#she's just such a jarring character it's great

[honeydippedfiction]

What is Joe doing for Angel for Mother’s Day?

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mom’s out there by any definition!!! Now this man went all out and god I love how he loves Angel

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Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

The scent of cinnamon, maple, and fresh coffee drifted into the master bedroom like a gentle promise. Angel stirred, one arm stretching out over the comforter as sunlight peeked through the linen curtains. She blinked lazily, only half-awake—until she heard a familiar set of footsteps just outside the door, accompanied by soft baby babbling.

“Alright, kiddo,” Joe whispered. “Let’s try not to spill anything this time.”

Angel Burrow stirred to the sound of soft footsteps just outside the bedroom door. Her first instinct was to glance at the baby monitor on her nightstand, but it wasn’t there. Her brow furrowed slightly—until the door creaked open and the familiar voice of her husband whispered into the quiet morning.

“Shhh, Zariyah, we’re about to surprise Mommy.”

She smiled before she even opened her eyes.

Joe entered the room carefully, balancing a wooden breakfast tray in one hand and their six-month-old daughter in the other. The tray was an endearing display: fluffy pancakes shaped like imperfect hearts, golden scrambled eggs, a few slices of turkey bacon, and a short glass of orange juice—pulp, the way Angel liked it. A tiny mason jar with a handful of wildflowers added a delicate touch, clearly picked from the backyard. And nestled in Joe’s other arm was Zariyah, wide-eyed and bundled in a soft pink onesie that read Mommy’s Girl in white script.

Angel let out a soft laugh, blinking against the morning light. “You two look like trouble.”

“Happy Mother’s Day, babe.” Joe said with a grin as he walked toward the bed. “Breakfast, made with love and at least one diaper break.” 

Angel reached out to cradle Zariyah, who immediately squealed in delight and latched onto a lock of her mother’s curls. “Thank you,” she said, looking between them both, her eyes already glassy. “You did all this?”

Joe shrugged modestly. “Well, Zariyah helped with the pancakes. Sort of. She supervised.”

Angel laughed again, the rich sound filling the bedroom. “She’s got a great eye for symmetry.”

Joe set the tray down on her lap, leaned in to kiss her cheek, and settled beside her as they sat together in the comfort of their king-sized bed, sunlight pouring in through the gauzy white curtains. Angel took a bite of the pancakes, closing her eyes with an exaggerated sigh.

“Joe, these are good.”

“Really?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Like… restaurant good.”

“Okay, now you’re just being nice,” he said with a chuckle, brushing a crumb off her cheek. “But I’ll take the win. But I had help,” Joe replied, tapping Zariyah’s foot. “Our little sous-chef has very strong pancake opinions.”

The rest of the morning melted away in a kind of lazy bliss. They read a few of Zariyah’s favorite books aloud—Joe performing each character with dramatic flair that had their daughter giggling and flapping her arms in excitement. Angel leaned into him, heart full, watching Joe make silly faces while bouncing Zariyah gently on his knee.

By mid-morning, Angel stood in the hallway, bouncing Zariyah gently as Joe disappeared into the nursery with an odd sense of urgency. When he emerged, he was holding a small gift bag and his phone.

“Okay,” he said, stepping forward and brushing a kiss across her temple. “Time to get dressed.”

“For what?” Angel asked, suspicious. “What’s going on?”

“You, my queen,” he said, with that cheeky grin she’d fallen in love with back in Baton Rouge, “have a spa appointment at noon. Monica’s picking you up in twenty.”

Angel’s face twisted into a half-smile, half-frown. “Wait… what?”

Joe handed her the bag. Inside was a plush robe, a new lavender-scented candle, and a handwritten card. To my favorite girl. Take a break today. Let me show you how much you mean to us. Signed with a doodle of a football, a heart, and Zariyah’s name scrawled in Joe’s handwriting.

“I can’t just leave her,” Angel protested instinctively, her voice dropping to a whisper as Zariyah nestled against her chest. “You’ve never had her for more than, like, two hours on your own.”

Joe raised his eyebrows. “That’s not true. What about the time you went to Target and I—”

“You FaceTimed me three times.”

“Okay, fair,” he admitted, smiling. “But I’ve got it this time. Bottles are prepped, diapers are stocked, and I’ve even got Sesame Street queued up just in case.”

Angel hesitated, looking down at her daughter’s round, sleepy face. “I don’t know…”

Joe stepped closer, wrapping his arms around both of them. “Babe, you give everything to this family—every single day. Let me take the reins today. Go relax, gossip with Monica, do that eucalyptus steam thing you love. You deserve it.”

She sighed, finally relenting. “You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

“I’m a quarterback,” he said confidently. “I read defenses for a living. I think I can handle some spit-up. She’s in good hands. I’ve got this. Besides,” he added with a sly grin, “Monica won’t take no for an answer.”

That turned out to be true.

Twenty minutes later, Monica’s car pulled into the driveway. Angel kissed Zariyah at least five times and Joe even more before finally backing out the front door.

“Spa day, baby!” Monica shouted from the car window twenty minutes later. “Let’s go!”

“Call me if she cries too long,” she said as she walked backwards toward the car.

“I will.”

“If she doesn’t nap—”

“She will.”

“And text me pictures!”

“I already took ten,” Joe said, waving his phone in the air. “Go! Your robe is calling.”

Once the door closed, Joe turned to Zariyah, who blinked up at him in wide-eyed confusion.

“Alright, kid,” he said, shifting her to his hip. “It’s just you and me.”

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

The spa lobby smelled like eucalyptus and soft citrus—clean, calming, luxurious. Angel felt her shoulders drop the moment she stepped inside, her stress melting beneath the scent alone. The lighting was soft and golden, like sunset through linen, and tranquil music drifted from hidden speakers in the walls. Every surface gleamed without being sterile, and the gentle hush in the air made her feel like she had stepped into another world—one where she wasn’t “Mom” or “babe” or “can you hold her for a second?” She was just her.

An attendant greeted them with a kind smile and handed each of them a tall glass of cucumber water chilled to perfection. Angel accepted hers gratefully, the coolness sliding down her throat and instantly refreshing her. Within minutes, she and Monica had changed into plush white robes and were led into a private lounge with two large reclining chairs and small porcelain bowls filled with warm, rose-petal-infused water.

Their feet slipped into the soak with a satisfying sigh.

“This,” Angel murmured as she leaned back, her head against the cushioned headrest, “is heaven.”

“I told you,” Monica said beside her, already reaching for a handful of almonds from the snack tray. “It’s what you deserve. You’ve been Mom-ing like a champ.”

Angel chuckled, her eyes fluttering closed. “You say that like it’s an Olympic event.”

“Girl, it is,” Monica replied. “And you? Gold medal. Easily. You’ve got that whole Beyoncé-as-a-mom energy. Like, you carry that baby like a goddess and still somehow manage to look fly doing it.”

Angel let out a deep laugh, one that bubbled up from her chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But I’m right,” Monica said, grinning. “Joe’s lucky.”

The compliment warmed Angel’s chest more than the herbal tea the spa attendant poured for them next. “He’s been amazing. He really went all out this morning.”

“Yeah, I saw those pancakes on your story. That man’s a keeper.”

“More than a keeper,” Angel said softly, her thoughts momentarily drifting back to the way Joe looked that morning—sleep-rumpled hair, one arm wrapped around their baby girl, tray in hand like it was second nature. She smiled to herself. “He’s my whole heart.”

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

They transitioned from their foot soak to a private massage suite, where a pair of massage therapists welcomed them with gentle hands and warm smiles. Angel lay face-down on a heated table as lavender oil filled the air, the stress melting from her shoulders with each deep, practiced stroke.

She felt herself drift somewhere between sleep and waking—until she was gently turned over and treated to a glowing facial that made her skin feel like silk. By the time they entered the steam room, clad in towels and slippers, Angel felt reborn.

“This place should be illegal,” she mumbled, sipping more cucumber water as steam kissed her face.

“Right?” Monica leaned back against the tiled wall, her dark curls wrapped in a towel turban, her skin glistening under the humidity. “Now that your body’s relaxed… let’s talk about the real stuff.”

Angel narrowed her eyes playfully. “Monica, don’t you start.”

Monica smirked. “So… you and Joe. Still keeping things spicy?”

Angel groaned, dragging the towel over her face. “Monica.”

“What?” she said innocently. “I’m just asking. You have a baby now. Your body’s doing all kinds of amazing post-partum warrior things. I just want to make sure my best friend is still getting her grown-woman time.”

Angel let out a slow laugh, rolling her eyes but amused. “We find our moments.”

“Mm-hmm.” Monica raised an eyebrow. “That means no. You finding moments is not the same as making moments.”

Angel gave a knowing smile. “I don’t need to schedule sex like a dentist appointment.”

“But sometimes you do!” Monica insisted. “A little premeditated sexy energy? That’s self-care.”

Angel shook her head, still smiling. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you,” Monica said, standing up and stretching, “are coming with me to do a little shopping. Just trust me.”

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

After their spa treatments, Angel and Monica emerged into the golden late afternoon air looking and feeling like royalty. Their skin glowed from facials, their muscles were loose from the massages, and their nails were freshly polished—Angel had chosen a glossy nude shade that made her hands look effortlessly elegant, while Monica rocked a bold red that matched her energy perfectly.

They’d both had their hair blown out in soft, voluminous waves, and Monica had already declared they were “Too fine to go straight home.”

So, naturally, they made a detour to the mall.

Angel didn’t protest. It had been a long time since she’d strolled a shopping center without a stroller or a diaper bag strapped to her shoulder. For the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t rushing to get in and out, wasn’t scanning every store for a changing station or calculating how long she had before Zariyah needed her again. It felt indulgent. It felt free.

As they walked past storefronts, arms swinging, Angel sipped from a fresh smoothie while Monica window-shopped with laser precision.

Then Monica stopped in her tracks.

“Hell yes,” she said, eyes zeroing in on a boutique tucked between a high-end jewelry store and a minimalist shoe shop. The windows were tastefully dim, with mannequins clad in silk and lace, and a gold-lettered sign above the entrance that simply read: Velour.

Angel followed her gaze, nearly choking on her smoothie. “No. Monica. No way.”

“Absolutely yes,” Monica said, already steering her toward the door.

“Monica,” Angel hissed, digging her heels in as they reached the entrance, “I just had a baby six months ago. My body is still adjusting. I’m wearing high-waisted jeans and a nursing bra.”

“And you look like a damn goddess in both,” Monica shot back. “Joe is fine. You are fine. This is Mother’s Day, not Mother Teresa’s day. We’re buying you something that makes you feel dangerous again.”

Angel groaned. “I don’t know if I want to feel dangerous.”

“Yes, you do. You just forgot what it feels like.”

Before Angel could argue, Monica opened the boutique’s glass door and dragged her inside.

Velour was nothing like the loud, flashy lingerie stores they’d frequented in college. It was dimly lit and softly scented, with velvet ottomans, vintage gold mirrors, and racks of silk, lace, and mesh in jewel tones and pastels. There was no blaring pop music or teenage sales assistants. Here, everything whispered seduction.

A stylist approached with a warm smile, complimented their nails, and asked if they were shopping for something special.

“She just became a mom,” Monica said, proudly. “And she’s got a man who worships her. So yes. We’re here for something special.”

The stylist nodded like she understood everything with a single glance. “Say no more.”

Within minutes, Angel was in a private dressing room with a small armful of pieces—some delicate, some bold, some that made her laugh out loud.

“Monica, this is insane,” Angel called through the curtain, holding up a strappy emerald green set that looked more architectural than wearable.

“Try it on!” Monica called back from the plush waiting area. “You don’t have to wear it long.”

Angel rolled her eyes but laughed, then slipped into something more her speed—a deep burgundy lace teddy with sheer panels and scalloped edges. It hugged her curves like it had been tailored for her and revealed just enough to make her feel both powerful and a little shy.

She peeked out of the curtain. “Okay… this one’s kind of... wow.”

From her seat, Monica looked up and immediately grinned. “Oh yeah. He’s gonna need a defibrillator. A full resuscitation. Like, someone call 911 now.”

Angel tried to hide her smile as she turned back to the mirror. She hadn’t seen herself this way in a while—not just sexy, but confident. Beautiful, yes, but in control of her own glow.

She changed back into her jeans, still slightly flushed, and stepped out of the dressing room. As she approached Monica at the checkout counter, she found a sleek black dress draped over her friend’s arm.

“What’s that?” Angel asked suspiciously.

“Your dress for tonight,” Monica said, handing it over. “Figure-hugging, just enough stretch, open back, side slit. Pure elegance with a touch of danger. It’s your whole vibe.”

Angel raised a brow. “You don’t even know what we’re doing tonight.”

“No, but Joe knows. And I know Joe. He’s got something planned,” Monica said, waving her hand dramatically. “And when you walk in wearing this? He’s gonna remember every reason he fell in love with you. Twice.”

Angel took the dress, feeling the buttery fabric between her fingers. “I haven’t worn something like this in a long time.”

“Then it’s overdue,” Monica said, handing her the shopping bag. “Now let’s go get you home so you can make a man fall in love all over again.”

They walked out of the boutique as the sky turned soft with evening light, their laughter trailing behind them like a warm breeze.

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

The rest of the day was chaos in slow motion. Zariyah fought her nap tooth and nail, finally falling asleep only after a marathon walk around the backyard in her carrier. Feeding time resulted in more oatmeal on Joe’s hoodie than in her mouth, and a diaper incident during tummy time nearly made him reconsider every life choice.

But when he finally got her settled on his chest for a post-nap snuggle, her tiny fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, Joe knew it was all worth it.

By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, the house had been tidied, soft jazz hummed through the speakers, and dinner was nearly ready—lemon garlic pasta with roasted vegetables, salad, and a bottle of wine breathing on the counter.

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

Back home that evening, the front door creaked softly as Angel stepped into the quiet hush of their house. It was warm, peaceful—like the walls themselves had been waiting for her to return. The golden light from the setting sun slipped through the curtains, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. The smell of something savory—garlic, maybe rosemary—lingered in the air, teasing her senses.

