#kindness in a world that was unkind. kindness in a Body that was unkind. being soft when you're built for violence

[muntitled]

Blink Twice

Pairings: The Salesman x Fem!Reader

Summary: After pushing your body to the brink, it's finally giving out. You're rewarded for all your dazzling work ethic with a “nice” dinner. As ‘nice’ as ‘nice’ gets with him…

Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Language, Coercion, Murder, Abuse, Male Manipulation, Implied Violence, Age gap, God Complex, Brainwashing, Psychopathy, Blood, Gore, Codependency, Yandere!Salesman, Stalking, Smut (+18) mdni, Handcuffs, Exhibitionism, Blood Kink, Sadomasocism, Dom!Salesman, Sub!Reader, Choking, Rough Sex, Oral Sex, Blood Play, fingering, Degradation Kink, Praise Kink, Sadism, Punishments, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Squirting, Fingering, Somnophilia, Period Sex, Bodily Fluids.

A/n: I'm not responsible for the media you consume

"H-How do you keep breaking into my apartment?" If it weren't for the fact that you were currently being fingered awake, you might have found it in yourself to sound more angry.

But you weren't awake, and he had taken advantage of your unconscious state just enough to bend down over your sleeping frame, and slip his hands between your legs.

You had promised yourself a quick power nap on the couch, anything that might lessen the pain that had been steadily blooming in your left arm. That nap had stolen you throughout most of the day until, here he hovers over you- the man who is undoubtedly the culprit for all this bodily pain you're in- with his fingers inside you.

“There you are, sleepy head,” His face is so close, you can see the smile wrinkling his face. His smile is bright and kind but his fingers aren't. They're stretching your cunt out, wrenching a moan from deep within you as you stare down at your hips moving off the couch.

“Fuck…” Your voice cracks as he scissors his index and middle finger inside you, still on a mission to split you apart. You drown in the scent of his cologne and his perfectly new suit- a black one today.

You throw your head back, feeling the pressure mount as you grind down against his fingers all while he watches with immense satisfaction.

“Can't- just-” you gasp when your wetness seeps out of you and onto the couch. “Can't-Do-This-” For all those moments you forget that you're nursing a sore arm. As you grind down against his ruthless fingers.

You forget that he might have seriously injured you this time.

“I couldn't help myself,” he whispers hoarsely, forcing an orgasm out of you before placing a kiss on your forehead. “You look breathtaking when you're unconscious.”

As the orgasm passes, you try to wake yourself up and become more aware of your surroundings.

Your body is shaking once he's done with you. Your cunt aches and reality sets back in. “Get out of my house.”

He straightens his tie before standing to his full height again, “You say that like I don't own the place,"

He's smiling stiffly as he stands before you, clutching that bloody briefcase, having come to collect you for another round of games...

Something inside your worn-out soul breaks at the sight of him so unfathomably fazed. You were experiencing another round of those 'realization moments'.

You have actually gone and sold yourself to a sadist.

Especially now that he's gone and done it again. After vehemently expressing that he 'please be a little more gentle with you', he insisted on pushing your body to the brink of its abilities. Toying with you and punishing you and releasing all the workings of those sick, sick, sick games on you, and for what?

It hits you more often than not these days.

A paid apartment? Paid university fees?

You try to keep your sleepy eyes unkind as you glare up at him but even you blanch at how much of a necessary force he's made himself in your life.

"And how often are you going to remind me that all my resources are tied to you?" You rise from lying supine, waiting for the world to stop spinning before you start stretching. None of your limbs protest as much as yours left shoulder that practically howls in pain. He watches you with robotic intrigue.

"I thought I should make good on that promise to take you out.”

"Take me out?" He notes the way your good shoulders tenses and smiles.

"I already said I've got no plans to kill you. You're the most fun I've had in years and years." He says "I want you to go to dinner with me."

"You wanna take your abuse victim out to dinner... looking like this?" you try to lift your arm but it protests, sending a sharp pain through your entire left side.

"I think you look rather beautiful."

"You would think this is what beauty looks like."

A tense silence falls.

"You're angry." He tilts his head, "And in pain."

You scoff venomously then, "Whomever might the culprit be?" You ask sarcastically before picking yourself up from the couch. You're cradling your arm, dragging your worn body across the floor to the adjoining kitchen.

"My fucking arm still hurts." You nearly cry as you squeeze the words out. Shooting a teary-eyed glare at your sadist from the kitchen.

"Tonight is your celebration dinner and it's way overdue." He busies himself by folding up the quilt that had been draped along your sleeping frame, "All my virtues rest on giving credit where credit is due, and you my dear..." the gaze he arrests you in is warm, and penetrative, like you were being reminded that he owns your body and soul, "-have done stellar work for me."

It's said in a wave of reverence you didn't really expect.

"Let me take you out,"

Sure he was sociopathic, and deranged, and everything you should most definitely be seeking refuge from, but the sentiment in his voice is genuine. As if, after 40 years on this earth, with the violent tendencies he had undoubtedly been born with, here is someone that's actually helping him. That's what you're doing, you're helping him. But it comes at a steep, steep price.

"You have virtues?" You ask sarcastically, causing the once intense moment to scatter and lighten.

"And your humor would be missed if I killed you. Where else would I find someone with such a stellar sense of humor and almost no sense of self preservation?" He asks aloud, as he walks towards the counter that separates you both. "You should've asked for help the first day you met me-"

"You offered to pay my shit if I played your games, who would walk away from that?”

"You should've." He smiles. "But I'm glad you didn't." His smile reaches those dead, almond eyes, "And tonight we have a celebration dinner."

"I can't go out," you say, turning your back on him to drink water.

His voice is dark when he says, "Can't or won't?"

"Can't." You slam your cup down against the sink, earning a thick wave of silence. You were never angry with him before. Never. "I think you broke something." You say, turning slowly, still cradling your arm like a baby.

There's a jarring amount of care in his voice as he rounds the counter to walk closer towards you. He examines your arm with deceptively soft eyes as he softly says, "I really did a number on you, didn't I?"

You look up at him with blank eyes, "Try not to get off thinking about it," you snip back. Sarcasm was your only weapon.

"I couldn't help myself," He rests his large hand on your arm, "you know that right?

"Y-Yes," your resolve falters and you're back to being his submissive. "I don't blame you."

"In fact." He nods along with you, conditioning you to accept his view of the events as he says, "Our session this past week had been nothing short of magical."

You're not quite sure if that was a reliable portrayal of the events but your weak mind is already fitting the memories to be so.

Somehow, you're thinking of the events with less anger: how he had snapped real, silver handcuffs on your wrists, resting them behind your back while you were being fucked from behind. It had been blissful until he pulled too hard on the left and you screamed and you blacked out.

Now here he stands before you, drenched in the afternoon sunlight, wearing a brand new black suit, smelling of fine cologne, telling you it was magical.

He came when you broke your arm.

"Alright, I'll come with you," he decides with finality, prompting you to snap out of your daze.

"No, I can go myself!" You move around him to gather your things.

"Unless you've magically obtained the ability to communicate in Korean then I suggest I come with you." He watches you race across your tiny apartment, gathering your things.

"There are English speaking doctors I'll be f-uck." As you were searching for your phone between the couch, you angered the arm, causing another wave of pain to blossom.

"I'm taking you." He stands by the doorway, "Let's go."

Your nostrils flare as the real reason for your discomfort rears its head. "B-but what if..."

You let the words die on your lips. Choosing instead to look at him, hoping your eyes relay the severity of the implications that might arise from a simple trip to the hospital. All those questions.

"Don't tell me you're worried about me." He says, still smiling.

"Worry?" You snort as you make your way to the front door where your sneakers sit, "If you go to jail who's gonna make me cum?"

He clutches at the space where a heart ought to be and says, "And here I was thinking you were falling in love with an old man like me."

"You can't love anything," you shoot back coldly.

"I can't," he confirms, "but you can."

You move away from the conversation like It's growing teeth.

"Let's just go," you mumble quietly, heading out the door, not looking back and knowing he'd follow.

𓂃

The hospital is bombarded by the smell of antiseptic and busy bodies in white coats whizzing all around you. It's dizzying actually being here as the severity if it all comes hammering down on you. You didn't like being around so many people at the best of times- even attending university everyday was met with its fair share of anxiety. Almost on instinct, you curl a little closer into his side, letting your right hand slither over his wrist. Surprisingly, he lets you.

"What should I say?" It only strikes you now that you probably should have rehearsed some script since 'I'd like to seek medical attention because I'm meeting with a homicidal sadist weekly who pays my bills and my body is finally giving out,' probably wouldn't be a good way to go.

The confidence in his stride leaves you brimming with nervousness. Your less than orthodox dynamic has already made a few passers by stare but here, inside the hospital, you feel like the only two humans to exist.

"I'll do the talking," he reassures and something inside you sighs. This is what made him such a necessary force for you. He handled way more than you ever could. He moved through the world, headstrong and in charge. He was everything you weren't.

"Good day-" he says to the nurse manning the front desk, "I'd like to get my wife treated for a possible fracture or broken bone-"

Wife.

It rings through your ears.

Meanwhile, kind eyes- genuine, human eyes- look at you from across the desk. You realize then how little contact you've had with anyone normal. Anyone real.

"Poor thing," the nurse murmurs and your heart tugs at the kindness drenched in her voice.

"Alright, Sir, it's just-" the nurse gestures towards the rest of the waiting room, "We're just busier than we usually are for a weekday so you might have to wait a while-"

"You have medical aid?" You enquire softly, letting your side bump against him. "Who the hell are you?"

