#give them scars that actually deform their skin

[blueberry-ry]

“This character is a warrior so I’m gonna add scars to them!”

Proceeds to add the lamest and smallest scar ever on either their eyebrow or nose, because god forbid the scar makes them not traditionally attractive anymore

[roses-and-revolutions]

Not Blue, Black

Everyone always assumes that Danny's eyes are blue. He’s shown pictures of his family before and his dad’s eyes are blue, and so are his twin brother’s and his daughter’s, and his big sister’s. So his must be too! Well, his mom seemed to have this weird purple thing going on so no one was too sure. And no one seemed to care either way, especially not Danny. Besides, why would anyone care about eye color when they had such an amazing young man working alongside them?

Danny was the perfect intern. He’s always on time, never giving trouble, always giving helpful suggestions, and good at not only his job but everyone else’s too, making it handy to have him around the office. He was also the workplace hottie, with many guys and girls hovering around him, desperately trying to make him theirs despite him announcing himself happily married the first day he got here. (Everyone knew who his husband and wife were since he couldn’t help but show them off every chance he got. Everyone knows they’ve got no chance, but one can dream.)

He also seems to light up just about whatever room he happens to be in. Just his presence alone made even their shittiest days in the office seem like just tiny inconveniences in the eyes of the universe. Unless he himself was pissed, which didn’t happen too often. But when he was, everyone felt it and knew to avoid him like the plague. But, other than that, Danny was an all-around good guy and was for sure going to get the job after he graduated from Gotham U. 

You, on the other hand, weren’t too sure about your position in the company, as you were Danny’s antithesis, everything he was not. You were always late for reasons no one cared to understand. Just about every issue in the office was pinned on you whether you were involved or not. You couldn’t ever think about helpful suggestions and just rode off the backs of others. And compared to everyone else's good looks, you were the workplace monster. 

You had a scar on your face and body you got as a kid. You got it in an accident and it deformed your right side quite a bit. It was challenging to adjust to yes, but over time you learned to live with and accept it. Others not so much. The stares you got almost daily, from everyone in the office to school, even random strangers on the street. All of them made you feel scared and sick. Like you wanted to dig off your skin and rip off your flesh and replace it all with something newer, better, more normal. But you couldn’t and had to live like this for the rest of your life. You had to live with the stares for the rest of your life.

Your only saving grace was this job, the one you were assigned to when you first got the internship. You were awful at it at first, resulting in many scoldings from the manager. But throughout the year you were here at this company, you dedicated your time and effort to be good at at least this one thing. And now you were proud to say that you were damn good at it. The best even! So good in fact that everyone decided that they would drop their workload onto you and let you handle it even if it meant extremely late nights at the office.

And that’s how you got to be here, on the company roof at 1 a.m., debating whether or not going home to actually sleep and eat would be worth the scolding you would get from the manager when you arrive to work ‘late’ again..., among other things.

You know having these kinds of thoughts was bad for your mental health (your therapist grilled it into you every time you even mentioned them to her), but it was freeing in a sick sort of way every time you thought of each scenario that could play out if you just-

“Hey!”

Jumping back to your senses, you turned around and saw none other than Danny Fenton standing right behind you. You two were never all that close in proximity before now so you only knew that he was big. You weren’t expecting the absolute unit that was standing behind you. You knew you were short but having to crane your neck to look at his face only put shit into perspective.

“Another late night?”

You only nod dumbly as he moves from behind to stand next to you, looking down at the bustling city below. A deep sigh came from him as he pulled a candy from his back pocket and popped it into his mouth. He was always eating candy. Did he have low blood sugar or just a sweet tooth?

“Same. It’s like we can never go home, huh?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at Mr. Perfect’s suffering just a bit until you realized what he meant. You scoffed and rolled your eyes. 

“Come on Fenton, just because you’ve done a few late nights doesn’t mean you ‘never get to go home’.”

You settled next to him, also looking down on the city as well. He was on his phone now, the blue light illuminating his features.

“She really never sleeps does she?”  He says laughing to himself.

You were kinda pissed off now. Who was he, Mr. Perfect Intern, Daniel Fenton, to compare his suffering to yours? You practically lived at this job now, once you weren’t busy with school or something else! You even bet that after this he’s gonna go home to his nice apartment and be met by a wrapped-up dinner on the table made by either his husband or wife. (HE HAS A FREAKING HUSBAND AND WIFE FOR FUCKS SAKE!) He was probably talking about his little girl just now, and how she’s up waiting for him. Maybe she was half asleep on the couch with the TV on since she was so determined to see her Dad come home. It’s Friday after all of course she’d get to stay up way past her bedtime. He’s gonna get a hot bath and wash off dirt and grim of work, and-

Danny’s laugh was low and deep, rumbling through the air, sending chills down your spine. He turned to you and smiled his pearly whites glimmer-  Wait were those fangs?

“Dude you know you mumble out loud… right?”

There was silence between you two until a bright red crept up your neck, and ever so slowly engulfed your face. Shame flooded your entire being as you cradled your face in your hands. You sighed, feeling like more air wanted to come out but your very human lungs were empty and in need of oxygen. So sucking in a breath, you looked him in the face (why can't you see his eyes?). He was still smiling, his fangs (he has freaking fangs how had you never noticed before!) poking his bottom lips making little dimples.

“I’m so sorry, I’ve been stuck here for three days doing everyone else's work. I haven’t slept or eaten or taken a shower. I-”

“I know, I know. You’ve been busting your ass for a while now so of course you’d be grumpy.”

You don’t think grumpy is the word you’d use but it was close enough. 

“So how long have you been here Fenton?”

“A week.” He replied cooly, popping yet another sweet in his mouth. (Okay he needed to stop, at this rate, diabetes would be the next one to put a ring on his finger) But you were surprised nonetheless.

You’re sure you would’ve noticed if he was here for the entire week. He must have been playing games with you.

“Am not.”

Okay, you needed to stop thinking out loud.

“Look, just trust and believe that if I didn’t want you to notice me, you wouldn’t have. But I did so…” He shrugged and looked off into the distance once more.

You think that what he said is impossible, everyone notices Danny Fenton. But the office was pretty small compared to bigger companies. And if he really was there for the entire week you should have noticed him at some point of the three days you were here. You didn’t hear him coming up behind you a few moments ago either. So maybe there is some merit to his words.

“What’s got you here for so long anyways Fenton?”

He sighed, his face looking more tired than before. 

“You know the project that my group has, the one we got two months ago?” You nod and he continues, 

“Well, it was fine at first. Everyone was pulling their weight, excited to get it done. But then it started, again, with ‘Hey Danny, I’ve got something important to do this afternoon, can you finish this for me?’. Then, ‘Danny I'm not coming in today, do this for me? Thanks!’. And ‘Hey, Danny’s good at this let him do it!’. ‘Danny I need help! Wait no…, I actually meant that I want you to do this for me.’ 

Danny’ll do this, Danny can do that, don’t worry Danny’s on it! Danny, you’ll finish the project… right?

That along with the other workloads that are trusted upon me by the managers and other employees, ON TOP OF MY OWN ASSINGED WORK!”

By the time he was done, you had already recognized that voice all too well. Danny was struggling, right on the edge of his line, using the shirt on his back the make just a little more. Danny was breaking and just barely holding it together, just like you were. You never realized it before, but you notice now that, Danny’s fucking tired. Just like you.

A wet laugh broke your train of thought. His face was a bit wet, his eyes (?) red from held-back tears.

“People think that I’ve got no flaws-” A pang of guilt shoots through you as you were one of those people, “- but I do. Metric shit ton in fact. One of them is that I can’t help but to help people, even if it’s detrimental to myself. And if my sister finds out about this she’s gonna slap me upside and force me to stay home for a month!”

Another laugh rang through the air, sounding just a bit too crazy for your liking. Even so, you couldn’t help but wonder, you just needed to ask-

“Why are you telling me this?”

His laughter stopped and he turned to look at you. Like really look at you. You realize that Danny’s eyes weren’t blue like you and everyone else were assuming. His eyes were black. So black. Blacker than the night sky and deeper than any ocean. And within those oceans swam thousands of bright lights, each burning 10x brighter than the earth’s own sun! Yet they could never shine through that great abyss. It was beautiful. Danny’s eyes were so beautiful. 

“Because I’m gonna quit.”

“What?” Well, you weren’t expecting that.

“Yeah, I’m going to quit. And as your good friend-” Good friend? Since when!? “-I’m going to advise you to quit as well! I predict that this shabby ass company is gonna collapse in a few months and I DO NOT want to be there for that shit show, doubt you want to be there either.”

You feel conflicted. This is the first time that you and Danny Fenton have actually spoken to each other and after basically trauma dumping on you he tells you to quit! This has to be a prank! Some sick twisted joke!

“It’s not.”

CURSE YOUR BLOODY LIPS!

Danny smiled. He looked noticeably less human now that you could see fangs and eyes, and were his ears always pointy? Dear lord is he a part of the Fae!?

“Close but not quite.” 

At this point, you were pretty sure you weren’t speaking out loud and he was just straight-up reading your mind. He handed you a piece of paper and clasped his hand over yours.

“Just think about it ok? The first one is my number, so just call when you need a friend to talk to. The second is my brother’s, he thinks you’re cute.”

“What?” You look up only to see him gone as if he was never there. Looking back down you expect to see the paper gone too. But it was still there, the flirtatious message next to the second number making the tips of your ears turn red. Once again you remember that, Danny if a fucking giant, one who was now gone without a trace…

“What have I gotten myself into?”

You decided to quit the next day.

Three months later the company ends up in a scandal so bad, that even the bats are investigating it.

You decide to give Danny a call.