From the living room, she heard soft music playing—Sade, smooth and low—and then the unmistakable giggle of her daughter.

Angel smiled before she even saw them.

Joe was on the couch, cradling Zariyah in his arms, her little fists waving happily in the air. They were both in matching gray sweats and T-shirts that read Momma's Our World in pink script. Joe looked up the second she walked in.

“Hey, you two,” Angel said, her smile spreading as she walked closer, already toeing off her shoes.

“Hey, beautiful,” Joe said with that warm grin that still made her stomach flip. He rose to his feet, careful with Zariyah, and leaned in to press a kiss to Angel’s lips—gentle but lingering.

“We missed you.”

“I missed you more,” she murmured, taking their daughter into her arms. Zariyah’s little fingers latched onto her curls instantly, and Angel kissed her chubby cheek. “Did she behave?”

Joe lifted an eyebrow as he flopped back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. “Mostly. There was one code red diaper situation that may or may not have required two outfit changes and a new set of wipes, but we survived.”

Angel laughed, shifting Zariyah to her hip. “She likes to test your limits.”

“She’s your daughter. Of course she’s a little dangerous.”

They sat together, bodies close, with Zariyah nestled between them. Angel sank into the cushions with a sigh of contentment. The quiet moments like these—the ones with no pressure, no distractions—were her favorite. She leaned her head on Joe’s shoulder as she began recounting her day, the scent of eucalyptus and lemongrass still lingering faintly on her skin.

“Monica dragged me into a steam room and interrogated me about our sex life,” she said casually, grinning.

Joe laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds like Monica.”

“She also insisted I buy lingerie that probably violates multiple federal regulations,” she added, raising an eyebrow.

Joe looked at her sideways, curiosity piqued. “Oh?”

“You’ll see,” she teased, giving him a slow, sly smile.

His mouth curved into a grin. “Now I really can’t wait.”

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

As the sun dipped lower, the three of them moved into the nursery for bedtime. It had become a rhythm, a quiet routine that grounded them after long days—Joe filling the tiny tub with warm water, Angel picking out a fresh onesie from the dresser. Zariyah kicked her legs happily on the changing table, making baby babble noises as if she too was recounting her day.

Angel scooped her up and undressed her, planting a kiss on her tummy before easing her into the water. Joe knelt beside the tub, gently washing her curls while Angel hummed a lullaby they both knew by heart. The soft splashes, the shared laughter, the love in every movement—it was all part of the sacred rhythm of their life.

After bath time came lotion, pajamas, bottles, and cuddles. Angel rocked Zariyah while Joe dimmed the lights. They stood together over the crib, watching her eyes flutter closed, her chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.

Angel’s heart felt full to the brim.

“I don’t know how we got so lucky,” she whispered.

Joe kissed the side of her head. “We made our luck.”

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

After they tucked Zariyah into her crib, both parents lingered for a moment, watching her tiny chest rise and fall in the glow of the soft nightlight. Joe rested a hand on Angel’s back, his palm warm against the silky fabric of her robe, grounding her in the quiet wonder of their little world.

“Still not over how perfect she is,” he whispered.

Angel leaned into him. “Me neither. She’s all you with just enough me to keep her interesting.”

He chuckled, kissed her temple, and gave her a playful swat on the hip. “Come on.”

She followed him out of the nursery and down the hall, expecting to head to the kitchen or maybe the couch for some well-earned Netflix downtime. Instead, Joe stopped in front of their bedroom door, his expression unreadable except for a flicker of mischief in his eyes.

He turned toward her, his voice warm but purposeful. “Go in and get ready.”

Angel tilted her head, amused. “For what?”

Joe opened the door with a flourish, revealing the soft lighting of their room—candles flickering on the dresser, the subtle scent of sandalwood in the air.

“For a surprise,” he said simply. “Trust me.”

Angel stepped into the room, still confused but smiling. “What kind of surprise?”

“The good kind,” he said, backing away with a grin. “Wear the dress you bought today. The one Monica made you get.”

She narrowed her eyes, her voice skeptical but teasing. “The Monica Special?”

“That’s the one,” he confirmed, already retreating down the hallway. “No questions. Just… wear it. I’ll be downstairs.”

With that, he disappeared, the sound of his footsteps fading as he made his way back down toward the main floor.

Angel stood in the center of their bedroom for a moment, letting his words settle over her like silk. Then, still smiling, she crossed the room and sat down at her vanity, the mirrored bulbs glowing softly around her reflection. Her robe fell open at the collarbone as she exhaled, suddenly aware of the way her heart had started to flutter again.

She reached for the black dress carefully folded over the back of the armchair—sleek, elegant, with just enough edge to make her feel dangerous in the best way. Holding it up to herself in the mirror, she couldn’t help but think of Monica’s voice echoing in her head: You’re gonna thank me.

Angel shook her head with a grin and slipped out of her robe, letting the fabric fall away before easing into the dress. The material clung like liquid night, hugging her waist and gliding over her hips as if it remembered her body. She adjusted the neckline slightly, then reached for a brush to freshen the curls that had begun to relax since the spa.

She added a touch of highlighter along her cheekbones, a warm gold that caught the light with each turn of her head. A swipe of gloss over her lips. Her favorite gold hoop earrings. Then, finally, a spritz of perfume—her signature scent, soft and warm with hints of vanilla and amber—at the base of her neck.

For a moment, she simply looked at herself. She didn’t look tired. Or frayed. Or overwhelmed. She looked radiant. Soft, but powerful. Still a mother, yes—but also a woman. A wife. Herself.

She stood, smoothing the dress with both hands, and headed for the door. As her heels clicked softly across the hardwood floor, she wondered what Joe was up to. This was different. She could feel it in the air, thick and electric with promise.

But she wasn’t prepared for what waited just down the stairs.

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

When Angel stepped out of the bedroom, the hallway lights cast a soft golden glow over her skin, her heels whispering against the floor as she moved. She paused at the top of the stairs, hand trailing along the banister, heart tapping a quiet rhythm in her chest. There was a stillness in the house now—one that felt intentional, waiting. Anticipatory.

And then she saw him.

Joe stood at the base of the staircase, facing her. He was dressed in a charcoal button-down, the sleeves rolled just enough to show a sliver of forearm, paired with tailored black slacks that hugged his frame in all the right ways. In his hands, he held a bouquet—sunflowers and ivory roses, a mix so perfectly her that Angel’s breath caught in her throat.

For a long second, neither of them said anything. They just stared.

And then his eyes widened, lips parting slightly. He let out a low whistle, slow and reverent.

“Damn,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “You trying to kill me tonight?”

Angel laughed, ducking her head shyly, a warmth blooming in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the lighting.

“Joey,” she said softly, brushing one hand over the smooth wood of the railing. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“I can’t help it.” He started up the stairs, each step deliberate, his gaze never leaving her face. “You always look beautiful, Angel. Always. But tonight? You’re something else.”

When he reached her, he took her hand gently, his fingers brushing over her knuckles like he was rediscovering them. Then, with that boyish grin she’d fallen for back at LSU, he twirled her in place.

The fabric of the black dress shimmered as it caught the light, rippling around her legs like silk in motion. The open back and side slit gave a glimpse of skin that made Joe’s gaze drop momentarily, just enough to make Angel’s breath hitch again.

“You are… unreal,” he murmured, taking her in fully.

She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, her voice hushed with affection. “You clean up pretty nice yourself, Mr. Burrow.”

Joe chuckled and handed her the bouquet, his voice suddenly tender. “These are for you.”

Angel’s fingers curled around the stems as she brought them to her nose. The scent of fresh blossoms filled her senses, grounding her in the moment.

“They’re perfect,” she said, eyes glimmering.

“I remembered,” he replied, his voice quiet but proud.

Then, with a wink, he stepped behind her and gently placed his hands over her eyes.

“No peeking,” he whispered near her ear, the warmth of his breath sending a small shiver down her spine.

Angel laughed, her voice light and full of trust. “You know blindfolds are more Monica’s style than mine.”

Joe chuckled. “You’ll survive. Just take it slow with me.”

He guided her step by step down the staircase, his hands secure but gentle, his body pressed close to hers as he murmured calming things in her ear: “Almost there… careful… one more step.” The familiar creaks of the hardwood beneath her feet were the only other sound besides the faint music drifting in from the dining room—soft jazz, smooth and romantic.

When they reached the bottom, he paused.

“You ready?” he asked.

She nodded. “Ready.”

Joe slowly lifted his hands from her eyes.

Angel opened them—and froze.

The dining room was transformed into something out of a dream.

Candlelight filled the space—dozens of them, in varying heights and sizes, flickering on every available surface. Some stood tall in elegant glass holders, others floated in small bowls of water, casting dancing reflections on the walls. The table was draped in pristine white linen, scattered with rose petals and gold-edged place settings. Crystal glasses caught the candlelight, sparkling like stars. In the air, the warm scent of roasted garlic, herbs, and lemon mingled with the soft strains of jazz and the floral perfume from the bouquet still in Angel’s hands.

She turned to Joe, eyes wide, lips parted. “Joe…”

He stepped toward her, took both of her hands in his, and smiled.

“Happy Mother’s Day, Angel.”

Her throat tightened with emotion. “You… you really did all this?”

He nodded once, his voice full of quiet certainty. “For you. You’ve given me everything, Angel. Our daughter. Our home. Your love. I just wanted to give you a moment—a night—where you felt as treasured as you are to us.”

A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye, and she laughed through it, brushing at her cheek. “You’re gonna ruin my makeup, Joe.”

He reached out, catching the tear with the pad of his thumb. “Then I’ll kiss it back on.”

She pulled him close, pressing a slow, heartfelt kiss to his lips. There was no rush in it, no urgency—just the deep, anchoring warmth of two people who had weathered sleepless nights, spit-up, late feedings, and all the quiet exhaustion of new parenthood and still looked at each other like they’d just fallen in love.

When they finally pulled apart, Joe gestured to her seat. “Dinner is served.”

They sat down together, their knees brushing under the table, fingers reaching instinctively for one another between bites. Joe had cooked everything himself—pan-seared chicken with garlic herb butter, lemony roasted vegetables, and Angel’s favorite truffle risotto. Dessert waited on a side table: molten lava cake with fresh berries and vanilla bean ice cream, just beginning to soften.

The meal was incredible, but the food was only part of it.

It was the way he looked at her when she spoke. The way he laughed at all the little details of her day, like he was hearing them for the first time. The way his foot nudged hers under the table, playful and familiar. The way, in every glance and every touch, he reminded her: I still see you. I still choose you. Every day.

By the time their plates were empty and the last candle flickered low, Angel wasn’t just full.

She was overwhelmed—with love, with gratitude, with the kind of peace that only came from being truly known.

And as Joe rose from his chair, offering his hand once again, his eyes warm and steady, she knew this wasn’t just a celebration.

It was a vow.

A quiet promise wrapped in flowers and candlelight and whispered kisses: I will keep showing up for you. Every day. Always.

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

As the last bites of dessert disappeared—Angel having declared the molten lava cake “borderline illegal”—Joe poured the final sips of red wine into their glasses. The dining room had quieted into a peaceful stillness, the soft jazz now a slow, sultry hum in the background. The candlelight flickered low but steady, casting dancing shadows along the walls, making the room feel like its own little world—set apart, protected.

Angel leaned back in her chair, one hand absently swirling the stem of her wineglass, a content smile curving her lips.

“This was perfect,” she said, glancing at him over the rim. “Truly, Joe. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more… cherished.”

Joe rested his chin in his hand, eyes locked on her, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Good. That was the point.”

She rolled her eyes affectionately. “You set the bar high, you know. I’m gonna expect roses on random Tuesdays now.”

“Done,” he said without hesitation. “You want roses on a Tuesday? I’ll bring you a whole garden.”

Angel laughed, soft and sweet, the kind of laugh that made Joe’s chest ache with love. He leaned closer across the table, elbow on the white linen, gaze sharp and suddenly mischievous.

“So,” he said, voice lower now, almost conspiratorial, “about that little… detour Monica took you on today.”

Angel blinked, then smirked. “I knew you’d bring that up eventually.”

“Of course I would,” Joe said, his grin deepening. “You mentioned something about lingerie that might break federal law. I feel like as your husband, it’s my civic duty to investigate.”

Angel sipped her wine slowly, letting him sweat for a second. “Oh, I don’t know… I mean, it’s not really the kind of thing you just see right after dinner.”

Joe raised an eyebrow, shifting in his chair with a mock-serious look. “I respectfully disagree.”

She bit her lip, leaning forward slightly. “You’re very invested in this case, Mr. Burrow.”

“Well Mrs. Burrow, I take matters of national importance very seriously.”

Angel set down her glass and stood from the table, moving around to him with a sultry slowness in her steps. Joe watched every move, the look in his eyes darkening, like he was memorizing each sway of her hips, each shift of fabric. When she reached him, she slid her hands down his shoulders, fingers curling at the back of his neck.

“Maybe,” she whispered near his ear, “you’ll get to see your surprise… if you clean up all these dishes.”

Joe’s laugh burst out of him, low and warm. “You’re evil.”

She kissed his cheek. “You love it.”

“God help me, I do,” he muttered, already rising from his seat.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in until their bodies aligned, until every breath felt like a conversation. “But I’m still cashing in on that surprise.”

Angel grinned, eyes twinkling. “You will. Eventually.”

Joe groaned dramatically, then gave her a lingering kiss that said he could wait… but not for long.

As he turned to start clearing the table, Angel slipped away with one last glance over her shoulder, a sway in her step and a knowing smirk playing on her lips.

Mother’s Day had been everything she hadn’t known she needed—pampering, peace, romance, and this: the playful intimacy that always lived between them like a current. The spark that hadn’t dimmed with time or diapers or sleepless nights.

If anything, it had only grown deeper. Richer. Stronger.

And tonight, that spark was burning bright.

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

Upstairs, the quiet of their bedroom wrapped around Angel like silk.