He stares down the small woman as he reveals a glistening card from his wallet. She quickly looks at you before she tentatively takes the card and types away at her computer.

Somehow, up until this point you had fooled yourself into believing you were on the road to autonomy, that going to university and being a woman in her 20s away from home meant you were finally obtaining sweet sweet independence but in actuality... you were just a little girl, deluding herself into thinking the city might be kind to her. It's swallowing you whole. And you're being left to watch.

It made you aware of how completely vulnerable you had really been. You could barely afford rent, let alone something as luxurious as medical aid. For all your time in this city you tried not to get hurt because medical bills would eat you alive and here he was, whipping a card out.

"Right this way-" The little nurse moves from behind the counter, and almost immediately, you hear a distinct uproar in the waiting room behind you. "I think doctor Park will see you, but we'll first head over for X-Ray and-"

"Hey!" The sound startles you, causing your shoulders to tense as you grip on your Salesman's forearm, making sure he's still there, "We've been here for 4 hours," You meet the haggard glassy eyes of a middle aged man. He's scowling at you as if you've committed a grave murder right before him.

"I'm sorry, Sir." The nurse begins, her voice filled with concern, "This hospital is legally obligated to help out those with medical aid first-"

Shoes click against the cold floors. A shadow descends as your Salesman steps forward as if protecting you from the man's vehemence. Time stands still in the moments he makes his venomous proposition. A proposition so vile it nearly had you vomiting here all over the hospital floors.

"My wife needs a new heart-" he begins, gesturing to a woman- a ghost seated in the chairs behind him. Her skin is practically translucent as she stares off into space. "Who knows how much time we're wasting while we're being forced to wait here-"

"Are you up for a game of rock, paper, scissors by any chance?" Your salesman asks, causing your heart to sink. The man examines him as if he's grown a second head.

"If you win a single round against me, I will pay for your wife's medical treatment. New heart." At the peroration of his incredibly insensitive and evil proposition, your Salesman smiles.

"One round." He says, before his eyes snap to the woman pulling at her husband's arm.

"She doesn't look too well," The Salesman pouts and you walk up towards him, limbs shaking as you whisper-yell in his ear, feeling all your nerves being shot out of you.

"Jesus, you're fucking disgusting."

"Birds of a feather-" he whispers back, before refocusing his attention onto the man.

Meanwhile the nurse tries to pull you away but you're rooted to the floors. This whole ordeal makes you realize that you've never actually seen him interact with normal people. It makes you wonder where he goes when he's not with you. You'd almost believed that he's a fragment of your delusions, something your lonely brain cooked up to make you believe someone in this city cared about you. But he's real. And he has a life outside the two of you.

"Don't you wanna help your wife?" He continues to tempt the man, "Look at mine-" the Salesman said, gesturing to you. "She's a little battered and bruised but she's alive. You're not dying any time soon, right honey?"

You rip your eyes away from him just as your nurse returns. She places a warm arm on your forearm and in the midst of the game, she places a card in your hand. "Let's go for your x-rays,"

While they play their game, you look down at the piece of paper.

Blink twice if the man you're with is the one who assaulted you.

Call it female intuition.

You have no idea what could've led to the fact that he was the one but the nurse is watching you with a heavy gaze and bated breath. You almost drown in the concern she holds for you, a mere stranger.

In another life, you might've had a friend like her. She's relatively young, budding with youthfulness, actually. You imagine she has a boyfriend. An actual one. One who holds her bag while she's shopping. One who kisses her. These kinds of people develop empathy. The ‘fixed people’. You can tell she knows love.

“I-”

“Rock, paper, scissors-”

You blink once before looking away and the nurse sighs in relief.

"Better luck next time." You watch with bated breath as the man draws a rock to the Salesman's paper.

𓂃

An oblique fracture, they called it. The thing that's been plaguing your left arm for a week has finally been given its name. You're walking out of the doctor's office feeling light and remarkably relieved to leave this place and all its people. He walks confidently beside you, having sat through the whole ordeal. He had been there as they fashioned the pink cast over your arm and he walks beside you now, like your own personal well-dressed shadow.

On your way out, you pass by the receptionist's desk, she smiles over at you but glares at the Salesman. Just as you're about to make it out, you hear her voice.

“You said she's your wife,” the woman speaks up, causing you both to stop. “I don't see a ring.”

Cold, white, fear runs down your spine and your hand that was in his, squeezes as silence envelops you both.

“Good Day,” is all he says with an amicable smile before pulling you along.

Silence enveloped you on your taxi ride over to the Japanese restaurant comfortably situated in the Gangnam district. He had been remarkably quiet in the taxi driver over and he is remarkably quiet now as you're being led to a booth in the restaurant. It's adequately filled with its patrons. Families and couples like perhaps you two were. You wonder if he has these thoughts…

“She did make a good point,” you mumble as you take a seat in the booth, watching silently as he slips in beside you. “If you're going to be telling people I'm your wife and they don't see a ring…”

He sets his briefcase in the booth beside you both, sighing softly as he mumbles, “People don't usually marry their toys, do they?”

Before you're able to respond, a waiter walks up to your booth, having his pen and notepad at attention as he asks for your order. You watch your Salesman expertly lay down your order, everything from yakitori, to miso soup to onigiri. It's mesmerizing watching him order for you and you suspect it had the same effect on you. His hands on your thigh squeezes slightly, while you silently let him order. In a moment the waiter vanishes.

“You're so old,” you say suddenly, trying to make up for the silence and the nervousness raging through your heart. This is the first time you're out with him in a public setting and its setting you alight with worry. “I'm sure you remember when Korea was under Japanese occupation,”

“Keep making your little jokes,” he says, sipping on his complimentary water as he allows his back to rest against the seat, “And I might not be so forgiving…”

His hand rests his hand on your thigh, it's the only thing you're able to focus on. How his fingers cover so much space. The sheer size of it. The sheer size of him. You feel so completely small beside him, you almost don't realize that he's begun talking again.

“My father fought in the war when he was ‘round about your age,” that brings you clean out of your thoughts. Your eyes snap up to meet his but he's staring aimlessly ahead, as if reminiscing on something beautiful.

“Jesus I-” you swallow thickly, “That was a bloody war,”

He nods, momentarily removing his hand from your thigh to undo the buttons of his blazer.

“More than 3 million dead.” He says taking another sip.

“Right.” You nod, heart hammering when he places his hand back on your thigh. “2 million soldiers and 1 million civilians,” he places the glass back down on the table and he shakes his head slightly, twirling his index.

“Swap the numbers around.”

“Right…” you clear your throat, keeping your gaze locked on your lap, “That's... heartbreaking. I'm sorry.”

He turns his head, finally regarding you under the dimness of the hanging light fixtures. He tilts his head to the side in that way he does when he's particularly intrigued by you. “You are sorry, aren't you?”

You nod.

“But I have no idea why, you're not a Japanese fascist from the 40s.”

“No, but I have empathy.”

“Curious.” He replies back, before letting silence fall.

“Spread your legs,” he says so suddenly it gave you whiplash. Your head snaps up to him as you begin to plead.

He couldn't do this. There had to be some sort of refractory period in which he let your body recuperate.

“I’m in pain-” you grit out through your teeth, but his large hand is already seeping to the center of your closed legs, trying to pry them apart.

“Your legs work just fine.” He whispers, letting his mouth graze your ears, “Your cunt works just fine,”

You place a hand on his forearm. “The doctor said no strenuous activities.”

“Do you listen to the doctor or do you listen to me?” He asks, staring at you deep into your frightened eyes, forcing you into that liminal space of submission. Your eyes were brimming with not only fear but embarrassment.

“Spread your legs.” He whispers,

“I'm on my period,”

Another troubling moment of contemplation falls between you both and you're left to stare deep into each other's eyes as the restaurant's cultural music makes the ambience swell. It could be romantic, this energy that's festering between you two.

Even though you know it's anything but, you allow yourself to dip into those pools of delusion.

“You were fine this morning,” He says, and you note the grogginess that's begun to veneer his voice as he looks down at you.

Young, impressionable, darling you.

“I got it before we left, that's why I asked to use the bathroom again- point is,” you tug on his arm, “We can't.”

His eyes soften and for a split second, you think you see kindness there. Your gaze falls to his lips, anticipating the words they'd form.

“Spread your legs,” he says once more, before applying the necessary force to pry them apart yourself. “Let me in, Doll.”

A small whimper escapes you as you open your legs. You let him drift his hand under your skirt. His fingers are cold to the touch, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake as he inches them towards your cunt.

The second his fingers graze over your mound you gasp slightly before sitting forward with your head bowed. Your cast is behind the table as you hide your head in your hand. He watches you with heavy eyes, “It's rude to have your elbow on the table.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, trying to muffle yourself by the palm of your hand. You feel him swipe your underwear away. You feel his fingers dip into the pool of wetness at your entrance. Wetness you knew was not arousal.

“Don't look at me like that,” you mumble, staring down at the table as his fingers rub against your slick folds.

“Like what?” He asks.

In your periphery you can see him hunched over you slightly, his eyes on you and you alone. It was tiring having his attention. And so incredibly dangerous.

“Like you wanna eat me alive.”

He bends down, letting his fingers graze over your clit as he whispers, “I do. That's all I wanna do.”

The waitress returns with your food and you mumble a quiet ‘thank you,’ While your Salesman keeps his gaze locked on you.

