does he know if you want him too? A strange feeling sinks in his chest for a brief moment—how could someone like him ever be wanted? And by you, of all people. You are so perfect. So perfect for him

You wiggle your ass playfully, inviting him to touch you.

Literally, he hasn’t done a single thing yet—other than mentally jerking off and having a post-nut clarity crisis in less than 10 seconds. What an overthinker.

Art finally places his hands on you, starting to massage you, but his fingers are trembling so much. He’s never touched anyone like this before—never with the intent to please. This is completely new to him.

You can tell he’s inexperienced, but he’s doing so well.

Honestly, just the fact that it’s him touching you like this, worshipping your body, his weight pinning you down—you already feel like you’re in heaven.

You’ve never been happier.

Art slowly lifts your tank top, signaling that he wants to take it off—to have direct access to your body. You happily oblige, helping him strip you.

Now this—this was the moment Art wasn’t prepared for.

His eyes take in a slender waist, a delicate back, narrow shoulders… And the mere thought of what the front must look like makes him feel lightheaded.

Art furrows his brow, his breath growing heavier. Sweat begins to trickle down the sides of his face. His poor, neglected cock is screaming for attention, and he can’t even touch himself.

He can’t rub against you either—that would be too obvious.

—Art, are you okay?— you ask. —Do you like what you see?— You really don’t want to mess this up or make him uncomfortable.

Art freezes.

Then, like an absolute idiot, he claps his hands together stupidly to indicate "yes."

"What the fuck did I just do?!" He mentally kicks himself. The nerves are wrecking him—and to make matters worse, there’s not enough blood reaching his brain right now. 

That cock is hogging at least half a liter.

Now Art massages your body—properly this time. You can’t help but let out a soft moan when he presses the right spots.

"I know a better spot that would make you moan even more…" Art thinks, "what if you moaned my name...? "shivers running down his spine at this thought. That pleasurable pain stabbing through his groin once again. His cock alive and throbbing .

Eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. If you had the courage to look over your shoulder, you’d witness a stare so deranged, it looked almost inhuman

He keeps massaging, stroking you, until he realizes your bra strap is getting in the way.

It’s literally just a strip of fabric sitting there, and a pretty thick one at that—with three clasps.

Art deduces that only premium goods would require such a level of security.

His eyes light up. His imagination runs wild –You are driving him crazy, without even knowing it.

Gathering his courage, Art hooks a finger under the strap, lifting it slightly, silently asking for permission to remove it.

Silence.

Tension.

You know this is a point of no return.

Your breath catches in your throat.

The only sound in the room is Art’s heavy breathing. His eyes are glued to that strap as if it holds every ounce of his frustration. As though it were everything he despises in this goddamn world... He can only think about one thing—but first, you have to allow it.

—Do it, Art. It'll be more comfortable for you, and—

CRACK.

Art snaps the clasps open with monstrous strength (if you had little clothing before, now you have even less.)

Now, there’s a bit of fear about what comes next… but God, you do need this man to owns you.

You need it so bad.

And the best part?

So does he.

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I hope you liked it, and thank you for reading this far.

I’m not really sure whether to continue this or not—getting into the thing (wink wink)—I’m at your service ;)

Here it is the second part finally:

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/775766245714853888/unzipping-you-pt-2?source=share

And the epilogue

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/776114225232887808/unzipping-you-epilogue?source=share

[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

[superscrub323]

You know how it's 'common knowledge' that Ares and Athena are rivals that hate each other...

Yeah apparently in Hymn 5 to Aphrodite, Athena 'delights in wars and in the work of Ares'*. Which feels weird to say even as I read it over and over again looking to see if a pronoun is referring to something else or maybe it was a mistranslation or...something. But as I read it it's clear(ish) that Athena really does enjoy war as much as Ares does in addition to his general work.

Which in turn brings to mind the mental image of Athena being absolutely worried sick when Ares was kidnapped, regretting every moment of helping Heracles fight him while Ares was trying to avenge his son, and Athena being absolutely broken hearted when Ares fought for the Trojans rather than the Greeks and making sure the two beatings she gave to him hurt.

Also the Judgement of Paris could've been Athena trying to win a beauty contest to show that she's better than Aphrodite and Hera, the two women Ares usually likes the most...okay that's a stretch even for me, but the point is...it feels weird reading anything that involves Athena liking anything Ares does...

Which considering that her favorite heroes, Heracles and Odysseus, are known for their reckless rage and strength and for violently slaughtering 108 men when he got home feels...disturbing wrong, yet obviously right.