All I wanted to do was write a prompt about Danny's eyes... The fuck!?!?!?

[pasta-in-the-pudding]

I loved the acne scar insecurity headcanons! I Hope it this isn’t a problem but could you do the acne scar insecurity with eyeless Jack and bloody painter!!

(IF YOU DO IT TYY) 

Oooh!! Ive never gotten to write for Helen before!! I have a soft spot in my heart for that guy <33

Thank you so much for requesting!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eyeless Jack

As someone who is also very insecure, he understands you having insecurities of your own

However, he will try his hardest to get you out of that headspace

Explaining how acne is natural, and nothing to be ashamed about

He might take a more romantic approach as well, calling your scars "constellations", trying to see what pictures he can make out

If he were to find you picking at the scars and looking at them with a displeased face, he would chuckle a bit

"What'chu laughing at?" You ask, a smile forming on your lips

"You look so focused, my love" he purrs smoothly, coming to sit beside you on your bed and taking your hands, holding them to his chest

You sigh and cuddle into his chest, allowing him to cradle your head and press many kisses to your hair

He then brings your head up to look at him, his sharp claws gently booping each scar

"You look like a starry sky, love. Oh my, is that the big dipper?" He squints and leans in closer to your face as if trying to get a better look

"Haa. Haa. Very funny, jack" you say with a grin, swatting his face away

He kisses your forehead and settles down, placing your head into the crook of his nack and wrapping his legs around your own

"If they bother you that much I'm sure there's some form of cosmetic surgery you could get" he mumbles

"Would you be ok with that?" You ask him

"It doesn't really matter what I want, dear. It's your face we're talking about"

You smile and kiss his neck "maybe"

Bloody Painter

He finds your scars quite beautiful, actually

Helen's art style involves seeing beauty in almost everything

A lot of his works include disturbing things, like death, sadness, natural deformities, etc

He follows the motto "art is supposed to comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable" to a T.

So when you open up about your insecurities to him, his first instinct is to paint it, and turn it into something you perceive as beautiful

And so he spends many days, working tirelessly on this new art piece of his, making sure to catch every scar, mole, birth mark, etc

If you want to take part in this piece, he will ask you to model for him!

He will put you in a comfortable pose, you are not allowed to have makeup or any skin product on

"Hold still, my sweet, I'm almost done with this piece and then we can take a break"

But if you would rather it be a suprise, he will use a picture of you as reference (as well as adding his own artistic flare)

And he will give it to you as a gift!

The painting itself will be filled with reds and yellows and browns, in the middle will be you with your eyes peacefully closed, each scar being bright stars glowing and bringing some light to the otherwise dark painting

Other than painting I feel like he would love your face in general, just because he thinks its so beautiful <333

Again, he finds beauty in things others do not, so even if you hate your acne scars i can guarantee he will love your face

[fickes]

hiiiiii

as a pre top surgery transmasc i adore your art so much. it makes me so happy and gives me hope that someday i too will be able to get top surgery!

okay so i like asking peoples personal experiences, so what were the most interesting things about getting ready for top surgery, the surgery itself or the recovery process in your eyes?

also how long did it take to get off of the binder after the surgery? thats the part i worry about the most bc i cant wear a binder bc my lungs are inept (affectionate) so i worry how thatll go but i mean itll be worth it obviously.

anyway whatever you are comfortable sharing about the surgery process, id love to hear it!!! have a great rest of your day

Thanks so much :) I'm answering this publicly in case other people find this information useful, but let me know if it's a problem and I'll take it down right away. Also feel free to message me with any follow-up questions.

I should let you know a lot of my comics are a bit dramatized for comedic purposes. I don't lie at all but sometimes I phrase things to be funny, not accurate ;)

Let's get into it - first of all, speaking as someone who needed top surgery but felt it was a pipe dream for soso long, I'll say a) it was well worth the wait and b) it wasn't nearly as hard as I expected it to be, both logistically and physically. I had the advantage that I live in a pretty liberal state in transgender law and financial aid, but the disadvantage of having a few medical conditions that I expected to make the surgery pretty hard on me (and that blocked me a little in terms of getting medical permission). If you live in the USA, I may have more specific legal guidelines for you if you want it.

In terms of the binder! I actually have a chest deformity that made wearing a binder extremely painful and probably damaging. I usually had to opt for sports bras etc., and this was a big concern for me, too, in terms of the binder that you have to wear after surgery. The vest the hospital gave me was problematic because it didn't fit me right and was causing a lot of pain. I'm not sure if my deformity had to do with it or not. But the point is: I told them the problem, and they gave me the option of just going out and buying Under Armour compression sportswear. This SAVED me, and it was FAR less painful than any binder or binder substitute I've ever worn. I could wear it 24/7 and barely even notice the pain, and it was only about $20 online. This is definitely worth asking about ahead of time to any potential surgeon. Even if this particular solution doesn't work for your case, they probably have others. There are a lot of us with bad lungs/ribs!

I was required to wear the compression shirt for 6 weeks. After that, I've chosen to continue wearing it on and off because I still have a little swelling. They expect that to be done by 6 months.

The worst parts were the vest (before I replaced it with the sportswear) and the drains. The worst part about the drains is they do hurt, and if the tubes shift at all you can feel it inside your body (BAD feeling). Unlike everything else, they were gradually hurting more the longer I had them. I got them out after a week, and after that recovery was no problemo at all. The drains are the hard part - I think most people agree with me on this one. Some people experience pain getting them removed, too, but for me it just felt a little weird.

The most interesting thing to me was the result itself. The wound, the bruising, the stitches, the glue, and the scars. Watching my own skin heal itself into a new shape was fascinating! I was allowed to change the dressing on day 2 and it was a pretty gruesome sight, but it also felt RIGHT. I was expecting a difficult adjustment. Even with the gender euphoria, a lot of trans people say they felt woozy or strange when they first saw the results. It can take a long time for your brain to adjust to your new shape. But for some reason, for me, it just immediately felt right. It's already hard to imagine my chest having ever been different.

[tortillasconsal]

I thought I should share my design for Jeff the Killer since I'm done with his headcanons

Here he is

Now my thought process:

I didn't do a lot lmao

Let's start with the biggest detail: his face. My first thought when I started Jeff was that I wanted his skin to actually look like it was lit on fire, I'm tired of fair skinned paper-white Jeff, give me scars and deformity.

His hair was the most complicated thing to figure out oddly enough. I wanted to add some bald spots but I also wanted him to keep an emo hairstyle and be true to the character, but couldn't figure out how. I'm not really upset at it because I feel like he could use it to cover up his face more for when he's in public.

I also struggled a lot with how I was going to draw it (the most accurate hairstyle is the one on the full-body drawings).

I feel like his hair would be very mistreated. It would have the texture of an old wig and a matted dog's hair, quoting the comment a friend made on my WIP post of this piece.

His eyes are now brown, because he took them from his mom let's say. I tried to stick with the blue eyes but I didn't like it, I did add like a white thing on them to keep the same effect blue eyes would have and to show the fact that he's almost blind because he almost got his eyelids burnt.

Now the clothes. So I just kept the white hoodie-black pants combo because its iconic, but I did my best to decorate it because it was very boring and it looked very flat in contrast to the hands and the head. But not too much because I don't want to have a very meow-meow scene aesthetic for my AU.

I mainly went for stitches, a patch and some wholes on his clothes to kind of show off how worn they are because I didn't want to go for too many accesories because that'd take away from the seriousness.

I wanted to add dirt and dubious spots on his hoodie but I forgor 💀

I was planning on skinny black jeans, but I didn't liked how the silhouette looked so I gave him some baggy pants. I think its better for him anyway, since some skinny jeans would probably irritate his skin a lot.

I did gave him a classic belt to keep the whole emo style around because I think that could show how he's still a young man who's into sad music and whatever emos like. To show some personality. There's also a chain to add balance to the belt and add depth to the pants.

I also wanted to give him a bandana (a paliacate) because I feel like it would be more usefull and also link him to his mexican background. I didn't add it because I forgot about it, but I do want to say that he would also use a bandana.

I wanted his gloves to have fingers because carrying gloves just makes more sense in order to protect his hands with all the killing, forest environment, carrying knives and guns and his sensitive skin. They didn't look good with fingers, because I didn't feel like putting effort on the hands so it just looked like a weird black thing that fused with the pants so I had to switch it up to fingerless gloves.

It makes sense with his emo style anyway.

I gave him a rosary to link him to his mexican and catholic background, I've seen a lot of alt people use them so I though it would be a nice accesory to give depth to his black tee's.

The rosary also has a deeper meaning, but it would be too long to add in this post so I'll probably do another one purely focused on it since it also involves Liu's backstory and relationship with Jeff.

Yeah, so this is the Jeff or my AU 🤙

I was originally planning on sharing this on the Headcanons post, but it got too long so I decided to share this on a separate post. And also to have something while I work on the other requests.

I might do the same for those characters as well, though it will take me more time since uni is giving me more and more homework.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Gregg Henriques Ph.D.

Published: Nov 15, 2023

KEY POINTS

What people perceive is, in a major part, a function of what they look for and expect to see.

Those who expect others to act a certain way tend to perceive that, even if everything is normal.

The human mind is a prediction machine.

Knowing how much of experience is shaped by how people frame and direct their attention can be empowering.

We often think of the world as existing “out there” and that we simply open our eyes and see it for what it is. We also tend to believe that we observe other people’s reactions and pick out what is relevant based on what is actually there. Although this describes our experience of perception, the truth is actually quite different.