“Grind down on my hand,” he urges and you shake your head,

“Do it.”

“Or what?” That was probably the worst thing to say to a sadist who looks like he's brimming for you to give him a reason to hurt him.

“Fuck my hand or I'll fuck you.”

You were feeling particularly stubborn today. The injury, the nurse, the hospital, the man and his wife… you're disgusted with this man beside. It dawns on you then that you have to get away from him.

“You can't do that-” you begin to whine but his voice is like steel when he reolies, “I thought we've established that there are many things I can do and very few I can't.”

All is quiet.

“Fuck my hand or I'll fuck you, I've been dying to play in your blood.”

You're still wrestling with either of your options, trying to outweigh the good against the bad was impossible when both choices just seemed bad. It puts you at an unfair disadvantage and you are drowning.

“W-Wait-”

“Times up.” He mumbles before removing his hand from your underwear. You're utterly horrified to find it stained in crimson.

He calls over the waiter, at least having the decency to hide his bloody hand behind your back as he politely says, “My wife is quite sick, could I be pointed to the bathroom, please?” He sounds so amicable, so deceptively kind, of course the waitress quietly urges the two of you to the bathrooms nestled at the back of the resturant.

“I'll do it-” you breath heavile as he urges you past tables, “I'll do just-”

“You picked too late," he whispers in your ear as he steers you into the female bathrooms. “Disqualified.” He says before pushing you into a sta. You could only thank your lucky stars that the stalls are empty but that is where you luck runs dry.

It's only you and your monster who's fervently unzipping his pants before locking you both in a cubicle.

“My arm hurts-” you begin but he turns you around, pushing your back against the door.

“Your cunt still works.” He repeats, “I didn't get to drive a knife into it the last time-” he whispers hoarsely as he plays drunken kisses all across your collarbone. You hate to admit how dizzying the effect of his kisses are. How they carry you off into a completely different mental state- where everything becomes morally grey. You felt like you could get off to almost anything in this state and so you don't bat an eye when he says, “I need to see your blood on my cock,”

In fact, you moan, trying to find your bearings as you slip so far into subspace. “You're not allowed to pass out on me-” he says, manically, breathing oh so heavily as he pulls his cock out over his slacks. “I'm not even using any of our favorite toys, you do not get to pass out.” He warns before slotting himself between your legs.

“W-wait- pull your pants all the way down, otherwise-” you hiccup, “I'll make a mess.”

A deep and low groan reverberates through his chest and you watch him lower his pants all the way down, revealing sculpted legs before he brings his cock to your cunt. It's wet enough to allow him to slide in smoothly, and he looks down between you, pressing down on your tummy as he watches your blood soak his cock.

“Here taste your blood,” He's prying your teeth open and you let him. Crimson floods your mouth and you moan around his fingers. There's a manic sort of edge to his laugh as he admits, “I’m not gonna last quick.” before he's kisses you deeply, grinding himself into you

“Fuck- you're filthy.” His eyes are absolutely insane as he drives his cock into you setting an unforgiving ppace. He snaps his hips against you, trying to drive his cock in further and further.

“Cum- I'm gonna cum-” He pulls back to urge, just as you hear someone walk into the bathroom. He's breathing heavily, surprisingly being mindful of your cast as he dips his hand down to your cunt. His fingers drag across the blood like it's the most fascinating thing on earth, and that has you cunt tightening around him.

A toilet flush, just as a whimper seeps through your lips. Your eyes are squeezed shut as you take his brutal fucking, watching him stab your cunt with his cock like he's daring himself to break you.

You place a hand on your mouth, muffling your violent cries as you buck your hips against him. Your own period pains that were flooding your system is beng fucked away. Your thighs and his pelvis are absolutely stained in crimson and his eyes are rolled back. Thankfully, the door opens and closes and you are alone once again.

“I love playing in your blood-” his voice cracks. Meanwhile, he's using you like a ragdoll. Through it all, you manage to ask the question plaguing your mind.

“Did he…” You moan, squeezing your eyes shut as the tip of his cock grazes your cervix, “Did your dad make it back?”

He rears his teeth, smiling in that twisted way that was far different from the smiles he gave everyone else. Only you got to see him like this. “Yes, Doll, he did.”

“W-What happened to him-oh god-” he picks up his pace grabbing your hips and pulling your cunt down on his cock.

“I killed him.” His eyes roll back into his skull and your mouth falls open. His cum floods your system and in that same moment his pelvis grazes along your clit, triggering your orgasm. You cum with tears in your eyes and it fills you with unmistakable dread.

If this man was capable of ending someone in his own bloodline, who were you in his eyes? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“Don't look so scared.” He whispers, still grunting as he emptied himself inside you, “He was useless. You- you're not useless.”

He kisses your face. Everywhere he can.

“You look like you're about to have a panic attack. Compose yourself.”

You breathe in thickly.

In and out.

In and out.

[zincbot]

i think it's fun to sprinkle a little personal issue into a dnd character, exaggerate it to make it that much easier to dissect

[bunni-v1]

Aventurine NSFW Headcannons

🍓This took me so long to get done, and I'm not 100% satisfied, but I wanted to get these out. There's so much I left unsaid, and I feel like if I kept going it would never stop. So enjoy the very basics of what I feel Aventurine is like in bed. Smaller posts are coming in the future so I can take time to work on the genshin stuff I have coming, alongside requests I plan on doing a full fic for <3

Tagging: @the-original-skipps (mwah mwah, just for you pookie)

Tw: Mentions of past sexual assault; Aventurine has unhealthy views of sex; Aventurine's past; NSFW; Pretty vanilla ngl; grammar errors

Info: Aventurine x Reader; Angst; Fluff

Word Count: 2.5k

MDNI

-Aventurine and sex do not mix well – at least, not at the start. 

-Much like love, he has a very jaded view of sexual intimacy. He was (heavily implied to have been) sexually assaulted by many different unsavory types when he was younger. His body wasn’t his own then, and the sex was brutal and unkind – something he hated.

-As he grew, both in stature and into his title of Aventurine of Strategems, his hatred of sex turned into something different. It was still hatred, he hated the act more than anything in the world most times, but he realized his body was good for something.

-Aventurine was an attractive man, despite his eyes being a less than savory feature to most people. His body was lean and lithe, his clothes and hair perfectly styled and trendy, not to mention the air of mystery he had drew people in like moths to flame. 

-All of it was crafted by his own two hands, of course. He was attractive because he wanted – no, needed to be. So, he made sure he was, of course, no one would do business with him otherwise.

-Pretty as a peacock, you could hardly tell he was once a slave or a dirty Avgin boy.

-He’s pleasantly surprised to find that the body he so hated being born into was a good business tool when he needed it to be.

-People really will do anything to get off, and as much as it disgusted him to do such depraved things, he would do whatever he had to to get what he wanted.

-He’d scrub his skin raw in the shower afterward, trying desperately to get the smell of sex off him. Hoping that if he scratches hard enough the ugly purple bruises will wash away with soap and water. They never do, and they leave him feeling vile until they fade.

-Regardless men, women, monsters – he really didn’t care what he was fucking so long as it got him what he was looking for.

-That’s what sex is to Aventurine, a transaction. He scoffs at the idea of it being anything more than that. Sex was rough and sweaty and all kinds of disgusting, how could anyone derive pleasure from that? You fuck, you cum, you say goodbye. Simple. As. That.

-Ah, but, then again you come along and you just love challenging his worldview don’t you? With your pretty little eyes and your sweet, comforting words. You always make him question himself. It would be annoying if he didn’t love you so damn much.

-Your first time with him is… incredibly unpleasant. It’s not as though he doesn’t account for you or your wants, but there’s a disconnect. He’s too… pliant and yet all too controlling. First times are rarely good, but this felt alien. Like the person you were with was not your beloved Kakavasha, but some strange man taking his place for the night.

-He’s doing things he thinks you want, he’s saying sweet words he’d whispered to hundreds of other partners, it’s all that he thinks you need, what he’s decided in his head that you’d like, rather than something that comes from knowing you.

-He doesn’t ask, he just gives and takes and then it’s over. It’s unfulfilling and empty, leaving you with a dull ache in your chest.

-He doesn’t even offer you or himself aftercare, and you find him scrubbing his skin red in the shower afterward like he was trying to rid himself of any trace of you.

-It makes you feel terrible. Like you’re some whore he’s picked up off the streets and not his long-term partner with whom he’s shared some of the darkest parts of himself.

-You cry into those expensive satin sheets, ruining them with your sniffling. It’s quite the sight for Aventurine to walk back into.

-He expected you to be asleep, or at least resting in some capacity, but crying? His heart sinks as he rushes to your side, then somehow falls further when you tug yourself away from him.

-He’s perceptive enough to realize that he had been the one to put you in such a state, but he didn’t really understand why.

-When he’s able to calm you enough to get you to talk to him, you’re able to explain that you felt so disregarded. There was no connection or love or care from him, did he not feel you were worthy of sharing that in moments of intimacy?

-That makes him sick. Never in a million years would he want to make you feel as though he does not love you, despite previous behaviors. You were his whole world, part of the reason he continued to exist. How could he ever make you feel unworthy of him?

-He nearly spirals there, but your tears are enough to remind him that he is not the one who needs love and reassurance. So, always eager to learn and grow with you, he asks you what you believe sex should be like… and it’s quite different from what he understands.