*[1] Muse, tell me the deeds of golden Aphrodite the Cyprian, who stirs up sweet passion in the gods and subdues the tribes of mortal men and birds that fly in air and all the many creatures [5] that the dry land rears, and all that the sea: all these love the deeds of rich-crowned Cytherea.

Yet there are three hearts that she cannot bend nor yet ensnare. First is the daughter of Zeus who holds the aegis, bright-eyed Athena; for she has no pleasure in the deeds of golden Aphrodite, [10] but delights in wars and in the work of Ares, in strifes and battles and in preparing famous crafts. She first taught earthly craftsmen to make chariots of war and cars variously wrought with bronze, and she, too, teaches tender maidens in the house [15] and puts knowledge of goodly arts in each one's mind. Nor does laughter-loving Aphrodite ever tame in love Artemis, the huntress with shafts of gold; for she loves archery and the slaying of wild beasts in the mountains, the lyre also and dancing and thrilling cries [20] and shady woods and the cities of upright men. Nor yet does the pure maiden Hestia love Aphrodite's works. She was the first-born child of wily Cronos and youngest too,1 by will of Zeus who holds the aegis, —a queenly maid whom both Poseidon and Apollo sought to wed. [25] But she was wholly unwilling, nay, stubbornly refused; and touching the head of father Zeus who holds the aegis, she, that fair goddess, swear a great oath which has in truth been fulfilled, that she would be a maiden all her days. So Zeus the Father gave her an high honor instead of marriage, [30] and she has her place in the midst of the house and has the richest portion. In all the temples of the gods she has a share of honor, and among all mortal men she is chief of the goddesses.

[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

[joannerowling]

I saw The Brutalist yesterday, and after digesting it, the one thought i keep coming to (perhaps unfairly; it is a great movie) is that i find the amount of sexual violence is films nowadays very disturbing. Not that it's not a theme worth exploring, or one that can't ever be brought up in a meaningful and respectful way, but this over representation suggests that society at large is becoming more accustomed to it. I really do think we owe it to the generalisation of porn. By my account, in 2024 alone, we had sexual violence, outright rape and/or sexual exploitation appear in (spoilers):

The Brutalist

Anora

Joker 2

The Apprentice

Dune 2

The Count of Monte Cristo (2024)

Nosferatu

Alien: Romulus (for those who haven't seen it, yes, it's exactly as bad as you imagine ie: not a metaphor)

The Bikeriders

Love Lies Bleeding

It Ends With Us

Megalopolis (sort of)

Babygirl

Better Man

That's just at the top of my head.

Even in films which don't involve explicit rape, sexual scenes are often violent or imply violence, either physical or psychological. Violence to others, AND violence to the self. Like the sex scene in The Substance between Sue and her no-name boyfriend, in which she is very dominant and aggressive (which is not depicted as a good thing because this sexual power she gained from a new young body is just an illusion of power). Better Man shows the casual exploitation of young men including at least one minor in a very sexual setting (gay clubs) to make their producer money. In Babygirl, the main character's professional career and personal life are threatened by her "submissive/dominant" "role play" affair. etc. etc.

There is also a recurring theme of wanting to escape one's body or transform it (Emilia Perez, Nightbitch, The Substance, Conclave, A Different Man, even Better Man to an extent are all examples of this), which seems connected, especially when body horror is involved.

I don't know, maybe i'm exaggerating, but it really feels like there is this constant anxiety surrounding sex which permeates all art forms because it's a real societal concern, and i truly believe the ubiquity of violent pornography is to blame. I can't think of a single scene of genuine, loving sex. Or even a genuine romance in general.

It's concerning and no media outlet is really bringing it up (because it's uncomfortable to think about, probably, but still).

[drnikolatesla]

A Night with Tesla: The Future of Electrical Resonance

(This narrative is a creative reimagining of a 1901 interview with Nikola Tesla, titled "Tesla's Twentieth-Century Views," originally penned by Frank L. Perry for the Western Electrician. Presented from a first-person perspective, this piece offers a fun and immersive experience while preserving Tesla's original words about resonance and the future of energy.)

Late one Friday evening in January of 1901, I found myself at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York, sitting down with the legendary inventor, Nikola Tesla. The setting was grand, but Tesla seemed entirely focused, undistracted by the opulence around him. I had been eager to ask him about his latest thoughts on the future of electrical energy, particularly the concept of resonance, or as Tesla often referred to it, “electrical tuning.”

With a mix of excitement and curiosity, I asked, “From your own investigations with high-frequency currents and the transmission of electrical energy, it seems that there’s a great future along these lines. Does the question of ‘electrical tuning’ become a most important one? Will this direct the progress of scientific discoveries in the next decade?”