The facial scar experiment provides powerful evidence that people’s perceptions of social interactions arise from their expectations. The setDartmouth Scar Experimentup of the study, conducted by Kleck and Strenta, is as follows: Participants entering the study are informed that it is about how physical deformities impact interpersonal interactions. To explore this, participants have a significant facial scar placed on them and then are told to monitor the actions and attitudes of the others. A make-up artist puts the scar on the participants’ faces and has them look at it in the mirror. Then, she adds some moisturizer to help prevent cracking, and the participants have some brief social interactions. They later come back and report on those interactions.

Those with facial scars experienced the interactions as being much more tense and patronizing than controls. This makes sense, right? After all, we know people treat people with major disfigurements differently, right?

Well, it turns out that when the make-up artist added the moisturizer, she actually removed the scar. So, the person did not actually have anything on their face. Instead, they simply experienced the relational world differently because they had different expectations of what it would be like.

It is hard to emphasize how powerful this expectation effect is.

Consider, for example, the famous “gorilla experiment.” In it, individuals are asked to watch a group pass a basketball around and carefully count how many times the ball was passed for a minute. Unsurprisingly, most people can do this task relatively easily.

However, what is remarkable about this experiment is that while this is happening, a person in a gorilla suit enters the group, makes a display, and then walks off. When you see it, you can’t miss it. However, approximately 50 percent of the people who are counting the passes completely fail to see the gorilla. When you go back and take a look at the video, it is amazing that anyone would not notice the gorilla. But that is the power of expectations in forming what we see or, in this case, don’t see.

The work of the cognitive philosopher Andy Clark makes such phenomena understandable in his recent book, The Experience Machine: How Our Minds Predict and Shape Reality. The central idea in the book is called predictive processing, which is the theory that we build our perceptual experiences and act according to our predictions. One of the most compelling real-life examples he gives of predictive processing in action is of a construction worker who jumps off a large ridge only to land on a 10-inch nail and have it penetrate through his boot and stick out the other side. Needless to say, the man was in agony.

However, his perceptual experience changed dramatically when, after the boot was carefully removed, it became apparent that the nail happened to go between his toes and never actually pierced his skin. His agony was completely a function of his perceptions. If that sounds hard to believe, check out the rubber hand experiments, which show how readily people can become convinced that a rubber hand actually is their hand, such that if it is crushed with a hammer, the person will jump back in pain.

The bottom line is that what you see is defined in large part by what you look for and expect to see. This is a powerful insight for many reasons. First, it highlights that our perceptual knowledge is always an interaction between the knower and what is known. Second, it helps explain how and why people can be at the exact same event but see it completely differently. Third, as this blog on the human identity matrix makes clear, we have much flexibility in where we direct our attention and how we frame what we perceive and what it means to who we are. Thus, although the power of expectation can be a bit alarming and unsettling, it also can be very empowering, and it is one of the great insights of cognitive and narrative approaches to psychotherapy to realize how important our frame is in understanding how we experience and feel about the world around us.

[buzzards-sticky-fingers]

poor RB, not only does she have all those scars, someones gone and stolen her clothes!

pfft

actually that is something to touch on, she's got very little self consciousness! the scars are more inconvenient than anything, in how gingerly she had to treat them for them to heal and how she's lost feeling or skin elasticity in those areas. otherwise she doesn't give a damn about how they look! she's hardly alone in that either, plenty of people in Hisui have dramatic-looking scars, injuries, or deformities. people may gossip about her looks, but depending on public opinion of the day they may praise her heroism surviving injury in the line of duty or scorn her for being the kind of reckless, dangerous person to hunt monsters

on top of that, since i'm taking some elements of Japanese culture for Jubilife, the entire village washes in a communal sento, a bathhouse. RB has to get used to being naked around other people anyways (something which she's not very perturbed by to begin with tbh), and also needs to get accustomed to bathing out in the wild. it takes days to travel across Hisui, there's no quick and easy popping back to Jubilife for a wash after sprawling in the mud in the Crimson Mirelands

anyways. i know this is a joke about the ref i drew but have some tidbits of lore for free

[halforc-mercenary]

WHAT YOUR CHARACTER WILL NOTICE ABOUT MINE !

What they look like: Most remarkable Mar is a short woman (5'3"=160cm), who would not be especially noticeable and in fact would perfectly fit into a "average height"-category, if that shortness would not stand in stark contast to her orcish looks. She has a muscular build, yet as she was trained on strenght and agility and not aesthetic, Mar has a proper layer of fat over her muscles which gives her a chubby appearance with a more rounder face, a chubby stomach, large breasts, wide hips and heavy thighs. Mar looks more orcish than human with her dark green blackish skin , her dark red eyes, her big pointy ears, her bushy eyebrows and her very thick and heavy tusks that are a little too big for a female orc. Yet her prominent, long nose and her red, thick curls are the only features she had gotten from her human side of the family. She keeps her hair very long and usually braids them in two thick, heavy braids. As someone trained as a soldier since childhood, Mar has suprisingly little facial scars thanks to a proper usage of armor, although her nose had been broken a few times causing a thick scar over the bridge of her nose and her left eyebrow is split by a long scar reaching up to her hairline. Other scars are usually well hidden under Mars layered clothes. Mars skin is of a deep green, almost blackish tune. She is heavily freckled on her face, ears and limbs and those freckles look dark like inkstains against her skin. On her limbs, usually surrounding old scars are tattooed small dots and lines. The therapeutic tattoos, especially the small lines running down her spine to her left leg, are suppose to ease pain (especially her backpain).

What they smell like: The halforc smells of lavender, fresh sweat, campfire smoke and hard -soap. Mar tries to be at any moment as presentable as possible, so she puts dried lavenderflowers in her fascia- pectoralis under her clothes to smell good and washes herself keenly every morning and evening. In the morning she uses lavenderoil as a face cream, so the scent usually sticks to her neck and shoulders. Her breath usually smells faintly of applevinegar she uses for brushing her teeth and the spices from the strong black tea with milk she drinks to every meal.

What they taste like: In the seldom, very seldom moments one would actually get a kiss from Mar that would not be a neutral respectful kiss on the hand or a more caring kiss on the forehead or hairline (Mar does not trust the sharpness of her tusks and when she cares enough about a person to want to kiss them in a loving or neutral/respectful manner, she does not want to left their face in a bloody mess) , she tastes off the applevinegar she uses as a mouthwash and the arak -tree- roots she chews on/ uses as a toothbrush. Occaisonally, if Mar has a bad day and her headaches are acting up, she will taste horribly of cloves as she chews on them to sooth the pain going into her skull from her deformed human jaws with orcish teeth. Mar uses lavendaroil as a lotion every morning, so her skin would usually taste soapy after that oinment beneath the taste of fresh sweat.

What they sound like: Mar has a lower, womanly voice that could be sweet to the ears and melodic, if it would not be for the Halforcs brisk and harsh manner of speaking. She does not enjoy conversations with people she does not know, so the Halforc usually tries to keep those as short as possible by beeing especially clear and strict in her words. She usually speaks with her face downturned and when she is not speaking to superiors she usually holds a hand to the side of her face to hide her tusks. This would make her mutter, if she would not try to speak always loud and clear. However, when she is especially tiered or comfortable wth a person, she will not try to speak as loud and clear as usually and often starts to mutter and mumble. This also happens when Mar is flustered and does not manage to escape the uncomfortable situation and those are usually the moments when she would cover her mouth with her hands and say nothing at all.

What they feel like: If one would hug Mar, one would be better off and a lot of more comfortable hugging a lamppost. The Halforc is not especially fond of beeing touched and she will usually promptly stiffen, hold her breath and straighten her back when she is touched (at the shoulder, at the arm) or let alone hugged without any proper warning. Accordingly when Mar herself reaches out for someone her touch is featherlight and unsteady and she is usually worried that she might hurt the other. This usually turns around when she touches someone in a tensed situation (grasping for their arm to pull them away or grabbing their shoulder to keep them in place), than it is clearly feelable that Mar is indeed able to break a bone with her bare hand(s) because that grasp is ironhard and as unmoveable as a vice.

Mars skin is thick and uncomfortable callouse on her hands and shoulders. Due to keeping her metabolism fired on with herbal drugs, the Halforc is always warm, even hot, to the touch with a fast beathing heartbeat. Yet in the moments in which the herbal remedies wear off her skin becomes easily uncomfortably cold and the woman starts to slouch and drag herself around heavily due to circulatory-problems. Or she just straight up buckles over and stays down. Though its seldom to catch her in such situations, let alone be allowed to touch her.

Tagged By: Stolen from @elkenbulwark ! Tagging: @deepseawarlock @sparklymanacakes @wildname @thaneirstaer @lighthouseborn @bruinescence @illithidtouched ...and you!

[winns-stuff]

I really don't like how the comic makes Persephone's green hands seem so bad or something she's self-conscious about, because I honestly like them since it's way better than having her being fully pink. Especially how Persephone's worries about her hands seem more about Hades liking them or not.

I just wish RS hadn't stopped at her hands and had allowed for more changes, like making more of her body green or having more spring elements represented on her skin.

I agree I don’t know what that was supposed to represent like was it supposed to be a disability or deformity? They were just Persephone’s hands but green, I’m not sure why it was a big deal to begin with. Also, if she did want us to be worried or feel bad about Persephone literally doing the same things she’s done when she was little then she should’ve had her hands rotting or something actually drastic. The comic wants us to believe that Persephone got badly injured during the punishment but they’re scared of giving her actual scars and wounds, you can still be sexy with those it’s annoying how Persephone isn’t allowed to be anything else except pretty all for the sake of Hades still “wanting” her. So much for a damn feminist comic.

[ebbpettier]

i've been waiting for this day. my final battle with the logistics. gentlemen, it's been an honor. thank you for asking this, i was waiting for someone to ask.