-You describe it like an extension of yourself. A means of intimacy and trust a level deeper than words and affection can get you. You are vulnerable during sex, you are at your weakest and you are sharing that with the person you love. It’s the most intimate thing you could do with a person, and while it can be fun and it can simply be because it feels good, it can also be because you love the other person so deeply you have no other way to express it.

-Aventurine finds the definition to be rather naive, but you had always been a bleeding heart. (Which he, regardless of if Kakavasha or Aventurine was leading charge, would give anything to protect). Yet… Kakavasha likes it. Kakavasha wants to do that with you, he wants to show you how much he loves you, he wants to hold you even closer and share such sweet nothings with you.

-He tries to toss it out initially because if he thought about it like that he would have to confront himself. Look that trauma in the eyes and acknowledge that, once again, you’d proven him wrong in a way he was annoyingly not expecting.

-But as the days go by and you slowly begin to become physical with him again, he wonders fondly how it would feel. Taking his time with you, he means.

-He couldn’t help but wonder how nice it would be to really feel your skin under his fingers. To kiss every inch of you, to hear you sigh his name like he crafted the heavens with his own two hands. Ah, Kakavasha won again, it seems.

-So he goes to you, like an apologetic puppy, and he apologizes for how terrible he was. How he reflected and regrets it, and he wants to try again and let you take the lead this time. 

-Despite everything, you say yes, and you allow him this second chance to redefine his worldview yet again.

-Aeons it’s life-changing sex. 

-Slow, careful, and all kinds of intimate. He’s still on top because he could not trust even you to be on top. He needed that control. But he listens to what you need, and he finds he’s very good at servicing you. Just as good as he is at spoiling you with his riches.

-You guide him to kiss you deeply, tongues tangling in a tango to a tempo only the two of you could enjoy. You show him how to leave love bites that make his spine tingle. How different parts of your body make you feel different kinds of pleasure. He gets to feel your skin beneath his fingertips, taste your very being on his tongue, and swallow the angelic cries of his name.

-It’s a kind of intimacy and affection he’d never been afforded in his life. A vulnerability he hadn’t expected himself to enjoy, and yet as he sobs into your shoulder at his release, he finds himself wanting more.

-It becomes a problem, really. One taste of it and you have both your sweet Kakavasha and the hardened businessman Aventurine absolutely addicted. In the privacy of his condo, he can lust after you all he wants. You would never deny him the pleasure of freedom, though you would tell him no after the third night in a row for your aching hips. (He will draw you a bath and book you an appointment at the finest spa he can get you into for the next day.)

-In his office, or during a meeting, or talking to the Doctor, however… that’s a problem. He wasn’t supposed to like it that much, but that intimacy had him aching through his expensive slacks. 

-He thinks about it all the time, and he’s taken to locking his office doors and keeping the blinds shut airtight for more than half the day. He hopes no one notices how many bathroom breaks he takes during meetings. He tries his best to forget the boner he popped in front of the esteemed doctor talking about finances.

-You literally have him addicted to being in love with you, it’s quite the conundrum you’ve found yourselves in… but, would you really ever want to change that? He’s very good in bed after all, so it can’t be that bad.

-Aventurine is a switch-leaning top (so sorry Aventio shippers), and I say this only because he does not like relinquishing control. Especially when he’s in such a vulnerable state, especially with his past traumas, he would rather be in charge than trust you and have you hurt him.

-He softens up significantly as time goes on, and he is more willing to allow you to service him how you please, but he never really gives up his control. There’s always a reminder that he has the say-so in what does or does not go.

-That being said he is very giving, without having to be asked he will happily do whatever you need of him. It’s just in his nature to service, those pretty little moans are all the payment he needs.

-I won’t lie and say he isn’t a tease, though. He’s incorrigible, actually. He loves to tease you, be it with his words or his actions, he loves getting you squirming beneath him.

-He’ll mumble against your throat how needy you are for him, how you’re already so worked up and he hasn’t even gotten past your clothes, how cute you are when you’re so needy for him. His fingers will graze you with such feather-light touch you’ll whine at him, and he always coos at you like a needy little thing – as if he isn’t the one tormenting you.

-He’s a fan of edging, which just comes with the territory too. He spends hours of his time building you up to your orgasm, crooking his fingers and swirling his tongue so you’re right there, and then he’ll pull away leaving you crying for more.

-It’s all worth it when he does let you cum, though. The orgasm shaking the very foundation of you, sticky fluids staining yet another pair of satin sheets. 

-That’s not even mentioning his dick, which he is just as talented with. It’s slim, the same shade as the rest of him, with an upward curve that rubs against your g-spot so very well without him having to try.

-It fits so snugly inside, and if you watch closely you can see the effect you have on him as his perfect poker face cracks just a little. He loves to feel you from the inside, it may be one of his favorite things in the world.

-You are warm and squishy and so very accepting of him, conforming to the size and shape of his member like you were made to do so. Like you were made for him and him alone, it’s a deeply romantic thought that he would scoff at if he were in a less hazy mindset.

-He’s rarely rough with you, preferring to show you how much he loves you more softly, though he can be rough upon request.

-Sometimes if you get him jealous enough he’ll be rough on his own accord, but never uncaring or unloving. Even when he has you face down, ass up he makes you feel like the most precious gemstone in the entire world.

-He likes sex slow and long, preferring if it is dragged out across multiple sessions with sweet nothings and gentle care between the breaks. 

-However, he rarely has the free time for such things, and as such he gets very good at making the most of the time that he does have.

-Because of his high sex drive, quickies are common, but they are no less fulfilling than the long sessions he enjoys having. 

-He’s adept at getting you to cum in under five minutes with his fingers, he can do it in two with his tongue thrown in, and that’s usually fast enough for him to quickly get off and get back to what he needs to do.

-Unfortunately, he isn’t the kinkiest guy. He doesn’t like tying up or being tied up, he’s not a fan of power play, roleplaying seems to turn him off (again, not a fan of power play, which a lot of scenarios include this), no hitting or degrading, and pretty much anything that could remotely involve hurting either of you is a no from him.

-He thinks for a while he’s fine with it, and he is willing to try anything once, but it only takes him one time to realize he does not like physical or mental pain. It’s not sexy, it’s traumatizing and he won’t be convinced to try it.

-He does, however, really enjoy you wearing lingerie. Lacy ones dotted with expensive stones are his favorites. Frequently you’ll find a set sent to you in pretty packaging with a little note telling you to ‘enjoy your present.’ Meaning, he wants a picture of you in it ASAP.

-Also a fan of seeing you in his clothes. If he spots you lounging about in his shirt after a long day of work, he’ll be all over you like a helpless puppy.

-Cockwarming you when he works from home is a favorite of his, liking the way you wiggle and squirm as he combs over documents. His poker face really is something impressive, you have no clue how he’s re-read the same sentence ten times as you clench around him again.

-Office sex is unlikely, purely because he doesn’t like you being anywhere near IPC headquarters if he can help it. But if you do stop by for some reason, the likelihood of him bending you over the desk and fucking you raw is about 99%. He does miss you a lot during the day, after all, you can’t shame him for indulging in his favorite treat after so long without it.

-He just truly, deeply loves you. Once he begins to have a healthy relationship with sex and associate it with you rather than the horrors of his past, it’s nothing but loving and delightful. He takes the whole idea that it is an extension of his admiration for you very literally, and showers you in his affections through sex.

[sugarpasteltmnt]

"Acolyte" Michelangelo has joined the group chat

THANK U AGAIN TO @anixolt for accepting this commission request!!! Looks like 'Dino'-tello has unexpected company 👀

Hailing from his own alternate reality, "Acolyte" Mikey & his brothers had a very different childhood than the mad Dogs we all know and love. Set in a feudal Japan-esque world, Mikey and his brothers were raised under the Ninja Tribunal in a remote temple as future protectors of humanity...

However, fate was unkind to the lackadaisical Michelangelo who doubted the legend of the foretold 'Krang Invasion'-- let alone it happening much sooner than anticipated.

[link to twitter thread]

More lore below! (but heed the content warnings!!)

CW: implied family death, implied child abuse

Inspired by the 2003 "Acolyte" Arc, Mikey and his brothers were given to the Ninja Tribunal as children to raise as warriors on account of being gifted with mystic abilities; something very rare and unheard of in their universe.

Mikey was the most mystically inclined of his brothers. Because of this, he doesn't take training very seriously. He's also the oldest brother in his universe, but takes that role very, very seriously.

Splinter was their "father"... however, he was the one who gave them to the Ninja Tribunal. And they weren't exactly 'lenient' with children. Not when their purpose was to become warriors to defend the world. Because of this, Mikey hates Splinter. With every fiber in his body.

But despite their upbringing, Mikey was fun and kind.

But homie cannot cook to save his life

However, due to events during the invasion... Mikey is the last man standing. On the whole planet.

And he Snaps

With elevated powers and grief, Mikey traverses the heavens to hunt Krang and their settlements.

He uses dried Krang blood as his mask, having lost his in battle (and Krang blood dries orange when oxidized)

He dots his yellow spots with a drop of Krang blood to mirror Krang eyes. Using mystic abilities, the faux eyes can move and "look" around too. Terrifying.

However, due to classic Hamato shenanigans— 'Acolyte' Mikey may find himself drawn to a very, very different place than a Krang settlement 👀👀👀

[awkward-walking-potato]

Can I request headcanons for Remy, Logan, and Wade would think about his female s/o walking in on him instead please?

