#kindness in a world that was unkind. kindness in a Body that was unkind. being soft when you're built for violence | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gor3-hound · 17 days ago

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ETERNITY — SUGURU GETO

a/n: hiii !! first geto fic on this account maybe?? shocker bcs i love him so bad... commission for @nexysworld !! love her so bad, pls check her out <3

cw: 18+ content, father-daughter incest, possessive behaviour, sheltered reader, mildly dubious consent, yandere-ish themes, very teeny tiny amount of religious themes, too. p in v, creampie, brief choking

Suguru Geto is not a man you would consider to be unkind, but there was very little affection within his actions. Your father was often patient with you - strict, but forgiving. When he touched you, it was always cold and clinical; always born out of necessity.

Your mother had always been irrelevant to him, nothing more than a means to an end. That just so happened to be you, his daughter, and one and only heir. He had sensed the cursed energy within you the moment you were born, and he took you in to raise you on his own. He had no need for that woman anymore - she had served her purpose and bestowed him with a gift greater than any other.

Your life was free of troubles. Perhaps you did not get to play with the village children, but that was alright. You were allowed to play with the others within the compound. His followers were always kind to you, if not somewhat on edge in your presence. You did not understand it then, but now you realised the apprehension they held did not stem from your actions, but from fear of upsetting your father. You had been sheltered, yes, but you found you did not crave much else. You were well-fed, well looked after… It was hard to feel caged when the compound was all you had known.

Your youthful naivety could not last forever, and Suguru knew this. He dreaded your growth with each passing year, waiting for the questions that would come. He could keep you from the outside world, but he could not keep the outside world from you. He had many visitors, people looking to be cured of their ailments. He could keep you from watching these interactions, but he could see the way your curious eyes shone as you watched them come and go.

You asked him about the outside world only once, shortly after he had ‘cured’ a young child. You had been excited to see someone closer to your age, but his words quickly shut you down.

“The child has been plagued with demons,” He had told you simply, eyes cold as he glanced down at you. “I can keep them at bay, yes. But it would not do you well to socialise with others such as him. They will corrupt you.”

It had not convinced you entirely, and he could see that in your eyes. With a small frown, he kneeled before you, tilting his head to the side. “I extracted one from him. Would you like to see it?”

You nodded, as expected. Hopeful curiosity glimmering in your eyes, the idea of being shown something new and dangerous exciting to you. He sighs, allowing the cursed spirit he had absorbed free. He had no worry - he knew it was safely under his control. But he could see the fear in your eyes as it stalked towards you, the way you instinctively backed up, glancing at your father for protection.

“Daddy-”

He lets its maw open inches from your body, the acrid stench of its breath filling the room as it goes to attack. He watches, unblinking, as you tremble and beg for his help, tears streaming down your face. Even still, he waits a few more seconds before driving his cursed tool through the spirit, exorcising it with ease.

“Do you see now why I cannot let you outside? It is far too dangerous for you.” You nod, clinging to him as you sob into the fabric of his robes. He lets you, holding you close to him. “I do not wish to see you hurt. Promise me you won’t ask to leave the compound again.”

“I promise.”

The years pass, and you do not dare mention leaving the compound again. Even as you reach adulthood, the memory of the demon you faced as a child keeps you biting back any requests of more freedom.

Something in your father has changed - you’re not sure what it is, but it leaves you with a lingering sense of unease whenever you cross his path. His gaze has become sharper, watching your every movement like he’s waiting for something. What it is, you’re unsure of. Your pulse is constantly racing when you’re forced to be in his proximity for more than a few seconds, but your brain can’t register what it is about him that’s making you so tense.

Your realisation comes to you slowly. You’ve seen that look before in some of them men that have wandered around the compound. Not directed at you, but you’re able to identify it all the same.

Hunger.

Your realisation doesn’t come with any changes in his actions, but you can see in the subtle curve of his lips that he knows. He can sense that you act differently around him. Geto is an intelligent man, and it’s clear he planned for you to find out from the start. Months pass by without any changes in routine. You rarely see your father unless he deems it necessary to address you, his followers often being the ones responsible for ensuring you attend meals and stay within the compound.

Then, suddenly, he comes to you.

It’s the middle of the night when he wakes you with a gentle caress on your cheek. It’s one of the most affectionate touches he’s given you since you were a little girl, fingertips gently brushing over your cheekbones. When you meet his eyes, your heart stops beating for a moment.

His gaze is anything but kind. His jaw is set tight, and in that moment you realised how naive you were to think ignoring his glances would be enough to keep him at bay. Seeing your eyes widen with fear is enough for a sharp grin to spread across his face, his hand shifting to grasp at your hair, tilting your head back harshly.

“You're looking so beautiful these days, sweetheart.” Suguru murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck, free hand grasping at your hip. “I thought about resisting my impulses, but it’s as if you were made to tempt me. Pure, kind, beautiful. Forbidden fruit is always said to be the sweetest, but I had never thought temptation would come to me in the form of my very own daughter.”

You stiffen under him, hands pushing at his chest. He tuts disapprovingly, his fingers slackening as he pulls his hand from your hair. Suguru slides his fingers down the side of your neck, delicately wrapping around your throat before he squeezes.

“Shh, calm down. It’s only me, bunny.” He purrs the nickname, one he has not used in years in an attempt to soften you, It works, momentarily, but your muscles still feel fraught with tension. He leans down, fingers tightening around your neck in a warning as he presses his lips to yours.

His mouth is hot against yours as he kisses you. He keeps the pace leisurely, almost teasing as he presses his chapped lips against yours, tongue coaxing your lips open. The hand on your hip slides under your shirt in a way that makes you jolt, immediately breaking the kiss.

“Daddy, wait-”

Suguru scoffs, raising a brow at you. “That makes you sound so childish. You're a big girl now, aren't you?”

“D-Dad?” You correct, feeling yourself squirm under his harsh gaze.

“Better.” He breathes out, lowering his head once more to lathe his tongue along the flesh of your throat, licking hotly at your quickening pulse beneath the skin. The hand on your bare slides higher, dragging the fabric of your shirt up until he’s cupping your breast, thumb brushing gently over your nipple. You gasp softly at the pleasure it brings, something that brings an unfamiliar heat searing through your veins as wetness pools in the gusset of your panties.

He grins at the gasp he draws from your lips, teeth gently nipping at your skin as he releases your throat. His thumb flicks over your nipple once more as he drags his other hand down, moving to feel the wetness seeping through your underwear.

“I promised I’d protect you, bunny, and I meant it.” He murmurs, tracing a finger down the middle of the dampened fabric. He feels you tremble as he brushes over your clit, so he presses down gently to hear you whimper.

“I meant it,” he repeats, “I won’t hurt you, I just want you to feel good. You trust me, don’t you?

It’s a question, but it sounds more like a threat. You felt that familiar sense of unease in the back of your mind. You hadn’t experienced these things before, but you weren’t clueless. You knew this was wrong, that he shouldn’t be touching you like this, but as his thumb replaces his finger so he could gently rub circles into your clit, your apprehension melts.

“Good girl.” He praises, words smooth and sweet. His fingers hook in the waistband of your panties, and he slowly slides them down your legs. His eyes hone in on your cunt, slick with arousal that he caused. “Look at you.”

Shame burns your face as you close your thighs, attempting to hide yourself from his view. Suguru grabs your knees, prying your thighs away before sliding his body between them to keep them from closing again.

“What’s wrong? You said you trusted me, bunny. Why are you trying to hide from me?”

“I wasn’t, I… I’m sorry.” You reply, gaze dropping nervously. Your heart pounds almost painfully in your chest, feeling more ashamed for disappointing your father.

“I don’t want to punish you, darling. Don’t you want to be good for me?” He says quietly, his tone almost condescending. He doesn’t wait for a reply before he sinks a finger into your tight cunt, a groan rumbling his chest as he feels you squeezing the digit. “Such an innocent little thing. So tight and wet.”

Suguru pulls back briefly only to remove his clothing, settling between your legs once more. His thumb presses down the base of his cock, allowing himself to align the tip with your dripping hole. “This may hurt at first, but you need to relax for me. Can you be a good girl?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, voice soft and nervous. Suguru presses forward, sliding himself inch by inch inside of your tight heat until his cock is pressed to your cervix. Tears prick at your eyes from the sudden burn, your chest heaving with heavy breaths as he pauses to allow you to adjust to his size.

“Shh, shh. You’ll be alright, bunny. Your body was made for me, after all. It will feel good soon.” He promises, gently rocking his hips. “My sweet girl. I’d never have another have you like this. No, it has to be me. I won’t ever let anyone hurt you.”

He tries to be gentle with you - he has no intention to hurt his sweet little girl - but the way you squeeze around him feels divine. He’s sure he’s never felt anything so perfect before, feeling as though he’s being driven mad as your slick walls cling to his cock, sucking him greedily every time he starts to pull out. Suguru is not one to lose control, but he can’t find it within himself to hold back as he starts to fuck into you with earnest, pounding you into the mattress until you’re crying out with every thrust.

His hand falls to rest on your pelvis, thumb brushing your clit in a way that makes you mewl, arching into his touch. He grunts as you squeeze tighter around his cock, his hips stuttering as he rubs circles into the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your hips buck, and he slams into you harder, bruising your cervix each time his hips snap forward. You’re so tight and warm and perfect around him, and he’s not sure how much longer he’s going to last inside of you.

He watches through hooded, lust-glazed eyes as your body coils up tight, the prettiest moans and whimpers spilling from your hips as you come undone around his length. His teeth clench at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him, the grip on your hip turning bruising as he fucks into you erratically, chasing his own release. His hips stutter before he stills, spilling deep inside of you with a low groan. His eyes squeeze shut, hand falling away from your clit to grip the sheets as he floods you with his cum.

“There we go, bunny.” He murmurs softly as he returns to himself, slowly pulling out of you. He sighs shakily, brushing some hair from your face. “You’re mine forever, darling. I’m never letting you stray from my side.”

His tone alone assures you his words are a promise.

#geto x you #geto x reader #geto suguru #jjk geto #jjk x you #jjk smut #jjk x reader #geto smut #jjk suguru #getou suguru x reader #suguru geto smut

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literary-motif · 2 months ago

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Sakuverse Characters as Paintings

So, I had thoughts on this and I wanted to share them with you a bit extensively. Feel free to let me know your opinion on this, especially if your interpretations differ from mine.

I’m by no means an expert on art and art history, so take my analysis with a grain of salt. Apologies for the (mostly) Eurocentric collection. Shoutout to this website for helping me understand art movements and some of these paintings better.

Now, let's begin.

Alex — Narcissus, Caravaggio

Italian, Baroque, painted ca. 1597-1599

The myth of Narcissus first appears in the Roman poet Ovid’s Metamorphoses. In essence, the myth runs thus:

Narcissus, a very handsome man, rejects every person who falls in love with him and his dashing looks, which leads him to be cursed by the Gods. One day, coming by a body of water, he looks at his reflection, and falls in love with it/himself, fulfilling the Gods’ curse never to be able to have what he loves. He wastes away by the water until he turns into a Daffodil, also known as Narcissus.

A possible interpretation of this painting is that it is a Vanitas, a piece of art serving as a reminder of the briefness of life, the inevitability of death, and not to waste time on frivolous things — kind of like memento mori. Inherent to this is also the pointlessness of ambition, since everything done and wanted in life is ultimately meaningless and fated to wither away.

The light and dark colors used here in the typical baroque style have a dramatizing effect — Alex’s overall story grows more dramatic as it progresses from part four onward, although the elements of tension in his relationship with Gremlin were introduced well before that.

Alex is one of the more dramatic characters in that it is somehow inherent to him as a person, as opposed to characters such as Xanthus, where the drama lies outside the character and focuses more on the exterior world or the circumstances they are in.

Alex is also very ambitious and aware of his talent. He knows what he wants and works hard to get it. His career goals and achieving something substantial with his art are crucial to him, which is why he is willing to leave behind Gremlin and their life together to advance his profession.

He is willing to sacrifice everything for his work — his dream — and invests so much time and effort into it that it consumes him, erasing everything else around him. Alex knows that. He is aware of how his ambition guides him and how absorbed he is, so he tries to better himself to be more grounded in reality and live outside his hopes and dreams.

Ultimately, he gives up on that process — when he gives up on Gremlin, who is his tether to the world outside of work (“If it wasn’t for you these past couples of weeks, I would have gone mad,” part 4) — choosing instead to abandon the general life he is a part of to throw himself into photography, his career, and detach himself from everything else.

Still, he is by no means overly selfish or unkind to others to further his ambition and get ahead in life. Alex tries his best to be considerate — despite the anxieties and passion clouding his mind. He is not nearly as arrogant and self-absorbed as Narcissus, but resembles him in his discontent of the present. Some similarities turn Alex very much into Narcissus, who — in the spirit of a Vanitas — values the ultimately meaningless and works towards the completion of a frivolous goal.

In the end, Alex’s restlessness and always thinking ahead to things that could possibly advance his career keep him from being satisfied, especially now that he has no grounding presence around him anymore. He is unhappy in the present, which is the message and warning a Vanitas tries to convey — that time is short and every moment should be relished because this life won’t last forever.

Alex will never be content with himself as a person, where he is in life, his achievements, and the present as a whole — much like Narcissus felt himself above the present and the people around him, only to ultimately be trapped in his own vanity.

One last thing: the reflection Narcissus stares into is both ironic and very fitting for Alex as a photographer. Alex takes pictures of other people and does not like to be in front of a camera lens, which means he does not really see himself since he is too busy looking at others. The reflection in the water correlates to the artistic lens Alex views the world through. As a photographer, he tries to capture what is in front of him, but only in a superficial sense that shows the form of things, not the depth behind them.

Isaac — Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, Casper David Friedrich

German, Romanticism, painted 1818

German romanticism was, in a way, predated by the Sturm und Drang (Storm and Stress) movement, stretching across the fields of the arts, including literature. One of its most known works is perhaps Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther.

Romanticism focuses on the expression of emotion and subjective experiences, which is quite the opposite of the period of enlightenment that predated it, focusing instead on rationality and tangible knowledge, turning the human mind away from superstitions and faith to think rationally for itself and reason with the world around it. The appreciation of nature and its connection to humanity was a typical element of the German romantic movement.

Wanderer above the Sea of Fog (German: Der Wanderer über dem Nebelmeer) is perhaps one of the better known pieces of art from this period.

The vastness of the landscape beyond creates a striking contrast to the solid and narrow man in the middle. At first, it looks like he is the center, exploring and conquering, but with the haziness and mystery the fog creates, the landscape seems to stretch into infinity, much farther than the man can grasp and even fully comprehend. It shows that, in reality, humankind is infinitesimal in the grand scale of nature and the richness of existence.