THE SHORT, EASY ANSWER: magic

THE LONG, UNNECESSARY ANSWER:

i briefly considered giving penny goggles instead of glasses, but there were a few problems with that.

the shape was awkward. it didn't really read easily in the same way that glasses do. since they're tight against the head, the cat-eye shape doesn't have nearly as clear of a silhouette, and i scrapped it pretty quickly

i wasn't sure where penny would have acquired them. i didn't really go into it on tumblr, but one of the things i wanted to do in order to separate simon from the other mermaids was by giving him human junk, and by giving the others a lot of natural materials for clothes and jewelry. (in theory penny could have picked up a pair of human swimming-goggles for herself, but i wanted to draw a parallel between her disdain for american mages mixing too much with normals, and mermaids mixing with humans.) they could have been mermaid-constructed, but that raised some more issues. glasses can be made with ... well. glass. glass and metal wire, both of which could hypothetically be smelted in a volcanic vent. mermaid-goggles could have had a leather or woven strap, but in order to be real goggles they would need some kind of rubber-y seal around the edges, or they wouldn't be watertight. (i couldn't figure out where a mermaid would get/make rubber. also: see #1.)

the goggles would have had to break physics a little to be viable. hear me out. (i am going into this assuming that humans and mermaids have similar eye-anatomy, in terms of socket/lid/stalk placement. ADDITIONAL DISCLAIMER: I AM NOT A PHYSICIST, I JUST SWIM A LOT. OCEAN GO BRRRR.) when you dive underwater with any small pocket of air, there is ALWAYS a certain depth at which that pocket of air will implode. full stop. water is something like 800 times denser than air, which means it's also heavier. the deeper you go, the more that external pressure increases. when the external pressure increases, the internal pressure also increases to try to create an equilibrium. since the air inside of the container is less dense (less matter, fewer molecules to distribute) they wig the hell out, and the material will usually deform in order to try to fill the excess empty space. if you've ever watched a video of someone putting marshmallows in a chamber and then removing all the air or used one of those as-seen-on-tv vacuum-sealed bags, it's the same principle. you can also probably guess where this is going. if you don't want it spelled out, skip past the red.

!GROSS PART INCOMING!

when you're diving with goggles on, there is no way to vent pressure in or out without filling them with water. with a diving-mask, there are ways to pressurize them down to a certain depth, but you can't do this with goggles. you dive deeper; the pressure increases; the material of the container begins to deform in order to fill that empty space.

unfortunately, in this instance, the container is goggles and the contents are your face and eyes. diving too deep with goggles on--which isn't that deep to begin with--can actually pull your eyes right out of the socket. even if it doesn't damage your eyes, it can still cause bruising and sometimes permanent scarring around the places where the cup was suctioned to your skin.

!GROSS PART OVER!

they are a tool specialized for surface-swimming, and surface-swimming ONLY. when used properly, they're pretty safe as far as underwater eye-protection goes! there's just no way for mermaids to use them safely. (and before you ask 'why not fill them with water', i did consider that too. unfortunately i think the same applies to water-pressure, and the goggles would have to be completely open with no water-tight seal which is just a pair of glasses with extra steps) "SO," I BRAZENLY ASSUME YOU ASK, "WHY IS PENNY STILL WEARING GLASSES IF THEY DON'T WORK UNDERWATER?" i have prepared three answers for you, and i bid you choose the one that you like best:

they're enchanted. they just work. don't think about it too hard. it's a little like spongebob lighting a campfire underwater. she has a pair of magic glasses that work underwater, this is commonplace and not at all a weird thing for a mermaid to have.

they don't work at all, and penny is just wearing them because she likes them. they do nothing for her. she can't see a damn thing. she might have even poked the lenses out of them, how would she know? she's wearing earrings too, it's not like they serve some greater purpose.

they're for when she isn't in the water. penny might think that mouth-breathers (humans) are easy to write off due to their lack of magic*, but that's NOT going to stop her from reading land-books. if you tell her she's not allowed to read the land-books, that'll just make her want to read them harder. *and gills, and beaks, and flukes. honestly, they're lacking all manner of necessary body parts. four is SUCH an arbitrary number of chambers for a heart to have! penny has three, which is a much more reasonable number.

TL;DR: penny doesn't have goggles because i think the glasses look better. and also because realistically, the goggles would have injured her in a way i found upsetting.

mermaid hair don't care ✨

[fashionbyjasmine]

Makeup enhances your beauty in many ways. It can help accentuate your eyes, make your lips look fuller, or give your skin a smooth, even appearance. It can help cover insecurities such as acne, scars, deformities, the list can on on as to why people use makeup. It can range from wanting to look younger, being insecure of how you look, or wanting to achieve a certain look without paying thousands for plastic surgery. Regardless of why women and men use makeup it certainly can enhance your beauty if used in certain ways, if used in different ways with different techniques involved it is also an amazing outlet for creativity. Many people use makeup as a way to create their vision, as painters have blank canvases, makeup artists have blank faces to work and bring their vision to life on. A great example of this would be, high fashion. In high fashion The designers often want to tell a story throughout their style, makeup and hair choices, runway walk, etc. all of it comes together to create the story they wanted to tell through visual representation. Makeup can be a big part of this as in high fashion they often do makeup looks that are out of the ordinary that challenge the norms of an everyday makeup look, but this is sure to catch your attention and can add a lot to the story they are trying to get the audience to see throughout their work. Makeup certainly is a special art, being able to take your visions and put them to life on someone’s face is a very special, cool thing to be able to do. You also have to be very skilled, just like painters in some aspects of the work. Makeup artists have to know how to create lines using dark colours and blending they also need to know how to create definition, along with precision in eyeliner, lip line, etc. Makeup is a form of art as well as a creative way to express yourself.

Your personal style and fashion can increase your self confidence and help express yourself to the world in a totally separate way than makeup can. Wearing what makes you comfortable is a statement and people who see that you have your own style will respect your individuality. An example I have seen of this in real life is when people speak to me about how cool they think another person is based on their clothing, accessories, etc. Your style can truly transform the energy and persona you give off and many people can base you on that. Clothes influence how we view one another and we can base opinions solely on another’s style. It can shape how we think of their personality and how they show themselves off to society. You can express your favourite colour, characteristics and mood throughout your style. The way you dress reflects your personality and can showcase into who you are other than what people see on the outside. Although sometimes people don’t dress for themselves, but they dress for others who they wish to please. This can be a direct issue from unrealistic standards of beauty influenced by fashion. Media has a big influence on the standard of beauty and how people may view themselves, they can stop dressing for themselves and start dressing to match the unrealistic standard of beauty, people may also dress only how they see their body type represented in the media. Body types are poorly represented throughout the media, an example of this is many fashion campaigns, such as Victoria’s Secret. They all stick to the stereotypical ‘ideal’ body type for women and for men, this may put pressure on the customer and make them stick to the style and clothing they see on their body type represented in the media as they are scared to try the style they actually enjoy as their body type is not represented in that style clearly and they can become worried on how it will look, if it will even suit them, if people will judge them etc. This can lead to serious mental issues in the future, as it can make the person feel insecure in who they are on the inside and they may experience a personality crisis. The effects from the media on the beauty industry is extreme and can cause serious issues in a persons self esteem from not being able to properly express themselves. Beauty can be many things to many different people, but to me it is who you are on the side and how you showcase yourself to others. Your differences make you unique and I wish more people embraced that side of themselves, instead of automatically comparing themselves to what they see in the media as that is not 100% real people. Most of media is heavily edited and doesn’t show the realism of a human being. People need to realize media is made to promote items and everything typically needs to look ‘perfect’. Although I believe perfect is when you stay true to who you are and what you like in life. If you stay true to who you are on the inside and showcase your creativity, personality, and individuality throughout your makeup, fashion and style I believe that is true beauty and many people will respect you for showcasing your true identity. If you stay true to yourself and express yourself which ever way you want to, I believe that is true beauty as it is within you.

[bangtanloverboys]

the first cringe of morning // myg

summary - there were many things one would be nervous about when their new partner spends the night for the first time: was the room clean? is everything in order? did you shave? but you weren’t really nervous about those things, you were nervous as to how he would preceive your scars

pairing - boyfriend!yoongi x trans male!reader

genre - fluff, slight nsfw; newly established relationship au

word count - 1.7k

warnings - mentions of top surgery, reader is slightly insecure of his scars, anxiety, bisexual yoongi, bed sharing, cuddling, non-sexual body worship, kissing, very light non-sexual dom/sub undertones, kinda soft dom!min yoongi, min yoongi being an absolute sweetheart

author’s note - hhhhhh dream scenario honestly. . .happy pride month

Taking a deep breath, you pulled your shirt up, exposing your chest. You stared at your torso in the mirror, your eyes zeroing in on the two thin scars that decorated your chest. You’d gotten top surgery barely a year ago, the scars nearly faded away. You were happy with the results, you’ve never felt happier or more comfortable in your entire life even. You would never go back on the decision you made to get top surgery.

However, it didn’t stop you from being nervous. Why were you nervous? Your new boyfriend, Yoongi, was going to spend the night for the first time ever. You’ve been dating for a few months now and you honestly couldn’t have been happier. You told him you were a trans man a few weeks after you felt like you were possibly getting more serious; he nodded, thanking you for trusting him with the information. While you knew he would do nothing of the sort, your brain couldn’t help but think of terrible outcomes if/when he was to see your chest. 

What if he thought you looked deformed? What if he pointed out your nipples and how they looked weird? What if after what if after what if, plagued your mind. It was stupid and you knew that, but your anxiety continued to eat away at you.