Remy LeBeau (Gambit)

Remy is used to being smooth and in control, but when you accidentally walk in on him changing, you catch him off guard—though only for a moment. He’s shirtless, mid-way through pulling on a fresh pair of pants, and when he sees you, his signature smirk immediately appears. He’s not shy about his body, so he quickly recovers and turns on the charm.

“Cher, if you wanted a private show, all you had to do was ask,” he teases, his voice dripping with that Cajun accent that never fails to make your heart flutter. He’d probably even strike a pose or flex just a bit to make you blush. He loves how flustered you get, and he’d be all too happy to take full advantage of the situation, maybe even pulling you closer for a playful kiss. To Remy, this is just another opportunity to flirt and remind you of the undeniable chemistry between you two.

Logan (Wolverine)

Logan is all about privacy, and he’s not the kind of guy who’s comfortable with vulnerability. When you accidentally walk in on him changing, he’s immediately tense, freezing mid-motion with his shirt half-off or his jeans unbuttoned. He’s got scars all over his body, reminders of his long and brutal past, and he’s not exactly eager to show them off. He’d grunt something like, “Darlin’, a little privacy would be nice,” his voice gruff but not unkind.

You’d see the flicker of embarrassment in his eyes, which is rare for someone as tough as Logan, but it’s there. If you stay in the room, he might turn his back to you, finishing getting dressed quickly. He wouldn’t make a big deal out of it, but you might catch a glimpse of his softer side when he looks at you afterward, a little sheepish. Deep down, he wouldn’t mind the fact that you saw him—especially if he knows you accept every part of him, scars and all.

Wade Wilson (Deadpool)

Wade would be the most unpredictable and chaotic in this situation. The moment you walk in on him changing, all bets are off. He’s likely to make a huge, dramatic scene out of it, gasping loudly and covering himself up with whatever’s closest—be it a shirt, pants, or even a stuffed unicorn he just happens to have lying around.

“Whoa, babe, you can’t handle this level of sexy without proper warning!” he’d exclaim, completely hamming it up. He’d probably start posing like he’s in some sort of superhero pin-up calendar, making you laugh whether you want to or not. Wade has no shame, and he loves making you smile, so he’d turn the situation into a joke faster than you can blink.

But underneath all the humor, there might be a flash of insecurity, especially if you see some of his scars or his appearance without the mask. He’d cover it up with jokes, of course, but if you look at him with nothing but love in your eyes, it would mean the world to him. Wade might even drop the act for a second, giving you a soft, genuine smile before going right back to his antics.

[gor3-hound]

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.

[randomcreator-09]

Small Heath's Songbird (Thomas Shelby x OCY/N!Reader)

(Gif not mine > @bonniebird)

I WANNA BE KISSED LIKE THIS TOO T^T

Part One - Part Two

✨Pure fluff, No Grace, no smut... for now 😏✨

🐧Aha~ hello people of this world... took me long to finish writing this aha busy playing adult, phew. Ok context, don't get me wrong, I love the original Grace but in this fic, she's nonexistent. OCY/N is an asian heh hope that ayt with yall. ALSO this will focus on season 3, where Tommy has his arrow house already. Although his single asf and relies on whores... Until hehehe yeah boi~ XD Also this is just a character intro sorta... but there would be some important factors here that you need to know to be able to fully understand part two, so READ IT >:D muhahahahaha🐧

Own character description but it's Y/N POV

3.4k words

REBLOG TO SPREAD ADDICTION and kudos are appreciated too thank you ^^

Enjoy reading ^^

Part One - Part Two

-----

Birmingham was unkind to those who were different from them. Although England wasn't perfect themselves they still held grudges to those they deemed 'peculiar'.

You were spot on in that criteria. Small in height, jet black wavy hair, slightly slanted almond eyes, and full lips. However your skin tone was the same as theirs, coming from your European side of the family, that didn't save you from the racial slurs you'd get when you moved to Birmingham. A lot of people weren't as happy as you were when you arrived, a few looks here and there, but your used to it even in your home country. You see, you had bright blue eyes (with a little tint of green). Very unique if you'd say, but people disagree on that, especially your people. They think your the devils daughter and for it they kicked you out too.

It's been a few months since you settled in Small Heath. A kind woman accepted you with open arms and let you stay for a while in her humble home till you found yourself a job. She was a whore yes, but that didn't bother you since you've seen a lot worse than being a whore. You respected her even, for it was hard to live by selling your body to people you don't love. She offered you a job once (to be a whore) but you quickly declined saying 'as much as I respect your field of work Missus, I'd like to keep my innocence to a man I love'.

Not that you were virgin, oh no, you've definitely had made love with a few men through your travels, but none of them really stuck with you or vice versa. They just didn't feel right.

Days went by and the landlady ran to you with the daily newspaper in hand. "Look!" she said pointing at an advertisement, "Personal assistant maid needed," as you took the newpaper from her hands and smiled with delight, 'this is it' you thought. The landlady stubbed her cigar dead on the newspaper "Fuck, it's the arrow house." she said as she took the newspaper from you shaking her head. "Wha- Missus but the pay is good?!" you retorted to which she glared at you at for, "The Arrow House is owned by a notorious gangster who'd either kill you or fuck your life up with his fukin fingers!" she explained crossing her arms facing you "you can't even become a prostitute here why bother going to a devils house and be his whore?" she continued.

Your brows furrowed in question. You didn't mind being with a devil sure but to be his whore... Now that may cross a line. "Personal Assistant maid, it doesn't say anythin about being a prostitute," you tried explaining, even though you knew what she meant by that. Most men thought any woman with no man in public is a whore. However the pay was good, it included your own room, free food, and a lot of free time too! With that thought in mind you could still go for that bar singer position every Saturday in the Garrison (to which you heard from the ladies who lived upstairs who tried the position and failed miserably).

The landlady shook her head and sighed, she can't stop you now for she knew, you have decided and when that happens nothing can ever change your mind. "Suit yourself," as she walked away.

-----

The day came and you got a call back from Frances (the head maid), looks like faith was on your side on this one. Hopefully, not as his whore...

You paused to admire the beautiful house as you walked down the gravel road (unsuccessful with pulling a cab because they'd just pass by you). Red bricks stacked upon each other and gorgeous grey pillars and intricate designs adorned it. Still can't believe he lives alone in this big mansion. You huffed air in your lungs as you stride to the main door, lifting your arms to knock.

Knock knock knock

As you puffed the door creaks open to a woman in black, "Ah, you must be Y/N, come in." as she gestured you in. You stared at awe at how spacious the place was. The stairs up was beautiful with portraits of horses and perhaps you thought the Shelby brothers. "We won't be doing much today. Mr. Shelby is out of town and so tomorrow is when you'll officially start. For now get comfortable and I'll roam you around," she spoke clear and concise as you answered by nodding and 'yes Miss Florence' following her to your room.

Your room was spacious as well. A queen size bed on the middle of the room with a window on the left side and a makeup desk on the right. The room was well lit with electric lamps on each side of the bed side and the ceiling was well sculptured with wooden structures, floor was wooden as well. Although the wall were concrete white walls. The room was on the second floor beside Miss Florence's room, away from Mr. Shelby's room, which was a relief on your side.

Miss Florence gave you an hour to get yourself acquainted with your room and said that you had to be out in the entrance where she would be waiting to tour you around. You nodded and she left.

-----

As you have arranged your things in your new room and got ready for the tour Miss Florence had in store for you, you looked at your reflection in the mirror to make sure you look alright for the day. With a nod and a smile you went out and to the entrance where Miss Florence would be.

Miss Florence, a composed and efficient figure, waited for you near the grand entrance of Arrow House, her expression warm yet formal. She nodded approvingly as you approached, and after a quick greeting, she began the tour.

“Arrow House has its own unique history,” Miss Florence explained as she led you through the main hall, with its high ceilings, elaborate chandeliers, and walls adorned with artwork of the family’s ancestors. “Mr. Shelby brought new life to it when he acquired it, though he values his privacy.”

She walked you through the elegant sitting rooms first, which, despite the muted tones and dark wood, held a sense of opulence. “These rooms are for Mr. Shelby’s meetings and guests. They don’t see much daily use,” she added, pausing by one of the grand fireplaces. The flickering light from the embers cast a warm glow, highlighting the fine detail in the antique furniture.

Next, she led you to the kitchen, which, unlike the other rooms, bustled with activity. The staff members here worked with impressive coordination, preparing meals and ensuring everything was ready at a moment’s notice. “The kitchen is where you’ll be helping from time to time,” Miss Florence informed you. “Mr. Shelby’s tastes are simple, but he expects high standards.”

She guided you through the dining hall, where a large mahogany table stood at the center, framed by polished silverware and neatly folded napkins. “It may look grand, but meals are usually straightforward affairs unless there are visitors,” she commented, giving a rare, light chuckle.

You followed her up the grand staircase, its carpeted steps soft beneath your feet. Miss Florence pointed out the various guest rooms, each one elegantly prepared, with tasteful decor, though they rarely saw visitors. “The family only uses these rooms on occasion,” she remarked, indicating the polished brass fixtures and thick curtains. “Mr. Shelby has specific guests, and they sometimes stay overnight. Best to keep everything ready.”

Finally, she took you down a corridor that led to Mr. Shelby’s private quarters. She paused outside the door of his room. “This is Mr. Shelby’s room. You’re not to enter unless asked.” She looked at you with a hint of seriousness before adding, “Privacy is highly regarded here.”

Finally, after guiding you through the upper floors, Miss Florence led you back downstairs. She stopped near a richly decorated doorway just off the main hall.

