#it doesn't make me feel less fearful in any way shape or form. i just feel like i'm going crazy

[deservedgrace]

i didn't realize how much like... "the thing that is obviously happening isn't happening" is almost just as exhausting and demoralizing and frustrating and scary as the thing itself for me. i didn't realize that aspect of things was weighing on me almost as much as the thing itself until now

[schtrawberry]

[4] personal astrology observations

[!] this is mostly an introspective view into my chart; in no way, shape, or form am i saying that any of this is fact or set in stone, nor am i saying that i am a professional astrologer. these are just presences that exist within my chart that i've felt manifest themselves in real life. simply put, take what resonates and leave what doesn't :)

─ having your moon and ascendant in the same sign 🤝🏽 having every single emotion flash on your face, clear as day, at all times

═ sun in the tenth house 🤝🏽 indicator of doing well in your career or being able to advance in your career more easily than others

☰ on that note, mercury in the tenth house can also indicate being able to advance in your career because of the way you speak or how well you speak in a professional setting. individuals with this sign can also be recognized in the workplace for how well they speak and communicate.

☱ individuals with moon in twelth house may find themselves dwelling in the past more than most. the feeling of nostalgic makes them both happy and sad at the same time.

[personally, this manifests itself in me being able to constantly go back to specific moments in my life where i could've made a different choice, where i could've said yes to a specific opportunity, where my split decision could've prevented something monumental in my life from happening, and just overthinking the hell about how different my current situation would be if i did or did not. lots of angst and nostalgia in this sign tbh. it's hard, i know.]

☲ having moon negatively aspecting venus can indicate a late-bloomer in relationships. one might be more likely to find themselves in a serious relationship much later in life compared to others. this may be because the individual could be less likely to pursue romance on their own and would rather be approached first by a potential love interest.

[i can personally attest to this. at the ripe old age of 23, i have never been in a relationship before (or even a fling). from personal experience, i find that this is mostly out of fear of rejection (maybe coupled with my fear of being known but who really knows).]

☴ the taurus juno urge to show love and care through cooking— whether they're good at it or not. be it making their loved one breakfast in the morning, buying them a thoughtful snack or baking them their favorite dessert; a taurus juno is intrinsically tied to food in how they express their dedication and commitment to the one's they love most.

☳ a few asteroid notes:

note: asteroids are less impactful to one's personality, physicality, etc. compared to personal planets. they tend to only be relevant to one's chart if they are either in a tight orb (0-1°) or have major aspects to personal planets, preferably conjunctions or oppositions.

✢ kalliope (22), known as the chief of all muses, goddess of eloquence, and muse of epic poetry is the eldest of the nine muses. her name translates to "beautiful-voiced" from the greek words "kallos" and "ops". having this prominent in one's chart can indicate being known for having a beautiful voice, whether it be in terms of singing, public speaking, or just in general. someone that can attract positive attention from others simply through their voice, even to the point of possibly becoming someone's muse for it.

✢ [tw: r***] peitho (118), the personified spirit of seduction, persuasion, and charming speech, was the handmaiden and herald of the goddess aphrodite. interestingly, one striking depiction of peitho is of her fleeing from the scene of a r***. she was known to protect women from r*** and was known to flee from scenes of r*** when she was unable to intervene. peitho’s gift was pleasure for words and bodies, and she would be enraged when such pleasure was violated in any way.

i feel that this energy, when prominent in one's chart, can manifest itself in a girl's girl— a protector of women and advocate for consent. and while this observation does lean into the darker side of peitho, on the lighter end, this energy does also stand for using one's gift in speech and voice to seduce and charm others whilst also using it to stand up for women in unconsenting situations with men.

[`] film: love & pop (1998) dir. hideaki anno

last / next

[bigification]

Jealousy Jealousy

Strong, loyal, dedicated. All words used by the boss to describe me, and every word seemed like a knife in the back of my roommate. I can hear it in the way he talks to me, ever since I joined the military all he ever seems to be is jealous. I've always been stronger and more dedicated than him, he's smarter but that doesn't even matter that much.

The walk back to our room is awkward. It is completely silent and I can almost see the steam coming out of his ears. I wanted so badly to be friends with him, but he makes it impossible. I've always worked out and kept my body in good shape, and apparently that's unforgivable to him.

We get back to our room and he immediately goes rummaging through his stuff. I pace back and forth, debating whether I should talk to him. It's hard living with him and I just want things to be civil between us.

"Hey man, I wanted to ta-" I'm interrupted when he quickly swings around and jabs something into my stomach. I look down and see a needle sticking into the side of my stomach. I feel frozen with fear, I can't talk, almost as if there is something stuck in my throat. I let out a groan as he pushes the end of the needle, injecting a green liquid into my body.

"I'm tired of being in your shadow, let's see how long you'll last after this." He monologues like some cartoon villain. What does he even mean by that, was that some kind of poison? Is he killing me just because the boss likes me more.

I stumble back against the wall, I feel weak but it hurts less than I thought it would. Although my stomach feels like it's boiling.

Am I dreaming... It feels more like a nightmare. But it must be a nightmare. I see a lump form under my shirt, and it seems to grow every time I blink. It can't be real, but it feels so real. The lump grows until it looks like I have a little belly. Do I have a belly? It's growing faster and faster until my shirt becomes untucked. It finally stops after growing into a sizable beer belly, making it impossible for me to see my feet. Maybe he gave me drugs, maybe this is just a bad trip. But it feels so real.

It doesn't end with the beer belly. Next my pecs start to swell. Something I worked so hard on is gone in seconds. I see them soften into a pair of man tits, growing until they press against my shirt. I always swore I would never let myself go like my father did, but I guess that's a lie. At least it took him until his thirties to get fat, I can't even make it to my late twenties without pigging out.

I still have no idea what's happening to me. It's getting harder and harder to think. I was thinking about... Something about pigging out. It must be because I love pigging out, that's how I got this belly.

As I'm trying to think, my body continues to grow. I hear the button on my pants pop off and feel the pressure release. I think my ass is growing, not that I mind. I feel my body being pushed further and further away from the wall as fat spilled into my ass.

Why does my crotch feel so tight? I could have sworn it didn't feel this tight a moment ago. I don't really care anyway, I can't even remember why I should care.

My pants strain against the fat filling my legs, I think I can even hear some rips tearing through them. My arms follow suit, softening up my defined muscles and fattening up my hands. Better off that way if you ask me, fatter hands means better belly rubs, and I like belly rubs.

I feel an itchiness engulf my body as a thick pelt of hair covers my skin. My arms, my legs, my chest, and most importantly my belly become a forest of sweaty hair.

My body finally relaxed and I let out a loud burp. Oh... I'm so hungry. I rub my belly trying to get any relief. It's all I can think of. Wasn't I stressed about something? What would I have been stressed about, maybe I was just hungry.

"How ya feeling big guy?" My roommate asks me.

"I'm so hungry." I cry out.

"Aren't you supposed to be on a diet?" He teases me.

"Why the fuck would I be on a diet. This is the mark of a true man!" I say as I slap my gut.

"Well I'm sure this box of donuts won't hurt your fitness assessment next week, and they won't eat themselves." He pulls out a dozen donuts. It feels like I lose control of my body as I instinctively ravage the donuts.

I lean back after finishing off the last donut and let out a loud burp. God I'm stuffed, but I want so much more. I rub my belly, trying to process the snack I just had, so I can make room for more.

"There's plenty more where that came from, big guy."

Credits to bulkgainer92 for the video and for inspiring this story.

[koshkamartell]

Hello my loves.

This is it. The final chapter of No One But Me. I'm sorry it took so long to write; there was so much emotion and energy involved in this final part that it took longer than I expected. I hope you all enjoy it.

Thank you to my little group of faithful readers who have showed their support and love throughout this journey. I have appreciated all your comments and reblogs so much. It gives me alot of joy to hear that my story has been a source of joy and entertainment for someone.

I haven't added a warning list to this part in order to avoid spoilers. Please leave me your thoughts after you read.

The sound of the gunshot reverberated throughout the clearing surrounding the cabin, stirring birds to flee from the forest treetops with the loud flapping of their wings. You only managed to run a few yards from the porch before the gunfire caused you to come to a halt.

Your boots skid in the icy snow as you whip around in search of where the shot was fired from. Your eyes scan the surrounding woodland for any shapes or movement between the trees. You imagine a man - another raider - just as tall and ugly as Lyle, stalking through the forest clutching a hunting rifle, on his way to kill you. The thought drives a spike of fear through your guts and makes your full bladder ache.

You search around, vigilant and alert, subconsciouly holding your breath in your lungs. You pause and wait, trying in vain to keep your body from shaking. You wait for but nothing happens. No sign of danger presents itself, neither in the form of an infected or an unknown, ominous figure holding a gun.

You inhale a gulping breath of the bitterly cold winter air and a visible puff of cloud escapes your lips when you exhale.

Was it Joel who fired the shot? He must be absolutely livid with you, crazed with fury at your repeated insolence, your second attempt at escape in less than two days. He must have fired a warning shot when he saw you had gone, as there's no way Joel would miss a target, not with all his weaponry prowess.

You look back to the cabin now, your whole body still shivering with fear, expecting to see Joel standing on the porch brandishing a gun in his large blood covered hands. But Joel is not there.

Your eyes then fall upon the figure laying on the ground.

You had been so startled by the sound of the gun shot that you hadn't realised Oscar was not next to you. Your stomach sinks when you see that Oscar had not made it as far as you; he had fallen to his knees just a few steps from the cabin.

"Oscar!" You shriek with panic. Your own voice sounds muffled as your heart beat continues to thrum inside your head and inbetween your ears. You pace back to meet him, gasping in sharp breathes of the cold morning air as your legs work to carry your exhausted body.

You drop to the ground infront of Oscar and bring your trembling hands up to cradle his face, the stubble along his jaw pricking your palms. His skin feels cool to the touch and beads of sweat are dotted across his forehead. "What happened? Oscar, what is it?"

His eyes screw shut and his eyebrows knit together in a grimace of pain. He sucks a sharp breath of air through his clenched teeth. "I...I gotta lay down."

"O-Okay," you murmer. Oscar plants a hand on the ground behind him and begins to recline back. You splay one of your hands against the middle of back, your other still holding the side of his face. "Let me help you, go slow."

Oscar tries to shift his legs out infront of him but his limbs move too quickly, as though they are uncoordinated and weak; he plops down onto his backside with a thud, hissing with pain at the way his body jostles. You coo sympathetically and urge him once again to take it slow. He grunts and lays down flat on his back, pressing a hand to his lower abdomen.

You notice the motion straight away. "What happened to your stomach?"

Oscar gives a slight shake of his head but doesn't open his eyes or say anything. You slide your hand down from his face to where he clutches his stomach. You curl your fingers gingerly around his and try to gently pry them away from the area. At first he resists, but after you whisper a tearful please he relents and uncovers the spot. You gasp when you see that his whole palm is covered in blood.

Oh my god oh my god oh no

There's a ragged hole at the bottom of his jacket. You quickly fumble for the zip and yank it downwards, sweeping the panels to the side of his torso. Oscar allows you to do so without protest, his eyes still tightly closed, clearly battling against the internal agony that has been afflicted upon his body. You grab the bottom of his sweater and hurriedly tug it upward. You are desperate to see the hurt hidden underneath his clothes, desperate to see just how bad the damage is.