The night so far had been pretty good; he arrived with a couple grocery bags of goodies, as you did ask him to pick up some things on his way over. The two of you had a nice dinner, watched a couple movies, and you were both getting ready to settle down for bed. It was established earlier that you weren’t planning on having sex at all that night, neither of you feeling quite ready for that yet. But you slept shirtless, meaning you had the options of either A. getting it over with and showing him or B. sleep with a shirt on and possibly overboil. Anxiety on the rise, you went with the latter option. 

A knock on the bathroom door startled you, causing you to drop your shirt. 

“I gotta brush my teeth. You decent?” Yoongi asked from the otherside of the door. 

With a light chuckle, you unlocked the door, pulling it open for him. “Come in.”

Walking in, his toothbrush in hand, he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Thank you. Can I use your toothpaste?”

“Yeah, it’s in the little basket by the sink.” You gestured to the counter behind you. “I’m gonna get the bed ready.”

“Hey,” he grabbed your wrist, stopping you from going any further. “You sure you don’t want me sleeping on the couch? Because I’m more than fine with that.”

“No, it’s okay.” You responded, hoping your voice sounded reassuring. Yoongi stared at you for a moment, possibly sensing your nervousness. He didn’t say anything, only nodding; trusting your words. After releasing your wrist, you made your way to your bedroom.

You had cleaned up everything earlier that day, looking nothing like the mess it was the past couple days. But you were satisfied with it, as long as there was no mess on the floor or dirty dishes anywhere, it was fine. With a sigh, you began taking off the decorative pillows you had on display on your full sized bed, neatly stacking them in a pile. As you continued to get the bed ready, your mind wandered, thinking about how you were going to sleep. Did Yoogni have any sleeping habits? Would he cuddle you while you slept? Would he mind the heat you tend to give off when you sleep? So many different random anxieties started to build up over the ones already there. 

“Are we not going to sleep with any pillows or something?” Yoongi’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. Immediately you realized you went a bit too far and even pulled off the actual pillows from the bed, stacking them alongside the decorative ones.

“Shit- I’m sorry, I got a bit carried away.” You gushed as you put the pillows back on the bed. 

“No worries.” You got a good look at him as he walked across the room, towards the bed. He was wearing a loose fitted T-shirt, a pair of grey sweatpants that were hanging low on his hips, and his hair was a mess from being tucked away in a beanie all day. “Do you sleep on any specific side of the bed or free range?”

“I sleep on the right side.” You said, pointing to the side you were closest to. 

“Alright,” he nodded as he made his way over to the left side of the bed. Pulling back the covers, he climbed into bed. You moved to follow him, but he stopped you. “You’re gonna sleep in your jeans?” 

You felt your cheeks grow hot in embarrassment. “Right uh. Hang on.” You muttered as you turned around. As you shuck your jeans off, you can feel Yoongi’s eyes on you, causing the heat in your cheeks to spread to the tips of your ears. Standing in only your boxers and a T-shirt, you deemed yourself ready for bed. When you turned around to face him, you spotted a smirk playing on his lips. Avoiding eye contact, you clambered into bed, shutting off your lamp in the process, leaving you both in the dark room. 

The mattress beneath you shifted as Yoongi adjusted himself to lay down and get comfortable. “C’mere.” He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close to him. You freeze in his hold for a moment, thinking he’s going to possibly make a move, but instead you feel him nuzzle his face into your hair. You smiled as you felt his breathing tickle the skin of your neck. Relaxing into his touch, you allowed yourself to fall asleep in his arms. 

When you woke up to the sunlight bleeding through your blinds, you were genuinely surprised to have slept through the whole night. Usually you’d wake up randomly, but Yoongi was a good luck sleeping charm that now you had, you probably won’t ever let go. You shut your eyes again, wanting a bit more sleep before either of you have to get up.

Just as your mind was about to fall back into sleep, you felt the light touch of Yoongi’s lips drag across the skin of your neck. He peppered soft kisses over the exposed skin, gently tickling you. You giggled at the sensation, but didn’t pull away. In fact, you snuggled closer into him. As he sleepily kissed you, you felt the hand that was still wrapped tightly around your waist ever so slowly slip underneath your shirt. The skin to skin contact had you stiffen. Feeling your discomfort, Yoongi moved to whisper in your ear. 

“Are you okay with this?”

“I-” You struggled to get the words out. “My scars. I- I don’t-”

“Hey shh,” he murmured, kissing the shell of your ear before he readjusted himself on the bed, now hovering over you. “You can tell me, what about your scars?”

“I-I’ve. . . never really had a partner see my scars in a more. . . intimate setting. . .” You all but shrunk under his gaze, refusing to meet his eyes. 

“No, Y/N, look at me.” His hand went to your cheek, gently forcing you to look up at him. Meeting his dark eyes, you feel nothing but adoration pouring out from them, overwhelming you. “I care about all of you, scars and all. You are the most handsome creature I’ve had the privilege of knowing.” You felt tears prick at your eyes, threatening to spill. Your hand went up to cup his cheek, bringing him down to meet your lips. The kiss was nothing too special, it was slow and gentle, yet it didn’t stop your heart from racing. Yoongi’s other hand was sneaking back underneath your shirt as he pulled away. “Is it okay if I show you?”

With a gulp, you nodded.

“Use your words, baby.” 

“Yes.” You rasped out.

Once given the green light, he pressed a kiss to your lips, then your cheek, then your neck. He kissed down your clothed torso until he was over your hips, his hands slowly curling up the bottom of your shirt. His eyes never left yours as he exposed more and more skin, stopping just below your scars. Lowing his head to your stomach, he kissed you right below your belly button. Your eyes fluttered shut as he pecked all over your stomach; on occasion he’d catch you by surprise by blowing a raspberry, eliciting a laugh from you. 

He reached the edge of your shirt again, placing his hands on the fabric before moving it anymore. “Do you wanna take this off?”

“Yeah.”

It was a bit of a struggle but with Yoongi’s help, you got the T-shirt off. His eyes not once leaving you as he tossed the shirt to some corner of the room. The silence was thick as you watched him stare at you, saying nothing. Embarrassment burned in your cheeks as you moved to cover yourself, but his hands grabbed at your wrists, pinning them to your side.

“You’re absolutely stunning, Y/N.” He praised as he lowered himself to be over your ribcage. “Please don’t doubt that, I see nothing but the most beautiful man in front of me.” Yoongi muttered as he littered kisses along your scars, the sensation light from what little feeling you have left. His words left butterflies erupting in your stomach and your head reeling, trying to accept the compliments he gave you. You don’t think anyone has ever said that to you, hell, you don’t even think you’ve said that about yourself. But to have Yoongi tell you had you drunk. 

He’d nip at your skin, testing where you could feel, and when he felt you shutter against him, your boyfriend made sure to pay extra attention there. All while mumbling praises into your skin, assuring you that he thought nothing less of the world of you.

By the time his head came back up above yours, his lips were kiss swollen and you were breathless. Smiling down at you, he leaned down, kissing you one last time before pulling away. He laid his head down on your chest, snaking his arms around you to hold you tight. Your arms went to wrap around his shoulders, messing with his hair at the nape of his neck. There the two of you laid for the next few hours, as the sun rose higher in the sky, simply enjoying each other’s company.

[outlying-hyppocrate]

grégoire's physical and personal traits as the experiment, 90173. if you are triggered by mentions of extreme weight loss, vomiting, and (potentially) eating disorders, i recommend you either avert your eyes or read with caution. also @fukounaboy since you were okay with me tagging you in this. here it is!!

90173, more commonly referred to as grégoire and, more rarely, 97390173, is the product of an experiment conducted by the amateur physician louis sanson. the experiment began on the first of march in 1885, a week after grégoire's thirteenth natural birthday. sanson would inflict physical and psychological torture on the boy in various forms (he called this "experimentation") in a pitiable attempt to recreate the actual grégoire sanson, the doctor's firstborn son, whose death he was not able to fully process.

during this time, grégoire's physical form deteriorated greatly. as sanson fed him very poorly - typically with poisoned or perished meals - his weight dropped from 178.8kgs to 153.1kgs in the first twelve months, weighing only 60.2kgs by sanson's arrest. (this caused him to lose consciousness often, and fall ill more easily.) this made him sickly, giving grégoire his current inhuman appearance. presently, his body is tall and emaciated; bruised, scarred, and covered in septic wounds. his hair, which sanson had cut off completely with medical scissors at the beginning of the experiment, now reaches past his shoulders and goes into his eyes. it has also darkened to a sort of black-brown color as the years went by. unfortunately, its thick and wavy texture has degraded to a wispy, straightened look, and the feel of it is dry and artificial. his face is asymmetrical, bloated, and deformed, with his cheekbones smashed in and his nose bent near the top as a result of sanson's surgeries. he also has an unseemly laceration near his right eye and is missing the tip of his left ear. his skin, once being of a warm ivory hue that freckled in the summer, is now poor in quality. it has developed a certain translucency, and grégoire's green veins permeate the surface of his skin in nauseating fashion.

after everything, grégoire has still retained his people-pleasing likeness, though behaves more skittishly in so. he wants to trust other people and seeks to act as though he does, but in his heart, he no longer feels he can. his trust issues manifest themselves mainly in the form of various phobias, such as the extreme fears of touch, being poisoned, and eating anything in general (haphephobia, toxiphobia, and cibophobia respectively). the latter two are due to switching constantly between starvation and eating (or being force-fed) his own vomit, which naturally gave him a poor relationship with food. on one hand, he is almost always insatiably hungry. on the other, the sight of food disgusts him and also often makes him sick. grégoire himself is now heavily emetophobic because of his experiences with it. he is also repulsed by the feeling of food in his body, but fears hunger all at once.

grégoire takes pleasure in silence, music boxes, lying motionlessly on the floor, warm weather, and watching others crochet. he fears hospitals, sharp objects, and anything reminiscent of his time as an experiment. he has essentially forgotten his life as jeannot, but despite how he wants to, he cannot forget being 90173. every time he looks into a mirror, he sees an unrecognizable corpse playing at a person, and is instantly reminded of everything his father did to him. even after all the hell sanson put him through, grégoire still believes that he will come back and love him one day.

and where is grégoire now? well, after being accidentally discovered in the dirt by a curious medical student in 2020 and found completely alive, he lives with them in an apartment located in créteil, val-de-marne, france. unbeknownst to grégoire, however, this student is studying him profoundly to this day, and hopes one day to make of him their new experiment.

here's a bit on grégoire. i wasn't sure what to make of this at first but. well. this is everything. putting under the cut because reasons.