The color choice — tones of green, blue, and white — as well as the texture and soft brushstrokes of the fog create an eariness and a sense of fleetingness. The lightness of the scenery is a reminder of the transitory of life and the briefness of existence.

The central motif of this painting is solitude. The lonely wanderer, alone in nature, alone in facing the world and existence before him — very much similar to Isaac and his solitude, relying only on himself to get through life unscathed. He is isolated by his own design, having cut off all his relations due to the dangerous nature of his work, Pickle being the exception.

He worries excessively that the people he cares about will get hurt because of him and the enemies he has made through his work. Isaac has a deep urge to protect those around him. His tragic backstory and overall stoic demeanor makes him a Byronic Hero-esque figure, suiting the general impression of pride but ultimately soul-crushing loneliness of this painting.

His story focuses, at its core, on overcoming this solitude and daring to trust and love someone again after losing every person close to him. Before this healing process, he is much like a deserted man, wandering aimlessly from one case to the next, buried in work, trying to make sense of it all.

Isaac guards the secret of the supernatural and is in contact with it due to his work. He sees and knows that reality stretches further than is commonly known, which suits the grandeur of the depicted scenery the wanderer is gazing at.

Xanthus - The Drinker, Erich Plontke

German, Modern, painted 1910 or 1914

Modernism is more like a supercategory, incorporating more specific art movements and styles lasting from the late nineteenth to the end of the twentieth century. Due to this painting and the artist being less known, I could not specify the art movement, nor even find out reliably when it was painted. As just someone, meaning no credentials and comprehensive knowledge of art, as I’ve stated before, personally, I would count this painting as belonging to the subcategory of symbolism. A few reasons.

Firstly, it was a popular movement in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, fitting the timeframe of Plontke’s life and the possible timeframe of when he painted The Drinker. More importantly, however, it is similar in style and nature to the painting of one of the leading artists of symbolism, Arnold Böcklin, and his famous self-portrait (I’ll get to him when discussing Asirel), therefore giving the impression that The Drinker can be seen as a part of it as well.

Symbolism, as an art movement, follows romanticism, which had begun losing its emotional and expressive natures according to some contemporary artists, therefore creating the need to establish a new art movement to escape reality and the realistic depiction of things in art (remember, art, especially in romanticism, was basically the counterbalance to the rationalization of the world brought on by the enlightenment — the subjective, as opposed to the predominant objective).

Interestingly enough — but also very fitting considering the renewed need to express the individual inner feelings — symbolism does not necessarily have a defined technique or some such thing that separates it cleanly from other art movements. It branches off and evolves into many others, such as expressionism and art nouveau, due to the focus on personal expression and subsequent disregard for a unified aesthetic or technique.

The drinker has a lot of dark tones, which create a heavy atmosphere, contrasting starkly with the apparent lightness of the man’s shared company with death. The room around them is chaotic; empty bottles, a sign of the man’s overindulgence, and wilted flowers, a symbol of death, are spread over the floor. The most striking thing about the depicted scene, however, is the nearly painfully intimate and familiar relationship between death and the man. They look entirely at ease in each other's company, and the heavy atmosphere surrounding them — evoked by the dark colors and chaos around them — is elevated slightly by the calmness exuded by them and their familiarity.

The central message of The Drinker appears to be that hedonism and overindulgence — be it in alcohol (as the title of the painting suggests) or other things — is a way of familiarizing oneself with death, as a way to an early grave.

The disarray of the room reflects Xanthus’ inner being well. His life is very much in disarray, even though he keeps an iron grip on his impulses and maintains his control almost flawlessly throughout everything. From being turned in a war he did not want to fight in, to losing connection with his family and accidentally betraying his friends because of his arrogance, to chasing after Love — he evolves from a product of circumstance to actively taking charge of his life, and to an extent also those around him.

The darker tones relate well to Xanthus’ dark past, his crushing regrets, his darker side, and his predominant bitterness about the world. Despite or perhaps because of having lived for so long, he has little hope and optimism. He is stoic most of the time, does not indulge freely, and prides himself on being, or appearing to be in control of any given situation, and himself, including his emotions and impulses.

A rare occurrence when Xanthus entirely loses it, to put it mildly, is caused by the emotion of Love getting to him through the bond. Their feelings of panic and fear as Audric threatens them reach Xanthus, overwhelming him to the extent that he throws himself at the locked door relentlessly to escape and save the person he loves most. Technically, they are not his emotions.

One of the most fundamental principles of stoicism is to keep an organized mind and examine oneself. Only when we know ourselves can we truly understand the world around us. Stoics are not easily overwhelmed by their emotions, not because they suppress them, but because they know themselves and have examined their mind, knowing what, why, and how things affect them. Ideally, therefore, they can keep calm in any situation, because they can rely on themselves fully and their judgment is not clouded by emotion.

Another part of stoicism that is tremendously interesting with Xanthus, is the focus on things we can control. The stoic belief is that we should only concern ourselves with the things inside of our control — things that we can influence and change — as opposed to wasting our energy worrying about those we cannot change and have no control over.

Xanthus, of course, has a lot of power, both because of his long lifespan and subsequent advantages, and his special abilities as a vampire. Everything he sets his mind to is somehow within his control because most of the time, he has the power and ability to influence it.

This, coupled with the bitterness he carries, results in a very ruthless side, which also comes due to his long life and the familiarity with death and decay it has brought him.

Xanthus is no longer fazed by the people around him dying. He has grown used to it over the centuries, and he has been the cause of it, too. It does not have any effect on him anymore. In a way, he sits in the company of death as an equal to it, which makes him very dangerous because as opposed to the natural and passive process of dying, he has a will and is actively able to kill. Xanthus is aware of his power, and views himself as dangerous, as a threat.

He is god-like, a force of nature almost, due to what he is, what he can do, and the high level of control he keeps of himself, not daring to indulge or lower his guard, lest he should lower himself to what is beneath him. He believes in shaping the world around him and has grown comfortable with the ever-present, familiar companion of death throughout the changing centuries. It is much like him, after all, near-eternal and inevitable.

Asirel - Self-Portrait with Fiddling Death, Arnold Böcklin

Swiss, Symbolism, painted 1872

Typical for symbolism is the recurring image of skeletons as a reminder of death and mortality — which is also the primary connecting element between this self-portrait and The Drinker. Thematically, the paintings as well as the characters fit well together or resemble each other in some way.

Xanthus and Asirel are perhaps two sides of the same coin. Both are closely connected with the supernatural, Xanthus because he is a vampire, and Asirel due to the nature of his work. They are both connected with “darker” themes, which are the driving factor of their stories, as opposed to characters such as Isaac, where these elements are merely an added factor to a story more focused on character development.

Böcklin is one of the leading artists of symbolism, depicting the inevitability of death through the classical image of a skeleton. In that way, the painting serves as a reminder of the fragility of human life — perhaps like a vanitas — and alludes to the briefness of life.

Mortality is specifically expressed by death looming over Böcklin’s shoulder and playing a single-string violin while laughing almost menacingly at him. It shows the shortness of life and death as the inevitable victor over all.

Despite the stark reminder of his mortality by death literally playing the tune of the end of his life beside him, it is not exactly fear in Böcklin’s eyes but a mixture of awe, realization, and dread. His eyes stay fixed on his work — his painting — which shows his unwavering concentration and devotion to his profession despite death being inches away from him.

An added detail that I believe is interesting but which could be purely coincidental or for which my lack of comprehension of painting and colors is to blame is the color on the artist’s brush. It is a deep bluish green which does not appear anywhere else in the picture, suggesting that the real-life artist Böcklin painted himself in his self-portrait, who in turn is painting a different picture, perhaps a happier one since the color is lighter and less dramatic and bleak than those used in the self-portrait.

Asirel works towards creating a better world as well since he has the power and influence to make his plans come true for the most part. He is ambitious in that he perfects what he does and never fails to meet his duties and responsibilities due to being unwaveringly focused on his work, unrelenting even when his life is threatened. Instead of succumbing to fear, Asirel circumnavigates the issue by seeking additional protection and continuing his work, holding fast to his ideals and plans for the future. He is much like Böcklin, who continues painting despite death looming over him.

Due to the nature of his work and the many enemies he has made, Asirel is always close to death and danger, from which he tries to shield himself by hiring Pet and somewhat securing his safety through a strong ally. Despite his mortality, he is not outright terrified of dying and the constant threat on his life; Asirel is more concerned about it since dying at the hands of his enemies is a fate he would much rather avoid.

Andrew - The Unequal Marriage, Vasili Pukirev

Russian, Realism, painted 1863

The central point of realism is the depiction of things as they are — the ugly parts of everyday life and the societal structure of the mid-19th century — and its darker parts, stepping away from the creation of glorifying images and expressions of mostly grand scenes or events as well as the more traditional idea of beauty.

The subject matter here, and the ugly reality of society in the 19th century depicted, is an arranged marriage between a young woman and an older man, much to her discontent and evidently against her will, as the title would suggest.

She is downcast, her red-rimmed eyes averted. The bride’s expression is one of sorrow and regret. Her evident unhappiness with the marriage taking place contrasts greatly with the beauty of her appearance. The veil on her head looks almost like a crown. Her hair is nicely arranged in locks, and the golden jewelry she wears speaks of her higher standing in society.

The marriage the bride is being forced into parallels the academic career thrust on Andrew by his parents. He excelled at it and ultimately found peace with the prestigious position it led him towards, but it was not his decision. He felt like he did not have control of his life, despite ultimately enjoying where he ended up.

Andrew was continuously crushed under the expectations of his parents, under the title of the ‘Golden Child’ they bestowed upon him while brushing the brother he so loved aside. He feels he missed out on life because he followed a predestined path. He was never able to make decisions on his own because he already knew what his parents expected him to do. His life was lived in service to their ideals for him.

The groom stands stiffly next to the bride, eyeing her with a sideways glance. He seems unbothered by her evident unhappiness, his mouth twisted into something resembling a self-satisfied smirk.

Before them both stands the pastor, officiating the marriage. He is bent forward, holding perhaps the bride’s ring — the symbol of her marriage and the cause of her discontent — in one hand and an open Bible in the other.

Andrew’s difficult relationship with religion is noteworthy here. He grew up evangelist catholic, witnessing his parents twisting their faith to justify their abusive behavior towards his brother and their prejudices against him. The unhappiness he ultimately feels — both at feeling like his life is not his own and being strangely isolated in life — stems from his religious upbringing, in essence. It was his parents’ faith — however twisted it was — that drove his brother away, it was their belief and opinion of him being gifted that made them watch him like a hawk, obsessed with having him live up to the expectations they had for him, and ultimately robbing him of his agency.

In the background, a few guests are visible attending the ceremony. The feeling the painting evokes is one of suffocation. The bride is being forced into a life she does not want, and the dark colors of the background create a tightness in viewing the scene that fits the theme perfectly. Viewing the painting, it feels almost claustrophobic.

Among the guests are two women, both looking intently at the groom. One stands between the groom and the pastor, and the other is hardly visible, only her head poking over the shoulder of the pastor at the edge of the painting. They are both seemingly dressed in wedding clothes, the flowers on both their heads similar to those worn by the bride, creating the impression that they could both be former wives of the groom, continuing to show how much life he has already lived as opposed to his young wife.

The women in the crowd are against the wedding judging by their glares directed at the groom. With him being the object of their scorn, it is more likely that they are blaming him for the marriage and opposing him taking her as a wife — perhaps criticizing the evident age gap between them — as opposed to glaring at her, which would have been more likely if the motive for their action would have been jealousy. Thus, the women are concerned for the bride, seemingly trying to protect her and silently calling for the groom to leave her be.

Andrew did not have that kind of support against his parents' predestined path for him, nor when he eventually tore himself away from them and their expectations. Eventually, he did meet people who cared for and supported him — such as Isaac, Darling, Luca, and Claire — out of which only Darling truly helped him when he abandoned his position as a professor and started on his own career path, free from the expectations of his parents and their judging eyes.

Behind the bride, to the right, stands a gentleman with crossed arms who also glares at the groom. His head is inclined forward, and he looks almost protective of the bride and ready to fight the groom over her like a lover would.

Before their relationship irreparably fell apart, Andrew and his brother were inseparable. Andrew still talks of him fondly, wishing more than anything to be able to mend the rift his parents had torn between them because it had never been jealousy that alienated the twins from one another, but their parents' unfair treatment of his brother while pushing Andrew onto a pedestal so high, they no longer cared for his twin. He is the discarded child, forgotten and out of sight.

Ultimately, Andrew’s upbringing left him isolated in life much like the bride. They are alone in a room full of people, lost despite their possible future success after elevating their status — with marriage or a flourishing career — because they walk a path they did not choose for themselves.

There is silent support for both of them in the shadows, and while it is evident that some people disapprove of the groom’s or his parent’s actions, that is still not enough to tear either of them from the path they were predestined to follow.

Zaros - The Storming of the Winter Palace, Sokolov-Skalya

Soviet, Realism, painted 1939

The story of The Noble Trials is political at its core. In essence, it is the want for reform, whose most reverent supporter is Zaros, against the continuity of a ‘working’ system, as incorporated by the Earis.

The relation between Zaros and this particular painting is less about what is outright shown and more about its implications.

The storming of the Winter Palace was an event that took place during the October Revolution in Russia in 1917. Close to the end of what was the initial turmoil of the communist uprising — and what would later become a Civil War between Tsarists and Communists (rather Bolsheviks) after Lenin was de-facto in power — the ministers of the provisional government of the old regime had barricaded themselves in the Winter Palace in Petrograd, which is St. Petersburg today, and served as the capital of Tsarist Russia from 1712. The Bolsheviks moved the capital of Soviet Russia to Moscow in 1918.

What would be portrayed as an epic scene, glorifying the October Revolution and mystifying it with grandeur and splendor in soviet propaganda — judging by the date of its publication much like this painting, which was retroactively made to do just that — the historical happenings were a bit less spectacular.

The tsarist ministers held out in the Winter Palace for a while, debating what to do against their slipping power, before they eventually surrendered in the face of the Bolshevik’s much greater military force and logistic superiority. The revolutionaries arrested them, ending the constitutional monarchy with a victory for communism.

The events were later adapted into a scripted ‘play.’ I say ‘play,’ because it was a reenactment inspired by the events. Of course, being Soviet Russia in 1920, it was not an authentic and historically accurate depiction, but rather a communist fantasy about the glory and grandeur of the days of the October Revolution. The Storming of the Winter Palace — by that I mean these words in that order — refers to the propaganda reenactment, less to the historical events.