When you find the source of his pain, you cannot contain the strangled cry that claws its way up your throat, raw and ugly. There's a small round black hole etched into the left side of his lower belly, just above his hip. It is a clean cut bullet wound with the flesh around it still firm. A thick pool of deep red blood puddles inside it, overflowing into a trickle that spills down to his groin.

It's a gunshot wound. When had he been shot?

"How?" You whisper brokenly, tears springing to your eyes. You grab hold of his bloody hand and squeeze it, wanting to reassure him of your presence, that you're still right next to him.

Why don't you remember?

Everything leading up to this moment is a blur within your memory. You don't have the capacity to realise just why, though. You don't know that while trapped within the chaos inside the cabin, your conscious had been overridden by your will to survive. You don't know you had dissociated, brain detaching from a reality you couldn't cope with. You hadn't remembered Lyle shooting Oscar because your mind was protecting you.

Oscar groans and squeezes your hand in his shaking one. "W-w...what can I do?" You stroke his forehead tenderly. "How do I stop the bleeding?"

"I'm okay, honey," he mumbles, his beautiful dark eyes flickering open to stare up at you. His little round glasses sit crookedly on his face and you gingerly fix them to perch straight on his nose. He offers you a weak smile in return. "Just...just stay right here."

"I'm here," you promise him, stroking over the curls on his temple. "I'm here."

The sound of a gun firing stops Joel's fist from connecting another gruelling punch to the raider's already gruesome face. It is like he's being snapped out of a trance, suddenly propelled from a hellish nightmare back to reality. His vision blurs as he struggles to focus on the scene before him, and it takes several seconds for him to remember just what had transpired within the last ten minutes.

Joel glances down at his hand curled tight into a fist. It's completely coated in blood, and although his knuckles are raw and stinging, he knows the blood doesn't belong to him. His eyes descend to the lifeless body laying underneath his straddling thighs. He sees the grisly wreck of the man's head and it prompts a wave of nausea to lurch in his stomach. He has to quickly swallow the bile that rises in his throat, the bitter acid burning his oesophagus.

Joel can't remember the last time he lost control like this. Maybe a long while before he started living in Jackson. It must have been, for Joel had to learn to hold back on dishing out beatings when he arrived in town. Despite wanting nothing more than to slap the shit out of some of the insubordinate young men around the town, he had quelled his temper with all his might for the sake of Ellie. He had masked so much of himself, of his true nature, all for their chance to carve out a decent life together in the safe community.

But that savage beast of wrath had lain dormant inside him for all this time, waiting for a reason to rear its barbaric head and fight. There had never been a legitimate reason for this vicious part of Joel to show itself while they lived in the haven of Jackson. But then again, nothing had evoked such an intense fury inside him as when the raider threatened your life right infront of him.

You.

His mind panics instantly, your name falling from his chapped lips with an edge of desperation. His head jerks around to where you were left beside the bed. You're gone, the leftover rope hanging limply from the bed frame, the ends frayed. A pocket knife lays on the floorboards where you were sat, its blunt looking blade glinting against the lone ray of sunshine pouring in through the window.

Estrada, the mother fucking prick. Did he really come all this way to get you? And you're gone, but who fired that shot? Are there more raiders out there? That pussy can't keep you safe. He needs to get out there and get you right now.

Joel shoves himself off of the raider's body and staggers to stand up. The bones in his back crack as he straightens upright. His whole body is an aching fucking mess but he refuses to think about pain. He can't. He's got to find you.

He grabs Lyle's gun off the floor and then hastily pulls on his boots, ignoring the blood his smears on every surface he touches. He storms out the bedroom to the front door, his footfalls striking heavily against the floorboards with each purposeful, formidable step. You can't have gone far; Joel knows you can't ride a horse and he's pretty sure the raider shot Estrada, so he's willing to bet you're still in a quarter mile radius.

Fuckin' Estrada. He'll blast the useless son of a bitch to pieces. He'll make you watch, force you to see how no one will ever come between you and he. Finally get it through that head of yours that you only belong with him.

Joel stalks out through the front door, resolution and determination catapulting him forth on his long legs. He's going to have to do something a little more drastic, he thinks, in order to cement his ownership over you, so you and everybody else in this world can see you're his, that you can't run away. Maybe a fucking brand on your skin.

Joel's boots only just meet the snow before he abruptly halts at the fringe of the cabin deck. It turns out you didn't even get past the boundary of the clearing, didn't even get 20 feet from the cabin. Instead you're here kneeling on the ground, Oscar laying down beside you on his back, his head in your lap. It appears intimate, a private moment he has stumbled upon, and it makes his stomach twist with burning possessiveness. He scowls, flexing his hand around the grip of the pistol, the raider's blood already drying and crusting over the broken skin of his knuckles.

Joel calls your name, his raspy voice loud and harsh, cutting through the air like a master commanding his dog. Your head snaps back to face him instantly; wisps of hair cling to your tear stained cheeks, your eyes wide with distress, your nose tinged pink from the cold air and all the crying you've done. You stay kneeling and Oscar remains on his back, which somehow pisses him off even more.

What the hell is going on? And where'd that gun shot come from?

"Goddamn it," Joel growls. He stomps over to you, jaw clenching and unclenching. He's going to drag you back inside by your hair after he kills Oscar. He'll strip you of your clothes and smack your ass until it's black and blue. His anger is palpable, radiating from him like a furnace, and the terror on your face amplifies with every determined step he takes.

"Joel, please," you plead, "don't touch him!"

"Get up and go back inside, right now!" Joel snarls. He'll do as he damn well pleases, and if that includes beating the shit out of Estrada like he did the raider, then so be it.

Joel bends down to grab you by your collar but your hand shoots up and grips around his wrist, your fingernails sinking into his skin. Your red rimmed eyes stare up at him, frantic and imploring.

"Joel, wait, listen to me!" You gasp shrilly. "He's hurt! Look!"

Joel's gaze falls down past your face to where Oscar lays beneath you. He's startled by the change in Oscar's appearance, so unexpected and pitiful that it actually dampens the anger and jealousy seething from his core.

He watches Oscar stare up at you and Joel, brows pulled together in a pain filled wince, a dull quality to his brown orbs. His pallid skin has a waxy sheen to it and there is a blueish tint to his trembling lips. His breaths come out in long stuttering gasps. Joel's eyes trail down to where Oscar's shirt in bunched in your hand and he sees the bloody hole sitting at the bottom of his belly.

You are right. He's hurt. The raider did shoot him.

"Joel, what d-do we do?" You sniffle, tightening your grasp around his wrist. "How do we treat it?"

The internal damage is difficult to assess, but judging from the location of the wound and how Oscar currently looks, the bullet has likely hit some organs, Joel silently deduces. It's dire, and with how Oscar's shivering right now he's not sure how long the man will survive for. Joel has seen his fair share of people die from all different kinds of ailments and wounds. He knows the signs well.

His gaze shifts back to you, jaw ticking as he deliberates his answer. You look so hopeless, so desperate for some kind of confirmation that you can actually do something to remedy the situation. It isn't your fault you're so naive, he reminds himself, and being kind is just part of your nature, so ofcourse you care. Ofcourse you care that Estrada is currently bleeding out in your arms. But God, does he fucking hate that you still care so much about this prick.

"Can't do much for a gunshot wound," Joel delivers the words matter of factly. "Not without all the surgical stuff in Jackson."

"What?" You whisper, your face contorting with disbelieving anguish. You relinquish your hold on his wrist as if the touch of his skin has become too uncomfortable to bear. "No, no. Surely there's something we can do now. We can get the bullet out, right?"

Joel tucks the gun in his pocket and descends down on one knee beside you. He avoids Oscar's eyes, instead training his gaze on the pool of blood seeping inside the wound on Oscar's lower abdomen. He can't soften the blow. It's not that he wants to purposely be cruel, but there's no use lying to you. He scratches the side of his cheek and sighs heavily.

"It's deep," Joel clarifies softly. "Not sure if the bullet hit an organ, but it looks likely. Can't do nothin' for it."

You chew on your bottom lip for a moment, contemplating his words, and then your eyes suddenly light up with childlike hope. "Let's go back to Jackson," you blurt out. "Dr. Amber can do it, we can go now."

Joel pins his gaze back to you, keeping his face impassive. He's never seen you like this before - so naive and deluded with optimism, denying the obvious reality of the situation. His heart unexpectedly aches for you.

"It's too far," Joel whispers, schooling his tone to be firm but not unkind. "By the time we get there...he won't make it."

"But we've got to try! Or, or maybe we can get the bullet out ourselves," you ramble in desperation.

He sighs, trying hard to not let his impatience overtake his already limited empathy for your feelings. He places his hand on your shoulder, a sympathetic attempt to ground you, for he takes no pleasure in your current state of misery. "Just told you, we can't do much. Where he got hit...it's too...it's just about impossible..."

Your brows saddle together in defeated despair and you shake your head, fresh tears pooling at your waterline. There's a hint of emotion in your face, dancing within your watery irises and on the curl of your mouth, something that he cannot quite place; amidst the clear pain and grief is something firey, almost wild. Like hatred. Resentment. Blame.

A croak comes from Oscar, prompting you to turn back and dip your head down to his. He's trying to talk but his voice is so muted that Joel cannot hear a word of what he's saying to you. You let out a small whimper and seem to whisper back a reply. The private moment between you two resumes, a confidential bubble that makes Joel feel like an outsider, pathetic and excluded. He clocks the way Oscar's hand clutches yours, the delicate brush of his thumb over yours, and he can't help the envious irritation that rears inside his chest once again, searing hot and bordering on painful.

Joel clears his throat and speaks your name to garner your attention. "Don't know where that gunshot came from. Could be more raiders just around the corner. We gotta go back inside."

You jerk your head back to face Joel again, your features twisted into a glare, distrust and scorn evident in your eyes. "I'm not leaving him," you state defiantly.

"It ain't safe here," Joel bites back. "That shot was close by and it ain't gonna take long for whoever it was to find us."

"I don't care!" You spit out harshly. "You go."

Joel feels as though he has been slapped. How dare you defy him like this? He's trying to protect you, to keep you safe from the potential threat of another raider, yet instead of obeying him you're openly challenging him.

No, there's no way he's leaving you behind with Estrada while the poor fuck bleeds out.

Joel scowls, jaw clenched tight, and leans his head close to yours so that you are forced to look at him. You reflexively flinch away but keep your stare locked on his, bold and obstinate.

"Get up." He orders, voice low and loaded with danger. "'Fore we get killed."

"No!" You argue. Joel glares back at you, harsh breaths huffing through his nostrils. His jaw ticks once, then in one sudden move he's grabbing your arm and roughly hoisting you up on your feet. You squeal and yell at him but he just drags you away from Oscar like a predatory animal lugging its prey toward death, overpowering and tyrannical.

He drags you several yards but stops abruptly when another gunshot suddenly blasts through the air, loud and resonant, unmistakeably closer this time. A mixture of other noises soon follow it, carried along the wind that rushes through the trees, sounds that quickly become more and more clear with each passing second.