“And this,” she said, “is Mr. Shelby’s office. You’ll find him here often.” She looked at you pointedly, adding, “Best to knock and wait for a response before entering.”

Through the doorway, you could see the polished desk, papers stacked with military precision, and the faint scent of cigars lingering in the air. This room, located on the ground floor, clearly held an air of authority and was situated close to the entry—perfect for swift meetings or private business.

With the tour complete, Miss Florence gave a small nod. “Take a moment to familiarize yourself with the house,” she said, before leaving you alone in the dimly lit hallway, surrounded by Arrow House’s quiet opulence.

The sun was still out so you planned to walk around outside. The house had a small garden at the side and a horse stables on the back which was clearly Mr. Shelby's.

The house also had a porch, with a posh white table and two chairs seeing the lush green forest from afar. You sighed as you felt the breeze on your neck to your half-tied hair and crossed your arms around you feeling the cold wind trickling your skin through your clothes. The clothes you wore were expensive to say the least, your former landlady was so sad you were moving out that she gifted you a luxurious royal blue dress to wear going to the mansion.

Suddenly a warm feeling enveloped you as you flinched looking at your shoulders. A dark coat was over your body and a quick smoke flickered your eyes to see a man with a defined jaw and cheekbones. "You must be Y/N," he said as he kept his eyes on the greenery. "Shelby, but you can call me Thomas" as he offered his hands towards you.

As you raised your hands slowly to shake his you hesitated and dropped your hands back to your sides. You removed his dark coat around you and offered it back, "Thank you for the kind gesture Mr. Shelby, but I am your personal made not a visitor. I am here to work for you" you said as you continued to look down at his shoes, unable to look up his face.

"Hmm," a low grumble from the throat made you lift your head up, and there you saw his head tilted closer to yours with his piercing blue eyes straight to yours. "Well, you have beautiful eyes that I can assure ye'" as he puffed out the smoke in his lungs, standing up and taking the coat on your hands and swiftly placing them again on top of your shoulders.

You could smell the strong cologne he had on. Mixed with the scent of the cigar he was taking and blood? It was dangerously addicting.

"You'll start tomorrow anyways," as he started to walk away slowly. "Let me at least treat you as a visitor before you get all busy." as he started to walk towards the stables. You suddenly feel blood rushing to your cheeks reminiscing about his scent and how his face was close to yours.

"You following or not?" a shout from afar caught your attention and removed you from your thoughts. "Yes Mr. Shelby, following!" you shouted back as you ran towards him.

-----(Tommy's POV)

The ride back to Arrow House was a haze of smoke, blood, and lingering fury. Changretta’s betrayal was handled, his lifeless eyes now a grim reminder of the consequences of crossing Thomas Shelby. Yet as the gravel crunched beneath his vehicle and the grand silhouette of Arrow House emerged, a part of him yearned for something—anything—other than the chaos he’d left behind.

As he placed his feet unto the gravel road, the cool evening breeze carried hints of earth and lavender, a stark contrast to the suffocating smoke-filled rooms of Birmingham. He loosened his tie as he rounded the corner of the porch, lighting himself a cigar, his gaze falling on a figure in a striking royal blue dress.

She stood there, arms crossed against the chill, her posture straight but her gaze distant as if lost in thought. Her hair was tied back neatly, a few tendrils escaping to frame a delicate face. He stopped mid-stride, his breath catching for a moment. She turned slightly, and the setting sun caught her profile—soft, porcelain skin glowing against the backdrop of the lush green garden.

For a brief moment, Thomas thought she was a guest, someone important perhaps, yet there was no carriage, no announcement of arrival. It wasn’t until he noticed the plain black shoes and the way her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her dress that he realized—this was the new maid.

"Interesting."

He removed his dark coat and approached her, draping it over her shoulders in a practiced motion. She flinched slightly at the contact but didn’t pull away.

“You must be Y/N,” he said, keeping his tone low as he puffed his cigarette. He glanced past her at the garden, keeping his expression unreadable.

She hesitated, her fingers gripping the edges of the coat as if debating whether to keep it. “Shelby,” he introduced, his voice firm yet laced with intrigue, “but you can call me Thomas.” He extended a hand.

Her reaction amused him. She raised her hand but let it fall back to her side, averting her gaze. Then, she carefully removed the coat and held it out to him. “Thank you for the kind gesture, Mr. Shelby, but I am your personal maid, not a visitor. I am here to work for you.”

Thomas’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smirk. Her voice was polite yet firm, and her shyness intrigued him. “Hmm.” The soft growl from his throat made her finally look up.

Her eyes caught him off guard. Blue, with a hint of green—bright and unique, a startling contrast against her dark lashes and raven hair. He tilted his head slightly, letting the silence linger as he leaned closer, holding her gaze.

“Well,” he said, his voice softer but no less commanding, “you have beautiful eyes, that I can assure ye’.” He took the coat from her hands and deliberately placed it back over her shoulders, his fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of her dress. “You’ll start tomorrow anyways. Let me at least treat you as a visitor before you get all busy.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and started walking toward the stables, the weight of her presence lingering in his mind.

“You following or not?” he called out without looking back.

“Yes, Mr. Shelby! Following!” Her voice was a touch breathless, and it brought an unexpected smile to his lips.

-----Your POV

As the gravel crunched beneath your feet, you quickened your pace to catch up with Mr. Shelby, who was already nearing the stables. The breeze carried the faint scent of hay and leather, mingling with the earthy aroma of the horses. You hesitated briefly before stepping into the barn, the dim light casting soft shadows across the wooden beams.

Thomas Shelby stood near one of the horses, his fingers brushing through its mane with an ease that spoke of familiarity. The soft nickering of the animal filled the air as he looked over his shoulder to see you standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“You don’t have to just stand there,” he remarked, his tone light but firm. “They don’t bite… much.”

A nervous chuckle escaped your lips as you stepped closer, the warmth of the stable wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. The horse he was grooming turned its head slightly, as if inspecting you. Its dark eyes held a quiet curiosity, much like its owner’s piercing gaze.

“Do you know much about horses?” he asked, handing you a brush without waiting for an answer.

You shook your head, gently taking the brush from his outstretched hand. “Not really, Mr. Shelby. I’ve always admired them, though.”

“Thomas,” he corrected, his voice steady. “If you’re working here, we may as well skip the formalities.”

You nodded, feeling a small wave of relief at his approachable tone. Moving to stand beside him, you watched as he demonstrated the technique, his hands methodical as he ran the brush down the horse’s side. You followed his lead, your movements careful and deliberate.

“This one’s name is Arrow,” he said, his voice softer now. “She’s got a temper, but if you’re patient, she’ll warm up to you.”

You couldn’t help but smile as Arrow leaned slightly into your touch, her warm breath puffing against your arm. “She’s beautiful,” you murmured, glancing at Thomas out of the corner of your eye.

“She knows it,” he replied, a smirk tugging at his lips.

For a moment, there was a comfortable silence, filled only by the rustling of hay and the rhythmic strokes of the brushes. You felt a strange sense of ease around him, despite the intimidating aura he carried.

“Why Birmingham?” he asked suddenly, his tone casual but curious.

The question caught you off guard, and you paused mid-stroke. “It wasn’t really a choice,” you admitted. “I needed somewhere to start over, and Birmingham… well, it’s not as unkind as some places.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment, thoughtful. “People here can be… particular,” he said. “But they’ll get used to you.”

You didn’t miss the unspoken meaning behind his words—he understood what it was like to be judged, to carry something on your shoulders that others didn’t bother to understand.

“And you?” you asked tentatively, surprising yourself with the question. “Do you get used to people?”

Thomas paused, his hands stilling on the brush. A flicker of something unreadable passed over his face before he turned back to Arrow. “Only the ones worth knowing.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with an unspoken depth that made your heart flutter. Before you could respond, he straightened, dusting off his hands. “Come on,” he said, motioning toward the barn door. “It’s getting dark.”

-----

The kitchen was warm and inviting, far cozier than the grandeur of the dining hall you’d seen earlier. Thomas moved with an ease that surprised you, setting out simple plates and pouring glasses of water. The smell of fresh bread and stew filled the air, and you found yourself relaxing as you took a seat at the modest wooden table.

“Not what you were expecting, was it?” he asked, setting a bowl of stew in front of you.

You shook your head, smiling. “Not at all. It’s… nice. Feels more real.”

His lips quirked into a faint smile as he took a seat across from you. “Real’s not a word people usually associate with me.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Maybe they’re not looking close enough.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and you felt the intensity of his gaze settle over you like a weight. The air between you shifted, charged with something you couldn’t quite name.

As the meal went on, the conversation flowed easily, each shared story peeling back another layer of the man who, only hours ago, had been a mysterious and intimidating figure. By the time the plates were empty and the kitchen quieted, the darkness outside had deepened, wrapping the house in a blanket of stillness.

Thomas leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on you. “You’ll do fine here,” he said softly accentuating the end remark, almost to himself.

You felt a warmth rise in your chest at his words, but before you could thank him, he stood and walked as he leaned to your side. The sudden closeness made your breath catch, and when he reached down to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingered for just a moment too long.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with something that sent a shiver down your spine.

Without thinking, your hand brushed against his. He stopped, his eyes searching yours, and slowly in that moment, the space between you disappeared. His lips met yours in a kiss that was both gentle and unyielding, a moment that felt suspended in time.

When he pulled back, his expression was unreadable, but there was a softness in his eyes you hadn’t seen before. “See you tomorrow,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, before he turned and left the kitchen.