The space glowed in soft amber light, the kind that blurred the edges of everything and made shadows dance on the walls. A few candles flickered gently atop the dresser, their warm flames casting golden halos against the polished wood and catching on the silver frames that held moments of their life frozen in time—Zariyah’s gummy, wide-eyed smile in Joe’s arms, the two of them beaming in wedding bliss under a Louisiana sun, a blurry, exhausted hospital selfie where Angel still had her IV in and Joe’s cap was backward, clinging to her like she was the air he needed.

Angel exhaled slowly as she stood by the edge of the bed, fingertips grazing the hem of her dress. She eased it down, inch by inch, letting the black fabric whisper along her skin until it pooled in a puddle of silk at her feet. The air touched her bare shoulders, cool against the warmth of her skin, and for a moment she just stood there, steadying her breath, grounding herself in the quiet.

Then she turned to the vanity and reached for the emerald green set Monica had all but shoved into her hands. Angel had blushed in the boutique under the soft pink lighting, laughing off Monica’s smirk and feigned innocence, but now… now the memory made her smile. She slipped it on—lace like whispers, soft against her curves. The color was striking, deep and lush, like a gemstone set against velvet. The bra framed her just right, with delicate scalloped edges and thin straps that accentuated the slope of her collarbone. The matching bottoms sat high on her hips, the sheer material revealing and concealing at once.

​​She clipped the matching garter belt around her waist, smoothing it into place with slow, practiced fingers. Thin satin straps extended downward, looping delicately around her thighs and fastening against a pair of sheer black stockings. The tension in the straps added a subtle pressure, a delicious awareness of every movement. 

She turned slightly, catching her reflection.

It wasn’t about perfection. It wasn’t even about seduction.

It was about owning who she was—mother, wife, woman—and feeling powerful in her skin. Beautiful. Present.

With gentle fingers, Angel fluffed the soft curls framing her face, still loose from the blowout earlier that morning. She reached for the dainty gold chain hanging from her mirror and held it between her fingers for a beat.

The necklace Joe had given her on their first anniversary—an emerald pendant encased in a sunburst, her birthstone cradled in gold. The first gift he’d ever given her that wasn’t tied to fanfare or cameras, but pure feeling. She remembered the way his voice cracked when he said, “You’re the light of my life, and this… just a reminder.”

She fastened it at the nape of her neck. The pendant settled just above the swell of her chest, catching the candlelight like a secret.

Angel took one last look in the mirror. Then, with a steady breath and a slow turn, she made her way to the bed.

Each step was deliberate—measured and unhurried. Her hips moved with soft confidence, her shoulders back, her eyes clear. She climbed onto the bed, its plush white comforter soft beneath her knees, and positioned herself in the center. Legs folded beneath her. Hands resting gently on her thighs. Back straight. Poised.

The anticipation was there, humming low and steady like background music.

She didn’t wait long.

And then… the doorknob turned.

The door eased open with a quiet creak, and Joe stepped inside, framed by the golden light spilling in from the hallway. He was drying his hands with a kitchen towel, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his shirt untucked and a little wrinkled from the flurry of cleaning downstairs. He looked like he was about to say something casual—some quip about wine stains or how he managed to scrub out whatever had bubbled over the risotto.

But then he looked up.

And his eyes locked onto her.

And the world stopped.

The towel slipped from his fingers, forgotten. His jaw slackened slightly, his chest lifting in a halted breath. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

His gaze locked onto Angel sitting on their bed, radiant in green lace, candlelight playing along the curve of her collarbone and the sparkle of the necklace he remembered clasping around her neck years ago.

He didn’t move at first—just stood there, jaw clenched, eyes dark and full of wonder, like if he blinked, the image in front of him might vanish.

Angel stayed still, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“Took you long enough,” she said gently, her voice teasing but thick with warmth.

Joe blinked like he was seeing a vision. His voice, when it came, was hushed—half prayer, half awe. “Jesus, Angel…”

He stood there, unmoving, eyes drinking her in like he needed to commit every detail to memory. And then, as if gravity finally caught up to him, he stepped forward.

“You trying to kill me?” he murmured, echoing the same words he’d said at the base of the stairs earlier.

Angel tilted her head, her smile deepening. “Depends… is it working?”

Joe exhaled a breath that sounded more like a groan, shaking his head. “You have no idea.”

When he reached the bed, his fingers were reverent as they found her skin. He touched her like she was something rare—something he’d never stop marveling at. He traced the lace over her hip, the curve of her waist, the line of her shoulder. Angel leaned into him, her hands rising to his chest, slowly working open the buttons one by one.

“Green,” he murmured, half to himself. “You always knew how to drive me crazy… but this?”

She lifted a hand, toyed with the open collar of his shirt, her other hand brushing the short hair at the back of his neck. “This was just a little something to say thank you… for tonight. For everything.”

Joe’s eyes flicked to hers, glassy and dark with emotion. “You don’t ever have to thank me for loving you. But damn, Angel… I’m glad you did.”

“I bought this one just for you,” she said, her voice velvet. “So you better appreciate it.”

Joe’s grin was slow, his eyes dark with heat but soft with love. “Angel,” he murmured, leaning in until their foreheads touched, “I don’t just appreciate it. I worship it. I worship you.”

Their mouths met in a kiss that started soft—a brush of lips, an exhale, a pause. Then deeper. Hungrier. Hands wandered, finding familiar places and discovering them all over again. His shirt joined her dress somewhere on the floor. The warmth between them pulsed like a living thing, thick with want but anchored in something more.

Not as husband and wife, not even as mother and father.

Just Joe and Angel.

Two hearts still caught in orbit, still choosing each other, still wrapped up in something deep and unshakable.

Love.

Trust.

History.

And long into the night, the only light left flickering in their home was the one between them.

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

They moved together with the kind of ease only years could create. She knew the weight of his touch before it landed. He knew the rhythm of her breath before she exhaled. They didn’t speak—there was no need. Every sigh, every kiss, every pull of a hand or brush of a thigh said more than words could.

And when they finally stilled, tangled together under soft sheets, skin warm and bodies loose with release, Joe curled a hand around her waist and pressed his lips to the side of her neck.

“You’re magic,” he whispered against her skin.

Angel smiled, eyes drifting shut, heart full.

“No,” she whispered back, nestling closer. “We are.”

Angel lay tucked in the crook of Joe’s arm, one thigh still wrapped in a strap he hadn’t dared to remove.

She played absently with his necklace chain, head resting against his chest, while he traced lazy circles into her back.

“That set should come with a warning,” he murmured sleepily.

Angel laughed softly, her smile pressed to his skin. “I’ll let Monica know.”

Joe groaned. “Remind me to thank her tomorrow.”

She kissed his collarbone. “Mm-hmm. Maybe.”

Outside, the wind rustled softly through the trees. Down the hall, their daughter slept soundly in her crib.

And in the quiet warmth of their bedroom, wrapped in each other’s arms, Joe and Angel laid suspended in a moment of peace, love, and the kind of connection that made everything else fade into silence.

But here, wrapped in each other, the world felt still.

And in this soft cocoon of candlelight, love, and velvet shadows, Joe and Angel weren’t just celebrating a holiday.

They were celebrating them.

[diseaseriddencube]

god i just love this drawing of mimori

[fleshmetal]

just watched the borderlands movie and the only good part was that krieg’s little harness thingo lowkey looked like a very skimpy little bra thing sometimes

he needs some back support with those jugs ofc

[pigeons-with-jello]

jaw clentched teeth grinding nails being bitten shoulders tightened knees locked I MADE ANOTHER CHCARACTER DO YOU GUYS WANT TO SEE HER SHES WEIRD AND SHE CAN SENSE MAGIC AND SHE WANTS TO KILL MAGIC AND SHE HAS A STAR MOTIF AND

[taus-inc]

finished ugly betty, loved it, did wish the timeline of the last season was moved up and we got to see her in london more but ig that was the point

[arolesbianism]

Thinking abt Joshua again. Amazing how all it takes for what was once one of my least favorite oni characters to become my third favorite is simply making shit up

[artekai]

Have you seen her?

Now you have :)

[pukefactory]

•☽────✧˖°˖ GREAT CUSTOMER SERVICE ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Yandere Salesperson ENA X Yandere Reader

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): Abusive Behaviour

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

★ Requested By: Anon

☆ You don’t remember who fell first. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was the moment you met, when she asked your name like it was a line in a sales pitch, and you gave it to her like it was your last will and testament. “Could I interest you in a life spent entirely in my proximity?” she said, Salesperson side smiling like an infomercial. You smiled back. The Meanie side narrowed her eye. “OH MY GØD. You’re smiling? What are you, a psycho?” “Yes,” you replied. And just like that, the contract was signed.

☆ You collect ENA’s discarded voice recordings like they’re pressed flowers. Her angry outbursts. Her poetic ramblings. Her emotional breakdowns. You catalog each one with timestamps and notes. She finds out. She doesn’t get mad. She starts recording custom messages for you. “Business update: You’re mine. That’s non-negotiable.” Or sometimes, in that crackling Meanie voice: “Tchhh—don’t go playing cute with other freaks. I’ll murder the trend.”

☆ ENA walks into your room, blood on her shoes. “There was…competition. Very limited-time offer.” You don’t ask who. You wipe the blood off with your sleeve and offer her tea. “Wanna watch that surveillance footage together? You looked sooooo brave.” “I did, didn’t I?” “Criminally charming.”

☆ You have both tried to poison each other. Not out of hate. Out of love. You just wanted to see if she’d be clever enough to survive. She was. She liked the taste. “You put foxglove in the tea?” “You drank the whole thing?” “We’re married now,” she declares. “Cool. Our vows will be televised.”

☆ She sends you a bouquet of audio files. Each one is a threat to someone who got too close to you. “Excuse me—PING!—you were seen looking at my darling with both eyes open. That is now a Class A felony. You have been reported to the love police.” “SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP! BACK OFF OR I’LL SHOVE YOUR HEAD INTO THE GENIE’S TOILET!” You play them on loop when you’re feeling low.

☆ You show up at her megaphone event with a knife in your pocket, a smile on your lips, and a homemade t-shirt that reads, ‘ENA IS MY GØD, GET LOST’. She sees you from the stage, stutters, then speaks in dual voices at once: “A blessed sermon! A capital campaign! MY DEVOTEE IS ARMED AND ADORABLE!” You blow her a kiss. Someone in the crowd blinks too long in your direction. They don’t blink again.

☆ Your love notes are like war declarations. Hers are like sales pitches written in blood. “I’m going to carve our initials into the psyche of this universe.” She writes back, “Let’s bundle that emotion with a limited-time offer! If you commit mass homicide in my name, I’ll give you a 30% increase in cuddles.” You frame that note and hang it above your bed.

☆ You both have matching calendars where you mark off each other’s violent outbursts as anniversaries. July 9th: ENA stabbed a flirtatious mannequin in the eye. August 12th: You mailed her a jar of someone else’s tears with a love poem tied to it. September 23rd: You screamed her name into the megaphone tower until your throat gave out. She tattooed the waveform across her stomach with her sharpest blade.

☆ Her Meanie side thinks you’re unstable. “OH, YOU’RE NUTS. EVEN I CAN’T STAND YOU!” Her Salesperson side giggles. “They love me so bad it hurts. Isn’t that romantic?” You kiss her right in front of herself and she short-circuits, screaming and blushing and threatening to rearrange the cosmos for a double date. She picks the Froggy as your chaperone. “To keep us out of trouble,” she lies. You’re both armed under the table.

☆ If she’s broken, you’re the wrecking ball that smashes her pieces into a prettier pattern. If you’re unhinged, she’s the velvet box the blade sleeps in. She curls into your lap one night, whispering like a lost confession: “I’m going to turn the world into a convenience store. And you’ll be the only item I’ll keep restocking.” You smile and say, “You’ll run out of shelf space before I run out of love.” Together, you make obsession look like art.

[riddlesrizzler]

The Great Gatsby

summary: He looked at you the way all women want to be looked at by a man. characters: mattheo riddle. shy! reader. mentions of slytherin boys. warnings: none! just matty going feral. word count: 2.8k

The first time Mattheo Riddle really noticed you-truly noticed you-was when you collided with him outside the library. One second, he was rounding the corner, lost in thought, and the next, someone crashed into his chest, sending papers and books flying across the stone corridor.

You dropped to your knees instantly, murmuring a flurry of apologies as you scrambled to gather your things. He knelt too, fingers brushing against the corner of a worn paperback just before yours did. His eyes flicked over the title-Jane Eyre-the cover cracked and creased from being read more than once. A Muggle book. Not the first he’d seen around lately. And not the last he’d see in your hands.

But what caught his attention more than the title was the way you wrote.

Some of your pages had slipped loose in the fall-notes scribbled in blue ink, dense with thoughts and margins full of underlines and comments. He picked one up out of instinct, pausing as his eyes caught on the handwriting: soft, looping letters that curled at the ends, like you had too much emotion to keep inside the lines. It was delicate but purposeful. You wrote like someone who felt everything. He didn’t realize he was staring until your hand reached out and tugged the paper gently from his fingers.

“S-sorry,” you stammered, cheeks flushed. “That’s mine.”

Your voice was quieter than he expected. Soft, but not meek-like you were always thinking about something bigger than the room you were in. He nodded, but didn’t say anything right away. Just watched you as you stuffed your notes back into a leather-bound folder, arms full of books with titles he recognized only vaguely-Wuthering Heights, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Bell Jar.

Muggle literature. You read it like it meant something. Like it was sacred. No one really talked about Muggle writers at Hogwarts, not unless they were trying to be funny. But you didn’t strike him as the type who cared about what people thought. The way you clutched your books close to your chest, like armor, made that clear.

Then you were gone. Just like that.

You darted away so quickly he didn’t even catch your name, but the image stuck. The too-big sweater. The stack of paperbacks. The way you walked like you were always halfway between this world and another.

-

That night at dinner, he couldn’t get you out of his head. So, when he slid into his usual seat, he turned to Theo and Enzo.

“Do either of you know a Ravenclaw girl? About this tall-” he gestured with his hand, “-always carrying books, kind of quiet?”