History lesson aside, I see similarities between the Communist Revolution overthrowing the Tsarist Empire and Zaros’ political ideas for the future of Serulla. There are a few reasons, not limited to the obvious reformative spirit he has in common with the revolutionaries, the idea of focusing on the benefit of the people rather than the ruling elite — nobles or bourgeoisie — and the utter chaos it plunged the empire into.

The idealistic version of communism, and by extension the October Revolution the Bolsheviks used to implement their interpretation of it, basically followed the simple principle of putting the people, that is the workers (or proletariat), first in their politics.

The central idea of Communism is to end the ‘class struggle’ between the proletariat and bourgeoisie — that is, between workers and their employers, or the general public and the upper classes in society. Especially in the 18th to 19th century during the boom of the Industrial Revolution, worker’s rights were practically nonexistent. The broad public was suffering, toiling away while a few select people owning the means of production (that is, the machines with which the people worked to create a finished product) were amplifying their wealth on the backs of their workers.

This injustice, or the struggle between bourgeoisie and proletariat, is something communism professes to fix by creating a classless society, in which the proletariat owns the means of producing and the finished product — the country morphing into a worker’s state, so to speak.

Of course, all this is theory, and the reality of Soviet Russia and later the Soviet Union as a whole was different. The general quality of living was worse than in the West — and the state used oppression, secrecy, and propaganda to mask the fact that despite professing to be for the people — the workers, the general public, the proletariat — in truth, the proletariat of capitalist countries generally had it much better.

The central link between Zaros Atha’lin and the October Revolution — and the reason this painting is so fitting for him — is the absolute chaos it plunged the country into. What followed the October Revolution was a bloody Civil War with monarchists opposing the revolutionaries with tremendous violence on both sides in a conflict that lasted until 1922, the year the Soviet Union was founded, and brought its own set of problems and system of oppression that I won’t get into in detail.

Zaros as a character is calm and collected most of the time. He appears at least somewhat in charge of the situation — as opposed to the Earis, who is quick to be pulled around by their emotions, specifically their frustration and anger. The problem with Zaros is less about his character, as it is with his circumstances and plans — both ultimately bound to destabilize the kingdom should he ascend to the throne alone and try to make them a reality.

His politics for the people — the general public, so to speak — stem from his sense of injustice in the organization of society. The central problem here is that he cannot rule with their backing (he cannot rule for them) because the people have a very strenuous relationship with him. They do not like him. They do not support him as they support the popular Earis — or the Ilves family — despite the queen’s politics not meant for them.

It is a difficult thing to change the politics of a country or kingdom so drastically top-down as Zaros suggests. His theory is nice, incorporating all the right reasons for giving the people more power and dismantling the unjust superiority of the noble families in the kingdom and their influence over politics. But Zaros — certainly a persona non grata in the eyes of basically every one of these nobles — is bound to fail in establishing his rule and keep himself on the throne. The nobles will sabotage him and undermine his authority every chance they get because they do not like him, they do not respect him, and his politics would strip power away from them while reforming the whole societal system they profit from greatly.

He has no support or friends in high places. Wanting to implement his ideas on his own, with no backup from the ruling elite — the ‘government’ he should run — and especially lacking support from the masses who by any means should be his greatest backers and the very people he wants to do these things for, will end in disaster. The golden ideals that ultimately bring nothing but chaos and pain when implemented in reality are befitting the image of the October Revolution, the sentiment similar to the early days of Soviet Russia.

Kayson - The Kiss, Klimt

Austrian, Art Nouveau, painted 1907-1908

The focus of this composition lies in the center, on the for Klimt characteristically two-dimensional drawing of the embracing couple before a shimmering golden background.

They are both on a flower field, the woman kneeling with bare feet and bright flowers in her hair. The man leans over her, enveloping her in a tight embrace, partly hidden by the golden robe draped over his shoulder, an ivy crown on his head.

The man’s face is obscured, hidden against the skin of the woman as he cradles her face, kissing her cheek softly as her eyes are closed in blissful contentment, one arm resting on his neck, pulling him closer to her and furthering the raw feeling of intimacy between them.

The vivid colors of the geometrical shapes add to the overarching feeling of softness. The warm gold gives the painting a certain sensuality — vulnerability shown in the love the two people share and the women’s bare feet.

Kayson is a natural caregiver. He cares so much for the people around him, always trying to help them or get them to laugh with such fond affection that the softness in this painting — the obvious care depicted between the two lovers — fits perfectly with his essence. He is warm. His actions speak of kindness and love while he works his absolute hardest to give as much of his heart to the people around him. The comfort he exudes and the affection he so openly shows work well with the overall warmth and trust expressed here.

Further, this is a little silly observation, but with the cloak draped around the man’s shoulder and the woman kneeling on the ground, allowing him to shower her in love, it looks like they are trapped under the cloak together.

Niall - Mona Lisa, Leonardo da Vinci

Italian, Renaissance, painted 1503-1506

Perhaps the most famous painting in the world, the Mona Lisa is the portrait of a woman. She is sitting comfortably upright, her arms folded, with a small smile on her lips. The background is of a twisting scenery with mountains and a body of water. The predominant color is brown, but despite the dark tones on the canvas, the painting holds no threatening or dark atmosphere. The image is calm, the color of her clothes blending into the scenery, but making her look refined rather than gloomy.

Niall is a serene character that matches the calm energy of the Mona Lisa. They are both quietly content and peaceful in their lives — Niall especially now that he resolved issues from his past that weighed heavily on his mind.

The dark background of the scenery, while not threatening per se, still casts a darkness over the painting that matches the circumstances of Niall’s past life. His years in school, where he was subjected to bullying, and the long stretch of lonely years in university until he eventually moved back to his mother, practically putting a standstill on his life as he was caught in echoes of the past.

The new relationship with SB helped him break out of it, mending the scars left by the past, and although it shaped his character permanently, now he set out on a new road of healing until the rekindled relationship and renewed trust between them led Niall to his presently content self, comfortable with his life and happy where he is — even if that happiness is still sometimes tainted by the memories of his past traumatic experiences and can never be as carefree and light as he perhaps would have wished.

The dark colors of this painting corroborate this, making the Mona Lisa appear majestic and grave. Working against her smile and her evident contentment is an underlying seriousness that suits Niall’s character, evidence of the dark stretches of his life he walked through alone.

Dontis - Café Terrace at Night, Van Gogh

Dutch, post-impressionism, painted 1888

The subject matter of this post-impressionist painting is, as the title suggests, the café terrace on the center-left side, lit in a bright yellow light by the gas lamp above. Its numerous tables, chairs, and people give the place a bustling atmosphere. It seems brimming with life, while the cobblestone street outside, especially in the front, is empty. A few figures wander around in the background, perhaps walking towards the focal point of the painting — walking towards the light.

Moving away from the cafe, the scenery becomes dark. The deep blues and greens on the night create a nearly mystical air while the stars twinkle above — noticeably the same yellow color used for the light of the gas lamp in their center.

The feeling of familiarity the cafe evokes, as well as the intimacy and homeliness of the bright, warm yellow contrast with the dark blue of the cobblestone street and the bleak night beyond it, empty with a crushing loneliness accompanying it that not even the gentle glimmer of the stars above can soothe.

Dontis’ character needs a connection with people. He actively seeks them out, naturally drawn to places bustling with life to relish the connection with humanity. He needs closeness to be well, seeking out company and offering an ear to listen to their troubles and feelings without judgment. He wants to take care of his chance encounters, if only for a short while — a cafe being a perfect symbol for this brief but intimate connection.

The darkness beyond reflects his heavy past and the pain he endured, the stars shining above a reminder of the kindness he retained throughout. Dontis does not fare well alone — it is not in his nature — he seeks out people to interact with, no matter how much they might hurt him, and he still offers them all the care in his heart despite it. He needs the connection to live, just like the café, which only retains its essence of loose intimacy by various people coming and going.

It is a fast-paced environment despite its apparent homeliness, much like Dontis, who can never bind himself to one single person for long.

Jonah - Nighthawks, Hopper

American, Genre art, painted 1942

The eerie stillness and the quietness of night depicted here might seem too bleak and lonely for a character (and story) as bright and loving as Jonah. It is less about this oppressing feeling of isolation — the loneliness of being alone in a room full of people or alone in a big city — which carries a sense of particular tragedy given the fact the painting stems from a time when the Second World War raged, amplifying the heaviness of the desolate scene.

The focus here is on a diner on what appears to be a street corner. It is painted from the perspective of a spectator on the outside, looking in, regarding the four people calmly lost in their thoughts. There is no sign of life other than those four under the bright fluorescent light of the diner, the only source of light in the entire painting. It illuminates the street outside dimly.

A noteworthy aspect of the painting is what appears to be a couple sitting by the wooden countertop. They seem to be touching, but upon closer inspection, their hands are a short distance away from each other. It makes them look close but worlds apart all the same while they reflect, perhaps lost in their thoughts.

It is this quiet company that is reminiscent of Jonah. The couple’s intimacy while occupied by other things outside of their love for one another parallels him and Babe. Both of them are so clearly living their own lives — with Babe working at the bar and Jonah occupied by gaming — but remain close despite it, seeking each other out and making space for each other in their life.

An example highlighting this is when Jonah visits Babe at the end of their shift, picking them up from work and walking home together, a small act of affection that speaks of their deep connection and love. So is Babe keeping him company when he games, knowing they would fall asleep after an exhausting shift but choosing to keep him company anyway simply to show that they are there.

It is this depiction of closeness while being worlds apart — in mind or body — that suits Jonah’s character, and this feeling of being close but far away at the same time, which this painting conveys in volumes — like being isolated in a city brimming with people, alone despite the sheer intensity of life around oneself.

Matias - The Water Lily Pond, Monet

French, Impressionism, painted 1899

Monet created numerous pieces depicting water lilies. Some paintings feature simply the surface of the water, others include the bridge shown here, from different perspectives. Here, its edges are hardly visible. The bridge overarches the edges of the painting, showing only its central part, gently twisting upwards in a slight arch.

In true impressionist fashion — where the world is stylistically depicted with disregard to symmetry and placement of forms — the highest part of the bridge is not aligned with the center of the canvas. Instead, it can be found slightly to the right, throwing off the symmetry and giving the perspective of looking at the bridge slightly from the left.

The river flowing beneath it is littered with water lilies, nearly covering its entire surface. The predominant colors are soft pastel greens and blues, occasionally accompanied by red, pink, or purple.

Its overall atmosphere is peaceful. The scenery looks inviting and bright — due to the method of painting outside (en plein aire) to capture the natural light. There is a softness in the gentle reflection of the trees above in the water, the blooming lilies accompanying this gentleness, but there is a depth there as well, under the beautiful image and beneath the water’s surface.

It is not a mindless painting of pretty scenery. The shift of perspective — the tilt to the left, the asymmetry of it — gives it more depth. It makes it look interesting beyond the beauty at its surface. The painting is engaging, and the softness adds to this feeling of intrigue.

Matias, beyond his gentle demeanor and comforting softness, has this twist. He is intriguing. His bright soul is captivating because its depth is apparent, perhaps in the polar opposite way of a Tortured Artist. The darkness on the surface of this archetype gives way to pain and beauty and a shimmer of hope in its depth. The softness, gentleness, and brightness of Matias, immediately apparent in his character, actions, and thoughts, parts in its depths to something more serious. Not dark, exactly, nor pained or hurting as would be the case with the Tortured Artist, but instead genuine and clear in a way water in the depths of the ocean might be.

Perhaps adding onto this analogy with water, the water lilies blooming calmly on its reflective surface could very well symbolize the beauty of the things he creates —an artist pouring his soul into his art, baring his heart to the world with it;or more specifically, a writer following the ideas in his head and bringing them to life on a page.

Luca - The Great Wave off Kanagawa, Hokusai

Japanese, Edo (Japanese art period from 1603 to 1867), painted 1831

This painting is a bit of an enigma. The beige and white colors of the background at the breaking waves make it appear soft, the deep blue of the waves nearly comforting in their beauty. In contrast to this softness and seemingly peacefulness is the actual depiction of the waves, rising high with sharp, claw-like edges over the boats on the water, mere moments before they crash over them. It looks very much like a snapshot image before a tragedy, highlighting the majestic strength of the ocean while simultaneously praising its beauty.

The wave rising above Mount Fuji is further placed cleverly, not only highlighting the ruthlessness of the ocean with how threateningly high it reaches — making up nearly a third of the painting — but ingeniously showing its soft beauty as well in making the white droplets of water falling from the edge of the wave appear to be snow, drifting gently down on Mount Fuji in the distant background.

Luca, as soft and innocent of a character he might appear to be on the surface, has a quiet depth about him and a more serious side that becomes apparent when he shows his vulnerability. He has insecurities, and he can be decisive and brave despite how innocent he seems to be most of the time.

In a way, the painting is Luca in reverse. The ruthlessness of the water is the central point here, whereas the gentle beauty of it is secondary. With Luca, the first thing to notice is the soft heart he wears on his sleeve, while his more somber depths merely peek through on occasion.

Elias - The Creation of Adam, Michelangelo

Italian, Renaissance, painted 1508-1512

Again, this is less about the actual religious image of putting a verse of the bible into art and more about the deeper meaning of it outside of religion.

The fresco depicts God to the right, reaching his hand out towards Adam, lounging on a field of grass on the left. Adam, in turn, reaches out to God, their index fingers nearly touching. There is a laden tension between them, anticipation whilethe figures are forever frozen in suspension just an instant before God gives Adam the spark of life and creates mankind.

Elias is a complex character who is ultimately motivated by his need to be part of something bigger than himself. It begins with his desire to be taken seriously by his father and the other gang members, trying to prove himself worthy of the role he is expected to fill despite not being certain about wanting that position. It is not about being head of the Wraiths but being fully part of the group of people for which he had suffered the enormous loss of his mother. The gang is important to him, and he is trying to elevate himself, shaping himself into someone worthy of it — reaching out to give his life the spark he feels has been missing since Tara died.

This search for something grand outside himself can also be seen in his fascination with the stars, figuratively reaching out to understand ‘God’s creation’ (to speak with this painting in mind) and feeling distantly connected with something far outside his reach — just like God and Adam, nearly touching but forever just shy of connecting.

Cevyk - The Course of Empire Destruction, Thomas Cole

American, Hudson River School , painted 1836

The Course of Empire is a series of five paintings, depicting the rise and fall of an imaginary city. Destruction is the fourth painting of this series, the title aptly fitting the desolate scene of the city being ransacked by enemy forces. At the same time, a tempest rages in the distance, foretelling the fall of the empire.