Men's voices.

Horse hooves galloping.

Dogs barking.

And then a prominent voice calls out, masculine and commanding.

"Joel!"

Joel's blood runs cold. He knows that voice; he knows it better than anybody else still alive in this world, and to hear it right now makes his stomach churn with anxiety and resentment. He slowly twists his torso around, keeping his grip on your arm tight.

There, at the edge of the small clearing by the south-west woodland, is Tommy. Joel swears under his breath. He is pertrubed at the unexpected sight of his younger brother. Did he really travel all the way from Jackson to track you and Joel down? He's made it all this way out here, and by the sounds of it he has a fucking rescue team with him close by.

Tommy trudges through the snow with a gait almost identical to Joel's, his barrel chest heaving. The expression on his face is one of profound sadness and grave concern, a look that Joel knows well; Tommy was always the more self righteous brother, the bleeding heart, able to make Joel feel criticised and condemned with just a single look.

Joel stays standing where he is, his hand still tightly gripping yours while he keeps his eyes locked on his brother. Tommy closes the gap between you in a series of long, laboured strides, his warm breath conjuring puffs of visible cloud from his lips.

"Jesus, Joel, what did you do?" Tommy rasps in panicked disbelief when he catches sight of Oscar's prone form. "Oh fuck, please don't tell me you killed Oscar."

"I didn't touch him," Joel sneers. "And he ain't dead. We got ambushed by a raider but I took care'a him."

"Oscar's hurt, Tommy," you interject, taking a step forward to try join him. "We need to get him help."

Joel shoots you a disapprovingly glare before he clears his throat and gestures vaguely in Oscar's direction. "He got shot - by the raider, not by me."

Tommy drops down on one knee besides Oscar, hovering his hands over the man's body uncertainly. "Fuck," Tommy whispers as his doleful eyes survey the grievous state of Oscar's belly and the bullet wound. He leans down and brings his gloved hand up to carefully cup Oscar's cheek in his palm. "Hey, Oscar, buddy, can you hear me?"

Oscar blinks slowly up at Tommy and hums softly. "Hey, Tom," he manages to croak out. "Yeah....I can hear you."

"Got yourself in a bit of trouble, looks like," Tommy murmers, trying his best to sound light-hearted. "But don't worry, I'm gonna get you back to town and we'll get you fixed right up."

"I'm dying, Tom," Oscar whispers. Tommy sniffs sadly and shakes his head, melancholic denial swimming in his eyes as he stares down at his friend.

"No you ain't," Tommy whispers back, his voice faltering.

"It's okay...," Oscar coos, "just get her back...please, take her back home. Promise me you will."

You can't hear the hushed conversation between Tommy and Oscar, no matter how hard you strain to listen. You wish you could drop to your knees beside Tommy and be a part of what's going on, to hear Oscar's soothing voice assure you that he will be okay, that it isn't as bad as it looks.

But you can't. Your freezing hand is still enveloped in Joel's possessive clutch, anchoring you to the stop next to him. He isn't interested in watching the interaction between his brother and his rival. He keeps a vigilant watch on the woods around you all, slowly turning his head left and right to scan each direction, no doubt still on guard for any possible raiders or infected.

When Tommy eventually rises from the ground and drags his feet back to you and Joel, your heart skips a beat. You wish Tommy would smile at you and confirm that the wound actually isn't that deep, that your dear Oscar will be able to return to Jackson and get stitched up and everything will turn out alright. You peer up at him, expectant and hopeful, but Tommy's morose expression just about crushes any scrap of optimism left in your weary heart. He comes close to you and takes your free hand in his and gives it a gentle squeeze, totally ignoring Joel beside you.

"Sweetheart," Tommy sighs, "I ain't gonna lie to you. He isn't lookin' good...I don't know....you needa talk with him."

"Why?" Joel cuts in, pulling you back from Tommy and cutting the physical contact between you.

"For God's sake, Joel!" Tommy explodes with exasperation, curling his hands into fists. "You know why! Give her that atleast!"

"Bleedin' heart 'til the day you die, huh Tom?" Joel mocks bitterly, glaring at his brother. Tommy meets his gaze head on, unflinching and firm.

"Doin' what's right, Joel," Tommy replies tightly. "It's time you did, too."

You look between the two of them, too overcome with dizzying emotion and fatigue from the trauma you've endured to properly comprehend the gravity of what's being said. You're fighting to stand on your feet and all you want to do is lay down with Oscar.

"Fine, let's get this over and done with," Joel huffs, releasing your hand. Sensing how you're feeling, Tommy wraps his arm around your back and gently guides you to Oscar, carefully helping you to sit down in the snow.

Your hand automatically slips into Oscar's to give it a delicate and comforting squeeze. He looks even more pale and you notice the way his stomach barely rises and falls with his short, shallow breaths. You bring your other hand up to brush back a curled lock of his hair that sticks to his forehead.

His skin feels so cold.

"Honey," his silky voice husks from between his blue lips. There is a film of tears swimming within his eyes as he stares up at you but his gaze seems more sharp, more focused. You feel as though he's looking right into your soul, his love and adoration piercing directly through your heart, and in this moment you're completely overcome with the intensity of your own love for him.

Oscar is so beautiful, so pure. He came to save you. He risked his own life to rescue you, your own knight in shining armour, and now he lays here wounded and bleeding out. The guilt slices into you sharp and searing, you burst into a sob, lowering your head to his chest. "I'm sorry," you weep. "I'm so sorry."

"Shhh, honey," Oscar rasps, slowly raising his hand up to stroke your hair. "It's okay."

Joel growls and moves to grab you and intervene but Tommy is quick to block him. Tommy stands inbetween you and Joel and grips his shoulders firmly. "Back off," he commands sternly.

Joel rips his little brother's hands off him and huffs angrily. "Go fuck yourself Tommy," he rumbles. Despite his hatred for what's happening, Joel turns away and retreats a few paces, unable to bear watching the scene. Tommy follows him, allowing you privacy; neither can hear what is whispered between you and Oscar.

Your nose drips from the cold, intermingling with the tears leaking from your eyes. Oscar's hand swipes the hair from your face as he continues to sshhh you gently.

"I love you," you hear his voice purr from within his sternum. "Always...have."

You lift your head to gaze at him, your face inches from his. His brown eyes project the same palpable sincerity that he has always embodied, even amidst the depth of his suffering. There is a tranquil kind of energy swirling within in his irises that you can't quite work out the reason for.

"Always will..." Oscar whispers, slowly tucking a tangled strand of hair behind your ear with an air of reverence.

"I love you too," you mumble through tears. And you do. You truly love him. "I want to go back with you, wanna go back home with you, Oscar." And you do, more than anything else in the world, so much so that your desperation blinds you to the painful reality of Oscar's predicament.

"I can't." Oscar admits in a breathless whisper. "Elvie is waiting for me..."

Elvie? You're confused for a second until your brain kicks into gear. Elvie. The realisation of what Oscar means lands a punch right in the middle of your guts and a strangle gasp falls from your lips. You bring your face to cradle Oscar's cheeks and you lean down to place a kiss on his soft, wind chapped lips.

"Please...." you whisper against his lips, a tear rolling down your cheek and falling to land onto the hollow of his throat. "Don't go..."

He breathes your name ever so delicately. "I love you...."

And then, like a flickering flame of a candle being extinguished in the breeze, the last breath within Oscar's lungs drifts from his mouth and his soul slips away from his body.

A ragged scream rips from your throat, full of anguish and sorrow. It startles Tommy and Joel and they both whirl around to where you kneel on the ground by Oscar. You are slumped over his dead body, forehead pressed to his chest and your balled fists clinging to his clothes.

Tommy hastily springs back to you and crouches down to bracket your shoulders with his hands. He understands the reason got your distress immediately. "Oh, sweetheart," he croons sympathetically. He slips his arm across your clavicle and carefully pulls you into him. "I'm sorry."

You lean back into his chest and let out a howl of anguish. Joel thinks it is just about the most tragic sound he has ever heard. He stands back and watches the scene with the the corners of his mouth downturned in somber silence.

The magnitude of sorrow you express spurns something inside of him that makes his stomach clench and his breath hitch in his throat. When the initial shock dissipates he is left with a severe ache in his chest cavity that threatens to bring him to his knees. The realisation of why comes

Your grief reflects his own.

It reminds him of the day when his world was torn apart, when he had lost the most important thing in his life.

Except the reason for your grief isn't an inescapable cordycep apocalypse; it is Joel himself. He may not have fired the bullet that fatally wounded Oscar but it was the consequences of his actions that led to the man's demise. Joel shakes his head to himself, trying to dislodge the thought from his mind. No, he thinks, it isn't my fault. It isn't.

He bows his head and stares at his boots, unable to face the sight of your despair any longer. You wail and bawl for what seems like forever. Tommy keeps you close to him and murmers an occasional hushed I'm so sorry. It continues until you can produce no more your tears and your body lurches with exhausted dry retches. Your cheeks are puffy and splotchy, the rims of your eyes red and swollen.

A long time passes before Tommy manages to persuade you to stand up. He hauls you up and keeps you tightly supported you against his body. You cling blindly to his jacket and nuzzle your face into his chest, finding a small degree of comfort in his warmth and kind commiseration. Another blurred period of time elapses where you allow Tommy to hold you and a quiet falls over the three of you.

Joel doesn't look up until he hears your voice address him, hoarse yet full of venom. He lifts his head and sees you staring at him, your face twisted into a wretched mask of heartache and wrath.

"You," you hiss accusingly, "it's because of you!"

Joel frowns at you and shakes his head, unable to formulate words in a response. He's totally bewildered by your anger.

"You brought me out here! You forced me here and Oscar came to save me!" You snarl. "He would still be alive if you hadn't!"

You struggle against Tommy and he loosens his hold on you. You launch yourself at Joel, half stumbling into him, your fists beating against his chest with all the strength you can muster. Joel's hands cup your elbows so you don't fall over but he does nothing to stop you from unleashing your anger. He let's you punch his chest and slap his face, the impact of your hands leaving no more than a light sting on his cheeks.

He could easily subdue you with nothing more than a solid shove or a quick slap but he doesn't. He stands still, patiently accepting your punishment, waiting until you eventually tire and end up collapsing against his front. You heave and sob with despair, fragile body wracking with the force of your cries, and Joel carefully wraps his arms around you and presses you firmly into him.

"'M sorry," Joel whispers truthfully. And he is. He's sorry that you're heart broken.

"You aren't," you sputter, "you've never been sorry, you don't care!"

You struggle to escape his embrace but he holds you tighter. "I am," he asserts firmly.

You screech and thrash, incensed with anger at the way he seems to lie so easily. "He's dead because of you!"

Joel relinquishes his hold on you just enough to pull you back to look at your face. He is momentarily disturbed by the way your eyes smoulder with hatred and disgust, but he presses on, determined to make his point.

"He's dead because of that raider, not me," Joel argues, "and it was me who killed that son of a bitch."

You shake your head vehemently, detestation written clearly on your face. "That raider could have killed us all! He was going to hurt me and you did nothing! Oscar saved me from that raider, not you!"