90173, more commonly known as grégoire, is the product of a failed experiment created by the scientist louis sanson in val-de-marne, france. (for simplicity, this page will use the name grégoire and he/him pronouns in reference to the experiment going forth.)

grégoire was previously human, having been born jean-sébastien sanson on the twenty-second of february in 1872, and the oldest son of three. however, in 1885, grégoire was reported missing on his thirteenth birthday. to no-one else's knowledge, he had been abducted by someone claiming to be a family member. (this person was later revealed to be his father, louis-auguste-donatien sanson.) sanson then proceeded to try a number of unethical and illegal experiments on the boy, including the oral administration of various poisons, multiple vivisections, and experimental surgery. sanson's goal in this was to recreate his firstborn son, grégoire sanson, who had died at birth, in an attempt to see what "could have been". when grégoire did not comply, his actions would result in torture methods such as forced starvation and corporal punishment.

these experiments took place between 1885 and 1888. as a result, grégoire's body was severely disfigured; dirty, misshapen, emaciated, and barely holding itself together; translucent skin lavish with septic wounds and infected vivisection scars. thankfully, on the eighth of january of the latter year, sanson's laboratory was discovered inside of an abandoned hospital, leading to his death by guillotine on the next day. grégoire, who was presumed to be some sort of dead animal based on his physiognomy, was buried in the ground outside of the hospital. he stayed so for many years, expecting death, but it never came.

[thesightstoshowyou]

Re: milestone event, maybe a continuation of your Tommy fic where one night the reader wakes up all hot thinking of him and finally seeks him out in the middle of the night to take care of it seeing as unfortunately he has yet to bust into the room to take them? Your fic for Tommy and Jason are my FAV just *mwah* fantastic I didn't realize I was into Tommy until you

I like the way you think anon ;)

Sweet Dreams

Thomas Hewitt x F Reader (NSFW)

Part 3

Read Part 2 here

Summary: You wake in the night burning with need. You seek Tommy out, earn his trust, and he repays you in kind. RIP to other guys but Thomas Hewitt is different.

Warnings: FLUFF holy shit, so much fluff, oral, praise kink, squirting, creampie

             Hands, thick, strong hands caress your thighs, spreading you open as you cling to burly shoulders, sweat spilling from your brow until you taste salt on your lips—

             Your eyes pop open. Moonlight spills through the curtains, the only light illuminating your dark room. It’s starting to feel less like a prison cell with every day that passes, but this thought does not bring you comfort. Very little comforts you here, in this house, in this rotting town. Only one thing, one person, prevents you from actively trying to escape….

             You’d dreamt of him again. You grind your thighs together, trying to relieve the deep ache these excruciatingly vivid dreams bring. You have no idea how late it is, or how early. A sigh rushes past your lips. There’s no way anyone is up at this hour and you’re locked in your room until morning. God, you long to go to him.

             The stomp of heavy footfalls coming down the hall reaches your ears. You’d recognize those steps anywhere. Thomas….

             Ripping the covers off your sweaty form, you leap from the bed and cross the room in a flash. Gently, you knock on the door, not wishing to wake anyone else.

             “Tommy?” You ask quietly, praying he hears you. The footsteps abruptly pause just outside your door. You hold your breath as you hear rustling. The lock clicks.

             You step out of the way, letting the door swing open. Thomas fills your doorway, hair still damp from a shower, wearing nothing but a pair of slacks. And the damn mask, of course. It looks as though he’d just thrown it on so he could open your door, one of the straps half-clasped. He’s watching you closely, furrow in his brow, most likely worried something is wrong.

             “Hi,” you whisper with a small smile, “I’m okay. Just wanted to see you.” Thomas glances shyly away at your words and you take the opportunity to drag your gaze over his brawny shoulders, shoulders you’d just been dreaming about digging your nails into. You flush at the memory, suddenly nervous to ask for what you want.

             Instead you close the distance between you, hesitantly reaching up to run your fingers along the slit in Thomas’ mask, brushing the digits over his lips. He tenses, hands coming up to settle timidly on your hips Do you dare…?

             “Tommy,” you whisper, meeting his anxious stare. This is such a sensitive topic. How do you broach the subject without upsetting him? You swallow, “Tommy, I want to kiss you…without this.” You lay your hand against his cheek, thumb stroking the leather of his mask.

             As you’d guessed, his eyes widen and he immediately steps away from you, shaking his head and turning to leave. Anxiously, you bite your lip, slipping your hand into his to keep him from fleeing.

             “Tommy, you have no idea how bad I want you right now. All the time, actually,” you say quickly with a breathy laugh, “How bad I want all of you.” Thomas meets your gaze over his shoulder and you can see he’s frowning again, like he can’t believe you. Your heart breaks, chest constricting painfully.

             You move to him again, pushing up on your tip toes to press your lips to his shoulder before moving to his neck. Deeply, you inhale the sharp scent of his soap as you nuzzle your nose just under his ear. Your hands roam across his chest, fingers tracing all the scars littering his torso. Thomas shudders, arms wrapping around you and pulling you tight against him. He clings to you like a lifeline, just like he had that first day in the cellar.

             “You’re not gonna scare me away. I need you, Tommy, so, so bad. I love the way you make me feel. You…you don’t have to show me right now, but I hope that, someday, you will.”

             Thomas moves to cup your cheeks, cradling your face in his huge palms. He searches your expression, your eyes, looking for a lie, for any hint of teasing. You meet his gaze, willing him to feel your sincerity. Blue eyes drop to your lips and he frowns again. You can see him thinking, weighing the pros and cons.

             He must not find what he’s looking for because you see his eyes soften. Tommy lets out a tremulous breath and you give him a small, reassuring smile. Slowly, so slowly, as though his hands weigh a thousand pounds each, he reaches up to unbuckle the strap of his mask. You grip his shoulders to quiet his trembling.

             Finally, Thomas lowers the mask from his face. You are hyper-aware of your expression, knowing Tommy will miss nothing. You keep your face passive, blank as you examine the missing nose, the lesions and scar tissue along the side of his mouth, his cheek. You wonder what caused it; a deformity? A disease?

             Truthfully, you’d expected much worse. You’d been imagining the potential horrors under that mask from day one. It’s anticlimactic, really.

             Thomas isn’t looking at you. He’s so tense, shoulders bunched under your hands, his eyes fixed on a spot past your left shoulder. You tip your head to the side, cupping his cheek and gently forcing him to meet your gaze. You smile warmly, bringing your other hand up to trace his bottom lip with your thumb.

             “Can I kiss you now, Tommy?” you whisper. Thomas blinks, astonished. He lets out another huge breath and you realize he’d been holding it this hold time. You nod, assuring him you mean the truth, and pop up on your toes again to meet him halfway.

             Shaking, Thomas wraps his arms around you again and presses his lips to yours. You sigh into his mouth, glad to have the barrier gone. You sigh becomes a squeak and a giggle when Tommy lifts you off your feet. You wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his hips, clinging to him like he does you. The mask lays at his feet, forgotten.

             “Take me to your room?” you murmur, brushing his hair out of the way to kiss the shell of his ear. You don’t have to ask twice. Tommy carries you down the hall, moving as silently as he can so as not to alert anyone else in the house.

             Once safely inside his room, dark but for the moonlight bathing the room in soft light, Thomas gently sets you on the edge of his bed, hurrying across the room to close the door before promptly returning to you. You spread your thighs so he can kneel between them and you pull him flush against you, peppering his bare face with kisses, ending at his lips so you can slip your tongue in his mouth.

             He’s clumsy at first, but Tommy once again proves to be a fast learner, lips and tongue matching your earnest movements. You break away to catch your breath, grinning wide. Biting your lip, you tug your shirt over your head, slowly, so you can make a show of it.

           Reverently, Thomas smooths the palms of his hands up your abdomen, cupping your breasts and timidly leaning in to capture a nipple with his lips. He gives the hardening flesh an experimental suck and you release a hushed moan, fingers tangling in his hair to encourage him.

             He moves to the other side, repeating the action until you buck your hips into him, a whispered, “Oh fuck,” spilling from your parted lips. Eagerly, Thomas eases your shorts off your hips, tossing them away and scooping up handfuls of your ass to pull you to the very edge of the bed. He wastes no time before burying his face between your parted thighs.

             You must clap your hand over your mouth to stifle the surprised moan when Tommy drags his tongue through your folds. He remembers what you like from your teaching session that first day in the cellar. Shockingly fast, he finds your clit and teases it with his tongue. He sucks, licks with the tip and then the flat of his tongue, experiments with different techniques until he finds the ones that makes you squeal behind your hand.

             You cum like that, hand in his hair, Thomas’ fingers digging into your hips while you buck into his mouth. You shudder, legs quivering, toes tingling, cunt dripping onto the floor. Dazedly, you wonder how long he’d been waiting to do that, as enthusiastic as he was.