Tesla leaned forward slightly, his eyes bright with conviction. “You have put a question,” he began, “which not only is of great importance in many arts of the present day, but also throughout the mechanism of the universe. The phenomena of sound and light afford striking examples. I believe that ultimately even nerve action will be proven to involve the principles of ‘sympathetic response.’” His thoughts were as bold as they were profound, suggesting that the very nature of life and nerve function operated on the same principles as electrical resonance.

He continued, “In my own experiments with electrical and mechanical vibrations, I’ve been impressed by the tremendous possibilities. With a small engine capable of pressing a piston back and forth with a force of just two pounds, I once set an entire block of modern buildings into such violent swaying that people rushed out terrified. And this was done through precise attunement.”

As he spoke, I found myself captivated by the simplicity of his explanation, despite the staggering implications. Tesla didn’t stop with mechanical resonance. He went on to explain his even more astonishing work in electrical vibration. “In electrical vibration,” he said, “I have frequently obtained results that were even more wonderful. The tuning of electric circuits is becoming increasingly important as the arts advance and methods refine. The layman can only have a vague idea of what can be accomplished in this line by those who possess the knowledge and skill.”

I asked him about this skill—how one could master such an art. “Knowledge of the principles is easy enough to acquire,” he admitted, “and one of the best sources of information on the subject comes from Prof. Pupin, whose work makes it accessible even to a beginner. But skill—now that takes patience and untiring dedication.”

The conversation turned to the challenges of refining electrical circuits for optimal resonance. Tesla explained, “Many experimenters don’t realize that an electrical system cannot vibrate freely through an imperfect contact or high resistance. It’s like trying to get a spring to vibrate while holding it firmly—it simply won’t happen.”

He paused for a moment, as though he was envisioning the future even as he spoke. “The transmission of electrical energy through the earth offers the greatest possibilities of development. The time is not far off when electrical oscillations will speed through the globe, each separate and distinct, fulfilling its mission. It’s a seemingly simple subject, but as you advance, it feels as if the wide ocean is opening up before your eyes.”

As we concluded, Tesla recalled an experiment from five years prior, where he had successfully “tuned” 150 circuits, calling each one in turn without disturbing the others. “At the time, I thought I had mastered the art,” he smiled, “but now I see that I was only just beginning to learn.”

Leaving that evening, I felt that I had been granted a rare glimpse into the mind of a true visionary, a man who saw the universe as a symphony of vibrations, with every element perfectly attuned. What Tesla envisioned wasn’t just a technological future—it was a harmonious one. And as we move further into the twentieth century, I can’t help but wonder how much of his grand vision we’ll soon witness.

[dostoyevsky-official]

Coralie Fargeat, director

His films opened gates towards imagination. Towards an endless mental space where each could project its own inner world. We could wander in his films. Go back to them again and again. They were thick with secrets, with the unexplained. They were full of the unnecessary.

That was so essential. It requires a lot of strength: the deliberate act of creating worlds with no boundaries. To create paths where our mind can follow its own way. Carpets. Back yards. Heavy rooms. Roads. A whole unseen world was infusing behind each of those spaces. They were becoming open spaces for our imagination. I loved his work for that.

Paul Schrader, director

David couldn’t get Blue Velvet made. Dino De Laurentiis told David he’d pay me to rewrite the script and David gave it to me. It was one of the best scripts I’d ever read. I told Dino there was no way I could improve it. David thanked me and Dino financed the film. The rest is film history. The only thing to add is this: smoking kills.

Stephen Woolley, programmer and producer

When I finally caught up with Eraserheead, I was so mesmerised and besotted with its beautiful design, disturbing imagery and surreal humour that I programmed it for two months exclusively at the Scala cinema in London. It was one of the most important films I had ever seen and still is.

He came for the opening. But, looking at the programme, he appeared suddenly alarmed (his expressions usually vacillated between open-faced exuberance and intense curiosity). I asked what was wrong. He apologetically explained in what can only be described as a Jimmy Stewart drawl that there was a mistake: it said the film was playing during the day. He went on to explain: nobody watched it in daylight; it was a midnight movie; it would flop at 3pm.

Ironically, Lynch liked to describe Eraserhead as his Philadelphia Story – not the charming romcom with Stewart, Hepburn and Grant, but a tale inspired by his time living in the most violent and crime-ridden neighbourhoods in the city. He had lived all over the US, after being born in Montana, but kept that adorable, sing-song midwest accent throughout his life.

I told him there was no mistake – and happily David was wrong. Eraserhead is a transgressive and pleasurable enigma, existing alongside movies like Tod Browning’s Freaks, Buñuel’s Un Chien Andalou and Jodorowsky’s El Topo – as a masterpiece of grotesquery as beauty – like a Francis Bacon painting or a Louise Bourgeois sculpture.