Shame heats the back of Joel's neck. He cannot deny that the raider was going to do unspeakable things to you and that he had basically offered you up to the man while he tried to formulate a strategy. It both shames and emasculates him that it was infact Oscar who saved you both from the raider. Joel may have beaten Lyle to death, but it was only because of Oscar that he was able to do so.

He feels like he has failed you.

Just as he failed Sarah. Just as he failed Tess.

"I was gonna---"

"I don't care!" You yell, flinging yourself backward to escape his grasp, but Joel just tightens his hands on your shoulders to keep you close.

Joel has to battle the deeply ingrained instincts that urge him to slap the shit out of you to shut you up. He allows you to be angry and sad, to unleash the emotions you are rightfully experiencing right now, but his patience is wearing thin. He's also aware that Tommy still stands just a few yards away, so he needs to placate you enough to keep control of his temper and to somehow get you alone.

He narrows his eyes and rubs soothing circles over your shoulders with his thumbs. "Let's go back inside the cabin," he drops his voice low in an effort to mollify. "Talk about this when you've calmed down some."

"Talk about what, Joel?" You spit out, fresh angry tears trickling down your cold cheeks. "About how you got Oscar killed? About how you raped me and beat me and then kidnapped me?"

"Christ almighty, Joel!" Tommy exclaims, shaking his head and staring in disbelief at his brother. "Is....is that true? You...you did those things to her?"

Joel doesn't acknowledge his brother; he's so intently focused on you that he can hardly register Tommy's voice. All that matters is you and making you stay with here with him.

"I said I was sorry," Joel swallows the lump in his throat. "I tried, I tried so hard to do right by you. I brought us here so we could start a new life. So you could forgive me."

"What you did to me, Joel...," you whisper, your voice laced with embittered sadness. "That's different. But Oscar....he died because of what you did. And I won't ever forgive you for that."

"But I love you," he murmers, his voice becoming husky with emotion and his eyes blurring with tears. "I didn't...I love you."

"And I loved you once, too, Joel, but how could I after what you've done?" You shove at his chest to punctuate your point. "I hate you!"

The impassioned vigour in your tone and your words cuts through Joel's heart like a knife. It reminds him of Ellie, how angry and betrayed she looked just a few nights ago. He knows you're stupefied with emotion right now, too wrapped up in misery to properly think or follow his commands. But he also knows you aren't lying.

You do hate him.

Just as Ellie does.

The truth fucking crushes his heart into fragments.

Joel's face crumples and he stares at you with crestfallen dismay. His hands release you and he takes a staggering step backward. You stare him down like a feral cat ready to fight, your shoulders raised and your nostrils flared. Tommy steps forward to intervene in the face-off, standing half infront of you.

"Joel...It's over. Let her go," Tommy commands softly, almost pleadingly. "I'm takin' her back to Jackson. I gotta rescue team just over the clearing there."

Joel faces his brother with tears brimming at his lashline. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" Joel hisses angrily. "This ain't any of your business, Tommy! I don't give a fuck who you got waitin' in the wings!"

"She doesn't wanna be with you," Tommy emphasises, his voice measured and stern. "And you're my brother, Joel, so this is my fuckin' business. I ain't about to let this girl or anybody else get hurt because of you."

"I love her, okay? I fuckin' love her, Tommy," Joel confesses brokenly. "I'll do anythin' to keep her."

"You hurt her, Joel. Jesus, you ra....you...," Tommy has to stop himself from choking on the weighted words that seem lodged inside his throat. He runs a hand through his black curls and shakes his head as he collects himself. "That ain't love."

Your fingertips curl around Tommy's bicep, prompting him to stop from saying anything more. Like a hawk, Joel observes the movement and watches with bated breath as you step out from behind Tommy. He sees that you are no longer crying and that you no longer look angry. Instead, you now look composed. Bold. You stand upright, your body radiating self assuredness, chin tilted upward to meet Joel's eyes head on.

The last time he had witnessed you like this was the time you confronted him about raping you. He sees the same stoicism in your face now - and he can see just how deadly serious you are.

"If you really loved me, you'd let me go," you speak up, your tone smooth and placid despite the challenging significance of your words.

"No," Joel croaks out. His brown eyes, large and glassy, swimming with tears as he gazes at you. "I need you. I need you with me, here."

"I can't stay here, Joel," you say softly. "I can't stay with you."

"I-I can't let you go," he rasps desperately. "You're mine, baby. I can't be without you."

"I've got nothing left to give you, Joel." You shrug with blunt weariness. "You've taken everything from me."

Warm rivulets of tears begin to trickle from Joel's eyes and he sniffs. "I'll give you whatever you need, I'll...I'll make it up to you. Just....please."

You watch him intently, your chin raised with stoic determination, unmoved by his show of emotion. "It's too late."

"No," he pleads, taking a step closer to you. "No, it ain't. It ain't too late."

"I spent too much time letting myself be hurt and unhappy. People like Oscar, like my parents...they don't have the chance to start over. They don't get to try. And I owe it to them to keep going. I owe it to them to be happy."

"You can be happy. You can be happy with me," Joel asserts, his voice wavering with heartache. He reaches out to touch you but you take a step backward. You shake your head gently, your gaze never leaving his.

"No, I can't. You need to control me, Joel - you need to hurt me. How can I be happy like that?"

Joel opens his mouth to speak but no words come. He is at a loss for what to say. He cannot argue against the points you make as they are true - he does need to control you, he does need to hurt you. As much as he could try justifying it as expressions of love and care, it is still the confronting truth of your relationship. He is defeated.

He stays silent for a minute, then forces out a quiet mumble, "give me another chance. Please."

"No, Joel. I won't let you take the chance of happiness away from me," you respond matter of factly. "I'm going back to Jackson with Tommy. Goodbye, Joel."

You turn back and walk over to Tommy, where he stands looking at his older brother with concerned sympathy. He knows Joel won't return to town, knows it would be impossible for him to integrate back into society in a place where his foster daughter and the woman he loves will be absent from his life.

Tommy slings his arm tightly around your shoulders and gingerly guides you away from where you stand. You give Joel once last fleeting look before you turn away and begin moving your feet to follow Tommy.

Joel watches you both trudge through the snow toward the clearing at the edge of the forest. He stands frozen in place, paralysed by the internal dialogue raging within his mind.

She's leaving.

I can't stop her.

She has to go.

She hates me.

She doesn't love me.

This is the right thing to do.

Joel shields his eyes with his hand, unable to bear the sight of you walking out of his life. He hangs his head and heaves out a weighted, heartbroken sigh. The constrain on his emotions quickly cracks and soon he begins to weep. Fat tears pour from his eyes and roll down the bridge of his nose. His weeping escalates into mournful cries that make his shoulders shake and his stomach churn, and he feels his heart squeeze so painfully that he thinks he's on the verge of a heart attack.

He cries now more than he has cried for the last 20 years. Not since the day Sarah died has he cried so much. The repressed emotion he has been habouring throughout all these years is set free and laid bare, and he allows himself to finally feel it all; the heartbreak for his daughter, Sarah, the undying unconditional love for Ellie, and the everlasting yearning for you.

Joel's legs buckle and he collapses onto the snow on his knees. The ice stings the sliced skin on his bare hands but he isn't even cognisant of the pain. All he can perceive is the devastating emptiness now residing within his soul; all that is left now are memories and nightmares, and the agonising regret and grief of losing you.

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[immediatebreakfast]

It's kinda fun, and all of that make jokes about how Van Helsing is probably shitting himself out of fear while Mina watches him without blinking a single time, but considering the whole picture between the two... Van Helsing is in a deeply fucked up situation straight up from a more horror like narrative than a gothic one.

Yes, there is a really good difference between the Gothic and Horror as literary genres. The Gothic genre uses amplified emotions such as terror as a response plot device to give commentary on any socio-political-cultural anxieties that were happening in the real time period which the plot is centered. More times than once it is also hand in hand with a personification of these anxieties in the form of the Monster or the Villain of the story. However, in the Horror genre this terror shapes itself in the front and center of the narrative as a way to explore the extreme of the darkness that lays within the human condition through emotions like disgust or the emotionally disturbing. By putting the characters in unsettling conditions, and against the inevitable grotesque, the Horror makes the readers have a reaction to its situation, and questions about said reactions as humans beings.

And what else to call this if not Horror? How does the character of Van Helsing, a man who thrived in the Gothic setting as the role of the foreign man of science with rational and cultural knowledge on his side, can defend himself against this change when the literary Horror declares that he can shifted from protagonist to victim whenever the narrative decides to inflict a new emotion to the reader?

Well, this sudden shift leaves Van Helsing utterly afraid.

She make no entry into her little diary, she who write so faithful at every pause. Something whisper to me that all is not well. However, to-night she is more vif.

There is nobody else but him, and Mina in this isolated mountain as winter falls down on the ground, absolutely nobody to turn for help.

At sunset I try to hypnotise her, but alas! with no effect; the power has grown less and less with each day, and to-night it fail me altogether. Well, God's will be done—whatever it may be, and whithersoever it may lead!

As Mina changes the closer she gets to Dracula's castle, it was never like this and never so unnervingly quickly.

I go to help her; but she smile, and tell me that she have eat already—that she was so hungry that she would not wait. I like it not, and I have grave doubts; but I fear to affright her, and so I am silent of it. 

With only his journal as a listening ear for his very justified worries, because Van Helsing fears that the questioning would finally break the very thin liminal feeling that is protecting him right now.

Madam still sleep, and she look in her sleep more healthy and more redder than before. And I like it not. And I am afraid, afraid, afraid!—I am afraid of all things—even to think but I must go on my way. The stake we play for is life and death, or more than these, and we must not flinch.

Right now Van Helsing is holding in his hands the promise that he made to both Mina and Jonathan before departing, he is holding onto that little ray of hope that tells him to ignore all of the warning signs all over Mina that any other character except Jonathan wouldn't have just ignored. All of these days Van Helsing is taking care of Mina while praying that she doesn't kill him if her transformation becomes complete before ever teaching their revenge, he has to write his "last" letter now before he can't ever write again.

[neuroprincess]

Under The Skin - Rebecca Welton/Reader

Rebecca Welton/Female Reader

Summary: It's secret, away from everyone's eyes and just between them, a simple gesture that symbolically changes Y/N and Rebecca's lives.

Classification: Fluff

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, tattoos

Word count: +1000

Unrevised

Maybe it's the alcohol coursing through the veins or the gentle smile that is directed at her, but it seems so right that Y/N doesn't care about the pain and even less about tomorrow. The needle begins a little uncertainly on the skin until the woman learns to handle it with real dexterity and without trembling, both of them a little nervous. The first scratch is outlined and marked forever, halfway there. With care, Rebecca traces the half circle in the same way she saw the boys do and feels proud to see it taking shape on the forearm, small and simple, but cute and full of meaning.  

"I'm almost there, darling." she whispers and hums in anticipation, looking a little petty at how excited and proud she is.  

"It's crazy, isn't it?!" the younger stares at her, a moment of sobriety hitting for a second and the weight of the act weighing in the balance "Are we really doing this?"  