The scene is as dramatic as it is chaotic. There is a bridge mere moments before collapsing in the center of the painting, although the focal point is slightly to the right, to the now headless statue of what could be supposed to be the empire’s greatest hero. Thick clouds of smoke rise from the empirical palace by the river, flames reaching up into the sky with a faint red that does not immediately attract attention, but rather subtly plays into the raging chaos depicted.

The hazy background with its dark gray storm clouds adds an atmosphere to the picture that somehow makes it less about what is directly shown — a burning palace, a collapsing bridge, countless dead, raging war — but about the general desolation it evokes. It is not the ransacking of a city, which superficially appears to be what is directly painted onto the canvas, but the destruction of an empire.

Cevyk is a difficult character to understand, simply because there is still much mystery surrounding him. Being a literal demon from hell, he creates an atmosphere of volatile chaos. The fall of an empire — or better yet the destruction of one — is inherent to a tremendous amount of chaos and suffering. Both are aspects Cevyk embodies, not only because he causes them, but as overarching themes of his story.

This is only speculation, given we know little about Iqsus and even less about the (political) state of hell and the demonic houses. But Cevyk seems to be a character biding his time, following a more complex plan about breaking the status quo and kindling a reorganization, perhaps plunging hell into a Destruction-like frenzy.

Rowan — The Swing, Fragonard

French, Rococo, painted 1767

Here, we have the women on the swing as a subject matter. She is depicted in a forward motion, one foot stretched out in front of her while she flings away her slipper, aiming it at what appears to be a statue of Cupid, the Roman God of love.

In front of her, a young gentleman lies in the bushes, perhaps having fallen over. He looks up at her, catching a glimpse under her dress in the process because of her outstretched leg.

Behind the woman, in the background to her right, an older man is sitting in the shadows on a bench, watching her swing and holding the rope attached to her seat. He is possibly unaware of the younger man eyeing up her dress.

It is speculated that this older man would be her husband, while the younger one is her lover. The symbolism and the general subjects of infidelity and sexual desire seem to be expressed by the man glimpsing up her dress and her flinging her shoe at Cupid while also addressing the inhibition of her marriage by the ropes attached to her swing, in essence holding her back.

The most striking aspect of the painting — despite all of its quiet genius depicting such a dramatic scene so subtly and with such airiness — is the woman’s levity. She swings unbothered by it all, letting go as she is weightless, suspended in the air with happiness, and playful as she slips off her shoe. She does not behave according to societal norms; she is not ashamed of it either. She simply enjoys herself and life outside of the expectations placed upon her, this lightness further corroborated by the hazy, gentle background of the natural scenery around her.

Rowan — as short-lived of a character as he was and as difficult it is to understand his inner workings from the limited resources available — incorporates this levity. That is not to say he is not serious — because his love and affection for Honey run deep, and he tries his best to help them while taking their worries very seriously — nor are the negative aspects of infidelity and inhibition applicable to him. It is simply about the core element of the painting: the woman’s weightlessness, her contentment on the swing, and the generally positive outlook on life she has despite the circumstances around her.

With Rowan, it is the letting go of expectations and societal obligations that work, since it seems to be exactly what he wishes Honey to do: follow their heart and dreams while slowly weathering away the pressure their family has put on their shoulders.

#sakuverse #zsakuva #character analysis #long post #I know Nico is missing #for the life of me I can't figure out his character so please excuse his absence

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the-hipster-nugget · 1 year ago

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Rendogs character is SO. I love that he’s just a good person and it shows in every aspect and rendition of his character. That at heart, he’s just kind. It’s in his blood to be nice and passive to everybody he comes across. Circumstances just force him to do otherwise, despite his instincts. His instincts to be man’s best friend, and treat people with love and this fairness that’s hard to find in an unforgiving world. But the world is unforgiving, and unkind to people like Rendog. He isn’t allowed to be nice.

His whole Red King schtick feels so out of place almost, because he will go up to people and try to befriend them— and when they are hostile… he almost doesn’t know what to say. He’ll fumble, he’ll try to be stern and mean too. He tries his best to put on this front of a cold hearted, blood crowned king. But it doesn’t sound right coming from that sweet voice of his. “So.. basically.. this is a declaration of war…” He’ll awkwardly mumble to Scar, failing to give off any sense of danger or authority.

He will tell Martyn “That’s it. No more being the nice guy, I’m done being generous.” But at the end of the day, he’s unable to live up to that. He will continue to negotiate, and offer people more than he needs to give. Out of the kindness of his heart, he will always want to give instead of take. He just wants people to treat him fairly back. Is that so much to ask?

He doesn’t know what to when somebody doesn’t return that affection, he feels frozen in confusion and fear when he’s met with hostility. Everytime somebody threatens him he just curls in on himself, his ears go flat and tail between his legs.

He can’t find it in himself, so he looks to his hand instead. He always looks at Martyn, for approval and guidance. As if to say, “is this the right thing to do? Am I being cruel enough? Please, tell me I’m being evil. Am I doing this right?”

He is the king, but he can’t do a thing without his hand. A person, a body, cannot harm without a hand to slice with. Without a hand to hold that axe, he can’t kill a thing.

Ren is so kind in his heart, that he has to ask Martyn to cut his head off; to turn him red. He thinks the only way possible for him to do horrible things is to force it to be in his nature. He could never naturally, of his own will, bring harm to another person. Even one that has wronged him. He has to turn his name red—

But he can’t even do it himself, so he asks Martyn instead. He feels ill at the idea of ending his own life maybe, of ending a life at all. The thought of getting blood on his own paws and fingers make him gag. So he looks to his hand, his friend, and he begs, “Make me bad. I can’t do it alone.”

And even after all that, after Martyn tries his hardest to harden his king. To cover him in blood, and turn his tame yellow name red… Ren still finds himself crying in regret and agony after killing only two people. I already made a post about Rens breakdown over Scott’s death but it just really solidifies how kind hearted Ren is. He’s playing by the rules, killing somebody was against him, by all counts he was in the right. But he still feels horrible.

Rens heart will always be red, but it will be the color of poppies, the color of roses and flowers. It will be the color of his bright button up shirt, one he wears on sunny days. It will be the color of love, a deep romantic red you think of when you hear a sweet song. It will never be the color of blood.

#rendog #ren the dog #third life #3rd life #life series #trafficverse #traffic series #third life martyn #inthelittlewood #martyn inthelittlewood #treebark #renchanting #dogwarts #mcyt

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shslskaterboy · 1 year ago

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every now and then I think about Haru and I go a little bit insane bc each and every day she chooses kindness and selflessness even though life has been nothing but unfair to her. She lost her father before he was even dead, and then had her last hope of ever being able to have him back ripped from her in the most violent way possible, and even then she chooses to trust the people around her anyways. She could have isolated herself, cut herself off from everyone, she could have been selfish and angry and lashed out, and no one would have blamed her for that- but she didn't. She put her faith in people and she relied on her friends, and she put on a brave front and she powered through and she refused to be the center of attention for even a minute. She denies herself the emotional catharsis she needed bc it just wasn't about her in her eyes, what was important was stopping the perpetrator and ending the corruption. And even then, in the face of having the perpetrator right in front of her, she never makes it about her, and she doesn't show him any contempt or disdain or unkindness in any way, she only shows him pity. There is just not a hateful bone in her body, and it's so sad when people say she's boring just because she's a nice girl who exudes kindness and wants the best for everyone. I adore Haru so much, she is so sweet and so strong and she deserves the entire world, and also a lot more screen time

#we're having loving haru hours today fellas #haru okumura #persona 5 #p5 #skaterboy speaks #about: haru <3

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millerscoffee · 1 year ago

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dancing is a dangerous game | part one

you're a bandit like me, eyes full of stars.

5.5k | joel miller x f!reader

masterlist

rating: 18+ MDNI

tw: brief mentions of using your body for trading purposes, you shoot at joel miller????, light dub-con but that goes away quickly

warnings: post-outbreak au. no ellie. angsty smut, semi-dom!reader and dom!joel so that's fun, power struggle, age gap (joel is 56, reader is late 20s or early 30s), enemies to lovers, voyeurism (f watching m), masturbation (m and f), pet names/degrading names (baby, honey, darlin', brat, bitch, slut, etc.), dirty talk, choking, oral (m receiving), fingering, spanking, p in v (unprotected - wrap it up folks), joel is mean but not unkind. no use of y/n.

summary: inspired by "cowboy by me" by our lord and savior taylor swift. this is a post-outbreak world and joel has his own land. think bill, but a little less... deranged. kind of. you essentially are a raider, but make it fashion. when you stalk joel's cabin for the third day, that's when you get interrogated by none other than joel miller himself.

A/N: hi, i'm bee! this is my first fic on tumblr, and my first stab at this whole stratosphere. longtime listener; first time caller 💅. i was ALSO inspired by an ask i saw on @swiftispunk's page (hi! i love your writing sm??) and kinda just... ran with it. i honestly wasn't anticipating writing stuff during the outbreak, so i apologise if it's not quite right. imagine me living during that time with a tube of lipgloss and one (1) bullet in my pocket just in case. this... may be a series. i don't know yet. see ya! enjoy!!!

The first time you meet Joel Miller is down the barrel of your gun.

You can hear your father's voice telling you 'Back out, girl. Don't get too big for your britches.' Look where that got him. His ashes against your chest in a makeshift pendant necklace, buried by your clothes.

Still, you listen.

"It don't have to be like this," you drawl with index over the trigger guard. You've heard of him. Joel Miller. He's notorious, and even though you've kept to yourself most of your life, his name still roamed throughout the abandoned towns you passed. Someone always owed him, and he always owed somebody.

Your dad would've been older than him, but not by much. You knew of the world before this, was just a little thing. Still, you heard stories undulate from your father's southern voice that mostly left you bored on long days searching for food or shelter. You'd give anything to hear them now.

Part of you died when he did.

You were young when the outbreak happened. Resourceful, your father made it work in raising you. Taught you how to fend for yourself, rely on no one. Which was no easy feat considering how unbelievably stubborn you were. Were? Are.

Maybe he loved you. Maybe it was the chip on his shoulder. The kind of anguish that comes from not being able to give your mother the same kind of life. A promise to her.

Yes, you were young when the outbreak happened, but flashbacks of her getting attacked by a clicker burn you alive at night.

"Y'er on my land." A gruff voice calls you back to reality. Few words for someone who held your life in his hands. His own gun pointing back at you. Of course it would be.

"I was just passin' through." The lie flies through your teeth. You had been circling the place from a reasonable distance for a few days now. Scoping out when this man in front of you was his busiest, when he patrolled, when he slept. This was a heist situation, no doubt about it.

"Bullshit. This s'the third fuckin' time I seen you 'round here. And it's y'er last."

Shit. Fucking shit.

Your eyes dart to the side, really trying to pattern a plan in escaping but your breathing would say otherwise as calm and collected as it was.

In any other situation, you wouldn't be so willing to comply, but considering he's got you cornered and his gun is quite literally cocked and ready to go – you're not exactly in the position to make hasty decisions.

Goddammit if there wasn't something about him that made you nervous.

"Listen. Just was lookin' for somewhere to sleep. It's fuckin' cold and your stables look warm." Your head tilts in the direction of a lone horse's home in a bed of hay, and you're not fully lying. It's not that you have set up camp by any means, but you've noticed.

"We could trade. You give me y'er ammo, and I g–"

"You give me your cock, I get it. You really could be more original." You were used to this. Bartering, some might call it. Living out here on your own was dangerous, and running into men who wanted to use your body in order to get supplies wasn't that uncommon. If they were that kind, even. You'd heard the horror stories.

Albeit, most of these men met your gun in the end. Enabling you acquire their supplies, keep all yours, and your dignity. Win/win.

"...I give you the pleasure of livin' another day. Really? Y'think it's that easy?"

There was something in the way Joel says this that makes you grateful for the jacket you're wearing. Goosebumps prickle your skin, bile creeping up your throat and you will it back down again. Y'think it's that easy? As if he thought you wanted it.

If circumstances were different, you'd be rubbing the crimson off your cheeks. Flashing him a sheepish grin in an attempt to resolve whatever misunderstanding there was... but this wasn't the environment to elicit such conversation.

And you weren't that type of person to begin with.

Instead, your index sweeps from guard to trigger when you fire off at his leg. Hasty decisions be damned. You're quicker than him, so why're you tryin' to save him? You're a 'shoot to kill' type of person, and as the bullet grazes past his calf – part of you wishes you had.

Because not only did your bullet not make contact, Joel gets worse. You two lock eyes. His rifle is thrown over his shoulder as he grunts and walks perfectly fine over to you – despite the way his eyebrows knit together, jaw ticked. Was that a grin? Do something, anything – run.

Joel grips the nape of your neck, and you yelp in surprise.

Who the fuck does this man think he is?

His large hand eclipses your wrist as he maneuvers the gun from your hand. The action makes you writhe in pain, and it sends a shiver down your spine to know he's only using an ounce of his power.

You dig your elbow into his ribs despite him stronger than you. Stomping, kicking, punching anything you can find.

"What the fu–"

"Little girl, you picked the wrong one." His breath edges at the shell of your ear, and every sign should be pointing for you to hate this, but it almost feels familiar. Like yourself. It's only then when you worry.

---

You don't realise it, but Joel is pushing you inside his cabin. Keeping your head in direction of the ground, thud of the door heard somewhere behind you.

"You want to be treated like a big girl? Get these fuckin' pants off."

"What... what? No I'm fuckin' not–"

Joel chews up the space between you when he pushes you to the nearest wall. Your back at his chest, a cheek flush against the cabin's support.

Pine, tobacco, and whiskey fill your senses and you bite back the urge to whimper. He wouldn't see you like that.

"You're not? That why you were watchin' me jerk off last night? 'Cuz you don't wanna give it up?"

That alone makes blood creep up your neck and spill over your cheeks. You have to squeeze your legs together to quell the ache.

It was lonely on your own.

Most nights were spent half asleep on a cold, hard surface. Tired and hungry more days than not. You don't remember the last time you got a hot meal, much less been touched. So when you heard Joel's low grunts coming from the window (a window from a cabin you don't know quite yet that he built with his own hands) you become intrigued.

It's in this moment you're certain it must have been the rustling of branches just outside his room. You remember it happening last night, cursing to yourself for making noise. His fist stalled around the girth of his fat cock before spilling his seed over his stomach. As if that is what caused him to come.

It makes sense now, and it equally causes you to become dizzy and filled with rage. You bite your bottom lip, unable to think of a response.

"Mouthy thing ain't got much to say now. Now c'mon. I ain't taking these off you, doin' it y'erself." More of a warning, Joel lets up on his grip on you, but you're defenseless. No weapons, no pack. He's got your world in his hands.