Peter Strickland, director

I first saw Eraserhead at the Scala cinema on Saturday 10 February 1990 and to say it was an influence is an understatement. It pointed to an aesthetic pathway hitherto hidden from view, and most tellingly, as with many altering experiences, it revealed something within me that was probably always latent, but required unveiling.

At one point I fell asleep. But my dream state was porous enough to allow in fragments from the film, such as the Lady in the Radiator song, which made the whole experience even more indelible.

For all the genuinely repellent scenes in Eraserhead, the film’s ignition is in its confoundingly wayward tonality and how Lynch saw and heard the world. It was the first time I considered sound as something expressive rather than illustrative and considered film as something impressionistic rather than representative. The film functioned as an environment more than anything. I kidded myself that I could live in that inner world, though my only concession to that was in purchasing the film’s poster from a shop in Reading called But Is it Art?.

Carol Morley, director

It’s hard to believe Lynch has gone, but incredible to contemplate all that he did, and just how his avant garde art bravely made it out into the big wide world and continues to thrive. His film-making turned everything upside down and inside out and he did it with such originality it was breathtaking. He didn’t analyse. He felt, he had dreams and he tried to catch something in the air. In the book Lynch on Lynch, he said: “There are things that cinema can do that are very difficult to talk about.” He understood the mystery and magic like nobody else.

The best thing in the world for him was to have an idea. And he inspired me to stay true to my own ideas even when navigating the tricky and sometimes suffocating parts of film-making that are essentially commerce above art. Over the years I’ve watched and read interviews with him, and once spent a morning in bed reading his insights into life and creativity in his alternative self-help book, Catching the Big Fish. I’d begun the day never wanting to get up again and certainly never wanting to make a film again, but he returned my desire to do both. And through this, he taught me to hang on to the personal, to always return to the beginning of a process – to remember what you fell in love with when you had the initial thoughts and to never let go of that feeling and to keep going deep.

Lynch dreamed up his films – literally. The ending of Blue Velvet came to him in a dream. He inspired me to connect with my unconscious, to pay it respect. I loved how he explored the unmentionables in life, shone light into darkness, created monsters and outsiders, how he reconciled opposites such as the innocence and horror of small-town America, how he looked at “the weird on top” (as Laura Dern’s character in Wild at Heart says) and then took us underground.

The original Blue Velvet trailer says: “It will open your eyes to a world you’ve never seen before.” That pretty much sums up all of Lynch’s oeuvre. There’s a familiarity, but then again … I was around when Twin Peaks aired on TV in 1990 and my friends and I couldn’t stop talking about it. We began to see things differently. Life became Lynchian. I swear he altered the structure of our brains.

His work has always been a great challenge for the mind, but it’s the emotion in his films that has kept me returning for clues. As inventive as he was with performance, image, sound and music, nothing he did was embellishment for the sake of style, everything Lynch did was in service to the story. And It’s clear how much he loved his actors, how he gave them a safe and freeing space to do the very delicate and personal work actors have to do.

Alice Lowe, director

Many remember the first time they encountered Lynch’s indelible images, heard his sound and music for the first time. To me, he’s just always been there. And that’s when a cultural loss feels hard: when you’ve not met someone, but their work feels personal to you, part of your psyche.

But what’s strange is how many feel that way. The strangeness and intimacy of his work is counterintuitive to its popularity, its sheer power to force its way into culture collectively. His work spoke its own language, but a language that was strangely universal. In a time when the very nature of film as an individual’s perspective and the human auteurship of art is in question, it feels seismic to have lost him.

He reminded us that genius can be coupled with kindness and humanity. To me his greatest collaboration was with his audience. The generosity to allow people to project their own interpretation upon his work, forging powerful bonds with it.

For me it is the power of colour within his work; the soul-shifting nature of the sound design; his unforgettable characters: Bob crawling over the sofa, Diane Ladd covering herself with lipstick, Nicolas Cage’s sweetness in Wild at Heart, the log lady, the lady in the radiator, The Elephant Man choosing to die. He deftly mixed tones – nigh impossible. Humour and darkness and horror and sadness and wonder. All human experience contained.

He was the best magician. His spell was to dispel accusations of elitism or pretension with the sheer primality of his incantations. It is happening again. You may not be able to explain it, but deep down, you understand it. Universal. He showed us monsters without being a monster. And his showmanship was filled with empathy.

I’m going try to find something in the wreckage of this loss: a promise to be creative, to trust in art, in humanity, that there is a collectivity to our experience, and it’s worth sharing it. I hope his family are comforted by the love pouring out for this wonderful human.