Enzo scoffed. “That could be any Ravenclaw, mate.”

Mattheo frowned, thinking. “She, uh… she writes in this particular way. Loops at the end of her words. And she was wearing a cream sweater.”

Theo snapped his fingers. “Oh, you mean her—”

Mattheo’s stomach did something weird. “Her?”

“Yeah, Y/N,” Theo said, nodding toward the Ravenclaw table. “She’s in our classes. Always has a book with her-usually some Muggle thing.”

Mattheo followed Theo’s gaze, and there you were, sitting at the edge of your house’s table, nose tucked deep into a book.

Then, over the next few days, he found himself noticing you everywhere.

In class, he watched how you wrote with a precise hand, the loops at the end of your letters delicate, intentional. He had never paid attention to how people wrote before, but there was something mesmerizing about the way you did.

In the courtyard, he noticed the way you walked-always with books pressed to your chest, a little too lost in thought, always on the verge of bumping into someone.

And in the library-Gods, the library-you were in your element. Tucked away in a quiet corner, curled up in your usual oversized sweater, eyes glued to the pages of yet another Muggle book.

It was your quietness that fascinated him the most. It wasn’t timid-it was purposeful, like a storm contained just beneath the surface. And Mattheo, against all odds, found himself wanting to get caught in it.

-

Mattheo leaned against the edge of the Slytherin table, arms folded, jaw tense. His eyes weren’t on his food, or his housemates, or the usual chaos of the Great Hall. They were on you.

You sat near the end of the Ravenclaw table, half-lit by the enchanted ceiling’s pale morning sky. You were curled slightly toward a thick, well-worn book, completely absorbed, as though the world around you barely existed. Your fork rested untouched beside your plate, forgotten in favor of whatever world you’d escaped into. The soft knit of your uniform sweater hung delicately off one shoulder, and strands of hair fell across your cheek, unnoticed as you turned another page.

You hadn’t even noticed him watching you. You never did.

But Mattheo noticed everything.

The way your thumb smoothed down the page before you turned it. The way you tugged at your sleeve when you were thinking. The small furrow between your brows when the world inside your book grew tense. And he remembered the way your papers had spilled across the corridor floor just days ago-crisp parchment, your ink dark and deliberate, curling loops at the ends of your letters like lace. Muggle literature, from the titles he'd glimpsed. Shakespeare. Woolf. Something about that had lodged itself deep in his mind.

You fascinated him-and that wasn’t something Mattheo Riddle was used to.

“I’m going to talk to her,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute.

The words left him before he’d really meant to speak.

Across from him, Enzo let out a startled choke on his pumpkin juice. Theo, who had been lazily spinning his wand between his fingers, paused mid-twirl to raise an eyebrow.

“Mate,” Theo said slowly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Why?”

Mattheo kept his arms folded, but there was something different in his eyes-something sharp and uncertain. “Because I want to.”

Enzo snorted. “You want to? Since when do you want to talk to anyone that’s not one of us?”

“She keeps avoiding me,” Mattheo muttered, gaze fixed. “And I don’t get why.”

Theo leaned back, skeptical. “Maybe because you always look like you’re one spell away from setting the room on fire?”

Mattheo’s jaw twitched. “I do not.”

“You made a second-year cry just by looking at him,” Enzo reminded, deadpan.

“That was different.”

Theo gave him a look. “So, what’s your move? Glaring at her until she falls for your brooding charm?”

Mattheo didn’t answer. Instead, he stood, shoving his hands into his pockets with practiced ease.

“Watch and learn.”

He crossed the Great Hall with purpose, boots echoing off the stone floor. His eyes never left you.

He thought-hoped-that once he was closer, once you saw that he wasn’t all sneers and shadows, maybe you’d stop running. Maybe you’d talk to him.

But the moment he approached, you stilled. It was subtle, but he caught it-the slight rise of your shoulders, the way your hand froze over the page mid-turn.

Then, as if his presence physically repelled you, you snapped your book shut, shoved it into your bag, and left the hall without so much as a glance.

Mattheo stood there, stunned.

His outstretched hand-intended for a casual greeting-hung awkwardly in the air for a beat before he lowered it, his brows pulling together.

“What the fuck?” he muttered under his breath.

From behind, laughter erupted.

Enzo clapped once, mock applause echoing off the walls. “Absolutely majestic effort, Riddle. Smooth as ever.”

Mattheo gritted his teeth. “Piss off.”

—

The next day, he saw his second opportunity.

You were already seated in Charms when he walked in, bag slung over one shoulder, curls messy from the wind. He slid into the desk beside you without hesitation, stretching his arm along the back of the shared bench, leaning slightly in your direction.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking toward you.

You didn’t look up.

But you did go still-again. He could see your fingers tighten around your quill, your shoulders inch higher.

Progress, he thought.

But then, without a word, you stood. Calm. Silent. Collected. You gathered your things, walked three desks down, and resumed your notes like nothing had happened.

Mattheo sat there, blinking at the now-empty space beside him. Dumbfounded.

Theo, seated just behind, leaned forward with a knowing smirk. “Didn’t I literally warn you?”

Mattheo didn’t respond. He just leaned forward, elbows on the desk, jaw clenched as he stared at the back of your head.

—

By the time Transfiguration rolled around, he was growing restless.

When Professor McGonagall paired the two of you together, Mattheo felt something spark in his chest-hope, maybe. Finally, you had to talk to him.

Except, you didn’t.

You barely acknowledged him.

Your spellwork was flawless-each movement practiced and elegant, your flicks precise, your incantations barely whispered. You flipped through your textbook with silent focus, scribbling notes in your neat, looping handwriting.

He watched the way your hand moved, remembered the pages from the corridor floor-the delicate tails at the ends of your letters, the almost lyrical way your words formed.

But still, you never looked at him.

Never spoke.

Mattheo sat there, utterly ignored, watching you move like a storm in a bottle-controlled, contained, distant.

When the class ended, you were out the door before he could stand.

Gone. Again.

He slumped back in his chair, exhaling through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair.

“She really doesn’t want to talk to me,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Theo, not missing a beat, leaned over from his desk with a smirk. “Looks that way, mate.”

But Mattheo didn’t flinch.

If anything, he looked more determined.

Because now it wasn’t just curiosity. It wasn’t just intrigue. It was something deeper, something he couldn’t name.

You could keep slipping through his fingers.

He’d just learn how to hold on tighter.

-

The library was quiet.

Not the usual, restless hush filled with the soft rustle of parchment or the scratch of quills. No whispered gossip or passing footsteps. This silence was heavier-reverent, almost sacred. The kind of silence that wrapped itself around you like velvet and made even the breath in your lungs feel like an interruption. The kind of silence that didn’t just muffle sound-it devoured it.

And then, there was you.

Curled into the corner of the farthest alcove, half-hidden behind a column of bookshelves. You were nestled into the window seat, the pale winter light spilling across your features, bathing you in a soft, otherworldly glow. Your knees were drawn to your chest, one hand cradling an open book, the other absently tugging at the fraying sleeve of your sweater. You looked like you belonged in another century. Fragile. Untouchable. Entirely unaware of the pair of eyes watching you from the shadows of the aisle.

He looked at you the way all women want to be looked at by a man.

And maybe you didn’t see it-but if you had, it would’ve stopped you in your tracks. Because there was nothing cold or calculating in his gaze. Only awe. Only wonder. As if you were something he’d been searching for without even knowing it.

Mattheo stood perfectly still, the air around him charged with something he couldn’t name. He wasn’t sure what had drawn him here-why his feet had followed your path through the castle, why his eyes had tracked your every movement since that first collision in the corridor.

You had crashed into him like a gust of wind-fast, flustered, unintentional. He could still remember the exact moment: the stack of books tumbling from your arms, the startled widening of your eyes as you met his gaze, your breath catching like you'd touched something hot. He had crouched to help, ready for a soft thank you, maybe even a nervous apology.

But you’d gathered your things in one sweeping motion and disappeared before he could so much as speak. No words. No second glance. Just the scent of parchment and something faintly floral left in your wake.

Since then, it had become a pattern.

You’d appear like clockwork-quiet, consistent, always on the edge of the room. In class, you wrote with a deliberate grace, the ends of your letters curling like ivy. In the courtyard, your fingers were always wrapped around a book, the sleeves of your sweater pulled down past your knuckles. And here, in the library, you sank into the same chair for hours, slipping between chapters like falling through time.

You had always been there.

He just hadn’t seen you.

And now that he had, he couldn’t seem to look away.

He took a careful step forward.

And that’s when your gaze lifted.

Your eyes met his-and something in you stilled. A single heartbeat passed. Then, like a thread snapping, your body went taut. Without a word, you snapped your book shut, gathered your things in practiced efficiency, and vanished between the shelves before he could take another breath.

Mattheo was left in your absence, his pulse racing for no reason he could name.

He dragged a hand through his curls, jaw clenched in frustration-until he saw it.

A book.

Left behind on the table in your rush to escape.

He moved toward it slowly, fingers brushing the cracked spine like it was something sacred. The title was embossed in gold, barely visible beneath the wear of countless readings.

The Great Gatsby. A Muggle book.

His brow furrowed as he flipped through the pages, noting the underlined sentences, the faint pencil scribbles in the margins-your handwriting. Gentle loops, soft corrections, small stars drawn next to lines that must have meant something to you. It wasn’t just a book. It was yours.

Mattheo stared down at the worn pages, his mind already spinning with a plan.

If Gatsby had thrown lavish parties just to be seen by Daisy… Then maybe Mattheo Riddle could read Muggle literature to be seen by you.

-

That night, he read.

It started as a way to return your book. But before he realized it, he wasn’t reading for you anymore-he was reading for himself.

The story dug into him. Gatsby wasn’t just hopelessly in love-he was haunted.

Possessed by a past that no longer existed, convinced that if he could just make enough noise, just shine brightly enough, he could pull the future into place. Mattheo understood that. The desperation. The hunger for control over something that would never truly belong to you.

By the time the sky outside began to soften with dawn, Mattheo had devoured every word.

And not just read it-annotated it.

Scribbled thoughts in the margins. Circled sentences. Drew lines between themes like he was cracking a code. He didn’t even realize what he was doing until Enzo’s groggy voice broke the stillness of the dormitory.

“Mate,” Enzo grumbled, squinting through the early light. “What the hell are you doing?”

Mattheo didn’t look up. He just smiled to himself.

-

The next day, he found you again.

You were in the courtyard, your figure half-bathed in sunlight, sitting on a stone bench pressed against a wall covered in ivy. A fresh book in your hands, eyes trained on the pages like you were afraid of what the real world might offer in comparison.

This time, when he approached, your eyes flickered up-and lingered.

You didn’t run.

And that hesitation, that split-second pause, felt like a victory.

He sat beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world, one leg casually hooked over the other, his arm slung along the back of the bench-not quite touching you, but close enough that you felt the heat of his presence.

“So Gatsby was an idiot,” he said, tone light but calculated.

You blinked, caught off guard. “…What?”

He smirked. “Throwing parties for a girl who didn’t even show up? That’s tragic. Pathetic, even.”

You stared at him, brow furrowed, trying to make sense of his presence, of his words, of him.

Mattheo leaned back, eyes fixed on you. “I get it, though. He wanted to be noticed. Thought if he made enough noise, she’d come back to him.” A pause.

“But that’s the thing about fantasies. They only work if you stay asleep.”

You were silent for a beat, the wind brushing strands of hair across your cheek.

“She did love him,” you said softly, gaze drifting back to the page. “Not the way he wanted. But she did.”

Mattheo tilted his head, watching the way your eyes darkened. “Still chose Tom in the end.”

Your hands tightened on your book, jaw set. “You read The Great Gatsby?”

He shrugged, feigning indifference. “Got about twenty pages in and decided to annotate it. Thought maybe it’d help.”

Your lips parted slightly-surprise flickering across your features like light on water.

And then, for the first time, you smiled.

It was barely there, just a soft quirk at the corner of your mouth, but Mattheo felt it like a thunderclap. Like the first warm breeze after a long winter.

And you didn’t run.

Not this time.

[swampjawn]

God I love animation. I love it for the way it can bring anything to life beyond the constraints of boring ol' reality, but also the ways that it's inextricably linked to, and draws on the conventions of live-action film-making.

So fuck it, let's look at how Hayao Miyazaki straight up copies some camera framing techniques from his predecessor and the other most influential Japanese filmmaker of all time, Akira Kurosawa! (Kurosawa really was the master of framing scenes around his characters, so he's a great source of inspiration)

(btw, this is a screenshot from this TV special where the two met for the first time just after the release of Kurosawa's final film. It's pretty interesting, and also very cute how nervous Miyazaki seems to be to meet one of his idols.)

Specifically, how the two each choose to break the 180 degree rule (well, not technically 'break' in the case of Kurosawa) to show their protagonists' changing destiny in "Throne of Blood" and "Princess Mononoke".

For anyone who doesn't know, the 180 degree rule is a basic film-making rule of thumb which states that in any scene where two characters interact, you should draw an imaginary line between them and the camera should always stay on one side of that line.

("In the Mood for Love" - Wong Kar-wai)

This way, one character is always looking to the right of the camera, the other is always looking to the left, and the audience doesn't get confused by the geography of the scene. Crossing this line can be disorienting, but when done intentionally, it can convey a paradigm shift of some kind in the scene.

In this scene from "Throne of Blood," (a feudal Japanese retelling of Macbeth) Washizu's wife Asaji discusses tactics with him and tries to convince him to aspire to the throne and to assassinate his lord Tsuzuki while he sleeps.

As two servants appear to notify them that Washizu's sleeping quarters are prepared, the camera dollies left and around the characters' backs. This camera movement is motivated by the motion of the servants' torches outside the room, but it also signifies a change in Washizu's outlook.

Washizu is completely silent for most of this scene, contemplating his wife's advice. But as the camera slides behind his back and across the line of action, the scene is now re-framed, illustrating his change in perspective.

He's been convinced and the trajectory of his life is about to change - and now, facing away from the camera, is the time for action.