In response, Rebecca leans in and brings their lips together in a gentle kiss, taking time to leave them, there's nothing so sweet and addictive as her girlfriend. She could stay like this forever, feeling and loving her in every way, from the soft words to the burning touches.  

"God, better stop or we're not going to finish this any time soon." she laughs, reluctantly separating, and brings eyes together to analyze the next step, just one to complete "And..." turns the pen back on, drawing the last curve, this time a bit of blood comes out of the line "Done!" 

"How did it look?"  

"Beautiful, just like you, sugar." a kiss is placed on the girl's forehead and elegant hands stroke her hair "My good girl, you did great."  

Y/N sighs and smiles happily, the sparkle in the blonde's eye making the slight burning and eventual post-drinking pain worthwhile. She'd never imagined herself doing anything like that and is sure the other one hadn't either, nevertheless after two years here they are hiding in the dark at Jamie's party with the tattoo equipment borrowed, in fact temporarily stolen, exchanging secret wedding vows, marking their rings eternally under skin and exposed to the world.  

"Your turn, sweetheart."  

They change the needles and following instructions from the internet the moisturizer is applied to the arm, Y/N's fingers spreading the cream along strong and delineated muscles, memorizing again every part she knows by heart, the sensitive points she caresses in cuddles on the sofa and squeezes when they're almost reaching an apex. The couple stare at each other for a millisecond in a silent request for permission, to be sure that it's really wanted.  

"Go ahead." Welton encourages, trying to sound confident "I can handle the pain."  

"You will not regret it?" the question is fraught with concern, fear that her partner will regret the folly of a somewhat youthful nature.  

"Never, darling! Loving you is the most certain thing I have in my life." they smile complicitly and Y/N nods, continuing with the mission "We need to go to the pharmacy for ointments, which reminds me that we're also out of cotton and saline solution."  

"You're really drunk."  

"Drunk with love for you..."  

It's not exactly pain, maybe discomfort or something, but totally bearable... if it weren't for Rebecca's hidden fear of needles. She tries to disguise it by looking away, convincing herself that it's only to be surprised. Quickly and with calculated movements, a small initial in a fine line forms on the place, she still can't turn around, half paralyzed in disbelief, having her own moment of sobriety caused by shock.  

"You don't have to hide, it's okay to be afraid." the younger whispers, trying to confront her in some way, the worst part is over and the woman insists on keeping up her brave mask "Sweetheart..."  

"Is it over?"  

"Yes, it's over." she smiles and stretches up to place a kiss on the flushed cheeks "My good girl."

"Hey, that's my phrase!"  

"That doesn't mean you're not a good girl, and totally mine."  

Finally gathering courage, Rebecca looks down and almost chokes as she realizes that something really is there, engraved on her forever. The initial of Y/N's name on her and hers on Y/N. Eternally marked in a symbolic gesture, the union of their souls with homemade tattoos, sounded almost silly when the idea came up on the bar counter, but is the promise of their love for each other.  

"So we..."  

"We're married. My goodness, we're married!"   

"It's symbolic, but..." the blonde rambles, settling on the floor so that they're face to face "Soon I'm going to put a ring on your finger, give you my surname."  

"Try to imagine, Mrs. & Mrs. Welton."  

"I like the sound of that, I can't wait for this moment." 

"Me too, I'm really looking forward to it." Y/N whispers and closes the space between them with a passionate kiss, full of emotions that come through in every touch, barely able to contain the enthusiasm. She has married the person she most admires and as much as it was just between them, it's priceless, kind of magical "I love you! So much that I almost cry just thinking that we're wives now." manages to say when the air is needed. 

"I love you more! More than anything, I don't think there are enough words to describe how deeply and passionately. And I stole a champagne to celebrate."   

A bottle is taken from the handbag, chilled to the point of sweat. It's impossible not to be touched by the businesswoman's cheeky smile, who has had a lot of fun searching for the necessary items around the mansion, committing innocent little crimes for the sake of love and getting her first tattoo. All this with and for her girlfriend, engaged for half an hour and now wife.  

"We've probably got about 15 minutes before someone comes looking for us, what do you think?" Rebecca nods suggestively towards the immaculate king-size bed.  

"Oh, you want to go straight to the nuptials? Tempting."  

"No more tempting than the things I'm thinking of doing with you when we get back home, lovely wife."  

And that's another promise. 

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[ancientbygone]

simulacra 3 [take me back to eden]

[sundowning] [tpwbyt]

Sleep's mimic forms of the vessels during the time period of TMBTE, because i can't be normal and start a series from the beginning and not the end.

more info + design breakdowns under the cut:

[obligatory "when talking about the vessels, i'm talking about characters" disclaimer]

background info on the whole idea:

Sleep as a being is shapeless in my mind; more of a concept than a creature. it can manifest as sort of an absence of light in any shape to others, usually to appeal to feeling/emotion. the only "rule" for that is that whatever Sleep tries to appear as cannot look more or less innocent/powerful than Sleep actually is, which usually manifests in two things: the size being different from the thing/person it's imitating, scaled according to power, and/or added features, usually in some way threatening or regal.

one of Sleep's more consistent forms it takes throughout interacting with Vessel is mimicking him, partially to create an illusion of the two being more similar than they actually are and partially because Sleep used to exist as Vessel's shadow when they'd just met. the visual itself has changed through time (you can see what it was like during Sundowning in my Higher artwork), and during TMBTE that visual is pretty much the titular song's character with the most minor tweaks (which is why i didn't draw it separately).

all that made me think about the idea of Sleep mimicking the other vessels just to fuck with Vessel further (to be clear, i am a strong believer that Sleep only interacts with Vessel in any way). so now here are the designs of those mimics during the events of TMBTE, utilizing the album's song characters much like the Vessel mimic. because again, i have to start a series from the end, i guess.

"ii"/ii mimic (song character used: AYROK)

the main idea driving the design of "ii" is the real ii's goal to keep Vessel more or less safe by being by his side in worshipping Sleep, which is the reason he'd decided to become the second vessel in the first place. the choice of AYROK as the character to use in this design is obvious. one of the ideas that stem from that is ii's duty/desire to keep his face hidden for Vessel's sake; only his hands are visible & detailed because that's the only part of him Vessel remembers before either of them became vessels of Sleep and the only part ii has really shown after that. another is ii's timidity in telling Vessel to go against Sleep's will because he fears that no matter how bad it may be, it'll be much worse if Vessel doesn't follow it. that part comes through in the pose - shyly holding his hands together as if they're tied.

"iii"/iii mimic (song character used: Aqua Regia)

the song character inspo being Aqua Regia is mostly because of the calmer nature of the song and the dynamic duo it makes with Vore, less so the themes of the lyrics. also its visual design. iii mimic's design themes are iii's adoration/borderline obsession with Vessel (wearing Vessel's jewelry and having elements of his robe in his shirt + his own face/mask slowly melting off) and his enagement with worship as an act/aesthetic rather than something more serious (the overabundance of jewelry and accessories; the extra arms; the body language; the cuffs around his arms and legs being decorative and not actually restricting). also the rings on his fingers make a checkered pattern.

"iv"/iv mimic (song character used: Vore)

the use of Vore for "iv" is obvious too. song wouldn't be the same without his real life self. the design really just aims to combine iv with the Vore character, but there are two big things here. the simplest one is anger issues, which is why he's So Goddamn Spiky and why his jacket looks like scarred skin rather than painted & customized. the anger mostly shows up in the body language: most of the time "iv" just stares unblinkingly with pure palpable ire in the two glowing dots for eyes, and when he does move it's very stiff and snappy and barely controlled. the other thing is that, simply speaking, the real iv got into this whole mess without knowing the full extent of it and now he's in too deep and kinda losing himself. in the design it's expressed through the human features gradually turning into bug-like, such as the hoodie fading into a segmented millipede-like body and the fucked up mantis hands, and the gold of the original iv's mask melting over the face with the horns being part of it. the spikes protrude from him in a way that makes it difficult to distinguish between jacket decorations and actual parts of his body, but the spines are definitely from his body & allow me to live the dream of iv with a mohawk LMAO

anyway have fun with these go nuts i'll make similar sheets & posts for Sundowning and TPWBYT eventually

[axel-ambassador]

So someone made an hour long video (that I didn't watch) about why Whatever It Takes is the worst song in Hazbin Hotel

So I'm gonna talk about why it's one of the best.

Disclaimer

Again, I haven't watched the video, so I don't know what their points are. But I'm not here to argue with their opinion. I'm here to get my own contrary opinion out there. Whoever they are is entitled to like and dislike whatever song they desire, even if I personally disagree. I have nothing against them and this is not made to antagonize them in any way shape or form.

Alright let's get into it

So let's start with Carmilla since there's a bit less to talk about compared to Vaggie.

The song starts as a soft ballad. As it progresses, we get to see more insight into who she is as a person, and not just as an overlord.

I always thought

That I would keep blood off my face

But when that thing attacked

I had to act

To cross that line and keep them safe

She is not a violent person. She never meant to kill the exorcist that attacked her and her daughters. She never wanted to, but she had to, because family is what's most important to her. Not money, not power, not souls, but family.

To further highlight this we get

But if anyone knew

Then all of Hell would rise to war

And who's to say who'd survive the fray?

I might lose the ones that I was killing for

As much as she's willing to fight for those that she loves, it scares her. She doesn't want to fight, because any possible gain that could come from it pales in comparison to the mere thought of putting Clara, Odette, and even Zestial in danger.

It's agonizing.

It's a rare moment of vulnerability from her. All the cards are on the table and her heart is on her sleeve. All in front of the people she cares most about. She may be vulnerable, but she's still secure about herself and is willing to share her deepest fears with them.

She will do whatever it takes to keep them safe, even if it means going to war and fighting until they no longer can. She will make every mistake if it means keeping them free from harm.

This is where we begin to draw the parallel to Vaggie, who we'll get to soon enough. They both make promises to protect their loved ones even if it means putting themselves on the line.

Carmilla is loyal as a fault to the people she cares about. A trait that can be dangerous if you don't have enough self preservation when the time comes to fight tooth and nail for your life.

Which is why she ends up doing something that goes against her morals: Killing.

And this is why Vaggie benefits so much from having her as a mentor, but more on that later.

So from a few verses we clearly understand who Carmilla is as a character. She's fierce, loyal, protective, and not afraid to put her morals aside if it means protecting her loved ones. Her parallel to Vaggie sets up for an interaction later down the line, where their similar yet different mentalities meet.

Speaking of everybody's favorite fallen exorcist...

If you ask me, Vaggie's part in this song hits so much harder for a multitude of reasons.

Let's start with the abundance of wonderful foreshadowing.

When I saw your face

You made me feel like a stranger in a brand new place

And it felt so good to be understood

But there's so much I wished that I could say

On its own, it makes you question what's below the surface. What is she talking about? What is she hiding? There's certainly more context that we're yet to see.

And then once we learn who Vaggie really is and how she met Charlie...

Suddenly it has so much more weight.

Charlie is an understanding person, she said so herself. In that moment, it didn't matter who Vaggie was or where she came from. All that mattered was getting her the help she needed.