With the newly found space between the two of you, you turn around – back of your head against the wall as your eyes find the other set for, perhaps, the first time. And they're deep. Deeper than you were aware of. Dark, impossibly round. Wrinkles reside on the sides of them, and if you knew any better, you wouldn't admit they were doing something to you.

But not only are you stubborn, you're too forthright to beat around the bush.

"I shot at you, and you want my cunt? You must be lonelier than I a–"

"Now."

Your words don't match your actions as your hands fall by your sides. Fingers play with zipper of your old, faded jeans that have seen better days.

You can't help but snicker an awkward laugh from how he's just watching you. Insecurities rise when you realise you're not laughing at him, but more his eyes on you. How intense it feels suddenly. He wants this. Wants you.

His eyes draw impatiently, broad frame leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed.

"Ain't got all day. Still considerin' your death."

His arms. Bulging through the fabric of his shirt, his body was built in a way that you could tell he worked with his hands... maybe in his past life, too. Throat dry, you shimmy out of your pants until you're left in your cotton panties.

Ones that you are becoming more aware the condition of. A small pool of wetness forming at the core of you clings to the fabric.

"Top, too."

Is that? It is. Your eyes wander down to see the growing bulge in Joel's pants. Not even the hem of his flannel could hide it. Sure, you'd seen it in its full form the night before, but that was with distance and without the heat rising between the two of you.

You bite your lip without hesitation, pulling the layers of jacket and a handful of tops onto the ground until you're bare. The cool air passes over your nipples and wills them into stiff peaks.

"Ain't you somethin', baby."

That's the first time Joel Miller draws a shaky exhale out of you. All from a single sentence.

When Joel steps over to you, that calm and collected breath is nowhere to be found. Your chest rises and falls at a random pattern, feeling more and more naked by the second as his clothes are completely kept on his body. A purposeful tactic.

He bends down to collect your clothes along with everything else that yours, and you are truly at his will. So busy on the precipice of pleasure that you don't even think about trying to get away.

"Stay."

"Ain't a dog." You glare, standing with your legs brushing together.

"Then quit actin' like a bitch. And quit movin', I'm gettin' to you."

It shuts you up quick, jaw snapping shut. You're certain if he told that to anyone else they'd be reduced to tears, but you can take it. It coils a heat inside the pit of your stomach that you've never felt. Causes your clit to feel as if it's on fire from the need to touch it.

Joel turns on his heel to walk away and it's as if you're able to breathe fresh air from the humidity he brings. You notice he's putting your things and his rifle away on his kitchen counter before coming back to you. He must really trust his ability to keep everything out like that.

Then again, have you even moved in the last five minutes?

The last thing he is, is worried.

You're able to look around, if only for a moment. Though, is it really looking? Your adrenaline is pumping, pupils blown from the fact that not only are you in the house you'd been stalking... you're about to fuck the man in it. And you almost tried to kill him. You definitely didn't miss on purpose. Couldn't have.

All the same, the cabin was nice, and you could take in briefly the light wood – old and weathered. A record player in the corner beside a guitar. This stuff could get you a lot in return, but for whatever reason that doesn't even cross your mind. Maybe your heart beating in your ears is a handy distraction to keep you walking the line.

Your eyes track the rugged man instead.

---

"Here's how this is gonna go," he announces, coming back to you and not phased that you haven't moved a muscle. "You are gonna take your ass over there on the couch. You're gonna make me come, then you're gonna go. Understand?"

"Well... I guess it is that easy."

Your bratty mouth getting you in trouble again. As if you're in the position to say anything. Naked as you are.

---

Joel's jaw ticks forward in a way that makes you feel fear, yet there's a direct correlation between it and the slick gathering between your folds. The same wide hand that gripped the nape of your neck wraps around the front of your throat while he pushes you against the wall, and your shoulders slump – all but folding instantly.

His mouth is inches from yours, forcing you to look him in the eyes.

"Listen here. I've been real kind to you. Coulda killed ya day one, tryin' to steal my shit like that. Was gonna be real kind in where I fucked ya, too. Now we're gonna fix that mouth a'yours and fast. Knees. Now." You soon come to know this isn't a suggestion. It's not even a warning. It is what's happening.

It's in the way Joel's hands guide you down onto your knees. He goes for his belt and you hear and see that distinct clang of metal untangle before your very senses. Your mouth waters instantly, teetering into fully giving into this struggle of power.

Joel's hands are calloused. You can tell he takes care of them, but that doesn't hide the wear and tear. Specifically on his fingertips. They grip your jaw roughly, and you choke back a moan as your mouth hangs open pliantly from this. Every nerve ending buzzing to be touched.

"Where'd that bratty girl go, huh? You done bein' big and bad – wanna be a slut, don’tcha?"

Your eyelash splay along your cheeks as you nod, and you feel his grip tighten, tugging your chin up higher.

"Look at me. You want this cock? I need your words. Tell me you wanna be a slut."

You're not sure when it happens, but hot tears run down your cheeks as everything comes to a head. Your body is trembling with raw desire right at your fingertips, just within reach. You can't hold back anymore, it physically hurts to.

"I wanna be a slut for this cock... please."

"Fuck, even a please. Oughta eat you out for that, sugar. Maybe next time."

Your brain is swimming at the thought. Next time?

With his free hand, Joel sets his cock free from his jeans, giving a satisfying smack to his abdomen quickly. No need for another piece of fabric keeping him from getting what he wants as you soon take note he isn't wearing boxers.

There's no denying what you're met with as you get to view it from this close. Joel Miller has a pretty cock. There's a soft, but bulging vein on the underside to match how big and thick it is. The rosy tip greets you, and it's the first time you get to see how much you've turned him on.

Your mouth is drooling while it's pried open and meets the tip of him. A moan from you is instantaneous, yet feels so distant from yourself, it doesn't affect you until much later. The taste of his precum coats your tongue as he slips past your lips and it's all you can experience. Your moans slip in and out of the sloshing sounds of your mouth. Keeping your hands by your sides, you don't tempt to touch him in fear he would pull away, so instead you twirl your tongue around his leaking head. Bob your head up and down in a slow, but sultry rhythm that causes him curse under his breath. He's not stoic above you, he's reacting.

He's clawing for every last bit of the upper hand.

"S'a lot, innit, babygirl? That's alright, you can take it." It's then you can sense Joel's guard slipping. Could be the fact that your mouth is suctioned perfectly around the length of his cock, but his voice gets damn sweeter the longer you go like this. His hips also have no problem in thrusting shallowly every now and then to knock the drool off of your dripping chin.

Even if you could form a thought, you don't know you would.

His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling it out of your face as you maintain eye contact. Intuitive in your approach, he told you to look at him earlier, so maybe he likes it? The groans filling the room lead you to believe you are correct. It feels so removed from who you were moments before: snickering because his gaze felt intimidating. Now, his pupils are blown as they pour into yours and his neck hangs back when your mouth makes those pretty, sloppy popping noises – testing your gag reflexes as you will them to relax.

It's way more intimate than anything you've ever done with anyone you've ever been with, and this stranger is pulling it out of you. Within the mess your brain is in, you remind yourself if you want to stop you can, and not a bit of you does.

The hot tears that were once down your cheeks swell in your eyes once more, but this time from the sheer size of him. You moan vibration after vibration against him, shifting and pushing your cunt against your calf, thigh – anything to feel some sort of friction.

He lets out a growl when he notices you, "Honey, if it's that bad, touch yourself." If your cheeks weren't red before, they are now.

It's him calling you out, slight embarrassingly, but not letting up with his hips. It's the way the embarrassment builds the fire in the pit of your belly. It's your hand pushing inside your panties at the sound of his command. And it's you practically choking on his cock from the gasp you let out through your nose – stunned at how wet you are.

Your fingertips barely brush over your clit when you notice the slick collecting, bubbling right at the very top of your slit and slutty moans fall out of you. Your eyelids droop as you try to keep your gaze up to Joel, but the way your fingertips roll over the hood of your clit in satisfying circles sends you over the edge way quicker than you anticipate.

"Shit, baby. Just like that. You filthy thing, can't hold off another minute longer, can ya? Need it right fuckin' now."

The sound of Joel's deep voice looms overhead as you come completely undone.

Unable to stop yourself, the suction on his cock pops free for a moment. Your moans hitting the air as your eyes roll back. Your body rushing to find each wave of pleasure roll off your back. Joel's cock still nestled in your mouth, but his hips still. "Goddamn, look at that little slut come out. Such a needy fuckin' kitten."

When Joel makes sure you've ridden it out, he pulls his cock from your mouth. Your body feels weak despite how eager your mind is now, face-to-face with Joel's cock, you watch as his scarred hand glides your saliva over his length entirely. It puts you in a trance, quickly getting out of it when he taps his cock against your cheek. "Pretty kitten want this? C'mon."

If your moans felt foreign to you, you don't even know what to do with yourself at the twinge of a grin that spreads on your face. The sheer audacity of his taps right against your fucking cheek. Orgasm-drunk, you shuffle to your feet and Joel has no problem in tossing you – finally – to the couch.

Your back is to him while the front of your body brackets the width of his couch, arms hunched over the back of it, knees dig into the cushions. You're grateful for the lack of eye contact in this position as it gives you a moment to press your face into your bicep, an attempt to collect yourself. But all of it obsolete when you sense Joel's presence at your ass.

His body heat unmistakable to miss. You bite at your own skin, neck craning to behind you to watch him.

"Shit, darlin', look at you. Ass up like this like y'er in fuckin' heat for me." You whine at the fact his clothes are still mostly on, and you know he must be sweating underneath them, but he won't give it to you like that. Not yet, 'maybe next time'. "You know I can't go any further 'til you get a spankin'. Need to be punished for tryin' to hurt me like that. For tryin' to take my things. Ain't right. Need you to learn your lesson."

Where are you? A part of you knows this is a tactic. That Joel is lulling you into a position you can't say no to. It already shows itself in how you're splayed on his couch. Yet, you can't find the person you were before you stepped into the cabin. Not yet, not like this. You nod weakly, and Joel swipes the cotton undies down to your thighs so quickly the rush of air cools the heat of your folds. A flutter runs through you.

"Count. To ten. If you don't, we start over. Say, yes sir."

"Y-yes... sir. Yes sir."

A searing, mind-numbing spank wallops over your ass and it causes your hips to jut forward. Whimper hitting the top of your throat, you almost, almost, forget to count. Everything in your senses distracting you from completing the simplest tasks such as fucking counting.

"O-one." Another. "Twooo." And again. "Th-three!"

You start sniffling by the third smack of his wide hand, and you hear mocking sniffs behind your head. "Aww, pretty baby can't take the hurt she tries to give to others? That must be really tough. Y'heart's bleedin' all over my couch, honey."

Your cheeks burn, you really feel sorry for what you've done. Or at least, what you were planning to do.

The next spank leaves a welt of Joel's handprint across your skin. "FOUR!" Your body begins to feel weak, sliding against the couch, you know talking back is useless as you silent tears stream into your arm.

There are six more blinding slaps to your ass by the time he's done with you, and you feel him pull back when he's through. You imagine him wringing his palms, the roughness of them. You begin to wonder if that's how they got to be so weathered, and pretend not to be weirded out by the ache of jealousy.

"Y'know for somebody whinin' the whole time, your pussy is just droolin' from that," any narrative you wandered off with disappears in its replacement of Joel's fingers gathering slick between your folds. No announcement, just go. It was just within reach, feeling him inside you. You ride the shudder your body makes, licking your lips as you realise the unspoken rule is free and you can speak. "N-need it. Need your cock, please... please." "Need it, and you don't even know my name?" His index and middle finger waste no time in pressing into your aching core. Sounds of your wailing mix with his words as he lurches over, lip close to your ear. "Or maybe you do already."

"Please, please, please," your fingertips grip for the worn fabric of his couch while your hips that try to jut back are quickly halted by his other palm, a strong stopper at the base of your spine. "Not 'til you tell me my name." "I-I don't know. I don't know it, I swear." Joel's thick fingers slip completely out of you and you mewl pathetically, pussy clenching around nothing and he can see every last detail of it behind you. "Last fuckin' time, better tell me the truth." "It's Joel," you cry, hips pushing back against the resistance as much as possible. Anything to be filled again. "Joel. Joel. Joel. I was... I was– I don't know anybody. Not with anybody, I swear! Joel, I swear. Please! Just grew up hearin' your name. I swear on my life, Joel, please! I know I lied, didn't think you'd believe me."

You don't know why you're begging like your life depends on it, but your pleasure surely does, and there's a longer pause than you want lingering behind you. As if you can palpably feel Joel contemplating whether you're being truthful or not. But if there's one thing about you, aside from this moment in this compromising position: you don't answer to anybody.

Joel's cock bottoming out inside of you at the drop of a hat is confirmation enough that he believes you.

And you not only wail, but scream at the stretch and irresistible contact that punches you straight to your gut – right where you can feel the tip of him. Half-moon prints dig into your hips by his short fingernails when he grabs ahold of you and you're on your forearms, head hanging between your shoulders. Your panties keep your thighs straying too far apart if there is such a thing.

"This what you wanted when you watched me?" Joel grips your torso now, pulling you closer to him as you become more upright, his cock more accessible to the spongy spot inside of you and your nipples stand erect, eyes rolling back as it takes all of you not to rest your head back against his shoulder, and you fail. Hard. Your occiput makes contact with his shoulder. Joel brushes your hair back to the side, lips graze but never fully touches the column of your neck. "Thought about this tight cunt last night. Left the window open on purpose, but you knew that already, didn't you, pretty girl? Clever little thing and so fuckin' dirty."

Joel's hand snakes around the front of you, spreading your folds as he dives his fingers over your glossed-over clit your wetness claimed and that sends a whine off of your depraved lips. "That's it, honey. Show me what this cock does to ya. Makes you downright brainless from how well you take it." While his skilled fingers, toy with your clit, the other set of digits graze over your breasts on their way up to your mouth. You take them inside the warmth of your wet mouth easily, rolling your tongue over the digits until you can only focus on the white hot pleasure beginning to boil over. You keep his fingers between your teeth, a faint realisation that you can taste yourself on them. That's what does it.

His hips are relentless as they pound into you, the repetitious slaps of his skin against yours, of his balls tapping your cunt again and again sends you into a place that he knows you're approaching when you tighten and pulse.

"Y'know how tight and wet you feel around me, darlin'? Never had a fuckin' cunt like this. Let it out, let it out, just like you wanna. Just like you did last night around your fingers. Nothin' like this cock though, and you know it now, don't you? Oh, fuck yeah– thaaat's it. Look at you." "Joel... Joel!!!" Joel talks you through it, sending your body diving off the cliff that is your second orgasm. The undeniable gush of your fluids around his cock. His name stays stuck at the your tongue, the constant thud of it vibrates your lungs.