Because the camera slides smoothly across the line, Kurosawa isn't technically breaking the 180 degree rule. Miyazaki on the other hand, takes it a little further.

The complimentary scene in Princess Mononoke comes near the start when the wise woman of the village reads Prince Ashitaka's fortune after he's cursed by the wild boar spirit. She tells him that it is his fate to leave the village and travel to the west, where he may be able to lift the curse on his arm. The trajectory of Ashitaka's life changes in this moment too. As he accepts his fate, the change is symbolized by him cutting off his hair, but also by the camera jumping the line.

Throughout this dialogue scene and even as he cuts his hair, the simulated camera sits just slightly to the side of Ashitaka's left shoulder.

But once it's done, for the final shot, the scene is reframed and we jump to the other side, where Ashitaka is now looking to the right of the camera instead of the left.

Making the camera dolly across a scene like Kurosawa's version in 2D animation is no simple task, so this transition with a simple cut is in a way subtler, in another way a bit more jarring, but it conveys the same meaning.

This is the moment when our protagonists make the choice to embark on a new destiny and re-frame their lives.

This has been an excerpt from a short video essay I made a while back, which not many people watched. I think this is at least in part due to my failure to package it well, and it seems you tumblheads like this animation/cinematography analysis stuff, so this is an experiment to see if, with the help of y'all, and a new title and thumbnail, it's at all possible to give this video a second wind in the eyes of the Youtube Gods!

So if you found this interesting, I'd appreciate if you checked it out! Thanks for reading!

[citygirlyuno305]

Yuno

This is weird but I’m going to speak as a person right now just generally, rather than as any kind of professional or anything. I’ve hesitated to say this for a while, and to speak on Yuno at all, because of my own complicated feelings and because I fear the fallout. But with the new cover and everything I feel like I have to, or I have to get it off my chest. So if you read this, I’m sorry in advance for indulging in what is undeniable projection and bias. I have to put a content warning for harmful sexual relationships and violence here.

I’ve never admitted this to anyone beyond those who already knew, or with my actual public profile or name/ID attached. At age 17, I’m already fucking cringing, I was involved in a sugar-daddy situation. Me, age 17, and a man who was about 40. He had a daughter two years younger than me. I met her. We were friends on facebook. We would eat dinner and I’d have sex with her dad for money after she left to go to her mom’s house. No, I did not need the money. I can’t begin to go into what motivated it at this time because it’s like scratching a barely healed scab. God, I feel gross even thinking about it. Engaging in things like that is unsafe for ANY high schooler. No one stopped me though. My parents didn’t know, and it was shockingly easy to conceal from them, but my friends and siblings did know. Some simply shrugged. Some asked to see pictures of the guy, encouraged it. Some even asked me to ask him if he had friends who wanted to do the same thing with them.

This was obviously disgustingly predatory, but also, just disregarding our ages, it was an extremely violent sexual relationship just generally. Any ‘I worship my sweet sugar baby’ shit when we spoke was significantly outweighed by the things I had to to do. But I did them and even managed not to feel dehumanized at the time because I literally hated myself. So his depreciation fed my own self-hatred. It became very out of control, very quickly.

Predictably, I got pregnant after a little while. Again, I was 17. It was legal, so I had to get an abortion myself. I was pro-choice my entire life- still am. Guess what? Despite that, I felt like shit about that abortion for years. Sometimes I still feel like shit about it. Does that make me getting an abortion less forgivable?

I ask because it seems to be how some are framing their view of Yuno’s innocence or guilt. And I’ve been nice about it or I’ve ignored it up until now, but it’s gotten to a point where it just makes me realize that a lot of people are selfishly self-imposing their own opinions on the character without taking the time to understand what the character themselves needs to heal- like it doesn’t matter to you whether she’s mentally well, or safe. If this doesnt apply to you I hope you take no offense. Is the abortion a huge part of her character? Of course. But it is far from her entire character, and I can’t help but feel like we failed her by not even considering other aspects of her mentality, even if our votes wouldnt change.

To the extent that she regrets her choice, I get that. For the great many people (mainly on twitter) who seem to think abortion is something you can “girlboss queen never cry” your way out of feeling anything for, you’re so woefully wrong that it’s almost alarming. First, being that Yuno’s seemed to be self-inflicted by throwing herself down fucking STAIRS, i can’t even begin to imagine the level of pain she felt. Even when I took that goddamn pill I felt like shit for a week. But more than the physical pain, there IS an emotional pain and a mental pain that just dulls everything else around you. Its more than just societal, the actual biological impact, the abrupt halt of natural processes and jarring hormonal shifts, it literally fucks with your body and your head. I did not want a baby at 17. I did not regret the choice. But I can fully see how some people do once they get an abortion because even for me, it literally felt like a part of me was missing. Gone. Like a part of ME was ripped out. I genuinely hope no one reading this ever has to go through that. And I can’t fathom how much worse that mental pain must be when the abortion is nonmedical.

Is that a reason to make abortion illegal? Fuck no. But I have to make that clear because even saying that has gotten me bombarded with accusations of being prolife, when I’m not.

And you know what, everyone was so kind to me about it, I’m so lucky, really, in retrospect I see that. But when I was SEVENTEEN, it became something that made me so blindingly mad- “its not your fault, youre just a kid, you didnt know.” Yes, I was a kid- but I did KNOW. It felt like that part of me that I killed-because yes, thats how it truly felt-also took my agency with it when it left. Like no one gave a shit enough to tell me that I made a shitty call insofar as getting into that relationship in the first place, and now I’m sitting there with this immeasurable feeling of self-hatred and guilt over something that I did willingly and knowingly (from my POV), I’m feeling this insane emptiness and pain and numbness and I have no one around me to blame so I internalize this self hate even more. Because I couldnt even be angry and upset without simultaneously feeling MORE guilt when the people around me weren’t lashing out at me. I don’t know how to describe this. It felt like no one was holding me accountable for hurting myself, and it was alarming and driving me insane to toe the line between being a victim of my own exercise of choice, and to have no one hold me accountable for the exercise of that choice, even though I myself would not hold anyone else accountable or call them guilty for making the same choice. It felt like no one gaf because those absolving comments designed to make me feel better also somehow felt like I was also being deprived of recognition for the somewhat traumatic experience that it truly was. And even now I really struggle to call it trauma because I still grapple with the idea that I cannot exercise a choice and call it trauma. But its like, no one is angry at the perpetrator (me) for what they did to the victim (also me). And if thats the case, do you really care about me at all? I don’t know. It’s hard to put into words. But that’s where I’m like, we have kind of deprived Yuno of her own victimhood by insisting her actions were victimless.

That said, seeing the line “I wanted you to care enough to scold me and tell me I was wrong” actually hit me pretty hard. I don’t blame Yuno for wanting people to care. Because it truly doesnt feel like it in this instance sometimes.

Double it and pass it to the next person if Yuno really did kill herself when she did it. Because at that point, we’re telling her two things- 1) abortion is okay you didn’t commit murder- okay, fine. But ALSO 2) its okay that you killed yourself, no harm done. No wonder she thinks we don’t give a shit about her, we were too busy politicizing her to consider the fact that we were telling her she didnt err when she fucking offed herself.

And I want this part to be absolutely, abundantly clear: I do not say any of this to demonize SWs. In a manner of speaking I was one. I’m not sure how similar it is to Yuno’s situation but broadly speaking, we live in a world that is generally unsafe for women. Particularly young women, and even more so teenage girls. And we shouldn’t be indifferent to a high schooler showing us that she was having sex with grown men for cash. We shouldn’t demonize her for it, but we shouldve cared enough to probe into what caused her to think this was something she should do. Her friends and parents didnt. I wasnt mentally well when I did it. And call it a girlboss queen shit thing all you want, it fucked me up monumentally after. I still cant think about it without feeling disgusted with myself. And I dont want Yuno to he disgusted with herself but I also dont want to affirm a belief that its genuinely not a problem for high schoolers to do this. People can scream about “well 18 is legal!!!!” all day- its a shitty argument to begin with, though. (If the law said 12 was the age of consent, would you feel comfortable saying “Well its legal!!!” to a relationship between a 12 year old and a 30 year old? No, right? Because the law is not always the baseline of morality). But- and again this is in no way designed to demonize sex workers- situations like Yuno’s are undeniably dangerous.

Is it her fault that something happens if she is attacked? Absolutely NOT. But I still wish someone had given a shit enough about me, my friends, siblings, anyone, to tell me to stop putting myself in a position where it could easily occur. They didnt even tell me that after I got the abortion. Its not that I wanted them to scold me for the abortion-I wanted ANYTHING, but if I’m specific, I wanted them to scold me for what led to it. I wanted them to yell at me for even getting into the sugar daddy situation, which I engaged in willfully because of my OWN self-loathing and need for some form of attention, my OWN warped perception of what constitutes positive attention and what I had to be of value and worthy of that attention. Because I was 17 and I knew that most every time I was yelled at by someone or scolded it was because they cared about me in some form, even if yelling was inappropriate in a given situation. Its weird- without giving too much away here, I managed to keep my abortion from my parents despite being a minor. Maybe half a year after the fact, I told my mom, and only because she was expressing this deep concern that I was suicidal, telling me I wasn’t myself. She wasn’t wrong, of course, I was completely different, idk about suicidal, but certainly depressed. When I told her, she cried, not because shes prolife or anything, but because she was so distraught that she didn’t see what was happening. Frankly she couldn’t have, with the way I went about it and how our lives are structured. And I hate when my mother cries, I love her to death. But her crying felt good. Not like weird masochism good, but like vindication good. Because I knew something was wrong but no one else seemed to think something was wrong for so long, and her weeping over this confirmed for me that yes, I’m right, something- anything- was materially, truly, WRONG with this situation. And when she probed for details I cried too because I forgot how good it felt to have someone who cared enough about me personally to go deeper than superficial opinions on political things, to actually form a personalized opinion or seek more detail as to me specifically. She begged me not to keep up the sugar baby thing, and she was right to do that, and it simultaneously fed my need for care while also maintaining my agency. I am truly lucky beyond words for getting to be my mother’s child.

Anyway, that said, I see how Yuno probably also wanted that from us. To care about the why, and not the what. It didn’t seem like her parents were super involved. Unless I’m missing something.

But that’s the thing, its complicated. I’m pro choice but I hated my choice, but I dont regret my choice, but I do regret it and don’t hate it- I literally can’t put it into words. Its not so black and white. And I think demonizing Yuno for maybe wanting that or harboring the same complicated feelings about her own situation is antithetical to the entire purpose of pro-choice ideology. Is her exercise of choice somehow less forgivable because she might regret her choice?

The answer should be no. To me, anyway.

I would like it if people gave Yuno the same energy that they give any other character. She is a person. She is not just a medium to express any given ideology. And give her the courtesy of trying to understand how it feels to be forgiven for something that you don’t forgive yourself for. Because it doesn’t feel good. I’m in my 20s now and still cannot forgive myself sometimes.

I’m not saying we should have voted X or Y or advocating that Yuno is some kind of monster for what she did. That’d be pretty hypocritical. I’m not unilaterally placing blame on Yuno for her actions either. I’m also not pretending we’re the same person- though the timeline conversation with Shidou where he tells her she’d be good as a healthcare professional, is alarmingly similar to something that happened to me. And that same “Haha, quit playing around,” that’s exactly what I did too. Because I hated myself too much to think it was true. And it took a lot of work to crawl out of that hole. Like, yeah, I’m a lawyer now. I have a different life. I do not require validation from sexual partners to feel joy, I understand the difference between good and bad attention. But part of me will always be partially submerged in it. I think ignorance to the reality that even something that isn’t itself immoral can have dire consequences on the actor goes unrecognized sometimes.

If someone called me a girlboss after my abortion, knowing the circumstances that gave rise to it, or not even bothering to address them, I would’ve blown my fucking brains out.

[helenofsparta2]

Percy, Nico, and Jason should have fallen into Tartarus together, while Annabeth should have remained with the rest of the Seven in House of Hades. Please hear me out.

1.

For one, this way Tartarus would have been much more intimidating. At least in my opinion, it has pretty much lost this aspect, especially after Sun and Star. Tartarus is the prison of the titans, a place so scary and so dangerous, that only the best of the best can make it through. Homer described it as being as far beneath Hades as heaven is above earth.  Overcoming it should be the ultimate challenge.

Yes, Annabeth is smart, incredibly so, but, I feel like, because Rick wanted her to be useful in Tartarus, he used a lot of cheap tricks in her POVs to get her and Percy over obstacles, which seem a bit too simple to really work against beings like Nyx. This took the heaviness away from them being down there and felt at times even anticlimactic. Don’t get me wrong, again, because I know this is a sensitive subject, Annabeth is smart, has a strong resolve and is great at hand to hand combat, but that’s it. And, in my opinion, that should not be enough to overcome Tartarus. If it would have taken a child of each of the big three working together to only barely make it out, it would have definitely reinforced that status, and also the gods’ belief that such children can become too powerful.

2.

Secondly, Percy not letting go of Nico’s hand, would have done wonders for the development of their relationship and for each character’s individual arc.

Imagine, Nico dangling from the edge, instead of Annabeth. Nico, who had only days prior pretended like he didn’t know Percy, who is so full of self-hatred, he thinks the entirety of camp half-blood hates him, who is already weakened by being imprisoned in the jar, and who is scared out of his mind by the idea of being alone in Tartarus again.

Imagine Nico staring up at Percy, clasping his hand, while Percy looks up at Annabeth, the love of his life, whom he had been separated from for months. Imagine Nico being convinced, that Percy is going to let Nico fall down to stay by her side.

But Percy refuses to let go.

He refuses to let go, even after Nico tells him he should do it, and decides instead to fall together with him into the worst place on earth, just so Nico doesn’t have to endure it alone again. It would have further reinforced Percy’s self-inflicted role as Nico’s protector which he already had in the original five books and his fatal flaw of loyalty. To Nico, it would have given him a worse inner conflict about having a crush on him, which could have been revolved while they were travelling together.  The confession scene would have been much more impactful and healthier, if it would have come from Nico himself, and if he and Percy would have had a more in depth talk about it.