So I

I'll be your armor

Do whatever it takes

I'll make the mistakes

I'll spend my life being your partner

Vaggie is eternally grateful for this. Because Charlie both literally and metaphorically saved her. Charlie becomes her rock, her world, and she does the only thing she knows how to in order to repay that kindness.

Serve and protect.

And I will try to make your dreams come true

Whatever we go through

Many call Chaggie's dynamic toxic because of this, which is not the case. Their relationship is not toxic. Vaggie has a toxic mentality that the only reason worth living is to be of service, but that does not make their relationship toxic.

Charlie never exploits this trait. She never takes advantage of Vaggie's giving nature, because she is also a giving person and treats Vaggie with the same love and adoration that Vaggie does. Yes, she can be dismissive, yes, she can be lightly oblivious to people's feelings, but never is there any intention of malice behind it. And when Charlie oversteps any boundaries, they talk things out.

Chaggie is not toxic. Vaggie is toxic towards herself.

Vaggie, unlike Carmilla, is insecure. She is alone. She's hiding things.

She can't possibly tell Charlie how she feels, because that would involve explaining everything she had been hiding, and in turn losing everything she had. She's scared.

She, like Carmilla, is willing to put everything on the line if it means keeping Charlie safe. The difference is that Vaggie was made to fight. It's the only thing she knows. She doesn't cast her morals aside, because fighting is her morals.

Carmilla and Vaggie are 2 sides of the same coin. Both are willing to put their life on the line to fight for their loved ones.

Carmilla doesn't want to fight, but is willing to put that aside for the sake of her family.

Vaggie only wants to fight, and thinks that's the only thing she can do for her family.

So when they finally meet, their ideals clash, and they make a compromise.

And this was all established through one incredible song.

Character moments aside, there are some other things that cement this song as a Top 3 Hazbin song for me.

Up until this point in watching the show, I wasn't fully onboard with the musical aspect. My friends and I would groan and complain every time a song came on and disrupted the plot. Up until this one.

This was the first song that really piqued my interest. This was the first song I watched and said "I'm gonna listen to this later."

This was the first song that I listened to for hours on loop on Spotify as I did my homework in my dorm. This was the first song that made me say, "wait a minute, these guys know what they're doing."

This song made me fall in love with Hazbin Hotel.

Maybe I'm biased because I love Vaggie and Stephanie Beatriz but frankly, I don't care.

Whatever it Takes is a wonderfully underrated song and I'm happy to share why I personally love it.

Thanks for reading ^⁠_⁠^

[verdantwyrm]

so I'm having an issue..

I'm working this fix-it/crossover au for MW where the tulpar crew find themselves on an alien planet with the only other humans there being a plucky young girl and her estranged clumsy father who pilots a mech.

In the story the father character ends up befriending Anya and they kind of dynamic that some people might interpret as potentailly romantic.

But the thing is, I've written a whole storyline where the father and Curly end up falling in love and becoming a couple.

The problem i'm having is the fear of the potential backlash for giving the "rape apologist" a happy ending while the victim is denied a potentially healthy relationship because I the writer quote "want to have her yaoi fantasy with the person who enabled the rape of the female" (other people's words, not mine) It's less about how I think or feel, and more of a concern for my safety with the way the fandom has been treating those who try to give curly nuance

Anon, I'm going to gently sit you down when I say this. And I mean it with the utmost love and care in my heart because that concept sounds fucking awesome as hell.

Do Whatever You Want. Forever.

I understand it is a really scary concept to try to do something with Curly's character and be afraid of the backlash you'll receive because Curly in their eyes is this big nasty, ugly rape apologist. That is the unfortunate situation of liking characters that are just uncomfortable to are morally grey in any way. Over the last month or so I have received countless, countless, death threats, for implying that Curly is an abuse victim or that Jimmy is in any way shape or form human. And It's extremely disheartening, I know. But those people that make me only want to fight harder and help people see the characters for what they are, to open up different angles.

Your interpretation of Curly doesn't need to be perfect or true to his character down to the last period. It's your fic, you decide this. And I understand your fears, in fandom spaces that blow up as quickly as Mouthwashing did in terms of audience and meta discussions, attempting to please absolutely everyone all at once is impossible because opinions are a spectrum of thought, no matter what you do someone is always going to have a slightly different interpretation of a scene or a character, even if it's off by the tiniest smidge.

Anya doesn't need to be with someone to have a happy ending, she can find fulfilment and freedom without a relationship and I wish more people were willing to understand a relationship doesn't fix stuff, nor does it necessarily make things easier either.

Do not worry, I think that fic concept is absolutely baller, and I will be in your corner ready to fight. To explore characters and write about them isn't about filling out a checklist, it's about having fun, it's about the experience and sharing it with other people who are willing and ready to listen and enjoy the content you put out, which I am very, very certain people will.

You got this, Anon! I believe in you! ☆ ～('▽^人)

[hyperfixingfr]

CW for abuse. Idk if I've said this already but a conversation with @rainbowwwzo last night prompted a thought. Why are we still trying to claim 2 and 3 have good families?

1 & 5 have amazing families (Cree aside). 4 has a family who's trying their best, although probably need to look into why their son has behavioral issues instead of sending him to boarding school. But they still have their best intentions for him!

However, 2 and 3 have both been shown to have abusive and neglectful families. Somehow, I still see some of you claim they aren't that way despite the piles of clips that prove them to be horrible for their children.

For one, Numbuh Two is PHYSICALLY ABUSED. He's wacked over the head with a cane for anything mildly annoying he does. And his mother does NOTHING. Even when in the same room watching it happen, she does NOTHING. His grandmother can't even remember his name. He results to LYING to try and get her to love him, and even that doesn't work. Do you understand how that would impact a child? Do you understand that his fear towards fighting in the show and tendency to yelp or scream is a trauma response, because he's abused? I'm not saying you need to headcanon the boy with 98 mental illnesses or something... But you'd really be mischaracterizing him and ditching what is so obviously shown in canon if you didn't have this impact him in some way, shape or form. I feel VERY strongly about his home situation being misportrayed in particular because I was once in a situation where I was living with only my abusive, demented grandmother and my mother who was too weak from her own mother's abuse to save me from being abused too. My home situation looked just like his and it almost offends me when people claim he'd be happy go lucky, no heavy mental battles, content with his life, best outcome of the group. Because I can tell you right now, absolutely not.

For Numbuh Three, she gets the most ignorance. Her father was shown to be emotionally immature, screaming, yelling and slamming when he couldn't scoop *ice cream*. I hate to say it, but do you think a man who can't even handle letting ice cream melt a bit would be treating his daughters right? Absolutely not. We'd be lucky if all he did was emotionally abuse them. But judging by his reaction, it unfortunately seems he'd lay hands if upset enough. He reacts this way constantly. And his wife isn't any better. She seems to be projecting herself onto her children. She seems dull and uninterested in doing anything worth-while, and seems more keen on keeping them entertained indirectly instead of directly via playing with them. She raises so many red flags that you'd only see in emotionally abusive or absent parents. And even if she weren't, you cannot discredit the fact that she'd be letting her husband do it to them instead. Because she hardly does anything about it besides saying "calm down". We all know Kuki's innocence is a fake mask, but it baffles me how many people cannot piece together that she puts it on to protect herself from the environment her parents have created. She acts innocent to protect her feelings, most likely from her father. If she acts innocent, people let her off the hook more, which means less yelling.

Tommy and Mushi both take on personality traits found in abused children. Tommy seals himself off after realizing he can't always have his brother available (would've been achieved had he been in the KND) which means he wouldn't have the support of anyone that likes him or at least tolerates him. Hiding away in his room would be the best way to avoid conflict from Lydia. While Mushi takes on a evil, "I need to be the center of attention" demeanor. She goes to extremes just to get back at people who had her best interest in mind. Usually children give up a grudge like that quickly. It's not as bad as Tommy's signs, but it does imply she's attention hungry.

I'm not saying to make them both look like emos listening to MCR daily. But please, take 2 and 3s home lives into proper account. Especially when trying to portray it. I don't like seeing all of these misportrayals of people saying they've got perfectly happy families because they don't and it's very obvious they don't. At least to me, who had experienced both an abusive grandmother + hopeless mother and emotionally immature angry all the time parent. Missing the basic "2 and 3 have bad home lives" feels like you've missed the point of the show. Of course kids with bad home lives are gonna be there fighting for a better home life. The show is about fighting for basic rights for children. Completely glossing over a very in your face instance(s) of children being treated less than human is crazy.

[philosopherking1887]

I initially put the following in a reblog comment on this post by @arabriddler, but I'm putting it in its own post because I wanted to add something but don't want to keep derailing that post, which was making a different point. Here's what that post said:

The way Ed’s sin is Pride and Oswald’s sin is gluttony, and the way Gluttony will always feed on The Other and Pride will always starve The Other, and for them to exist in the same space they have to feed and starve each other at the same time.

(This idea is discussed in their fic Philophobia, which I have been enjoying greatly.)

And then here's my comment:

I'm not sure whether Ed's sin (or vice, in less religious language) is Pride or Vanity -- a difference I think we don't recognize enough these days. The difference is in whether your feeling of self-worth depends heavily on being recognized and praised by others (Vanity) or not that much (Pride). Both Ed and Oswald believe in their own greatness, at least to some extent, even when it isn't recognized by others, and both are bothered by the lack of recognition. But I think Ed is a better candidate for Vanity and Oswald for Pride (in addition to Gluttony -- for money, power, and material luxuries) because Ed seems to crave attention for its own sake, while Oswald only wants certain kinds of attention, from specific people, and/or for specific purposes.

1. Oswald is showy when he needs to be, to demonstrate that he's someone to be reckoned with, but is also happy to operate covertly when that better suits his purpose. For Ed, the show IS the point, and he'll sometimes endanger or undermine his other goals for the sake of making a particular kind of show. Oswald, of course, also sometimes undermines his own long-term goals, but usually to satisfy a momentary emotional impulse.

2. Ed enjoys receiving praise from people in a position of authority, even if he considers himself superior to them (at least in intellect). He doesn't mind being in a subordinate position, serving someone else's aims, as long as he receives regular recognition and praise for his skill and usefulness (from Essen or Gordon in s1-2, Strange in late s2, Oswald in s2 and early s3, Lee in s4, or Lucius in s5). Oswald, by contrast, resents being treated as subordinate in any way, including being praised for his usefulness by Fish, Maroni, or Falcone in s1. Not all recognition is good, as far as he's concerned; he mostly wants recognition, in the form of respect or fear, as a sign of or a means to power. He also wants love from certain people; in s1 he does seem to want the kind of praise for usefulness that might reflect a subordinate position from Gordon specifically, which suggests that he regards that relationship as more than just a means to his own advantage.