             “Oh my god, Tommy,” you gasp, sitting up and pulling him into another heated kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, swallow his needy whine. Hastily, you urge him to stand, popping the button on his pants and shoving them off his hips.

             You scoot back on the bed, pulling him by the hand at the same time until he’s hovering over you. You’re worried you’re going to burn up, your skin ablaze everywhere he touches you. He lifts your hips off the mattress and begins the measured process of pushing his maddeningly thick cock past your soaked folds.

             Your hand returns to your mouth and you wrap your legs around his waist, arching your back when Thomas stuffs you completely full of him. You twitch, free hand fisting in the sheets when he rolls his hips, the incredible stretch now more addictive than painful. You meet his gaze as much as you can in the dark, nodding your head to urge him on.

             “Yes, Tommy, please, so g-good, oh god, just like that,” you whisper, quickly biting down on your lip to stifle a cry when Thomas’ grip tightens and he bucks his hips forward. The hand in the sheets flies to the headboard to keep you from sliding up the mattress as Tommy starts pummeling your insides, using his grip on your waist to pull you into each thrust.

             It’s so hard not to scream, not to wake everyone else in the house when every nerve in your body is alight with sensation, pleasure coiling so intensely in your gut you wonder if you’ll burst. Tommy groans at the feeling of your slippery muscles fluttering around him and that is enough to send you plummeting into ecstasy.

             You come undone, unravelling at the seams, back arching, cunt gushing around the cock that fills it so completely. You bite the palm of your hand to quiet the euphoric shriek that erupts from your throat. Thomas emits a strangled moan as his hips stutter before slamming forward, hilting himself as he fills you to the brim.

             Tommy lowers you back to the mattress before tipping forward, hands braced on either side of your head. You crane your neck, bringing your lips to his, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down so he rests between your trembling thighs. You chuckle quietly when he sets his forehead against yours, his panting breaths washing over your sweat slicked face.

             “You’re getting too good at that,” you murmur, giggling when he huffs out a laugh. Thomas rolls to the side, pulling you to his chest and resting his chin on top of your head. Gradually, his breathing slows, the deep, rhythmic inhales and exhales lulling you, making your eyelids droop.

             It’s easy to fall asleep in Tommy’s arms. You’ve never felt more secure. You let your eyes fall shut and, before long, you join him in sleep.

[petrichormeraki]

Hermit! Tommy interacting with TFC maybe? TFC has a lot of life experience and has probably seen a lot of people go through what Tommy's been through (like the after effects of war/trauma on someone), so maybe he can be someone Tommy can always go to for advice, talk/vent about everything he's gone through, or just straight up chill and vibe with. Kinda like a grandpa sort of figure :D // -🦊

TFC is the oldest person Tommy has ever seen.

If he thought Philza was a geezer, TFC is fucking ancient. His hair is grizzled and white, ringing his face in a wild mane of course hair smudged with what looked like years of coal and ash and dust. His face looks carved out of wood, lined and scarred and tanned with ages of fights and time having taken it's toll on his body.

Stress tells Tommy that TFC is a dwarf, and he's actually fairly young for how old they can live. Tommy thinks it's horseshit, but he would never say that to Stress because he likes being alive.

Regardless, despite the fact that TFC has no leg and a fucked arm and too many scars to count, he is so goddamn boring.

The man's favorite activity is MINING. TFC goes MINING for FUN. He once invited Tommy down to his undecorated hole in his floor to his mine, and Tommy was stunned by how the uncountable tunnels carved by TFC's hands spanned out of his render distance. (It was really very impressive, but Tommy would never admit it.)

Even TFC's injuries were boring! Tommy asked expecting a tale of a valiant battle in which his limbs were severed and deformed by a mighty enemy, but NO. TFC only offhandedly mentioned how a nasty fall broke his arm and it healed weird, and an infected wound from tripping over a block and tearing his skin resulted in the loss of his leg.

Tommy didn't even know there could be a boring way to lose a limb, but TFC enlightened him.

Despite the dwarf's easygoing nature, he had a surprising casual violence about him that Tommy could respect. TFC on many an occasion would make a joke that would catch Tommy off guard, and then give a wheezing laugh as if he just told a bad pun instead.

There was a silent understanding between them as well, despite their differences. Both had seen the horrors of war and betrayal and exile, and both had found a better life afterwards. TFC had more time to heal, time to fall into a comfortable rhythm and move on past the life he left behind.

Tommy was so young, too young, but TFC knew how to exist with him in a way none of the other hermits did. TFC is the only one that doesn't walk on eggshells around Tommy.

Often if one of the hermits couldn't locate the kid, it was safe to assume he was with TFC, the one hermit that put Tommy at ease more than anyone else. (TFC also had an affinity for building out of cobblestone, which was a much appreciated plus.)

[ecrivant]

under the yoke | porco galliard

(porco galliard x reader)

an exploration of porco’s life after the warriors leave for paradis, told through a collection of vignettes.

word count: 2.8k

He sat, crumpled, clutching a hand which bore bloodied and broken knuckles, unfeeling.  His white clothes, once pristine and perpetually ironed and representative of honor and heroism and potential, were now marred by redness.  Covered in the eviscerated gore and dermis which, from his forelimb, surged.  The hole in his bedroom door, framed by splintered wood and dressed with remnants of that same sanguinary amalgam.  The air, once tenanted by irate bellows and gesticulation, stood oppressively still.  Occupied, now, only by his swallowed sobs.  From the window: the muffled, revelatory sounds of the Warrior commemoration ceremony one street over; and he, in his room, washed in the quiet, aching aftermath of ebullition.  Another roar, hoarse, abraded, a guttural eruption.  He launched forward in an attempt to lash out, again—at the door, the wall, himself—but his legs buckled beneath him and his palms, outstretched by instinct to catch his exhausted form, scraped against the floor, leaving bloody trails in their wake.  His corporeal pain, once numbed by rage, now crept along skin and burrowed into bone, and he cradled his own form, laid fetal, and wailed.  A prolonged, cathartic cry which propagated another, and another, until his lungs burned, raw and void of breath, and head thrummed, and soreness and anguish within him suffused.  From outside the window, a cheer; within, cries, spates of ‘why’s,’ directed at no one.  The Armored Titan, squandered—his own failure from which he already imbibed such abject and indefinite nemesism.  His mouth tore open in a disfigured cry; no sound emitted.  A breathless, silent whine; vision blurred by tears.  

Sight and sound dissolved as blood poured from his wounds, relentless.  Numbness returned—he remarked from afar the peaceful exit from his own body.  He was vaguely aware of his door slamming against the wall as it opened.  His name, a hazy and distant vocalization, repeated, urgent.  A violent shaking of his body.  On his cheek, a soft touch.  He maybe saw your face.  Concerned, no, fearful eyes.  His own voice, thick in his throat, pathetic and begging and desperate:

“Please just let me die.”

The tremors of footsteps on wood, of weak limbs.  Then his brother, his mother.  You.  The vague feeling of being lifted to his feet, of being stripped of his clothes, of being laid on the bed.  A cloth, cold on tender skin.

Marcel’s embrace.

Sleep so abnormally dreamless and pitch that he was sure he had died, pervaded by a feeling of absence.

He awoke in the darkness of night and felt he was not alone.  Eyes adjusting, he saw one body in a chair next to him, another in his brother’s bed.  His entirety complained, aching.  A low groan escaped him.  The one in the chair stirred at the sound and eyed him in the dark.  He could all but see the scrutinizing gaze.  A grip on his uninjured hand, squeezing.  His brother’s whispered apology.  

Marcel rose from his seat and roused the other, who groggily sat up and listened for a moment before rushing over to the bed.  Another hand in his, this time soft and un-calloused, and timid.  He, now acclimated to the dark of the room, saw your scrunched face and teary eyes and quivering lip.  You bowed your head to hide them, instead bringing his hand to your forehead, still trembling. As if in mourning.

“Let him sleep.”

A gentle command, for your sake and not his.  He wished for you to embrace him but could not bring himself to say it.  

—

He woke to his mother’s insistence that they see Marcel off.  He first thought of you.  

“Mom, don’t make him go.”

He felt his brother approach his bed, slow, timid.  A kiss on his temple.  A whispered promise:

“I’ll be home soon.”

—

He staggered as he climbed out of bed.  The bandages on his hand and forearm, the hole in the door—ugly reminders of his abortion.  Weak fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.  Fresh blood seeped through the gauze around his knuckles, spreading over the fibrous surface like a creeping, infective redness.  

He made it to the port just as the boat undocked and withdrew from the shore.  He saw you in the crowd, hand excitedly waving in the air as if a flag enlivened by breeze.  

He returned home and undressed himself and laid back in bed and closed his eyes just as his mother reentered the house and forthwith tended to her sleeping child’s wounds.  

—

A knock at his door.

“Porco?  It’s Pieck and Zeke.”

“Tell them I’m alright.”

His mother bit her lip before shutting his door again.

He did not wish to see them, though he thought of them each day.  Becoming less like people and more like deformed effigies begotten from his own envious thoughts.  Though a given, since the beginning, that Zeke would claim the Beast Titan, he considered that he could have inherited Cartman.  A moment of clarity told him Pieck was more than deserving of her inheritance, and he flushed with guilt.  The candidacy, Reiner, they had made him so spiteful.

Still, he did not wish to see them.  

Another knock at the door. He repressed the annoyance that flared in his chest.

“Yes?”  

He could not help the edge that slipped through.  