It starts at the attention on your clit. The raw bundle of nerves send signals outward as it spreads down your legs, up your stomach, to your nipples and down your spine. Your brain feels effervescent, toes curl, and it comes back again right to your heart. Your beating heart, wild, and every moan, whimper, scream that comes from you sounds like it is from someone else's chest. But it's yours, and you know that when you start to feel hazy, unable to hold yourself up anymore.

"Good for my cock after all. Ain't ya, baby? Shit."

Your torso leans forward while your cheek rests on the top of your hand that's gripped on Joel's couch, and your body is relaxed and fucked. Comfortably silent, just the way Joel would want you. His cock slips out of you, unable to stop the slew of grunts and groans that acts as an anchor to keep you from slipping under. You lick your lips, looking back at him with a nod, unable to stay silent for long. That struggle of power coming back for vengeance. "That's right. Come all over this ass you ruined. See those handprints? Dirty fucking man, you just met me. Show me how much you enjoyed doing that."

That's as far as you get when you feel the heavy streams of his hot, white come rope over your skin, and for someone who is no position to be smug, you sure do have a shit-eating grin on your face. Pure, and the simplest thing the two of you accomplish.

Joel shakes his head, shallow breaths become him as he staggers back and you pretend not to notice. "Gonna kill me, kid."

"Almost did."

---

You don't know why, but neither of you hold the promise of you leaving right away. You linger, both of you half naked and spent. You take your time cleaning yourself off, slipping your clothes back on. Day becoming night.

You tiptoe into the living room where Joel is unfurled on his couch. His eyes are closed, the back of his head inches away from where the two of you just had sex.

Planning your goodbye, you sit at the edge of the couch cushion, knowing he wasn't really asleep. Just restin' his eyes.

"I am sorry...," you finally say into the dimly lit room, pangs of annoyance fizz at your tongue for even apologising. For shooting him, for trying to steal from him. All of it.

It's not his fault. It's just how you are.

This is dichotomous in relation to your eyes. They're bleary when a yawn pulls deep from within you. As if rest had been climbing up to the surface this entire time.

"Maybe you should be apologisin' 'bout your shitty aim. Could teach you a thing or two." Joel's eyes remained closed, arms crossed. If you could let yourself experience this, you would notice how soft he looks in this moment. Instead, your stomach is recoils in fight or flight.

You're glad he can't see you swallow the knot in your throat.

There was no magical solution for your life, and a part of you wishes you hadn't chosen his cabin to raid. You wish you hadn't met him, because now you could feel yourself want to notice the small things in him. Already.

You felt it dangerous to let anything that close to you.

You scoff to play it off, giving his chest a light shove and very accidentally getting lost in the light landscape of hairs that resides at the top of his flannel. "I could teach you a thing or two." A pathetic response for a pathetically spent human.

"We could both teach each other," he resigns and you're grateful he doesn't point out your lack of wit for how worn out he's made you. Perhaps the smugness settles in the things he doesn't say. Really, it's in what Joel spouts off next that throws you upside down.

"S'why you should stay. One month. That's it."

"Excuse me?"

"Didn't stuttered," your eyes roll and somehow, despite Joel's own being shut, he tuts his teeth. "Don't roll your eyes at me, little girl. You need a place to sleep. Besides, I could use an extra set of hands. Way I see it, best offer you've had in a while. Got a shelf life, though. Don't like to wait."

A part of you is suspicious, and if this man didn't make sure you orgasmed twice, you would suspect yourself to be dead within a matter of minutes.

There's something true about him, though. You're unwilling to look at it directly, but you trust him.

"Fine."

"Gonna need clearer confirmation, darlin'. Really need you to want this if you're gonna stay with me." He knew exactly where to press.

"Fuck, I shoulda killed you when I had the chance. I want to stay with you. One month." You try to ignore the grit between your teeth as speak, but your shoulders eventually soften. And you really do mean it. It's just... you're hardened from years of misplaced trust.

Your hand goes to the pendant around your neck subconsciously.

Joel either doesn't notice, or gives you the space.

You're grateful either way.

"That's that, then."

If anyone could understand the concept, it's Joel.

"That's that."

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #joel miller #tlou fic #by bee #dancing is a dangerous game

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mangalho · 1 year ago

Text

I made this dude to relax bc i read the info on drows on the dnd wiki (i dont know shit abt dnd and im not joking) and thought ‘whoever made these guys is a pervert’ i respect that, but i closed my eyes at the stupider bits of the lore…

i just dont think their society is like. Livable HAHAAH also its stupid asf to have ‘inherently evil species’… apparently they’re steering away from that shit which is great.

He was a man from a non-noble house chosen by a matron of a high house and they were surprisingly happy together for drow standards. Malaggar comes from like a mining/trading settlement, but his ventures took him to Menzoberranzan and thats how he met her. She was smitten by his general honesto demeanor and cute "provincial" accent (okay big City bitch..!)

please note that drows are kind of insane in general but apparently its worse in highly populated noble ridden cities with the strictest social rules so like. To you this was just some guy but to that woman he was so different so quirky ajahjahah

They had a good run, but eventually another matron from another high house came and said ‘i want him’ and since drow women compete like wild animals she killed his OG wife.. demolished her really

He became her bitch AND was miserable. She was happy bc he was like a pretty young thing but soon started getting violent with the guy because he was grieving his first wife whom he actually liked. He was in a rough spot bc he was getting his ass beat on the daily fr.. However his new wife was also a high drow so. He was basically elevating his family just bc he was there taking the domestic abuse (read: normal spider-worshipping drow behaviour)

The new matron was very unkind in every possible way you can imagine, but she didn’t do anything to him that would scar his body, greatest asset and all that. One day he snapped and killed his matron by way of knife and ran away to the surface world. Then he started his life of crime. Went from a little abused noble boy to some cartel mercenary dude who kills ppl and has tattoos. I think they look both really dumb but also sick as fuck, and he probably got them as a way to rebel against his upbringing in a way. But he’s edgy so i bet he thinks he looks sick like no nations no borders no self awareness being embarrassing unites all peoples

he is traumatized by women and is deeply afraid of them! I want his story to develop around becoming more normal and overcoming his grief.. hes from a long lived species so its taking him a while. Also its harder to make real friends if all your coworkers are insane criminals

#Dnd #drow #oc #drawans

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highlordofkrypton · 4 months ago

Note

Hi, 👀 I was messing around with a bot and thought… what if Tamlin’s mind, in an attempt to cut all the strain and stress, decides to begin locking memories away. Like “You cannot suffer from something that didn’t happen” kind of thing, and causes him a case of amnesia where he doesn’t remember Lucien, or Feyre or the curse. Regressing to a more child/teen-like self.

His body shifting to fit his mentality until he’s a kid again and doesn’t recognize many of the folk in his house. He wonders where his family are, he wonders where his best friend Rhys is and refuses to see or talk to anyone until Rhys comes to visit him.

Lucien tries to care for Tamlin by taking on a babysitter/chaperone kind of role but Tamlin makes a pillow fort from which he refuses to come out until Rhys comes…

I LOVE this prompt so freaking much, it's so cute! I had to write you a ficlet, but you need to promise me not to put it into the bot. I'm not a fan of bot usage, and I'm against my work being run through it, but that said, here's how I see it going down!

(Sorry, I missed the pillow fort part, I got caught up in the feels of the ficlet.)

FROM THE BEGINNING The one where Tamlin forgets everything by becoming a baby again

The world is too big—too unkind. He can't take it anymore.

His mind eats at itself, and no matter how much he claws at it, there is no way for Tamlin to carve out the bits that cause pain.

It's all pain.

There's nothing left. His court is in shambles, and the manor that holds what little good memories is rotting. His mind is rotting.

I can't—I want to restart.

***

"Tamlin?"

It's been so long since Lucien has last lived here; he doesn't know how it went this far. This is his home, or what's left of it. A century ago, he had sworn an oath to protect it and to stand by his best friend and yet…

How easily we are swept away by our fears.

"Tam?" He calls softly through the empty manor.

The longer the silence reigns, the worse the worries in Lucien's heart become. He knew, he knew Tamlin wouldn't fare well alone. He should have stayed despite it all. Feyre isn't a child. She can take care of herself. She insists on it, rather, with her masterminding and machinations. Tamlin doesn't play those games. He never has and it was… unfair.

He was my friend.

There are a few haunts Lucien is familiar with. He goes straight to the Starlight River and—

"Tamlin?" Lucien's voice is nothing more than a surprised croak.

He descends the slope of the hill towards what remains of his friend.

By the water, a little boy with beautiful blonde hair splish-splashes in the water surrounded by his forest friends—a chonky raccoon, a clever long-lashed fox, a full-cheeked squirrel and the big-eyed slow loris that always looks surprised. Lucien has known these creatures for all their lives, and so has Tamlin.

"Tamlin," he says, and all the animals look at Lucien in wonder. He can't speak to them the way Tamlin does, but they worry. They motion at him, chirping and huffing about the baby they've been tasked with taking care of. "I've got it," he reassures them.

"Hey," Lucien says softly, smiling. "Remember me?"

"Fys!" Tamlin chirps, clapping. He extends his little hands and makes a grabby motion. "Fys!"

"You want fish?" Lucien asks, confused, but there's a pile of fish beside him already.

Then, it clicks.

Tamlin's eldest brother was names Enfys, and for a child, that name might sound very much like fish. He also had dark blonde hair that erred on the side of reddish in the right light. Children make associations with what they know.

"I'm Lucien."

"Lucy!" Tamlin grins, looking around for his friend. "Ice-sand?"

Lucien's lips dip into a frown. Tamlin doesn't recognize him as an adult. He offers a quiet sigh as he swoops his friend into his arms. Little Tamlin latches onto him, stroking his long auburn hair gently. Tamlin was always a gentle, loving child. He remembers that much from the few times they met as children.

"Mama," Tamlin asks, and it breaks Lucien's heart.

"Mama's gone. I'm sorry."

***

"Where is he?"

"In his room. Wait," Lucien stops the High Lord in his tracks. "There's something you need to know."

Rhysand doesn't know what to make of what's happening. He makes his way up to Tamlin's room, a place he hasn't visited in centuries. His heart hammers in his chest. So much has changed now. Things are so… broken between them. He didn't know what to make of Lucien's initial summons.

Why would he need me?

He can hear the sniffling through the door. Rhysand pushes it open and expects—

Well, Lucien had told him what to expect.

He needs to see a familiar face, is what the Fox had said. He doesn't remember me.

"Tamlin?"

The child rubs his face, curled in the too-big bed.

"Hey, Tam."

His little ears twitch and the sobbing quells for a second. He blinks his tears away to better see Rhysand. His sad eyes light up at the sight of him as he clamors to his feet, awkward like most children are at that age. He runs and launches himself with a bounce off the bed into Rhysand's arms, trusting him wholly and completely to catch him.

Rhysand swoops him into his arms, confused, but he eases when little Tamlin giggles.

"Hi," he beams.

"Hey, kiddo, I heard you weren't feeling well."

"No," Tamlin lies. "I okay."

"Good, I'm glad."

Rhysand hasn't the slightest clue where to start fixing this, but he thinks Tamlin may be onto something. Maybe they start at the beginning.

"Do you remember me? I'm Rhysand. It's nice to meet you again."

#thank you for the prompt/ask!!#my fics #tamlin #pro tamlin #lucien vanserra #pro lucien vanserra #rhysand

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miniwrites1 · 9 months ago

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Scared of The Past (Running From the Future) - Theo Nott (1/?)

The black lake was eerily peaceful at night, the occasional slosh of water breaking on the edge and birds chirping as they flew was the only thing breaking the silence.

You sat staring out at the edge, internally debating your next steps in the mess you currently found yourself in. With the wizarding war looming on the horizon, you knew you had two choices. Stay and fight or run.

You sighed as you thought through your options. Staying to fight alongside your brother and friends seemed like the right choice, but a feeling settled in your stomach every time you thought about it. The possibility of ending up like your parents, tortured to the point of insanity and spending the rest of your life institutionalised was wildly unappealing, to the point that death would have been a better fate.

The thought of running and being freed from your wizarding life held some appeal, but it would mean leaving behind everything and everyone you’d ever know. There would no longer be a place for you in the wizarding world, essentially sentencing yourself to exile for the rest of your life. Was that a fate better than probable death?

Your mind spun these thoughts around until you felt a hand on your shoulder, jolting you to attention.

“Amore mio, it’s me.” You heard a familiar voice whisper. You relaxed almost immediately at the sound.

“Theo, you scared me.” You whispered, turning your head to look up at him, barely able to make out his face in the darkness. He gave your shoulder a squeeze as he moved to sit next to you, his hand making its way from your shoulder, down your arm to grasp at your hand.

You sat in a comfortable silence, taking the time to run your thumb over his knuckles.

“Are you still thinking about your choices?” He mumbled after a while, causing you to let out another sigh. You nodded, shuffling slightly closer to him and resting your head on his shoulder. He released his grip on your hand and wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side.

Very few people saw this side to Theo. To most, he was closed off and tight lipped, scowling and fighting were what he was known for. But to you, he was kind and open, a true gentleman.

“I don’t know what to do.” You mumbled, forcing down the lump in your throat. Theo heard the strain in your voice, quickly pulling you into a hug and placing a gentle kiss on your forehead.

“Whatever you choose, I’ll stand by you.”

“But it’s not that easy!” You spoke exasperated. “We’re on different sides of this war.”

“Not by choice.”

“I know that!”

You sighed again, pressing your palms into your eyes and rubbing them, trying to stave off the tears that you’d been holding in for days after the last order meeting you’d attended.

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled. “I shouldn’t blame you for a choice you didn’t make.”

Theo sighed and held you tighter, the light of the moon grazing on his dark mark that was peeking out from under his uniform. His induction into the Dark Lord’s army of Death Eaters had been a sore subject for weeks.

In his embrace, your tears began to fall, like a dam had broken and your emotions were flowing out freely. Your body wracked with sobs in his arms.

“It will be ok.”

“But what if it isn’t? What if one of us dies Theo?”

Theo didn’t respond but clutched you tighter to him, unwilling to let you go. At seventeen you were both too young for this, completely unprepared for what this war had caused. Lines were drawn, divides were reincarnated tenfold, war was unkind to all involved.

“What if I ran with you?” Theo mumbled, his face buried in your shoulder, his words so quiet that you barely caught them.

Your head rose from his shoulder.

“What?”

“I said, what if I ran with you?”

“You would?”

He nodded softly, lifting a hand to your cheek and brushing your tears away.

“I can’t lose you amore mio.”