And if Jason would have flown after them in a moment of desperation, it would have reinforced the sense of loyalty and protectiveness that he had already shown when he had saved Piper at the grand canyon. The scene with Polybotes could have also taken place in Tartarus instead, and him and Percy working together, and putting all of their differences aside would have been a much more interesting dynamic than the stupid, out of character, rivalry bit they’ve got going on in Mark of Athena.

And, to be honest, just having Nico, Percy and Jason go all out, would probably be one of the coolest scenes in the entire Riordan verse.  

3.

All the while, Annabeth could have really cemented her role as a leader. I love her character, but to say that she has more leadership capabilities than Percy is laughable to me after reading the original five Percy Jackson books. These books are, after all, about Percy’s hero’s journey from an inexperienced kid to a smart, powerful and wise hero and the leader of camp half blood.  Annabeth, in comparison, shows relatively little of that. (Obviously this makes sense, considering that the books are from Percy’s POV and revolve around him, but the complete switch-up to saying that Annabeth is the natural choice as leader of the seven just felt a bit out of the blue to me in Mark of Athena)

Her leading the rest, in a moment of such a tragedy and remaining strong would have really reinforced the strong resolve that she had already shown in holding the sky in titan’s curse and in remaining steadfast despite all the horrible things that happened to her with her father’s rejection and luke’s betrayal. Annabeth’s relationship to Piper, Leo, Hazel and Frank, which is painfully underdeveloped in the books, could have also been given some much needed attention. Like, I can’t remember a single scene where she and Hazel, or she and Leo really talk to one another, which is a shame, because they could have had really interesting dynamics with one another.

It also would have also been a powerful statement about Percy’s and Annabeth’s relationship, if they, while separated, still believed in each other and trusted that the other person would get the job done.

Without powerhouses like Jason and Percy on board of the Argo II, Hazel and Frank could have really shone as individual fighters. Hazel is probably the second, or third most powerful demigod in the entire franchise, but barely gets any attention, and for a guy, who is apparently so powerful his life had to be tied to a stick, Frank seems, outside of one or two scenes, also pretty underwhelming.  

Without Jason, Piper’s and Leo’s friendship could have also gotten some more attention, and generally the reunion scene at the end of House of Hades could have been much more impactful with these character dynamics. I mean, Hazel, and Nico being reunited, Jason, leo and Piper, and Percy and Annabeth, and Percy, Hazel and Frank.

One of the biggest problems, I have with Heroes of Olympus is the extreme focus on romantic relationships. Having some couples be separated from each other like this, would have also solved this and given the only couple still together, Frank and Hazel, more room to develop.

[hochsleep]

Relationship with Daryl Dixon (headcanons)

This is my first experience writing headcanons, but I have a lot to say! And yes, I used a gif from Beth, but we don't support that pairing here, guys.....

Also, thanks to the author of the gif!

Pronouns: she/her (fem!reader) / (I'll do headcanons for Daryl's relationship for gender-neutral readers later on)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon/fem!reader (Y/N)

Warnings: no, not this time. Everything is decent (underage readers can read)

• Daryl Dixon is far from stupid. I mean, he can certainly tell the difference between romantic interest and friendly sympathy. He has Carol, his best friend, and he knows that he feels for her the kind of platonic friendly love he usually feels for a family member. But that's not the case with you. Sure, you've most likely known Daryl for a long time (assuming you joined Rick's group at any point from Atlanta to Prison, can pick at your discretion). So since you've known each other for a while, Daryl has had time to realize that his feelings for you are far from friendly. All the tenderness and care that he feels for you hardly compares to friendship. Daryl definitely didn't feel like kissing Carol's lips every time she came into his field of vision. That's the difference.

• But realizing your feelings is only halfway there. Daryl isn't the type to make the first move and declare his love. He's a very insecure person because of his past, so it would be hard for him to believe that someone like you would want someone like him. Daryl will just watch over you from the sidelines, he will make sure you are safe and will always be there to protect you. Even if it's just a harmless fall down the stairs when you were arranging jars of canned fruit on the top shelf in the Alexandria pantry. He will notice that the stepladder beneath you is wobbling dangerously and will be there to catch you and prevent you from bruising any part of your body. He will take great care of you.

• Daryl is probably the type of man who idolizes and admires the girl he's in love with. Both her character and inner world, as well as her looks. He would spend hours just looking at your unconditionally beautiful face. Every mole, every freckle, every wrinkle in the corner of your eyes when you smile. God, he could never get enough. Every part of you is perfect. Daryl's not sure he's ever seen a more beautiful woman. I mean, he probably had a soft spot for women he personally thought were pretty in the past, but it was never more than a glance in their direction. Just trying to say that Daryl isn't a pristine and innocent man who never thought about women. Over the many years of his maybe not the most prosperous life, Daryl has definitely had his fair share of beautiful women. But it had always been respectful. Mental admiration from the sidelines. Daryl never "barked" or "bit" like Merle. Daryl is much more respectful of women.

• That's why he likes to watch from the sidelines and think about you. A lot of thinking. Daryl is indeed a man of few words, but he has more than enough to think about. And when he falls in love, you become the center. Except when Daryl has to think about survival or when he and Rick are making a plan of action to save the group. But rest assured, all of Daryl's free time is spent thinking about you. He's very observant and remembers every little thing about you so he can think about it later. Do you like to read? Daryl will listen to you talk about your favorite books and find them during one of your outings, rest assured. Do you like wildflowers? Great, a bouquet of a hundred of them will be waiting for you on the doorstep of your Alexandria home when you come home after a hard day's work. Maybe you like a certain kind of clothing? Like something knit? Daryl will either find it during the outing or ask Carol to help with it when she's not busy. He won't say who it's for, but Carol certainly knows. And after you get those little gifts, Daryl will watch you smile widely because you know who left them under your door. And Daryl will think about your smile until he falls asleep at night. But he'll only dream about you, too.

• Somehow you were the first to admit your feelings because Daryl is actually cowardly about these things. A man can take on walkers or hostile people with his bare hands (like the Saviors), but he definitely can't just go and tell someone he really likes how he feels. No, you have to push him. And hints aren't enough, you have to say it outright. And then probably prove the sincerity of your words of love for the rest of your life, because Daryl Dixon is a very insecure man. He knows in his brain that you really do love him and will be faithful to him, but those childhood traumas are really getting in the way of his life. Be prepared for that.

• Your relationship with Daryl will gain momentum gradually. I don't think Daryl really likes all these formalities and labels like "girlfriend" and "boyfriend". You're just his and he's just yours. There's no need to complicate it all, the world of the zombie apocalypse is already very complicated. But if you care about dates and formalities, surely Daryl can learn to take it seriously. Not right away, but he will. Just give him time and he'll lay the whole world at your feet. And he'll start marking your anniversary with a marker on his calendar so that he definitely won't miss this important day for you (he won't admit it, but for him too). Daryl will be learning and you'll have to be a good mentor in this relationship for the first few years. It will be worth it, trust me.

• Daryl Dixon gets attached to people easily. He's like a big loyal dog. I mean, have you seen how loyal he is to Rick and Carol? He bites at first, doesn't want to let anyone in, but eventually he gives in and lets you take his heart and soul under his protection. Take care of that. My point is that this is the same way love works in Daryl's case. I'm pretty sure Daryl doesn't believe in the concept of love at first sight and stuff, he rather believes that love only comes about through the process of a relationship. So at first he thinks you are just a pretty woman. Then a friend. Then a good friend. And yes, he may feel sympathy, affection and probably crush at this time, but not love. No, he falls in love with you gradually. It's a slow process, but in Daryl's case it will be forever. He's definitely a one-woman man. And when he allows himself to really love you and not just be a little bit in love, when his heart completely belongs to you and he finally says "I love you" with all seriousness and responsibility, rest assured that this is love. This man will show you what true love is. Safe, sincere, and endlessly committed. Just give him time. Let him love you.

• The following headcanon (though I think it's unqualified canon) about Daryl's loyalty follows from this. You may try to be jealous of him or think he'll fall in love with someone else (it all depends on your confidence), but Daryl will prove time and time again that he's only loyal to you. This man is serious about his and your feelings and your relationship. Therefore, he will not give not a single reason for jealousy. But there could be quite a few women around (and men probably too) who might like Daryl. He doesn't care, he will never look at anyone else. Why would he do that when he has you? You're perfect for him and his heart doesn't belong to him anymore. So if Daryl notices your jealousy and insecurity, he'll spend all his time trying to prove to you that you're the one for him. He's deeply committed. To Rick, to Carol, to Maggie, to Alexandria. He's eternally devoted to you.

• The relationship with Daryl will be full of complexities, let's not turn a blind eye to that. He's a complicated man with a lot of trauma behind him. The situation is more acute if you're a complicated person, too. There's a lot to put up with. Probably a lot of fighting at the beginning of the relationship, especially if we're talking about Daryl from the first seasons of the show. But if you're both willing to work on that relationship, it will work well. Again, not right away, but it will. Daryl is sure that his love for you will be enough for both of you and certainly for solving all your problems in this relationship. He will try his best for you and you will try your best for him too.

• Physical intimacy is probably going to be difficult. Daryl's not a fan of close physical contact, especially with someone he can't call his family. You know, the boy had a shitty childhood. But he feels the need to feel the warmth of your skin on his skin. So he may unknowingly touch you before your relationship even begins. It could just be a "casual" hand collision when you both reached for the same item on the shelf. Or he may lightly touch your shoulder when he needs to get your attention and say something to you. You shouldn't pressure him with this and force a hug or anything like that. He will definitely come to it on his own when he's comfortable and he sees that you're okay with it. As your relationship progresses, he will open up to new types of physical contact more quickly. Sure he'll hug you a lot, try to hold your hand in his, but it's all in private. And of course kissing. I think Daryl actually likes kissing, but he's not very good at it for lack of much experience. Teach him how to kiss well if you have enough experience yourself. He'll be a good student. Especially when it comes to lessons involving his lips on yours. I'm pretty sure Daryl will become very clingy as your relationship progresses. When you're alone together, he won't be able to feel comfortable unless his arms are around you in one way or another. He physically needs to hold you, to bump his nose into your neck and hair to smell your scent, which he loves so much. And of course kissing. Gentle kisses or passionate French kisses, he loves it all.

• Daryl definitely doesn't like the display of attachment on the publick. He considers it yours and his alone. Something private that needs to be kept out of the public eye. Well, he's also pissed off by those ambiguous looks Carol and Rick give him after you call him "baby" or "cutie" in public. But Daryl is willing to hold your hands and will even let you kiss him on the cheek in public if he's in a good mood. He'll save the rest for the two of you alone in your sweet home in Alexandria.

• As for intimacy, everything is ambiguous here. I think for Daryl it is not at all a mandatory aspect of the relationship. If you are asexual, he will have absolutely no problem with this. You are more than enough. The opportunity to see you smile, hug you and make you happy is all he needs. Sex is not necessary and Daryl can definitely live without it if you are not interested in sexual relations. But if you are not against it, then he will be happy to please you. I mean, he does it every day just by existing and loving you, but if he can please you in a sexual sense, he will be happy to do so. But again, not right away. You both will go to this gradually. Trial and error. Only when he completely opens up to you and is not ashamed of his scars, knowing that you love them completely and completely because they are a part of him. But most importantly, when you yourself tell him that you are also ready, then you can act. Daryl has some experience. Merle ordered Daryl... a prostitute for his twenty-first birthday and Daryl had to do it. I think he was the one feeling like a prostitute, not the woman. And maybe he's slept with random women from a bar a couple of times after drinking too much. But it was never anything special and not out of great desire. With you, it's different. Sex with you is his way of showing you love in a new way. Either way, he knows how it works, but you still need to guide him. Show him how you like it and help him the first few times. Daryl is a quick learner, especially if you help him. So pretty soon he'll memorize all the right places and positions to make you feel good as hell, nothing less. Daryl will make sure that you feel good first.

• Your comfort is Daryl's absolute priority. Over the years, he will learn to compromise and give in when necessary. Daryl loves you unconditionally and is ready to be on his knees in front of you, this is what you have done to him with your love and tenderness. Daryl Dixon has become soft and fluffy around you. Just for you. Merle would call him a pansy and laugh, but Daryl doesn't care. Not anymore. You're all he cares about.

• You're his safe place. His home. His heart and soul belong to you, take care of it. And then Daryl Dixon will move mountains for you, you bet he will.

~ A cute little headcanon as a bonus: I honestly think the soundtrack of the relationship with Daryl, is the song: The Goo Goo Dolls - Iris.

[davidisnotmyname]

MAJOR FUCKING SPOILERS FOR THE SEVENTH COMIC (also this post is really long be warned)

Okay I wanted to give my thoughts on the seventh comic because I, a sleep deprived teenager with absolutely no knowledge on comic making or writing, feel that my opinion is logical and good /s

First off, my immediate reactions to the comic:

OH MY FUCKING GOD THATS A CHILD. THATS SOLDIER’S AND ZHANNA’S CHILD. THATS THEIR BABY. WHAT THE FUCK

the second I saw this shit I knew this comic was gonna give me an aneurysm (in a good way).

waitasecond…

THERESTWOOFTHEMOHMYGOD (also im so fucking happy that the joke I see in fan media a lot about Soldier naming his kids stuff like that is officially canon)(also east meets west fans were eating good this comic)

I like that the comic creators have put so much focus on Spy and Miss Pauling’s relationship. Not only is their dynamic great, but it shows that Spy isn’t a heartless jackass and he not only genuinely cares about the people around him, but can and will show it (I mean most of us knew that already but… someeeee people have fallen victim to the temptations of flanderization)

you’re gonna see this come up a lot in my rambling but I fucking love the shit the mercs are doing in the background, their expressions are so funny: Heavy is sick of their shit

Demo is asleep

Scout can’t breathe

Spy is also sick of their shit

Medic (and that godforsaken baby baboon) is sightseeing

Pyro is having the time of their life

and Sniper and Pauling are just trying to make sure they don’t all fucking crash and die

This is irrelevant as fuck (but most of the stuff I say is) but I just wanted to bring up how much I liked the secretary’s design. It’s very pleasing to look at.