You sat there, your heart racing, trying to piece together what had just happened. One thing was certain—life at Arrow House was going to be anything but ordinary.

----- End of part one (Part Two on December 24th [to be updated here])

Part One - Part Two

-----

🐧See what I did with the GIF and the ending huhhhhhhh ^w^ anyways hope ya'll can wait till 24th ehe🐧

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[literary-motif]

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.

[hoonieyun]

letter from: jongseong ⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆

on the fifth day of christmas, you asked me what's on my wishlist and i told you all i wanted was forever with my boo... -ariana grance "true love"

pairing: park jongseong x reader

genre: romance/fluff - marriage proposal

warnings: nothing really but always 18+

summary: jongseong proposes on christmas day

christmas herald masterlist ⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆

word count: 2932

The drive up to Jay’s winter family cabin up in Northern Washington was long but scenic. It had a lot of beautiful sights and fun pitstops that you’d never see back in South Korea. The two of you were vacationing in his home state for the holidays and after spending a few days in his hometown, your plan was now to drive up to his family’s winter cabin and spend Christmas there with just the two of you. 

You and Jay have been together for almost 3 years now, January 1st would not only be bringing the new year but also marking the 3rd year of you and Jay’s relationship. You two have known each other since Jay moved to Korea from Seattle and it just so happened to be that your mom was from Seattle but moved to Korea when she met your dad. The two of you have been inseperable since. 

Growing up together people would often make comments about how you two looked perfect for each other or just assumed that you two were dating and although you weren’t at the time, you couldn’t help but imagine a life where Jay was your prince charming– until about 3 years ago during your first year of University where Jay drunkely confesses that he’s had a crush on you since the two of you were 16. He embarrassingly tried to ignore it the next day but when you returned with a confession of your own, the two of you would spend the next few weeks dating and this eventually led to him finally asking you to be his girlfriend as the clock struck 12am on the new year. 

The last 3 years of your life have been magical and spending it with your best friend who just happens to be your boyfriend made it all the better. Both of your parents already knew the two of you would eventually end up together, the only question was when. 

“You doing okay, honey? We’re almost there.” Jay says, his calm voice pulling you out of the memories of the last 2 Christmases that you’ve spent together. When you first started dating you spent Christmas with both of your parents, then the next year only with your parents because Jay’s moved back to Seattle, and this year you spent a few days with his family before making the drive up to the cabin like you were doing now. 

“I’m alright, don’t worry honey.” you respond, giving him a warm smile, one that he returns with his own. Warmth. That was a word you could use to describe Jay: warm. 

Even on the coldest nights in Korea or here in Washington where it seems to be cold about 80% of the year, being around Jay was the warmth that you needed to forget about the freezing cold that threatened to nip at your skin, creating goosebumps that littered your body. Even when you weren’t feeling cold, Jay’s warmth was able to provide you with a type of serenity and solace that no one else could. Like he was this beacon of light that instantly soothed you whenever he was around. His kind, caring, and affectionate demeanor was what drew you to him. You truly were the luckiest person alive to be on the receiving end of Jay’s love and you wouldn’t trade him for anyone else in the world because he let you feel the love and warmth you deserved to feel in a world that seemed to be freezing over with an icy cold pandemic that caused people to be unkind and mean spirited. 

Jay glances over at you with that smile that you loved so much, grabbing your hand with his and pressing a kiss onto your knuckles, “I can’t wait to spend this time with you. It’ll be unforgettable.” he says before placing another warm kiss on your skin and setting it back down on your lap so he could drive with both hands on the wheel like the responsible guy that you knew him as. 

After another pitstop to use the restroom and taking photos of the snow covered trees, you arrived at the cabin just a few hours before the sun would start to set. It was Christmas Eve and you and Jay planned to just settle in and have a calm day when you arrive and on Christmas Day you would have a wonderful dinner cooked by Jay and spend Christmas cuddled up in front of a fire most likely watching a Christmas movie you’ve seen x amount of times. 

“We’re here!” Jay says enthusiastically, running out of his seat and over to your side of the car to open it for you but not before puckering up for a kiss as he helps you out of the car. The two of you unload the trunk of your things, just a few bags of clothes and food to last you the week as you’d be there until the New Year. The cabin was beautiful, it was surrounded by the tallest of trees that were covered in snow, several string lights were strung from different trees, and the cabin itself had its own charm. It had high reinforced windows, beautiful oak logs and panels that made up the cabin itself, and near the front of the door you found small footprints in the snow that you could assume to be from a family of deer somewhere in the snowy forest. 

As Jay brought your bags and his into the cabin, you quickly check the hidden compartment of the trunk that lifted and revealed a section that was hidden into the bottom of the trunk itself. There laid your Christmas gift that you hid from Jay before you left for the drive to ensure he didn’t see you pack it into the car. You shut the compartment back up when Jay called for you and decided that you’d bring the gift in another time when Jay was preoccupied with something, perhaps while he’s cooking dinner tomorrow. 

“Coming, honey!” you shout, closing the trunk and carefully skipping over to Jay who waited for you at the entrance of the cabin with his arms open. You quickened your pace as you got closer causing you to slip on the ice on the patio but of course, Jay, your knight in shining armor, was there to catch you before you could even come close to falling. A gasp leaves your lips but it leaves just as quick when you realize Jay has caught you with his strong arms wrapped around your waist. 

“My savior!” you say dramatically, acting like you were about to faint from the situation and Jay decides to play along; throwing your legs into the air and catching you bridal style. “Fear not my lovely maiden! Your knight in shining armor is here to save you from your cute clumsiness.” he announces, walking the two of you and plopping you down onto the couch that was in the living room just a few feet from the front door. “Hey! I’m not clumsy…” you say, pouting.

“Aww, honey– yes you are.” Jay responds, placing a kiss onto your pouty lips in the middle of his sentence. 

The rest of the day goes by fairly quickly as you and Jay spend most of it lounging around in each other’s warmth, laid up on the couch with his arms wrapped around you while you watch various Christmas movies. 

Soon enough, you’re yawning and looking out the window to be met with the big and bright moon gleaming into the cabin through one of the windows; the shadows of snow falling from the sky bleeding into the moonlight. “Sleepy?” Jay asks and you look up at him, head still on his chest before nodding. “Off to bed we go!” he says, picking you up again bridal style and taking you to the bedroom where he tucks you in goodnight with his arms acting as an extra layer of warmth to the fluffy blanket covering the two of you. 

“Goodnight honey.” Jay says with a kiss to your temple, his low and sweet voice almost lulling you to sleep. 

“Goodnight, my love.” you respond quietly, sleep soon taking over as yours and Jay’s light snores fill the room. 

⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆

It’s Christmas morning and you’re awoken by the scent of pancakes, bacon, and eggs on the stove; an indicator that Jay is in the kitchen cooking up breakfast for the two of you– before you’re even able to throw the thick blanket off of your body, Jay is emerging from behind the bedroom door and walking over to your with bright eyes and a smile; holding a breakfast bed tray with the most delicious smelling and looking food. Eggs, just the way you like it, a stack of pancakes, crispy bacon, and a cup of hot cocoa in a mug that the two of you had made in a ceramic class one day when you first started dating. 

“Babe!” you say with a bright eyed pout as you watch him come closer with the tray of food, Jay’s smile only getting bigger. “Breakfast for my queen.” he says as he sets it down over your legs. “This looks so delicious, thank you my love.” you say, sharing a kiss as a thank you to him for his kindness. “Did you eat?:” you ask and he nods, “Just a bit, don’t worry I’ll bring myself a plate over, i just want you to have a bite first.” he explains and you scrunch your nose at him with a small smile. 

You soon take a bite of the pancake’s and it’s probably the best pancake you’ve ever had. Jay was a great cook but it’s the simpler foods that he cooks that is your favorite. It induces a nostalgic feeling like you’re 4 years old trying pancakes for the first time and it becomes your hyperfixation for the next month or so where that’s all you can ask your mom to make when she asks you what you want to eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner. 

Like Jay. You would choose him at any time of the day. 

You cut him a small piece of the pancake and he takes the bite before excusing himself to grab his own plate so the two of you could have breakfast in bed together. 

⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆

It’s about 5PM when you’re doing the finishing touches to your hair and makeup for a Christmas dinner prepared by Jay. Your hair is done in simple voluminous curls that falls over your shoulders that hold up the black velvet dress you’re wearing with red bows and white fur accents. It’s cold but the warmth inside of the cabin allow for you to wear a dress so that you don’t freeze to death during your dinner with Jay. 

You could smell the food he’s cooking from your bathroom and you can’t wait to eat whatever delicious food he’s cooked up. 

“YN, honey! Dinner is ready, my love.” Jay shouts from the dining room and as if you teleported into the room, you’re walking in just as he’s finished setting up the table. He’s wearing a simple white button up that hugged his toned arms and physique and a warmth in your stomach begins to settle as you look at Jay, thinking about a life where he was your husband and not your boyfriend. 

“Wow, you look… wow” Jay says, truly at a loss for words at your beauty. 

“You don’t look so bad yourself, handsome.” you say, wrapping your arms around his neck as he wraps his arm around your waist; slowly dipping you into a kiss like you were in a romance movie of a lifetime. 

“Let’s eat.” Jay says, pulling out your seat and pushing it in as you sit down; always a gentleman. 

⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆

You’re just about done with dinner when Jay suddenly clears his throat. “I know we agreed to not get each other gifts, but I couldn’t not get you anything.” he says and you teasingly narrow your eyes at him as he grabs a small wrapped box from the cupboard in the kitchen. “Did you really hide it up there?” you ask with a chuckle. 

“Of course, I knew you’d never find it because you can’t reach up there.” he jokingly says and you pout at him as he puts the gift in front of you. Urging you to open it with his eyes, watching you with excitement as you carefully tear into the wrapping paper. 

The item inside leaves you speechless, mouth agape, as you pull it out. Inside was a glass snowglobe, a ballerina in a pink dress spins as you shake the snowglobe. “How did you find this?” you ask, looking up at him with teary eyes. Jay explains that he spent months looking for it and one day when you guys were in Seattle, walking around downtown, the snowglobe caught his eye. He urged you and his parents to continue while he sneakily bought it and rejoined you all at a food stand. 

It wasn’t just any snowglobe. It was the exact snowglobe you had when you were younger and dreamt of becoming a ballerina. Your dreams however, are cut short due to a knee injury, and the snowglobe was the last thing that helped you cope with your dreams as a child. You lost the snowglobe when you had moved cities for college and were devastated when you lost it in the move– and here you were now reunited with the beautiful object that reminded you of your youth and now also serves as a reminder of the kindness and love that Jay has for you. 

You give him a tight hug and endless kisses as a thank you that he doesn’t decline, returning with a hug even tighter and accepting all the kisses you wanted to give to him. 

“Well, I’m glad you ended up getting me something because I got you something too…” you confess and Jay raises his eyebrows with a little smile as you walk away to grab your gift. You had sneakily brought it inside from the car when Jay was in the shower. 

His gift was fairly large so he instantly ran over to you so that you didn’t have to carry it from across the room to where he was sitting; the two of you moved to the living room to open his gift. 

“Merry Christmas, honey.” you mutter and Jay gives you a smile before opening the box, mouth instantly open before he could even fully see the item inside of the large black box. 

“You did not…” Jay says, looking over to you and you’re just nodding excitedly as he continues to open it, pulling out a glossy deep blue guitar that had little white spots that fall into the consellation of taurus– Jay’s sign. 

He had been looking for this guitar for almost 2 years now and had no luck, luckily for you– you were able to find it one day when one of your friend’s was parousing around in the UK. They instantly called you to ask if that was the guitar and you nodded, telling them that you would send the money to purchase it and whatever cost the shipping would be, you’d paid for it. 

“I can’t believe you found it, oh my god…” Jay says, placing the guitar on his thighs as he slightly plays with the strings, a small tune rings through the cabin as he adjusts the tuning. “Thank you, baby. Oh my god I’m speechless…” Jay says, getting up to give you a kiss on the lips like it was the first time you two had ever kissed. 

He puts the guitar back in its case, “I’ve actually got one more gift…” Jay begins to say. 

“YN, you’re absolutely the best thing to happen in my life. I can’t imagine a life without you– you’ve taught me a different type of happiness that I wouldn’t find in anyone else. 

You’re the person I look for when I walk into a room. 

You fill me with love that I’ve never felt before. 

You allow me to make mistakes and encourage me to learn from them. 

Growing up our parents and everyone around us seemed to have this premade story that we would end up together and I held that story in my heart, knowing that it wasn’t just a story but it would eventually become the truth. 

Our story. 

You’re my best friend, my teacher, the love of my life…” Jay says, kneeling down on one knee and pulling out a small red velvet box. 

“YN, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Will you marry me?” Jay asks as tears are falling from your eyes. 

You’re saying yes before he can even finish the question, jumping onto him with a hug as he chuckles at your reaction; engulfing you into a warm hug. “100% yes.” you mutter into his neck as the two of you stand up onto your feet. He gently places the ring onto your finger and once again the two of you share a kiss in front of the fireplace, snow falling outside, and the moons shining into the cabin through the crystal windows. 

A kiss that feels like it’s your first kiss together and in many ways it is. It’s your first kiss as fiancés and you can’t wait to have your first kiss together as husband and wife. 

copyright 2024 - present © hoonieyun all rights reserved

all writing here is fiction & not in any association with characters mentioned.

if you enjoyed reading this please consider reblogging and following <3

[the-hipster-nugget]

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.

[millerscoffee]

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."

[shslskaterboy]

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

[mangalho]

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

[hunxi-after-hours]

“Another horse, this one slightly muddy: I'm not sure whether it was Daniel José Older who originally conceived of this thesis, but he wrote a popular essay about the subject. ‘Writing begins with forgiveness.’ ‘Beginning with forgiveness revolutionizes the writing process, returns it being to a journey of creativity rather than an exercise in self-flagellation. I forgive myself for sitting down to write sooner, for taking yesterday off, for living my life. That shame? I release it. My body unclenches; a new lightness takes over once that burden has floated off.’ (sic)(he's missing a "to" and a "not") I feel I once read this expressed slightly differently, or perhaps my memory has paraphrased it into a pattern that rings clearer to me, something like: ‘Before I sit down to write, I forgive myself.’ It's very easy to tie yourself into knots with shame in this line of work, because it is very easy to fail. You fail to finish that chapter, or meet that deadline. You fail to make friends with your colleagues, you fail to read all the important stories, or even just those that you meant to. You fail because you aren't kind enough, because the joke doesn't land, you don't try hard enough, because you're too slow, because you didn't think deeply enough and that story went to print with words you can't undo. It all feels so public. Everything is irrevocable, and it buries you. So before you write, it is necessary to forgive yourself—to unburden the weight of that shame—or try to. You shift your assumptions (I have proven deficient, no one will care to read this, etc) or you set them aside (it must be done, irrespective) and you begin. And every day, you do it again. No one pays as much attention to you as you do yourself. The world is not so unkind; by and large, your failures go unnoticed. So why not grant your own absolution? Begin again. Your shame—that well of grief for all the lost, better versions of yourself—will not redeem you. But you are allowed to begin again.

—Kerstin Hall, "A Small Hall with Grace"

[iamnmbr3]

I saw someone on tik tok that made a video saying that book Harry would be disgusted by being shipped with Draco. And people in the comments were saying fr and saying that we are crazy for shipping drarry and someone even said that drarry was the most disgusting ship ever made in the Harry Potter fandom.

And what you think it would be Lucius and Narcissa reaction to find out that Draco and Harry are dating??? Love your blog

Thank you so much! I'm glad you like my blog!

First of all, making content like that with the intent of shaming/bullying other fans is silly, immature and just plain unkind. So what if people are shipping something you don't like? Or that a fictional character wouldn't like if they were real? Just let other people do their thing and have fun and curate your own content.

Second of all, drarry is the most disgusting ship ever made in Harry Potter fandom? Drarry? Really? Lol. Lmao even. *Insert the 'oh my sweet summer child' speech here*

Third of all, in the case of drarry there is actually a lot of canon evidence, so while that certainly doesn't mean people who don't want to have to ship or enjoy or be comfortable with it, based on canon it's rather unlikely that Harry would be disgusted by it... (Not that it mattes either way. But just saying...).

What Lucius and Narcissa's reaction would be is an interesting question. I think they probably wouldn't be that pleased, but would be kind of resigned. Post-war Lucius just wants to stay out of jail (or, failing that, he wants to get out as fast as possible and then avoid going back). The last thing he wants to do is be openly hostile to Harry Potter, hero of the hour, The Boy Who Lived Twice, Savior of the wizarding world etcetera, etcetera. He probably plays reasonably nice - though I doubt he and Harry will ever like each other.

Harry is certainly not who Narcissa would have chosen, but the fact that Draco does seem genuinely happy with him and that Harry truly cares about Draco and goes out of his way to help him and, just by being with him, rehabilitates his image, certainly makes her want to be cordial. Though again, while she probably pretends otherwise, I doubt she ever really changes her attitudes as much as she pretends. Though perhaps over time she does develop some grudging respect for Hermione (and this perhaps admits, if only to herself, that muggleborns aren't as inferior as she once believed). And well, she and Harry do have their love for Draco in common so that helps them get along even if the relationship is never an easy or entirely comfortable one.

I think there's a plausible argument that by book 7 Narcissa already suspected something was going on with Harry and Draco. In the end of book 7, not only does Voldemort think that Draco has run off to "befriend" Harry, but Narcissa immediately assumes Harry will know where Draco is and if he's ok. So she seems to also think that Draco has gone off to find Harry and she doesn't seem to think that he was looking for a fight. She asks Harry about Draco as though Harry not only will know what's become of him, but will care. Not as though she expects that any meeting between them would end in them fighting to the death like you'd expect given they are on opposite sides of the war. I think maybe she always planned to help Harry, and she just wanted to ascertain what her next steps should be once they got back to the caste - whether she needed to go in and find Draco or if he was already safely away or dead and beyond help. She thinks she and Harry are united in caring about the same person.

After all, she did see Draco lie for Harry at the Manor. And she saw Harry pull a wand from Draco's hand while Draco let him, and then not even stun Draco after. And later she found Wormtail's body in the cell that Draco went into alone and left entirely unharmed. Not to mention, after book 6 she would have read about how Harry named Snape but not Draco as being involved in Dumbledore's death (at first she probably dismissed it as Harry just not having seen everything, but later she puts it together with everything else and she starts to wonder...)

[miniwrites1]

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

Words | 700 Warnings | Fem reader | Future use of (Y/N) | Nothing else (yet) Pairings | Theo Nott x Reader | Neville Longbottom & Reader (Siblings)

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.”