#theo nott x you #theo nott one shot #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott oneshot #writing #hp fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #slytherin boys #slytherin boys x reader #slytherin boys x you #fanfic #fanfiction #harry potter #reader insert #fem reader

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leggerefiore · 1 year ago

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I know you've done headcanons with the twins apologizing after a fight, but now we gotta know how Cyrus, Larry, Nanu, and Kabu apologize! Bonus if its right before someone has to leave for a business trip or something (him or his s/o, either one) so there's a lot of time to cool off and think of a way to apologize or maybe just agonize and angst about it lol

cw: angst, couple fights, comfort,

characters: Cyrus, Larry, Nanu, Kabu

🌌Cyrus🛰

☄️ He was a man of little emotion. That was what he desperately wanted to believe. Controlled. Logical. Feelings had no bearing on him. Yet, he was in a committed relationship with another. One where it seemed that whatever emotional barriers he set up were forced down. This could be good, as he was forced to relax and allowed a space to stop following his ruse of the somewhat charismatic and domineering leader of Team Galactic. It was nice to have moments to breathe with another he hated to admit he had high trust for. Though, it could also be bad. Horribly bad. He was so close to finishing his plans, yet you decided to demand his attention. Loneliness and feeling abandoned by him were your chief complaints, but he failed to listen to them. It became a heated argument quickly, which he ended by packing his bags for the time he planned to be locked into his plans.

☄️ Your hurt expression as he slammed the door behind him was haunting. He had turned his personal phone off, preferring to focus solely on matters related to the Red Chain and legendaries. Words echoed in his mind. Your frustration towards him was more than apparent, but the way you had locked onto his arm had made him feel strange. Lonely… You said you felt lonely and unwanted. Accusations of him not even wanting to be in a relationship any more were heavy on his chest. What did he want? Part of him wanted to accuse you of being a useless piece of his past holding him back from everything he was going to do. The other half felt mortified he had hurt the one person that he had these complicated feelings for. If only to himself, he would admit that he loved you. His words were more than unkind. Cyrus had mostly ignored you before snapping on you for trying to consume so much of his precious time.

☄️ The way it was distracting him from his plans was driving him into a special kind of madness. It was not like him to be so caught up on things like this. Feelings came and went. You would not care for this in his perfect world, and yet here he was spiralling further and further into the thoughts of you deciding to leave him. His breath hitched in his throat as he grasped at his chest. The door to his office was locked as he was sat alone in the dark room. Cyrus was above this. He was supposed to be the embodiment of emptiness that he wished to bring to the rest of the world. Yet, he was not. Memories tormented him as your hurt face kept itself firmly burned into his brain. Finally, he broke. The Galactic Boss had to acknowledge that his plans would surely fail if he were to enact them in such a state.

☄️ Saturn seemed mildly annoyed when he announced a postponement of the plans, but he cared little for his reaction. Sure, he lied about it being under the gaze of more testing and investigating, but he knew fully well that the path to what he desired most was through that method. That apathy only lasted until he stood in front of his apartment door. It was quiet. Not there was much noise in the high-end complex usually, but he expected some sound. Had you left? He had not been brave enough to turn on his phone. His fingers tapped in the code for the door, and he stepped inside. You sat on the couch, boredly watching the television screen as it played something. He felt nervous suddenly, like his legs could no longer support his weight. Before he crashed, you turned to look at him with big eyes.

☄️ Your arms locking around him froze him in place as you rushed towards him at an unexpected speed. The warmth of your body completely claimed his mind as it forced down all the horrible worries about you disappearing. His hand came to rest in between your shoulder blades. A sigh left him. “Beloved… I apologise for my behaviour,” Cyrus felt strange speaking so genuinely to you, “I… I have been a bad partner to you. This project has simply been one of my most important ones, and I could not bear to waste a moment away on it.” Your grip on his shirt tightened at those words, obviously it was not what you had wanted to hear from him. “But, I realise that was cruel to you,” he continued, making eye contact with you, “… I love you, truly. Please, do not even think that I wish to part from you.” A kiss to his lips silenced him from whatever else he was going to say. It seemed you just wanted to soak in his presence for now, to which he was more than happy to oblige.

💼Larry🏢

🍙 Larry sat in the cab with heavy thoughts weighing on his mind. Relationships certainly were not an easy thing. Especially with a working schedule like his. Geeta had assigned him an out of region business trip, which he knew better than to try to decline. She could be quite… persistent, for lack of a better term. Though, he found she had a fierce competition in you. The news had upset you greatly, as the trip was happening during a time he had requested time off. You felt frustrated that Larry did not argue against her about his requested time off. He felt annoyed and stressed about being stuck between your upset reaction and Geeta's demanding nature. It was rare that his facade broke, but he snapped at you. His words were cruel. Too cruel. You almost instantly teared up when he told you that this would not be a problem if you were not together. There was no time to talk as you left the apartment.

🍙 His eyes stared out at the terrain below as it carried him through the Galar region. He felt too far from home. You had made him feel like he had a reason to return back from work. Larry was not ignorant about the bright changes that you brought to his life. Meals no longer felt lonely, his battles felt more meaningful with you in the audience cheering him on, and he felt like his home was more than a place to just rest his head. You spoke with him and cuddled up to him. He could enjoy the sight of you playing with his pokemon. It felt brighter now. He basically smashed that light with a bat. Embarrassment burned in his chest. You just wanted to see him more. That was not unreasonable. Yet, he blamed you for his distaste for this sudden trip. If he was not dating you, he would not feel this upset about having to take it, sure, but he also would be missing so much else instead.

🍙 Attempts to call you went unanswered, as it was clear that you did not want to speak with him. He understood. The tears welling in your eyes haunted him. Larry knew better than to say things like that, especially at his age. You deserved much better than some average man like him. It was a strange form of torture, moving through negotiations and meetings on his trip. He put his usual effort into them, not wanting to incur any more issues, but his mind was completely elsewhere. While wondering around Wyndon, he found himself searching for any to bring back as a gift for you. Nothing seemed to call out to him. That was until he saw something in a children's shop.

🍙 By the time he was back in Paldea, he could feel his blood pressure up high. His feet carried him through the streets of Medali nervously, freezing a few times in deep thought. Would you still be there? He hoped you would give him a chance to apologise. The time away had given him the ability to consider the error of his ways. He opened the apartment door quietly. The sink was running in the kitchen as he saw the light pouring out from the door way in the low light of the late evening. The middle-aged man carried himself into the home, aware that you were now. Yet, before he could reach the doorway, you stepped out and stared at him. It was quiet for much too long. An awkward moment of refusal to make eye contact followed.

🍙 Larry pulled out the gift wordlessly and offered it out to you. He let out a breath. “... I shouldn't have said that,” the words came out as his stomach twisted, “I'm grateful you put up with a man like me. I was stressed and should have controlled myself better. I assure you that won't do it again to you.” You took the box and opened it quietly. Inside was a cute Alcremie plush holding a heart. A small laugh left you. Placing it on a nearby table, you walked towards him and hugged him. He returned the affection with ease, feeling at peace after everything. Home truly was with you, it seemed. “I love you,” Larry said after a while, “... I managed to get the next few days off.” The excitement on your face was like electricity in the air. His Oricorio would be envious. It seemed you two would be able to work this out.

🐈‍⬛️Nanu❤️‍🩹

🌑 It was not like him, honestly. Nanu had become pretty passive in his older age. Discourse and stress were not really worth it, he had discovered long ago. Yet, somehow, he managed to get into a fight with his partner. It was dumb, admittedly, and not entirely your fault. The Ultra Beast you had brought back from wherever you had been made him instantly go on edge. It had to be specifically that one, too. The Guzzlord made him instantly feel on the defensive. He said something harsh things that he knew he should not have, and you seemed so shocked by his sudden shift in personality that you ran off. He had not seen you since. The Kahuna wondered if you were done with him. He supposed he deserved it for what he had said.

🌑 Though, Acerola found him moping around with Meowths and quickly put to rest any worries. You had just been called out to some battle tournament thing for Champions and had gone away on a trip. Apparently, you had captured the Ultra Beast for it. Of course, whether you would actually come back to him after the trip was over remained in the air. The girl seemed distressed about how to respond to the situation. He understood. Nanu could not stand the Ultra Beasts, but accusing you of mocking him and trying to make him think about his past failures was simply wrong. You did not know about that because he did not tell you about it. Miscommunication was common, he guessed. But, you had seemed genuinely hurt and terrified by how he changed upon seeing the Guzzlord. This is why he liked Meowths, he supposed. They did not judge people like humans did.

🌑 He still wanted to apologise to you. As much as he hated to admit it, Nanu was fond of you. The old man wished he was not, but you unfortunately had made him care for you by going out of your way to spend time with him and just by being so loving towards him. He wondered why you wasted your time on him. There were a lot of men out in the world that were greater than him. He was just a lazy cop who avoided his duties until he had to do them. But, he was not one to deny someone what they wanted. Even if that meant sharing his couch bed with another person alongside his Meowths. Acerola had no idea when you would be back, however, so he just would have to play the waiting game.

🌑 While a certain friend of his had called him unlucky once, Nanu had not thought too much about it until a familiar voice called out to him as he ordered his usual meal at the Sushi High Roller in Malie. You had seemingly come out of nowhere, sheepishly smiling at him as you stood in the entranceway. He ordered your usual for you and watched as you followed him to where the both of you were normally seated. For a while, it was an awkward silence. He thought of a few things he could possibly say, but nothing came out. Your meals were just eaten in a strange quietness. Nanu brought this on himself. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, you were staring at him. “I'm sorry,” you apologised to him, “I didn't know that you… Were uncomfortable with UBs like that.”

🌑 He shook his head. “Don't blame yourself,” Nanu reassured you, “You didn't know, and I didn't tell you. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that.” Your eyes looked towards the floor. He reached across under the table to grab your hand. “I like you, kid,” he called you that nickname to tease you a bit, “I'm not mad. I understand if you don't want to bother with an old man like me any more-” He was cut off by you suddenly grasping his hand tightly. You shook your head. He sighed. “Hey, let's get out of here,” Nanu got up and headed to pay, “I feel like there's more you want.” Needless to say, the Kahuna felt completely reassured that you wanted this relationship later, and whatever awkwardness the miscommunication brought up was destroyed the minute you two were alone together.

🔥Kabu🏅

💥 He had no idea how the fight even started, really. Something between you two just lit up like a Fire Blast. Kabu wanted to pretend that he was not the type to get jealous, but something about how much time you seemed to be spending with Raihan. He supposed it made sense with you being the Champion and all, but he just felt oddly insecure. After all, Kabu was an older man and, despite how fit he was, there were times when he could not keep up with you. He was not proud of what he said. An accusation like that in a heated moment was a mistake. Especially when he was taking a trip back to Hoenn to visit family. You looked so hurt as you stormed out of your shared home in Motostoke to go who knows where. Attempts to call you were in vain as you refused to answer, and then he lost the ability to while in Hoenn.

💥 He truly could not even comprehend how those feelings came up inside his mind. You had never shown any romantic interest in Raihan, nor were you acting unhappy or discontented in your relationship with him. Kabu simply just felt as if you had suddenly were interested in him as you had been training with him more often. He even felt as if it were cutting into the time that you spent at home with him. If you wanted to train, he was more than willing to train with you. You were both his rival and lover, ultimately. Training with you was one of his favourite things to do. The more he lamented about it, the more it seemed apparent that he was not truly convinced that you were into Raihan, but upset that he was taking up time that you both usually shared. Some wizened old man he was. Kabu wanted to laugh and cry.

💥 As the gym leader wandered around his home region, he debated a way to truly make up for what he had done. Kabu would be certain to apologise first and foremost for his words, knowing fully well that it was his fault for acting in such a manner, but he wanted to show his affection at the same time. He wandered around a few markets and stores in the tropical region before stumbling across something sweet in the Lilycove Department Store. Of course, he thought as he looked at it, that would be an obvious way to apologise and would hopefully be something that you would like.

💥 The flight back home was a slightly nervous one. He hoped you had returned home in his absence, not wanting you to have to stay at a hotel or out camping. The familiar ambiance of Galar surrounded him as he boarded a train bound from Wyndon to Motostoke with a racing heart. The region he came to make his home was always quite different from the one he had originated from. He could complain endlessly about the delays with the trains, but he opted against it. This was his home, after all. It was here that allowed him to meet you and enjoy the battles he found himself continuing in well into his ageing self. Unlocking the door to his home, he felt more determined. Kabu entered and found you curled up on the couch with his Centiskorch. The sight was refreshing. You turned to look at him with curious eyes.

💥 “I'm sorry, love,” he stood before you and hung his head a bit, “I know what I said was completely off the mark, and I shouldn't have even said it.” You stared at him with big eyes, making his heart race. Kabu wanted to laugh at how well you had him trapped. Without a doubt in his mind, he knew that he would run himself ragged to make you happy. He pulled out the gift he got for you in Hoenn. “I love you,” he said plainly, “I hope this helps convey my feelings.” You picked up the pokeball out of his hand and sent out what was inside. A heart-shaped pokemon looked around the living room in confusion. The Luvdisc clearly had no idea what was going on. There were few, if any, in Galar due to restrictions, but he pulled a few connections to bring it in. Judging by the hug and kiss you gave to him, it seemed he was forgiven and understood.

#pokemon x reader #cyrus x reader #larry x reader #nanu x reader #kabu x reader #pokemon cyrus x reader #pokemon larry x reader #pokemon nanu x reader #pokemon kabu x reader #pokemon/reader #cyrus/reader #kabu/reader #nanu/reader #larry/reader

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sleepless-rants · 9 months ago

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Today im thinking about the dehumanization of khaenri'ah. The fact that they intentionally ERASED any kind of history record left by khaenriahns other than the ooh giant scary war machines that shoot lasers they must've CLEARLY had sinister intentions. no one sees the notes left behind by an ordinary citizen stuck at the gates of their country in the middle of the desert because if they moved any further, their starving mother wasnt going to make it. The way they intentionally REDUCED rhinedottir to the sins she committed. (which were sins in the first place by their standards) the way rhinedottir is a bad person but not in a super villain way, she's bad bacause human beings are just as much capable of unkindness and bitterness and evil as they are of being good. The way the khaenri'ahn higher ups very well may have had bad ideas and evil plans that could've altered the world but we can see this with any other nation's governing body (e.g grand sage azar making a literal god), thats a human issue, corrupt government force is A HUMAN ISSUE. We dont know what happened back there, maybe they really did have no choice but to wipe the entire nation out but god, the way they were human and the way no one remebers that when it was their whole ideology in the first place. the pride of humankind robbed of their humanity.