What I wanted to add, because thinking about Oswald as Pride and Ed as Vanity really reminded me of it, was a link to this fic:

Here's an excerpt that sums up the basic thesis of the fic:

Ed wears layers, sure, but beneath them, he’s less of a person and more like a living reflection. Terrified of his own inconsistency. Fluid, yet in danger of shattering. And hellbent on glinting back at whatever faces him.  Over and over, Oswald finds pieces of this shimmer in Ed, and is more captivated by it as time goes by. Attracted to it, almost, in a delicately odd way. How Ed slithers out of the world’s grasp, even seems to slither out of his own grasp as he pours himself into the mould of the day, reluctant to stay in one shape for too long, too uncertain of his own identity to construct a permanent home and yet beautifully talented at building temporary shelters out of what he aspires to be at any given time. It’s a struggle Oswald has never experienced (–Oswald struggles more with the opposite, already knowing precisely who he is and where his beastly heart lies, being despised for it, and turning that shame inwards on himself–), so it’s a bit of a sad privilege to see Ed twist into so many forms, stolen and borrowed and handmade, just hoping to represent something worthy. Hoping to cast it out into the world and make it true, convincing everyone else of what he is as a detour to finally convincing himself.

The rest of the fic is just as gorgeous and insightful (and so is the rest of the author's work; all Gotham Riddlebird shippers should read all of it). It so beautifully captures the difference between Oswald's "vicious self-sufficiency" and Ed's existential need for an image to project and an audience to project it to -- made most starkly apparent in the fact that his Riddler aspect at first only appears as a reflection in mirrors. Ed is someone who exists only in being perceived, a reflection who desperately wants to be a real boy, while Oswald has more reality, more being, than he knows what to do with. That can be a beneficial symbiotic relationship if Oswald gives Ed enough attention, praise, and opportunities to shine, but it can also become a problem if Ed feels like he's hidden in Oswald's shadow... or if one of them is taking advantage of the other to get what he needs without giving enough in return.

There's another fic by that same author that illustrates a point similar to @arabriddler's about Vanity and Gluttony with heartbreaking incisiveness:

Summary: Ed craves the feeling of being needed, of being valued, more than anything. Only Oswald can give that to him.

And here's an excerpt:

He’s stuck on the way Oswald’s love feels: overwhelming, suffocating, and somehow complete despite all its missing parts. Their arrangement feels less like sex and more like holding each other underwater, spurring each other on because it’s the only way to feel what they want to feel. Ed is not quite ashamed of all this, but he’s not proud either. His idealised self wouldn’t be reaching for Oswald over and over just to feel whole, to add more fuel to his obsessive fantasies because he can’t even touch himself anymore without a fresh imprint of Oswald in his mind. He can’t feel good unless he feels wanted, and no one in the world pines for him like Oswald. No one ever could.  When it comes to their relationship, Oswald’s motivations are reassuringly transparent. He cares for Ed to the point of pain. He’s in love. Ed is unconcerned with love. All he really wants is to feel... The heat of Oswald’s gaze and the spark in his eyes that means he sees Ed, really sees him down to his core; the soft-hard press of his body against Ed’s own when Ed seeks him out and pleads to be held; the scratch of Oswald’s fingernails clasping like he’s clinging onto treasure.

Oswald's love seeks to devour Ed, but Ed feeds on the hunger itself and can't provide anything to satisfy it. It's not only that no one wants or needs Ed the way Oswald does; Oswald himself is a being made of want and need -- no one can want or need anything with as much heat and intensity as he does, so being wanted and needed by someone like that is irresistible to someone like Ed. Oswald is like a massive star with a gravity well that draws in everything around it, and Ed is a shiny planet that orbits to reflect its light but won't let itself be drawn in and absorbed.

[bronze-bell]

(This time, the letter is on off-white paper, a deep red, ornate border surrounding the words, with the same color ink used to write the words within.)

Dear Victor Grantz,

That does make sense. When unexpected bonds form, people get curious about how. And when they start asking questions, they might start looking for answers too closely for either of our likings. I'd hate for that to happen.

That might be wise, especially to have us all in one place. The temporary nature helps in many aspects, of course. Of course there's a recovery period—you did still die, and you need to get back into shape from all that. I don't know how well I'll do, but I'll try to pull you out of any painful loops you fall, or are pushed, into.

There are many strange things about being able to talk to someone again. To know that someone wants me around. To be truthful, I know how it feels to struggle with being around people, and yet to be forced to exist near them, to be palatable to them all the same. I couldn't do that to you. Pardon me, I... didn't quite understand what you meant. "A mute who can speak"... and even then they didn't let you? Apologies if I'm misunderstanding.

It's... really just what I felt was right to do. If someone tells me something and I have knowledge of what to say about it, I may as well tell them. I've been back and forth on pulling someone aside for a while now, he reminds me of my younger self far too much... I can't say from experience, but... considering the nature of mortality, even if it's different here, I can imagine it's terrifying. Not only from Aesop's and your words, but just the very concept.

Thank you for clearing that up, I will keep that in mind. I suppose there's a certain way of speaking that gave me the impression... and yes, disputes of... many kinds can happen when people are close for long enough.

That is... very good to know, thank you. Putting my faith in you from that first letter was a decision I cannot regret. Loyalty is a risk, a virtue that can go too far. I'll keep you safe. If we're all in the cast, let us all find our true roles and enjoy them. I would do no such thing to you. I won't let you feel abandoned again.

It's quite all right. As you said, we're all lonely here. Maybe we can be less lonely together. You gave me such patience when we met in person last time, I'd be rude not to give you the same.

Sincerely,

Frederick

The letter set is decorated with black music notes against off-white paper. The seal bears a bass clef. Victor's footsteps are hesitant to leave the door, but they do eventually.

[Dear Frederick,

Indeed, questions are quite terrifying. Knowing someone is watching your every past present and future move, scouring your life so thoroughly with their persecuting eyes, is not a good experience at all. I would know. There's so many strange connections in this place that we should be safe, though. I hope.

When will you be okay to meet? It really doesn't take more than an hour or two to recover, thankfully, but it seems that's mainly because it takes quite a while to revive. It appears that most of the healing is done before waking up. You are too kind to me. They could hurt you too, you know.

Of course I want you around, you're wonderful. Indeed, it is strange to get to talk to anyone at all, especially somebody who is so kind about all my strangeness, as much as I try and fail to minimise it. I could never do good in a crowd, and you seem to at least be able to tolerate it. For that I'm proud of you.]

The writing is shaky here. Very shaky. You can almost feel the fear radiating off of it. Each paragraph cuts off suddenly, a moment of lucidity in raging grief.

[That's what he said. Someone as easily scared to silence as a postman can still be threatened by its permanence and they always went through with threats —

I don't know what i did but soon I was a liability and they hated me and it all went wrong I just wanted to do my job why —

There's too many of them and too little of us, I was the only one left after rivals found us and they took advantage of —

I'm sorry. I'm scared. Please don't hurt me.]

The writing stops here. Many, many tears stain the paper below. The hand is forced into a neater style, but it's still clearly shaking.

[if you pull anyone aside, it should be him. You seem to be friends.

Death is scary, certainly. I can only hope any death I come to here is swift and merciful like his. I don't think I could handle it if it wasn't either treated with care or over quickly.

I am glad my loyalty is rewarded. Please keep me safe please be trustworthy I believe I have found my role as a postman rather than a "postman", but I'm not sure if I'm able to play it. Thank you. For everything.

I would like to meet up with you as soon as possible, if that's alright. I can't look at any more letters today.

Regards.

Postman]

[cassynite]

For Sparrow, "Orange Sunsets" from the Sensory Prompts?

Aaaah thank you! Decided to use this opportunity to try and flesh out a headcanon I have for Sparrow--I'd say she's about six or seven in this scene.

--

The sun dips slow below the horizon, sending streaks of orange across the ever-changing waves moving back and forth on the ocean, a shimmering painting sprawled out below Sparrow. The gusts of wind strengthen the salty air and spray a near-constant haze of briny water onto the wet outcrop of cliff rock that Sparrow lies on. The rock digs into her back, but it's too small to move into another position, and the strong wind threatens to tug Sparrow off if she tries to adjust. She's lucky she hit the rock at all--without it, or if she does something wrong, she'll tumble down the rest of the way to where the waves crash against cliff face.

From above, Crow's voice carries down over the sound of crashing water. "Check in! How are we doing?"

"Cold!" Sparrow yells back. It's uncomfortable, but it's a good thing, because the side that had hit the rock when she'd first tumbled off the cliff hurts less now that she's too cold to feel it. "I'm being brave!"

She's said that every time Crow has asked, because when he first found her on the outcropping of rock, crying from the pain and shock and fear when she realized she wouldn't be able to climb back up from where she fell, babbling in panic, he'd told her to be patient and brave. So that's what she's doing--being brave until Crow saves her.

"Thatta girl. You're doing great." Crow sounds exactly like he always does--calm, lighthearted, like he's about to tell a joke or is already telling a joke that Sparrow doesn't understand. There's sounds of hammering, and then magic sparks in the air for an instant, leaving an acidic smell in its wake. "You know, if you wanted to learn to fly you could have tried talking to one of the azata. I know a few! I told you about the one I met last month, didn't I?"

He did, but Sparrow calls back, "I don't remember!"

"Oh ho, well let me tell you!" More hammering. "I was up at the Dreamer's Temple discussing a new tessellation form that they wanted to use in the next crystal tower--it's very cool, they're calling it direrose pattern, it's a non-periodic structure that's created an incredible basis for the base of the magic that will create the crystal--it'll be self-sustaining if the theory is correct--and I was there to see if that was actually, you know, feasible, and there was this one lady who you could tell wasn't just any regular aasimar--"

He goes on, but the words turn slushy, like the ice treats she buys sometimes out of the stand near Sinead's workshop after she's forgotten about it for a few hours in the afternoon sun. Her attention turns to the sunset, how the sun is mixing in with pink to create salmon streaks that darken into a lovely, dusky purple. The water looks like waving orange ribbon, and Sparrow watches the movement to the sound of Crow's soothing, laughing voice as he talks about the azata he met, the new tower he is going to help build, and the repeating shapes he's going to use to make it.

The next time she registers anything but the orange light on the water is when she feels a hand, scalding in its heat, against her clammy arm. She blinks, and Crow is there beside her--he's learned to fly, she thinks for a hazy second, before she sees the rope around his waist, stretching up and over the top of the cliff. His brown eyes are huge on his face, and white spots bracket the sides of his mouth, but when she makes eye contact he smiles. The wind whips his black hair across his face, and the orange sunset illuminates him from behind like he's a hero from a penny novel coming to save a princess.

His gaze moves to her body, where the salt spray soaking through her clothes can't fully hide the red that's seeped from the wound. His hand flutters over it, but doesn't touch, moving over her torso, then her leg. "Can you--? No, never mind."

"Crow?"

"It's okay. You're going to be okay," he tells her. "It looks worse than it is. I'm going to pick you up, and it might hurt, but this rope will pull us up once I let go and you'll be back in your bed before it even gets dark. You understand?" After a pause, Crow says, "You gotta say you understand, Sparrow. Sparrow. Don't be scared."

"I'm going to be okay," Sparrow parrots. "It looks worse than it is. I'm not scared." She knows it's the truth. Crow will get her off the cliff, and he'll get her dry, and he'll put her to bed, and maybe if she asked nice enough he'll get her favorite soup from town too, even though it would be dark by the time he actually left. It's not the right season for it, but she wants something to make her warm.