They are like ants to me. I want to put them in a jar with holes in the lid and a bunch of leaves and then roll them down the stairs

I know this might not be what the scene is trying to imply, but fuck yeah, lesbianism (also thank god they gave Scout some semblance of character development, they are very cute as friends)

more background mercs. Medic and Pyro in particular have me in hysterics (this comic has so much good shit I can use for my discord pfp). Also Demoman my belemoman

GOD I FUCKING LOVE THE CHARACTER DESIGNS SO MUCH, thank you young Administrator for reminding me that I am in fact gay in every direction. RIP Admin, she served cunt and died

Get that fucking thing away from me

MAKAMI!!!!! WHAT THE FUCK!!!!! THIS SHIT BELONGS IN THE LOUVRE!!!!!!! THIS IS GENUINELY THE MOST INCREDIBLE PANEL IN ALL OF THE COMICS, I AM AWESTRUCK

Yet again more background mercs. They saw your AO3 history.

okay I was gonna say something but my phone flagged this image as nudity for some fucking reason? What

anyways, as I was saying:

GAY (guys listen it’s canon okay you have to believe me guys wait come back no wait)

also my first thought when I saw this was “heavy is trying to hold him back from doing weird shit to the corpses,” and I don’t care how anyone else interprets it because I am objectively the most correct /j

also looking back at this I’m realizing heavy’s hands are almost the size of medic’s entire torso lmao tf2 isn’t beating the yaoi hand accusations

I’m actually gonna be sick and die oh my god what the fuck is wrong with me

I’m not gonna put all of the panels cuz I feel like it’ll get annoying quick + the image limit, but the whole series of Pauling just standing there as the Admin is cosplaying a Nature Valley Honey and Oats Bar while everyone slowly trickles out of the room just hits so hard and so good. These comics are such a compelling narrative disguised as a series of shitposts and I’m all for it.

MISS P. NAME DROP???!!!!! (Also can we get an F in the chat for all the Francine Pauling truthers)

He is literally her dad I don’t make the rules (also yes I’m aware that it’s stated that he’s her legal guardian literally two panels later so this joke really isn’t funny, but none of my jokes are so what’s your point)

Yet another casual masterpiece by Makami, with the added bonus of the subject being a beautiful hairy old man who’s built like a fucking brick house. Heavy Weapons Guy TF2 I wish you were real. Also bearded heavy goes hard, i need to cook him into a fucking soup oh my god

Hey chat so did you know I’m actually going to be inconsolable for the next three years. Also this is obviously photoshopped we all know his last name is Elbertson (no but seriously I actually started running around my room and rolling on the floor when I got to yet another name drop)

Okay, I need to either say this now or have it fester in my psyche for eternity. That haircut gave me physical and psychic damage when I first saw it. Scout tf2, you’re ugly as shit but that’s honestly poggers, welcome to the club man (also oh my god he looks so much like Jerma I’m screaming, but Jerma isn’t ugly though I promise I would never diss my king like that)

Nobody talk to me

I SAID NOBODY FUCKING TALK TO ME

spy with his granddaughter, he loves her so much but still can’t bring himself to reveal who he truly is. I actually can’t fucking do this anymore this comic is gonna have me keel over and die of a heart attack

That’s it. Get in the fucking wood chipper right now /j seriously though I can’t even begin to explain how much this scene means to me. Spydad was one of the main things that got me so interested in tf2 over a year ago, and seeing him and Scout not only being civil about it, but genuinely caring about each other is everything. I’ve never been one for spydad angst (no shade if you do like it, I just personally prefer happier stuff), so I’m glad that this was the route the comics took with that plot point.

also don’t think I’m not gonna bring up the fucking mask. after seventeen years, we finally have spy’s face. Not only that, but the reveal was done through him giving it to his granddaughter. It’s done in such a casual and sweet way but it’s so impactful. He can be vulnerable around these people. This man, who’s spent his life building up walls around himself, refusing to let anyone through to the point of wearing that stinky ass balaclava everywhere, can now freely live as himself with his son and grandchildren. I’m gonna start eating screws I swear to god.

oh fuck I hit image limit hang on I have a little bit more to say check the reblogs the rest of my descent into madness will be present there shortly.

[blueteller]

I found this on reddit it's not my opinion but it's kind of funny and disconcerting.

What do you think?

( https://www.reddit.com/r/CharacterRant/s/uwKw63Cgoc )

"A rant on Trash of the Count’s Family

Alright before I begin I would like to preface by saying that I am a long time reader of the novel and love this novel to death. It kept me company during my darkest and lowest points of my life and I am forever grateful for it !

The rant also in no way affects the brilliance of the story. With that out of the way here it goes:

This is an amazing fantasy novel filled with great visuals, writing, story and top-notch characters. However it has TWO big problems that broke the story smooth sailing for me and I need to rant about it because where I am from I am pretty sure no one reads TCF in a 6000 mile radius.

One big problem was the romance. THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NONE OF IT. This is not a problem if the main character doesn’t want romance (he doesn’t nope) but NONE of the main/side characters that has been introduced so far also want nothing to do with romance. It was a little awkward to read the story based in medieval setting where characters are as pure as angels as they come.

Now, you can of course raise the point that romance was never the main focus of this novel (it’s not even a background focus or some D plot) but let’s analyse this novel here for a second okay? This novel is very gore and never ever shy away from very dark themes or stories.

- The main protagonist of the story (sorry forgot his name it’s been a long time) has his entire village with whom he has spent 20 years murdered and burned to ashes, all the men women and children are totally dead.

- The Prince story is also pretty dark and deals with some adult themes about race and identity.

- The dragon raon (is that the name?) backstory is…holy shit some hardcore torture and let’s not forget the revenge torture that happened later with raon eating steak.

- The butler and his butcher son

- The absolute crazy HUMAN EXPERIMENT arc that was happening in the Empire. I mean holy shit they really went into crazy detail about body mutilation and the scientists are absolute psychopaths in how they love their job.

And I am just scratching the surface about how dark this novel is and there’s plenty of it. The point is that it is very adult oriented novel with these stories but on the flip side their romance department is so negligible that even Tom and Jerry had more romance than this.

It actively avoids it like a plague. Why is this an issue? Let me explain.

Simple answer it feels a little jarring or disorienting when you read the novel like going back and forth between watching the looney tunes movie and switching immediately back to a Black Mirror episode.

But I have to give where credit is due. I didn’t notice the romance problem until after some 500+ chapters later (that’s how good the novel story is ) and how did I notice it?

After some battle trying to reclaim the south (north?) tower and this is the part where the Empire’s royalty is on the brink of collapse the redhead girl (I also forgot her name but she is part of the main gang) is extremely tired after a long battle and Cale tries to help her by giving her some healing potions (remember at this point she is the only female character that understands Cale the most and their relationship is the most developed of all) but she says she is so tired she can’t even lift her arms, so Cale (as logic would have it) offers to feed her the potion himself (see completely logical under the circumstances) but Raon the dragon out of nowhere says, “You are too weak Cale! Let me do it”. And I am like…say what? We know the main gang always comments that Cale is weak and all but come on guys we know he isn’t and in fact he’s been through crazy shit. During that battle he never had to fight and was in top condition so that remark from raon made even more less sense.

And then the redhead laughed it off and said “it’s okay I will do it myself” and she does…after a bit of struggle to lift the said bottle.

It’s a small thing but it did break my immersion (it was already broken before, I will explain later). It forced me as a reader to actually “think” about the author intentions something that should never happen when reading a fantasy novel. And it made me go “hmm wait a minute” and then I reflected back on all the 500+ chapters I have read and I came to a realisation that…forget main character romance there is hardly any romance of any proportions from any and every character in this whole novel! It was so impossibly impossible that it teared through the immersion completely.

The second reason for this rant and this is connected to when my immersion showed a small crack. And this reason is purely a preference thing so feel free to ignore this as you want.

I personally believe that when you make a “reborn in a fantasy world” story you absolutely must never collide “our” world with the fantasy world.

Don’t do that.

From page 1 you are setting up this fantasy life, fantasy way of living and thinking, fantasy people, fantasy stories and most importantly a fantasy you. Don’t break this immersion by literally making the world he (Cale) came from an integral part of the story.

When the main protagonist found out who Cale really is and confronted him about it by listing some Korean food items I was a little disappointed because it felt like a parent telling a child that role playing as a prince and over now put the castle made of pillows back in place and do your homework for school tomorrow.

Maybe it’s just a me thing but after that confrontation, every time Cale interacted with anyone be it the redhead, his dragon, butler or anyone it all felt so plastic and fake, like I was overly conscious of the fact that this is a fantasy land filled with fantasy people and well…it made me feel a little lonely."

Wow, this is quite interesting! Thanks for sending me this. Not because I agree – anyone who knows anything about my opinions on TCF would know that the very 2 points that the author of this post has "problems with" are the things that I embrace with great enthusiasm.

So, prepare for a long ride!

First of all, let me make this absolutely clear, the same way this person did at the beginning of their own post; they are allowed to have their own opinion on what they like or dislike. The same way I am allowed to like or dislike certain elements of stories. I don't claim that TCF is a flawless work either – it's just that all the flaws it does have, at least to me, are so minor I don't care about them in the slightest.

I might actually be "brave enough" in the future to actually make my own post about the "flaws" of the story for me, no matter how few. But not today. Today, let's focus on the reddit post.

Now, imagine a person (the author of this post) is given an apple pie in a restaurant.

This person very much enjoys apple pies. They continue to visit the same restaurant and keep ordering this apple pie. But after a while, they discover "two big problems" with the apple pie.

First of all, it does not contain cinnamon. So this person is like – why not! That is, they did not notice before, but it is SO jarring to them now that they know! Because they believe all apple pies should contain cinnamon. Secondly, this apple pie is made out of a species of apples they do not like. In fact, they are convinced this apple species is not fit for apple pies! So, they quit ordering apple pies at this restaurant.

Meanwhile, there's a second regular customer (me) who orders the apple pie at this restaurant. This customer, in fact, is kind of sick of cinnamon. They were so happy they discovered a restaurant that doesn't use it! This person also notices this apple pie has a very interesting texture to it, one they very much enjoy, because of the specific apple species this restaurant uses. It quickly became their all-time favorite dessert.

Obviously, neither customer here is wrong. "The customer is always right in matters of taste" is a saying for a reason (although people usually say only the first half of it, forgetting the second part), and just because I love the "apple pie" in question, I am not going to shame the other person for their own taste.

With all that said, please allow me to address to the post properly, step by step.

First, when addressing the lack of romance as a problem, this is this person's argument: they list major dark moments in the story, like Choi Han's village getting massacred, dark race racism, Raon's torture et cetera. Then they say, "The point is that it is very adult oriented novel with these stories but on the flip side their romance department is so negligible that even Tom and Jerry had more romance than this".

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't believe… Tom and Jerry had any romance either. That cartoon did not even have dialogue. So like, huh??? What kind of argument is that? Should I say that Tom and Jerry has a critical flaw that is has no talking despite being all about comedy? That it would have been better if it was dubbed or something? Well, there was that one movie I remember from childhood but – never mind, we're getting off track here. This argument kind of, completely falls flat for me.

I get the implication. "TCF is has so many dark themes, it should be mature enough to contain romance as well". Which is, completely off the mark for me, personally. Maturity and romance have NOTHING to do with each other.

There's also the statement that "It actively avoids [romance] like a plague." And I agree, kind of. This story avoids romance on purpose. But It never felt unnatural for me. I was kind of expecting it to pop up eventually, back when I first started reading. I thought for SURE Rosalyn would be somebody's love interest – because she had to be, right?? But it gradually dawned on me that there are so many cool, pretty, strong, independent female characters… And none of them are representing a specific fetish or exist solely to be somebody's wifu. The women are PEOPLE, they are fleshed-out, complex characters who have goals and ambitions and just like for the men, there is no thought about romance here because there is so much going on – most of it world-ending, in fact – that focusing in romance would actually DECREASE the maturity of the story instead of enhancing it.

The author of the post said, "It was so impossibly impossible that it teared through the immersion completely". What, do you need characters getting laid to be truly realistic mature adults or something? I think you have the wrong idea about adulthood… Let me say it again, those people are too busy in this story to focus on dating. Even if Cale himself wasn't so obviously ace, his life has been so crazy since he transmigrated, I have no idea HOW on earth he could have found the time (or anyone else for that matter: just look at poor Alberu, swimming in paperwork 24/7!). He can't even sleep for more than 4 hours per day during the war arc. What I personally would find jarring is exactly this: characters trying to freaking date or play off romantic subplots while the world was LITERALLY GETTING DESTROYED. That would have been so petty and ridiculous.

So, the expectation that there HAS to be romance, just because… I think it is a faulty expectation to have in the first place. And it is NOT unnatural that the characters don't do romance (especially with how many species there are among the cast and the age gaps between them, it would have been awkward to say the least; unless you're the type to like Twilight style of romance). The story put a lot of focus to forge familial bonds between the characters. It doesn't lack in the relationship department, just non-platonic one. And if this is a problem for someone and they find it jarring, well… Again, no cinnamon in apple pie, I guess.

Next, we have the argument that "when you read the novel like going back and forth between watching the looney tunes movie and switching immediately back to a Black Mirror episode". I don't know Black Mirror, but I get it. The author of the post claims that the comedic character interactions – the ones that had been very well established in the first 200 chapters of the story, covering full 2 years in the timeline – are… what, unrealistic? Inaccurate? Cartoonish? I’m not 100% sure what the exact issue is here.

They quote a scene where I assume Rosalyn is too tired to lift her arms and Cale offers to help and Raon says he's too weak and let him do it instead. The author of the post then acts confused, as if it was completely unreasonable, because Cale is not weak. Um…. I don't know if they were not paying attention, but that's just false. Cale is PHYSICALLY weak, despite all his Ancient Powers. That is exactly the whole reason why he keeps coughing blood and fainting and stuff. So it was funny, and in-character, and fitting with the rest of the story – at least in my opinion. If that broke this person's immersion, then fine I guess, but I really don't see the reason. I guess they don't enjoy the "texture" of this "apple pie".