#anyways how's the weather where yall are from #genshin impact #khaenri'ah #genshin #rhinedottir #khaenriah #khaenri'ah sympathising #shout out to monards for trigerring this rant

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harrietvane · 15 days ago

Note

Hello! I happened to run across your post about 'Stigmata' (a movie I'm very fond of), and your line in the tags about "Gabriel Byrne holding you gently while also being sad and Irish" managed to make me laugh for the first time in several days. Cue me laying here in absolute hysterics hoping nobody knocks on my door, because I'd have no idea how to explain myself! (It's so true, though! I saw that movie when I was 13 and... whew!)

So anyway, thanks for a bit of light in a dark time; I'll take it wherever I can find it.

Gabriel Byrne in Stigmata is that certain kind of Catholic one comes across from time to time who has an immense well of kindness that’s driven by an engine of quiet anger directed at both at the unkindness of the world and back at the Catholic Church in general, if they’re honest, despite their seeming full-body commitment to the Vatican bit. Like: who probably should have been a Quaker but honestly is just too fond of taking immediate and decisive (and kind of dumb) action for that crowd. The fact that he’s doing all those spiritual gymnastics while being Irish the WHOLE TIME is sadly a weight he must bear.

And you’re welcome!

#replies #penniesforthestorm

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sulkybender · 6 months ago

Text

the poem of you: a Zukka fic

tags: established relationship, hurt Sokka, hurt/comfort, Sokka has OCD, loving and protective Zuko, modern au

He finds Sokka curled on the floor next to the bed and his heart falls.

He always looks like he’s trying to make a shell with his body, a shell against the world he doesn’t have.

Zuko gets down on his knees, touches his back.

“Sweetheart,” he says, and Sokka starts to cry. Zuko covers him with his body, protection. The soft weight of Sokka crying underneath, the raggedness of his breath.

“I’m here,” Zuko says, kissing the back of his neck, that vulnerable place, the short hairs delicate under his touch. “Baby, I’m right here.”

“It’s bad,” he weeps, inarticulate.

“I know,” Zuko says. “I know. I love you.”

He curls around Sokka and tries, so hard, to protect him.

—

Sometimes the thoughts are bad; they don’t relent. It’s like being kicked in the head, Sokka tells him, by the same thought over and over.

Fuckup.

He helps Sokka from the floor and tries to be gentle with him. Zuko spoons him in bed, pressing kisses to his hands. His whole body is stiff, delayed, fighting an infection from within. And the infection is Sokka, and the infection is killing Sokka. Or trying its best.

“I love you so much,” Zuko says, arms slipping around his waist, snug. “You’re my baby, you know that? You’re my turtleduck.”

Sokka is cried out, hunched in on himself, hurting. The shakiness of his breath is painful. Zuko wants to take the pain away. It’s always seemed so unfair that he can’t.

He would do anything for Sokka, but there’s nothing he can do.

“You want me to tell you about my day?” he asks, and Sokka nods.

Sokka is the talker—Zuko isn’t the talker—but Zuko can do this, can talk for him, fill the silences that Sokka’s mind would try to fill with unkind things.

“Hmm, let’s see.” Zuko noses at his ear, nuzzling kisses. “It was a slow day. Did some client research. Ate a shitty croissant.”

He hums, thinking.

“I wrote poems for a bit.” He can feel Sokka smile a little. “Yeah, I thought you’d like that,” Zuko says.

He falls into silence again for a while, feeling the soft rise and fall of Sokka’s chest. He’s no good at this, the steady patter, the lull of it. He tries to think of other topics but all he can do is wonder how long Sokka was on the floor.

“What kind of poems?”

Sokka’s voice is hoarse.

“Nothing special.” Zuko kisses the back of his neck. “I wrote them on sticky notes and then I hid them in my desk.” He can feel the little motion that means Sokka is laughing, suppressed. “Yeah, yeah. Go on and say it.”

“Nothing,” Sokka says.

“It’s never nothing.”

“I just love you,” Sokka says, his voice cracking slightly, and Zuko feels warm all over. He could cry.

“I love you so much it’s crazy,” he says. He cards his fingers through Sokka’s hair. He wants to take care of Sokka so badly. It’s this ache in him all the time.

“Were the poems about me?”

Zuko snorts.

“I wanna know,” Sokka whines.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says.

“That’s why you love me.”

He rolls over onto his back, smiling up at Zuko. And the smile is hesitant, his eyes still bright from crying, but he looks so handsome Zuko doesn’t know what to do with himself. His hair spills on the pillow, rich brown flecked with gold. He cradles Sokka’s cheek, thumb stroking the line of his jaw.

He wants to write about the way Sokka’s hair looks, the way his face looks, the particular tilt of it, the thoughtful way his lips purse. He wants to write about wanting to take care of Sokka. Inadequate: his care, his words for it.

“I would write such shitty love poems about you,” he says.

“I’d love that,” Sokka says.

“I’m sure you would.” He kisses Sokka’s head. “Only the shittiest.”

Sokka gestures, a little beckoning movement, and Zuko lies back in his arms, warm, Sokka’s hand protective on his hip. He can feel the tremor in Sokka’s hand, the exhaustion. He’s exhausted himself with the thoughts in his head, been pummeled by them. He’s pummeled still.

“You’ll read them to me sometime,” Sokka murmurs.

“I will not.”

“Someday you’re gonna be a famous poet,” Sokka says. “And then I’ll have to see your poems. There’s no avoiding it.”

He’s tracing circles in Zuko’s hipbone, delicate enough to make Zuko shiver with love. He wants to make Sokka dinner; he wants to wash his hair. He wants to do everything, because he can’t do the one thing, the thing that matters. He wants to fall asleep holding Sokka safe from the world.

“Can we go on a walk later?” Sokka asks, hesitant. “Just to, um.”

It helps when he’s tired, too tired to think circles around himself. Zuko nuzzles him. “Of course, baby. I’d love to walk with you.”

He feels Sokka slump a little in relief.

“God, you’re fucking lovely, you know that?” he says.

And Zuko doesn’t know that, because there’s an infection inside him too, the thing that makes him doubt himself. The thing that makes him write poems on sticky notes and hide them away.

He takes Sokka’s hand, presses it to his cheek. He’ll write a poem someday about that—the feeling of Sokka’s hand on his cheek.

But he doesn’t have the words for that now. His words are so much less beautiful than that, such ordinary things.

“You can always ask me to walk with you,” he says.

And Sokka smiles like it’s a poem anyway.

#atla #zuko #sokka #zukka #zukka fanfic #ocd #Sokka has ocd #Zuko taking care of Sokka <3

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purplesoulcollection · 2 months ago

Text

Unnatural Love

Part 6 Synopsis : Name has being transmigrated into the world of I'm Not That Kind Of Talent without ever reading the novel. She's not being reincarnated as a human but as a devil as well. Hi There! I want to let you know that this fanfiction story isn't solely my creation. I borrowed the concept from @quqiwo2. I haven't actually read the novel either, just some spoiler to the end.

I hope you'll excuse my spelling and grammar mistake, because English not my first language.

Finally after we were anxious to think about our future relationship. We also decided to keep our dating relationship as a secret from the Demon King .

But that's not the most important thing I want to say...

Because…

Finally, Deon himself revealed his secret. To ME!!!

He said that because for him we were already together, that's why he would also tell his secret life story.

I've actually wanted to know about him since a long time ago but wasn't sure how he would respond if I asked. So I'm afraid that if I want to ask directly,

The past is a taboo topic for soldiers. Because they have to sacrifice their humanity to fight. It would be unethical to ask casually. It’s also will drop the mood and interrupted that person.

He was the one who told me that his name was not Demon Arut, but Deon Hardt. And he also asked to just call him Deon when we were alone, I agreed with him.

He said that his original name, Deon, changed to Demon because he was being misunderstood by the devil's advertisements and was constantly being misunderstood his whole life.

And finally, Deon also told me about his life story, starting from when he was born albino, had a weak body since birth, was forced to fight in the war between kingdom, survived through struggle and luck and too often lost his memory.

When I heard everything Deon told me. I honestly feel very sad and sympathetic to him. But also wondering...

Is it accurate to say that his family is so unkind as to send him to war despite his physical condition being unsuitable?? Is there really having no misunderstanding at all?

Why am I asking the reality of the Deon’s story?

Because it’s really contradictive for me…

If his family really intended to kill Deon, why didn't they try to escape knowing that Deon could return home after 8 years of war? It is difficult to believe that Deon will not harbor any resentment towards those who sent him to war and they should be the one who know that.

Life is the second most valuable thing for nobles, after money of course. If they don't live, how will they enjoy their money? It’s logical to think that they would try to save their lavish life.

Just imagine, okay?

We become war soldiers for 8 years, and 8 years can survive in a war that can make people's minds go crazy. The psychological burden of a murderer must be enormous-- the possibility of the person becoming crazy and psychopathic is also possible occurrence.

Of course, the normal people would usually try to avoid Deon, who miraculously survived.

But his family, who tried to kill him, didn't run away and instead welcomed Deon home. As if they weren't aware of Deon's grudge for not being willing to become a soldier?

It's either that Deon's parents are stupid, greedy, trash, or a misunderstanding.

That's the biggest possibility of Deon's story which has a definite plot twist. Because Deon's story from start to finish is truly spectacular, suitable as a fantasy novel full of drama and tragedy. As an expert on fantasy novels, I am sure that there is a misunderstanding that has occurred.

Besides, his older brother, Cruel Hardt, also has oddities, Deon said that his brother hate and want to kill him, he also becomes a hero following his younger brother. Why did his brother never try to kill Deon who killed his parents with his own hands. Why?

Revenge is most delicious and satisfying when it is done with one's own hands. People who want revenge will never allow their targets to be killed by others. Because that is the revenge system that can satisfy a heart full of revenge.

So it is clear that there must be a big problem hidden without Deon's knowledge.

I believe this aligns with the perspective of seasoned readers. Those who enjoy cliché fantasy novels frequently trust their gut feelings. I can feel that in the future there will be will be a sacrifice that will occur if this situation continues and it will affect Deon too.

I actually don't know about psychological problems. But Deon's character is very unsuitable for someone who has becoming the hero of the war.

I'm not mocking him, but the trauma he has should be there for someone who didn’t want to do a war. He even told the story as if he didn't have any trauma at all. He talked about his 8 year war so casually, didn’t took any life at all but he took the lives of his family, and then he was sent to be one of the hero's journey companions and his hero died, but he became the Commander of the demon king's zero army now, but he said he was weak?

There's no way that could happen, war is never a joke. Only the strong can survive. It’s the same principle in this devil’s world

Even if he was lucky, Luck didn't work like that. That's why I say Deon's story is very suitable because it is a tragic fantasy. Especially the plot hole that occurs due to memory loss. I'm sure it must be because of his psychological problems, Deon's psychology seems so unstable that he can be like that.

I've only heard of it but is it possible that he has a split personality. According to an article I once read, people who have multiple personalities will not remember what the other personality did, As a mechanism to take care of itself. This symptom is match with his condition.

So I can't tell Deon all these facts I just thought about.

If all my hypotheses are really true, then tragedy will come to Deon. Because it's impossible to have a happy ending after all of Deon's stories have happened. Then what about me?

“Adele, Adele!”

Surprised, I turned to Deon. He looked at me with a worried look. "Adele, was my story that surprising to you?"

It seemed like he was worried about my situation. Maybe he thought I was in shock after my fragility earlier, even though I was just thinking about the possibility that Deon's story was a fantasy story from earth or not?

I exhaled tiredly. Of course, my thoughts above are just a hypothesis. It seems that I really have talent as a novel writer if my imagination continues like this.

"Even if your story is so surprising to me, this is your story. Of course, the one who feels the saddest is Deon, right?" I tried to empathize with him, even if I've never experienced the same thing as Deon.

Deon just looked down and made a shadow with his hair. This makes him feel very far from me. I, who couldn't stand seeing that, slowly touched his hand first before finally holding it.

Only then did he look back at me. I smiled sadly.

"I'm sorry I made you remember your past. But I'm glad you were honest with me about your past. Would you like me to hug you in return?" I opened my arms, inviting him to hug. At first she was hesitant, but then she came into my arms.

When he hugged me, suddenly a panel screen appeared in front of me.

The screen shocked me and shocked Deon too until his body turned stiff. I immediately stroked Deon's back. Trying to calm myself and Deon too.

"Sorry, Deon, I thought there was an insect passing by."

"Bugs won't come in here!"

"That's why I said I saw wrong."

After that, Deon was silent and I continued to stare at the damn screen that suddenly appeared in front of me.

Is this a clue to the reason why I am in this world.

Does that mean I came to this world without notice and had to suffer in this world because of Deon?

To change Deon's tragic fate from beginning to end…

Do I have any other choice but to accept it?

I had come into this world without warning, suffered, met Deon, interacted with him without thinking of him as a tragic character and we dated too now.

Maybe this screen is waiting for the right moment so that I can't resist it. Honestly, if I got this quest before. Maybe I will reject it outright.

But because I already know Deon, know him, like him, he finally was honest with me about himself. Do I have the heart to let Deon meet his tragic end? My conscience really couldn't bear to refuse this quest.

With a heavy heart but also with an anxious heart, I pressed the yes button.

And I can see a list of skills that I can get if I do the quest. This is like farming games where I have to deposit items first before I can get the prize.

Wait a minute, Why do I have to do Quests all full of romantic scenes.

Teasing Deon, holding hands, hugs, cheek kisses, and so on until there is something most erotic that makes you

My face heated up instantly.

But in the most erotic part, namely doing it with Deon, the prize was clearly visible.

‘Clear the karma of Deon hart’

My eyes and mouth opened wide. I reflexively tightened my hug which made Deon squirm. I realized that I immediately let go of our hug.

"What's wrong with you all this time, it's like you've been seeing a ghost?" Deon's face became dirty. Maybe he's sulking because I keep bothering him.

I can only smile nervously. Technically, it is true that the screen that appears suddenly is like the jump scare.

"N- it's nothing! This is just because I'm hugging you for the first time. So I'm nervous." I avoided Deon's gaze. I don't even know if Deon can accept this reason.

Of course I'm not a fool who would say screen to Deon. He must not know that he had a tragic ending and only I can change his life.

If he found out, he would most likely kill all the demons and himself right now.

Of course that's something that can't happen now.

“Me too, this is my first time in a long time. "

“Then shall we hug again, I promise this time I will be quiet. “

Well, we hugged again, and in the end we both fell asleep.

To Be Continued

How is my innovations? Are you like it?

#fanfic #x reader #manhwa #manhwa x reader #deon hart #deon hart x reader #intkot #i'm not that kind of talent #fem reader #x female reader

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