Crow takes her in his arms, and it is painful but not really--like the pain is happening in another room, instead of right at her skin. And Crow is burning hot, and his arms are strong around her, and he is whispering in her ear, "You'll be okay, you'll be okay," and he lifts her up the wet cliff like he has wings like an azata, and the sun is so beautiful as it meets the ocean over his shoulder.

Orange is my favorite color, she thinks, and she closes her eyes to sleep.

[twiceasfrustrating]

Hello.

May I request Rook ? Thank you.

- 🪰

Rating: General Audiences  Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: Gen Fandom: Twisted Wonderland  Relationships: Epel Felmier & Rook Hunt & Vil Schoenheit Characters: Epel Felmier, Rook Hunt, Vil Schoenheit Additional Tags: fluff Summary: Pomefiore takes a trip to a museum to appreciate some fine art. Epel, however, doesn't understand how this stuff can be considered "art". Rook decides to do his thing and praise the understated beauty to help Epel understand. A/N: You gave me too much freedom, Mi Love. Now you get two gay dads trying to raise their problem child to appreciate artwork. Also, I know you speak French and that makes me fear what you will think as you read this hot mess. lol

"C'est magnifique, non?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea what you just said, but it sure is… something." Epel shook his head, unsure of what exactly to say about the work of art – if you could really call it that – in front of him.

"Something it indeed is," Rook gushed in his usual manner that both overwhelmed Epel and made him slightly uncomfortable. "Such vibrant colors conveying the range of human emotions in such a concise and elegant form. It truly makes one feel humbled."

"It's a buncha squares."

There was no other way to describe what Epel was seeing other than that. It was a single canvas with a small yellow square inside of a black square of nearly the same size inside of a larger white square inside of a red square that filled the entire outer edge.

Epel looked at the piece of art in confuzzlement. "I was making the same thing with a box of crayons when I was a sprout."

"Your scribbles weren't valued in the millions." Vil finally interjected, tired of listening to Rook trying to educate a stubborn child who refused to hear the actual praise.

Vil wore his blonde hair back in a messy bun. His eyes were covered by slim framed sunglasses that obscured his eyes and there was a flora silk scarf around his neck to try and hide some of his other recognizable features from public view. Although, it was hard not to recognize his distinct frame and build even under his attempt to obfuscate it under clothing.

A slight frown crossed Epel’s face. "I'm just saying it doesn't take that much talent to make some squares. It ain- isn't the same as those other pictures with all the details."

"They're called landscapes," Vil informed him, "and they are quite beautiful and require a keen eye to make."

"Mais cela a sa propre beauté!" Rook beamed. "One can appreciate the fine work that goes into capturing the experience of the human eye and the grandiosity of such a sight; there is a reason humans never grow tired of seeing the sun rise and set. This price is beautiful in its own way though.

"It captures what the eyes cannot. It tries to materialize the emotions of man into a single, finite, unchanging image. It tells an incroyable story with only one shape and four colors. There are no brush strokes to give away that it was made by hand, the squares are perfectly centered, it was made without any sketching or planning on the canvas. It's as if it was made by something otherworldly, but we know that's not possible because the artist's name is attached to the piece. We know that un beastman made this with only their hands. Does that dissonance not stir something inside of you, Monsieur Pommette?"

Epel stared at Rook with concern.

Vil stood back and listened to Rook's analysis of the piece until the end before he spoke. "It's not wrong to appreciate a landscape. They are a classic form of art and require an eye for fine detail. It's also not wrong to say that a work of art isn't meant for you. However," Vil snapped, "I will not allow the skill, practice, and hard work that goes into creating artwork like this as well. The artist is not less talented and puts in no less effort than any other and such efforts should be recognized even when we do not like the end results."

"Ah, Roi du Poison, I knew you would understand." Rook smiled from ear to ear. "Do you see the beauty in this artwork now, Monsieur Pommette?"

"Suuuure," Epel said hesitantly. 

Then he went quiet.

He didn't understand what either of them was saying, but he also didn't want to hear them lecture him any more than necessary – which was not at all. All he wanted was to get through this strange experience as quickly as possible.

[ennyxythegalaxyfreak]

DLC TALK HERE!! No spoilers till under the cut tho.

SO!!!

While I said that the new chapter of the fic is FINALLY coming this week(or veery early next week) after having to write it, scrapping parts and doing a bit of a rework and a rewrite as well...

What I really wanna say is. I had the fortune of being able to play the DLC myself right on release instead of watching a letsplay as my first impression, which would be a first when it comes to FNAF! YAY!!

I just finished playing through it finally(still missing the tird ending tho), and my mind is a scramble trying to make sense and assemble puzzle pieces on a sleepy brain. Without going into detail, I feel like it neither confirmed NOR denied any of my personal fears on it and it just leaves me in a picky spot of observations, assessments, ideas, hypothetical possibilities of explanations that could go either here or there...

In other words, I enjoyed it, I had a lot of fun despite all my reservations, but story-wise(and as a person not the fondest of book lore or a couple fan theories) I'm in not even sure how to sort my feelings appropriately xD

In any case thankfully it didn't make me change my opinion on lil Gregs to be quite frank, tho he does have me thinking him over more now.

Now a lil more detail under the cut, with SPOILERS this time!!! Still not too much tho.

First, Eclipse had me FREAKING jfnjngrde I did NOT expect to see him there, that caught me SO off-guard.

Second, the V.A.N.N.I. thing still has me curious, but damn i loved that visually tho. Happy to see a Helpy in some shape way or form. With an "i" instead of "y" lol

Then there's Roxy. Though she's not my fave, I still love her to bits, so I was SO VERY HAPPY to see the way she was treated in the DLC. The bond with Cassie was just so qwq

Then oh god, the headless Freddy thing... At first I was abt to get sad abt it. Then I was like, what he doin in Fazer Blast if this is the Burntrap ending. And then I read the word "prototype" on his foot and was like, ooooh. Okay xD

I do wonder how our good old Fred is doing tho, hope he's fine, since we didn't actually see a hint of him in the game. And on the same note as that is Vanessa of course.

Okay next is the whole thing with the comic panels. Not rly a fan of basically saying all the other endings except one are less of an alternative timeline type of thing and more of, well, fiction, kinda as a much smaller extension of my pet peeve of "it was all a dream/fiction/whatever" but oh well. Don't think it's gonna stop anyone tho, least of all me.

Curious about the one that had two Gregory's in it(I know it's one of the ending panels but like, interesting choice of a panel there xD) but I suppose it could be a bit of a thing hinting to the fact that there ARE kinda two, "Gregory" guiding us being a sham

The whole thing with Gregory supposedly being stuck or trapped reeked of suspicious way before any of the Mimic stuff became known to me, since way back when I first saw the poster. Him guiding Cassie to Roxy Raceway in the game I was guarded on it the whole game, even just the littlest things like a weird and unnatural-sounding tone on a word or two and the everything... Doesn't take a genius is what am sayin. So my bestie who had to tolerate watching me play and ramble on about what i think may be happening being my witness, the reveal was an "i knew it" moment

Then post reveal when he says he's not even in the Plex anymore, there's a small part of me that is like "but what if it's also a fluke" still but under the assumption he IS the real one... He said "we" and "us" and there was someone with him, wonder if it's Fred or nah... Honestly never sure abt anything with this franchise and I'm not a big lore person or a theorist either.

And the whole betrayal thing... Not saying what he did is right, but considering the threat of the Mimic I can't really entirely blame him either. If it's genuinely him and him in his right mind (we don't talk abt ggy here thanks), and even if it's not the case, I can already smell people hating on a child cuz of a decision like they like to do

Is prolly not all and not best formed by am not home, my laptop is on 9%, my phone is not logged into tumblr and I didn't take my passwords here, soooo.... Thank you for coming to my ramblings if anyone actually read this lmao! Just needed to get these raw thoughts outta my system before going to bed.

[selfshipseaside]

Definitely kicking a hornet's nest with this one,

but it's a chance to vent so here we go.

I wish people would keep DNI's to their own pages, rather than putting them on every single selfship post.

I hate when I see an imagine that I would otherwise reblog, but it has a big DNI at the bottom.

My blog doesn't have a DNI, and I don't want to endorse the DNI's of other people or make any of my followers feel unwelcome because someone else's DNI is on my blog, so I just don't reblog those kinds of posts.

(I mean on some level I don't think DNI's are even that effective in the first place. I kinda just wish people would block blogs they don't like or agree with rather than calling for a public harassment campaign against them. I suppose on some level this technically makes me "proship" in the literal sense that I oppose harassment over shipping, but I also don't actively ship the kinds of things proshippers are supposedly known for, and I understand why they might make people uncomfortable, so I guess I'm neutral? I just wish people would use the block button instead of creating this atmosphere of exclusion. We all just want to imagine our F/O's; we shouldn't have to agree on everything to reblog an imagine.)

This is all a very fair point to make, anon! I also recognize the hornets nest *I'm* kicking by answering this ask. I have an opinion that...well, a lot of users won't like, probably. But I'll be the first to say it if not the only one. (And let me preface this, because some of you will take this as an opportunity to harass me. I'm not on either side, neutral, or adjacent at all. I do not associate myself with discourse, this is known!) DNI's to me, are extremely performative (Especially DNI banners, what's the point?). And yet, everyone has a general DNI. I do! But I do recognize how performative it is at it's core, I have one to try and attempt to what everyone else does, keep the bad eggs out. But, we cannot control people, we can't ever know who anyone is truly through a screen. Using your own judgement to weed people out is and will remain the best solution for personal curation of your own space. I can't trust a good chunk of this community because I know I'd get taken advantage of in one way shape or form, it's happened to me multiple times already. I will also say that not having a DNI might inherently outcast you from the general community due to everyone's fear of somehow supporting a bad person, or alternatively attracting people you might not want to interact with you, so a lot of people have DNI's, but don't like having them (Myself included). I don't usually answer asks that blatantly claim their stance, or blatantly oppose a stance. This blog is entirely discourse free, and I want to respect absolutely everyone who is worthy of my respect(IE, people who aren't causing harm, people who aren't assholes for no good reason). I also cannot control who does and doesn't interact with my blog, unless I catch them by chance (I see too many accounts fly by in my inbox to keep track, ya dig?) If i see someone I don't agree with interacting with me, say someone who I genuinely believe to be abhorrent with their behavior, I block them. It's not my job or responsibility as a community self-shipping blog to build people's spaces for them. That's their job. This is why call-out/block-lists posts are not my gig, nor will they ever be. They're also performative, and spread a type of negativity that I just simply wont ever promote in a place of comfort and safety. This might be the only time I ever mention this blatantly, but perhaps the future has something else in store. I'm unsure! I just know that a lot of my opinions are rooted from having a perspective and lens in every single playing field to now not even inhabiting any side whatsoever. I'm very articulate with how I manage my morals, I might be a radicalist in some aspects, and grey in other areas. Life doesn't have lines for the less abhorrent tidings. DNI's are one of many human responses of trying not to look like a bad person out of fear, and perhaps even being unsure of themselves and relying on others to speak for them. But that's another topic I won't get into! Sorry this got so long! I do enjoy talking about this subject, but it's just interesting to see how everyone feels. I want to promote listening and civil discussion, emotional intelligence and discussion on community dynamics. Once again, controversial takes are welcome! Let's discuss stuff about our community!