Speaking of texture, the last point pf the post I want to address: the belief that you should not mix "real world" and fantasy. They say, "I personally believe that when you make a "reborn in a fantasy world" story you absolutely must never collide "our" world with the fantasy world. Don't do that". Excuse me, but uh… why? That is not the case at all, for many stories? I mean, you could approach it that way, nothing wrong with keeping it separate. But most classic isekai examples usually stray from that idea, actually. Are you familiar with Chronicles of Narnia, by any chance? Did you know that the magical lamppost that Lucy found in the woods actually came from England? It was a very fun bit of backstory from the Magician's Nephew.

"Don't break this immersion by literally making the world he (Cale) came from an integral part of the story." Why not, man??? It was so brilliantly done! In fact, it was so freaking cool, the way TCF did it! What, is "our world" so boring and terrible you must keep it separate from the fantasy at any cost? It was plot relevant, it gave Cale legit ties to the new world, it fleshed out his character, it was incredible! 10/10! If TCF lost that element, it would have been a great loss.

And even if you don't like the mixing of "fantasy and reality" as something "immersion breaking"… there is one problem with this kind of argument, in TCF at least.

Kim Rok Soo is NOT FROM OUR REALITY.

Let me repeat: the man is not from regular, modern Korea! HE IS FROM A FANTASY MONSTER APOCALYPSE DIMENSION!

The whole reveal of what kind of place KRS comes from is what make this story so good to me. It was an incredible twist. The "regular, normal man from modern world" was a red herring meant to hide the fact that he was an ability user from what is basically a superhero world full of monsters! It is not! Regular! Modern! World!!!

"When the main protagonist found out who Cale really is and confronted him about it by listing some Korean food items I was a little disappointed because it felt like a parent telling a child that role playing as a prince and over now put the castle made of pillows back in place and do your homework for school tomorrow." That… you really, REALLY missed the point here, man. That was not the vibe of the scene at all! Choi Han and Cale are both essentially war veterans, mentioning foods from their childhood! This the "Frodo and Sam talking about the flavor of strawberries from Shire at the foot of Mount Doom" from Lord of the Rings type of moment! Only, well, a bit more comedic. Still, it was so touching!! But, well… again, you don't like the taste of the pie, there is nothing I can do about it.

And lastly, there was this paragraph at the end of the post:

"Maybe it's just a me thing but after that confrontation, every time Cale interacted with anyone be it the redhead, his dragon, butler or anyone it all felt so plastic and fake, like I was overly conscious of the fact that this is a fantasy land filled with fantasy people and well… it made me feel a little lonely."

I never noticed such a thing. I do not know if more people felt that way. But I always thought that the characters were well-established and their behavior natural. I am sorry that the immersion break made the author of the post lonely. I hope they can spend time with their friends and feel a little better. Fantasy shouldn't just be a tool to "fill an empty void in your life and escape terrible reality". For me, stories are meant to create something beautiful, to inspire, and to make one consider the possibilities of reality. I mean, if Cale can stop world-ending threats by being brave and making good strategies, why can't I handle the minor problems that reality has to offer? It's all a matter of perspective.

So, that is it. That's my whole response. I hope it satisfies you! Have a great day!

[monsterblogging]

Fuck JKR: Her “Genius” Writing Style Is Very Simple & Easy To Replicate, Actually

An inevitable consequence of criticizing Harry Potter on the Internet is getting told by numerous people that, in essence, JK Rowling must be some kind of literary genius because her books are so popular and so there must be something really great to them. It's an understandable line of reasoning, if flawed.

See, there is something that makes her books pretty captivating, but it doesn't actually take any extraordinary level of skill or great genius. It's the way she builds a sense of atmosphere and environment with simple, yet high-impact prose, and the way she uses this type of prose to give you very vivid impressions of her characters. The effect is kind of like the literary equivalent of cartoon animation. Not everyone is into it, but it has a certain effect that arguably works fairly well for certain things. And you can learn to do it, too.

So how’s it done? Let’s look at some samples of her writing.

When Harry visits Gringotts, he sees a goblin weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals. It’s a very evocative choice of words – first, the the mention of a pile of rubies has us imagining a tantalizing pile of gleaming red gems, but the words as big as glowing coals makes us imagine they’re actually glowing. It’s not a complicated image, but it is an appealing one.

At the bank, Hagrid pulls out a tiny golden key. Again, the description is very simple, but the mention of a little tiny golden object makes our monkey brains pay attention.

When Harry looks inside his own vault, he sees mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little bronze Knuts.

The metal (and therefore color) of each coin is specified, and each type is described with different words – mounds, columns, heaps. The smallness of the Knuts is also mentioned here.

When Harry walks into the bookshop, he sees that the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all.

There are no colors mentioned here, but various sizes, shapes, materials, and contents are mentioned. Also, the small books aren’t just small – they’re absurdly tiny, which makes them even more attention-grabbing.

When Harry buys potion supplies, colors, textures, and scents come into play (also note how a number of things are shiny and glittering):

Hagrid wouldn’t let Harry buy a solid gold cauldron, either (‘It says pewter on yer list’), but they got a nice set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the apothecary’s, which was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor, jars of herbs, dried roots and bright powders lined the walls, bundles of feathers, strings of fangs and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic potion ingredients for Harry, Harry himself examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glittery black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).

Now let’s look at how Harry gets his wand. After trying out several wands (where their sizes, materials, and textures are all specified!), Ollivander suggests the holly and phoenix feather wand, and:

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls.

Temperature, color, light, and movement all come into play here, and “red and gold sparks” shooting “like a firework” the kind of thing that grabs your attention.

Now let’s look at how the Great Hall is introduced:

It was lit by thousands and thousands of candles which were floating in mid-air over four long tables, where the rest of the students were sitting. These tables were laid with glittering golden plates and goblets. At the top of the Hall was another long table where the teachers were sitting. Professor McGonagall led the first-years up here, so that they came to a halt in a line facing the other students, with the teachers behind them. The hundreds of faces staring at them looked like pale lanterns in the flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among the students, the ghosts shone misty silver. Mainly to avoid all the staring eyes, Harry looked upwards and saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars.

Thousands and thousands of candles. Glittering gold plates and goblets. Faces like pale lanterns. Ghosts shining misty silver. A velvety black ceiling dotted with stars. Nothing here is highly detailed, but it does paint a vivid outline with a lot of attention-grabbing details.

And then take a look at how a number of tantalizing foods are specified at the feast:

The dishes in front of him were now piled with food. He had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup and, for some strange reason, mint humbugs.

…

When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the remains of the food faded from the plates, leaving them sparkling clean as before. A moment later the puddings appeared. Blocks of ice-cream in every flavour you could think of, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate éclairs and jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, jelly, rice pudding.

At Transfiguration, when students are attempting to turn matches into needles, Hermione’s needle had gone all silver and pointy. Simple, specific words that paint a simple, yet vivid picture.

And here’s how the potions classroom is introduced. Note all of the details here – location, temperature, and objects that add interest to the scene:

Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons. It was colder here than up in the main castle and would have been quite creepy enough without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls.

A here’s how Hagrid’s hut is introduced. Note the details – objects, materials, size, locations, etc:

There was only one room inside. Hams and pheasants were hanging from the ceiling, a copper kettle was boiling on the open fire and in a corner stood a massive bed with a patchwork quilt over it.

The Weasleys’ garden is full of interest with all of the specific details described:

...there were plenty of weeds, and the grass needed cutting – but there were gnarled trees all around the walls, plants Harry had never seen spilling from every flowerbed and a big green pond full of frogs.

And here’s how the Slytherin common room is described. Note how dimensions, colors, textures, and sound all come into play:

The Slytherin common room was a long, low underground room with rough stone walls and ceiling, from which round, greenish lamps were hanging on chains. A fire was crackling under an elaborately carved mantelpiece ahead of them, and several Slytherins were silhouetted around it in carved chairs.

Take a look at this description of Magical Menagerie:

A pair of enormous purple toads sat gulping wetly and feasting on dead blowflies. A gigantic tortoise with a jewel-encrusted shell was glittering near the window. Poisonous orange snails were oozing slowly up the side of their glass tank, and a fat white rabbit kept changing into a silk top hat and back again with a loud popping noise. Then there were cats of every colour, a noisy cage of ravens, a basket of funny custard coloured furballs that were humming loudly, and, on the counter, a vast cage of sleek black rats which were playing some sort of skipping game using their long bald tails.

Setting the fact that this is definitely not an ethical petshop aside, there’s a wealth of evocative descriptions here. There’s color, sound, movement, shiny things. “Gulping wetly” and “oozing slowly” also create very specific images.

Now look at how the Great Hall’s Halloween decorations are described in PoA, and note how color and movement comes into play:

It had been decorated with hundreds and hundreds of candle-filled pumpkins, a cloud of fluttering live bats and many flaming orange streamers, which were swimming lazily across the stormy ceiling like brilliant watersnakes.

Now let’s look at what Harry sees when he goes into Honeydukes. Color, flavor, and whimsical magical effects come into play here:

There were shelves upon shelves of the most succulent-looking sweets imaginable. Creamy chunks of nougat, shimmering pink squares of coconut ice, fat, honey-coloured toffees; hundreds of different kinds of chocolate in neat rows; there was a large barrel of Every Flavour Beans, and another of Fizzing Whizzbees, the levitating sherbet balls that Ron had mentioned; along yet another wall were ‘Special Effects’ sweets: Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum (which filled a room with bluebell-coloured bubbles that refused to pop for days), the strange, splintery Toothflossing Stringmints, tiny black Pepper Imps (‘breathe fire for your friends!’), Ice Mice (‘hear your teeth chatter and squeak!’), peppermint creams shaped like toads (‘hop realistically in the stomach!’), fragile sugar-spun quills and exploding bonbons.

When Hagrid blows his nose in a handkerchief in GoF, the text describes it as a large, spotted silk handkerchief, specifying its material and pattern.

Now let’s look at how the house that Horace Slughorn stayed in is described. We see the overall impression of the house described, followed up by some specific items that give us a few specifics:

It was stuffy and cluttered, yet nobody could say it was uncomfortable; there were soft chairs and footstools, drinks and books, boxes of chocolates and plump cushions.

Now let’s examine a few character descriptions. Notice where colors, shapes, etc. come in, and how they use simple, yet vivid descriptions overall:

First, Albus Dumbledore’s introduction:

He was tall, thin and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which swept the ground and high heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice.

Next, McGonagall’s:

Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun.

Now Remus Lupin’s:

The stranger was wearing an extremely shabby set of wizard’s robes which had been darned in several places. He looked ill and exhausted. Though he seemed quite young, his light-brown hair was flecked with grey.

And let’s look at Sirius Black’s introduction:

A mass of filthy, matted hair hung to his elbows. If eyes hadn’t been shining out of the deep, dark sockets, he might have been a corpse. The waxy skin was stretched so tightly over the bones of his face, it looked like a skull. His yellow teeth were bared in a grin.

Now let’s look at how Madame Maxime is introduced:

A boy in pale blue robes jumped down from the carriage, bent forwards, fumbled for a moment with something on the carriage floor and unfolded a set of golden steps. He sprang back respectfully. Then Harry saw a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging from the inside of the carriage – a shoe the size of a child’s sled – followed, almost immediately, by the largest woman he had ever seen in his life. The size of the carriage, and of the horses, was immediately explained. A few people gasped.

Harry had only ever seen one person as large as this woman in his life, and that was Hagrid; he doubted whether there was an inch difference in their heights. Yet somehow – maybe simply because he was used to Hagrid – this woman (now at the foot of the steps, and looking around at the waiting, wide-eyed crowd) seemed even more unnaturally large. As she stepped into the light flooding from the Entrance Hall, she was revealed to have a handsome, olive-skinned face, large, black, liquid-looking eyes and a rather beaky nose. Her hair was drawn back in a shining knob at the base of her neck. She was dressed from head to foot in black satin, and many magnificent opals gleamed at her throat and on her thick fingers.

And Fleur Delacour:

A long sheet of silvery blonde hair fell almost to her waist. She had large, deep blue eyes, and very white, even teeth.

Rowling’s character descriptions are cartoonish, in that they emphasize a few key details in vivid language rather than describe a fine-detailed picture. As long as you’re not creating a hateful or degrading caricature, it’s generally fine. Not everybody’s going to be into it in the same way not everyone’s going to be into cartoons, but there’s nothing wrong with cartoons.

All right, so let’s recap: Rowling’s writing doesn’t go into a lot of descriptive detail, but it frequently mentions colors, materials, patterns, shapes, sizes, textures, sounds, temperatures, smells locations – anything that would immediately stand out to the senses if you were there. It uses evocative words that call up vivid mental images.

She’s not some kind of genius for doing this; it’s extremely easy to do and plenty of other writers have done it. The main thing is just getting into the habit of giving attention to your characters’ surroundings. I suggest that when you begin writing a passage, take a moment to think of a few things that can be seen, a few things that can be heard, a few things that can be felt, a few things that can be smelled, and a few things that can be tasted. Also, think about what you could mention to create the kind of atmosphere you want or to create interest.

Here are some examples:

The old-fashioned kitchen had been done up in cream and yellow, and the smell of cinnamon from the French toast sizzling on the stove filled the air.

She was thin, and wore a bright pink knee-length dress and a pair of neon green sunglasses. Her hair was in tight blond curls, and when she grinned she revealed a mouth full of gleaming shark teeth.

The temperature inside the old house felt ten degrees colder than outside, and he could hear what sounded like the moans of the dead coming from beneath the dust-covered floorboards.

Just play around and experiment with this for awhile, and you’ll find that it doesn’t take a huge amount of effort to write prose like this – which means you can basically give yourself the same mood you got from the books with literally anything you want.