His eyes widened when you stuck your head around the door.  Eyes asking for permission to enter.  He moved to make room for you on his bed, granting it.  Mattress dipping as you sat.  Your hands gently turned his injured arm in inspection—its gauzy covering now gone and replaced by a dusting of red-rimmed scabs and pale, white scars.  The haphazard gash in his wrist nearly but a memory.  The touch, gentle, nearly imperceptible.  Again feeling guilty, as he had not thought of you in weeks, though you should have been the first to which he turned.  Your non-affiliation with the Warriors was something he unknowingly craved.  Soft fingers grazed his arm and the sillage of your scent hung in the air, calming him. He needed your touch, a same and even greater need than that night before the Warriors’ departure.  

You did not speak and instead wrapped your hands around his.  Heedful of his injuries.  Even in the dim candlelight of the room, a ray of moonlight flooded through the window and struck his floor—an expansive stain of red, impossible to fully remove, illuminated.  You gazed at him, sad, as if you pitied him.  He wished he had not seen it, perhaps he was not meant to, and he asked you to leave before he could suppress his anger.  He spurned your pity.  

You were surprised but not hurt: instead, he was met with a melancholic look, one of understanding.  As you walked out, shutting the door behind you, he wished you had been hurt—he envied your emotional control, your empathy. Hot tears spilled from his eyes, and they blurred his view of you leaving the front stoop and walking down the street, swallowed by the night.

He grabbed his pillow and hurled it at the wall.  It landed with a dull thump.  If he was anything like you, he could have controlled his anger and kept you with him.  Spent the night in your presence.  He gritted his teeth and slammed back onto the mattress, taking notice of the missing cushion.  He rolled to the side and slept without it.

—

He could not say when he finally rescinded the grudge he held against Pieck and Zeke.  He began talking to them again, finally caving on his self-imposed strike after realizing he was lonely, but it felt more like a return out of necessity.  He was not sure he truly missed their companionship; though dulled, the spite and anger and jealousy were all still present.  

At the same time, he immersed himself further into Marley’s all-encompassing military-industrial complex. Endearing himself to Magrath.  Continuing his training.  Helping where he could.  As if to fulfill some sick, vicarious fantasy where he was a Warrior, as well, only left behind with Pieck and Zeke.  The schmoozing felt insincere, dirty, yet he continued, to what end?  He was worse than Reiner—a fucking ass-kisser with no goal in sight.  Subconsciously aware his constant exposure to Marleyan army affairs only exacerbated and prolonged the pain of his failure.  

“Why still be involved?”

He frowned at your question—a large part of him assumed you would support him, regardless.  At least support him based on the fact it was somehow comforting for him, a twisted form of self-actualization.  He narrowed his eyes as you continued.

“Maybe it’s better this way. You—”

You cut yourself off, hesitant.  He urged you to say your piece, an edge in his voice.

“If you’re not a Warrior, you can live a long life.”  With me, the implicit addendum.  He ignored it, quiet long enough that you felt emboldened to continue.  

“Sometimes this war, it feels so pointless.”

Faced with futility.  Your extrapolated silver lining.  Something repressed urged him to give in, to agree.  Whether flaccid will or a desire to live with you, he could not be sure.  You had always felt so nice.

Though he could not, could never, bring himself to despise you, he convinced himself to despise the words you spoke.  

“What are you, a fucking pacifist now?”

You shrunk away, the vitriol in his voice, a disarming blow.  To serve Eldians was his life’s purpose, and you were meant to support him indefinitely, it being in your nature.  You began to speak, but he ignored it.  Anger flaring.  The more he thought on it, the easier you became to hate.  All the years he had known you, you were nothing but a backgrounded entity.  His very antithesis.  Your affinity for pacifism was no surprise to him—it was very much like you to sit to the side and wish for things to happen instead of taking it upon yourself to actualize them. You moved through life without purpose, a passive body with no real substance.  It was a wonder he had ever liked you at all.  

“You know it should have been me.  I should have been the one to go to Paradis, not Reiner.”

The hurt in your eyes urged him forward, though, in hindsight, he wondered if it was your own hurt, or hurt for him, which shone in your gaze.  A sadness, pity, that he could not let go of his apparent past transgression, could not overcome his own self-hatred. Were there truly many differences between you?

He lashed out once more, another jab.  A sadistic self-projection.  

“How can you live a life so devoid of purpose and meaning?  Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.  I was meant to be a Warrior for humanity, so that’s what I’ll do.  And I don’t care how I get there.”

He flinched, less at the words and more at the way some form of the truth so willingly poured from his mouth.  Quiet, eerily pervasive.  A surge of guilt in the pit of his stomach.  Like bile.  Your tears stung his throat.  

“Never would humanity’s true savior be so selfish.”

You stood and turned at the heel and strode off, quickly wiping at your eyes.  It was his turn to be winded by your words.  

—

He slammed his fist against your front door, rapid and repeated like a heartrate.  Your father answered and saw the raw desperation in his eyes and led him to your room.  He opened the door and collapsed before he reached you.  Spoken through choked sobs—the pain, cotton forced down his throat:

“Marcel is dead.”

Your arms were around him as if your last shared moment, at this point years ago, was not one of bitter vitriol.  He, eviscerated by guilt and all but gutted on the floor before you.  Your unrelenting sympathy, so willing to forgive his malignity—to think you had nothing but love to give in return for his spite.  You held him unflinchingly as he disintegrated in your arms.  Unafraid to shoulder the weight of his tangible unraveling.  He thought of that moment years ago, alone in his room, bleeding out, a result of his own rage, and realized true pain was nothing like it.  To be so utterly excavated by grief and pain that your own form has no choice but to erode into itself.  His screams caught in your shirt.  He bit down on the fabric, tasting blood.

He lied in your bed that night and felt nothing.  Your touch, once so verily craved, was unaffecting.  Still, you ran your hands along his sides and caressed the shapely variations of his form, and you pressed your lips to his neck and back, and he allowed you to straddle him and kiss his face and chest and arms and endeavor to extract his pain through your ghostly contact.  He knew you felt nice, even if he himself could not tell.  Your comfort reached him and dissolved on contact, yet he still indulged and met your touch with his own.  Nevertheless unfeeling.  

—

From you, he had never seen true anger.  Though, when he told you he was to support Pieck in Paradis, he saw it—it was quiet, nothing like his violent, external fulminations.  Instead, your stare held unprecedented intensity, some amalgam of rage and fear that made him instinctively flinch; and, for once, it did not seem like selfless emotion.  He sadistically reveled in the way you finally felt fear for someone other than him.

He was leaving Marley with some naïve intention of returning, to be with you upon doing so.  Yet, you both knew your shared life was a moot point after his inheritance of the Jaw Titan­—he had betrayed you, and in some way, his own selfish wishes.  He had not matured at all, forever and always a slave to his desires.  To die for Marley, you informed him, and no matter how many times he countered with his ambition to save the Eldians and salvage the remnants of his past failures, he invariably, though subconsciously, acquiesced to your position.  His ultimate objective: to die for a cause.  

Your anger, short-lived, ephemeral, even.  It gave way to such harrowing sorrow.  He wondered, as he held you, if you finally allowed yourself to cry selfishly, to cry for the death of your own desires.  

You kissed him, desperately. Long and sweetly brackish from tears. He laid you down his bed, the one in which years ago he lied as well, craving your embrace in the darkness, and touched fingertips to bare skin.  His despairing memorization of your body.  Your breathy murmurs, tearful; yourself, a numinous beauty he sought to worship.  He could not elude his adoration for you, and as you made love that night, a shared intimacy so imbued with and pervaded by heartache, he knew he would die regretful.  His pain and yours, fatefully pre-written.  He had always been destined for stagnation, abjection, sorrow, loss—driven by some cruel divinity and jejune, self-sacrificial desire to fulfill his own doomed fate.  The cruelty of fatalism.  

“Come back to me,” you had whispered.  

—

In his last moments, he thought of that night.  He did not deserve a final thought so pleasant.  He instead thought of you presently, home in Liberio, waiting for his promised return.  Is this how Marcel felt, as he breathed his last breath?  Did he think of his little brother to which he promised return?  He all but laughed at the ironic cyclicality of life.  Falco would inherit his thoughts, and his brother’s thoughts, and one day see the reality of anguish and broken promises and futile desire, perhaps on the evening of his own violent death.

—

Through his love, he also immortalized you—forcing you to live on as some perpetually degraded image and, eventually, simply an ephemeral feeling of comfort in those who would inherit his memories.  He figured you would hate the thought.  Part of him wished he could loose you from this eternal cycle, freeing you from his memory and thus the endless lineage of memory you would come to inhabit.  Or maybe he wished for this selfishly, wanting you to be experienced by no other.  

—

You would hate his last words, spoken at Reiner out of abject spite, selfish, though they were more of an assurance than anything.  A closure for his younger self, whose apparent failures haunted him until this moment.  

—

He wished you had not asked him to return; he wished he had not believed he would.  

—

He was surprised by his own fear.  As he allowed himself to be eaten, he only thought of dying.  It would be too painful to think of anything else.  Yet, you somehow slipped through, one final time.

—

hey, my first request!  thank you @casualityrantfun​ for your porco suggestion!  fleshing out porco’s history was honestly so much fun; exploring side characters’ arcs may be my new favorite thing.  also, i’m sorry that this probably isn’t exactly what you wanted; you asked for fluff but i can’t seem to write anything that isn’t tinged with some kind of melancholia.  

anyway, thank you all so much for reading!  i hope you enjoyed the piece!  i kind of fell in love with porco while i wrote this, so expect some more writing for him lol.  feedback and constructive criticism are always appreciated!  

also also, merry christmas to those who celebrate it!  and regardless, i hope everyone has a great holiday weekend!  xoxo <3

taglist: @flam3bird