#their existence is just important for the story

[ask-whitepearl-and-steven]

heyo! this isnt really about the comic, but i was wondering---do you ever feel weird talking about rose's identity as pink diamond? ive been thinking about it and ive always felt strangely odd about referring to rose as pink diamond. i think it almost sort of feels disrespectful, like deadnaming? its just something thats been on my mind haha

I actually really appreciate you giving me a chance to rant about this a bit.

This is a thing that bothers me. A fair bit.

No. No you shouldn't.

Alright, but let's step back and discuss.

The truth is, I don't actually think my stance on this is THAT extreme.

There are people that make a direct connection from Rose's predicament to deadnaming. And while I agree that this is an apt metaphor, it's also slightly more complex than that. Should we, as an audience, constantly refer to ALL iterations of the gem now known as Rose as only "Rose Quartz"?

I personally don't think so. I think there are times when it's narratively appropriate to refer to her as Pink Diamond.

When?

When she's Pink Diamond.

Like, yes, there are entire spans of story when Rose Quartz simply did not exist, as a concept. And if I am talking about her time living as a Diamond, I think it's fully appropriate to refer to her as Pink.

But the thing is. The thing IS.

Rose CHANGED. That's the entire--that's the whole POINT.

PINK changed. Into Rose.

And was it something that wiped her slate clean? No. Was it something that erased her past mistakes? No. Did it magically, all at once, make her into a better gem and a better person?

No.

But. She did give up that identity as Pink. When she started a war - that wasn't as Pink Diamond. ROSE started that war. When she had Steven - that wasn't as Pink Diamond. ROSE made that choice. It's an important distinction, and it's not only more respectful to her character, it's also important AS A VIEWER to realize that Rose is responsible for things in the same capacity as Pink.

If we just erase her transformation into Rose, and call her Pink Diamond across the board, we are making a statement - no matter if it's consciously or not - that nothing Rose did to change herself MATTERED. That her past, her Homeworld-assigned identity, will FOREVER be more important than anything she did to change herself thereafter.

We are submitting to the same ideals that Homeworld pushed on us as the antithesis of the whole show.

I just can't get behind that.

....

And look, I get it. It's fun to be in the comments when things like THIS happen in my comic:

And go off like "OOOOH, PINK, YOUR SECRET'S ALMOST OUT BABE, YOU BETTER WATCH YOUR BACK"

I don't necessarily want to shame those people because I think it's the same impulse that makes people scream like baboons when they're at a sportsball match and one little guy in a colored shirt gets the ball from ANOTHER little guy in a DIFFERENT shirt and it activates some sort of neuron that makes the thinking stop.

However. It does feel weird to me because

That's not Pink!

That's not Pink, fellas! It's Rose. She's been Rose for like 5000 years.

She WAS Pink Diamond, yes. She isn't any longer.

Pink Diamond is gone. ROSE has to deal with Pink Diamond's past now.

Give her some credit. Let her carry the sins of BOTH people. She deserves it. And there's more drama in it, anyway.

[iviarelleblr]

My tags were:

And someone asked, so, here it is:

Art doesn't exist, because everything is art. The broad cultural acceptance that only certain things are art is mostly a result of the privileged (white men) finding ways to get paid for doing specific things. We don't have to keep following their example.

What is art? I put this forth to you: art is whatever moves a person to an emotion.

It's visual art, sure. It's music. It's all manner of stories, printed and told aloud and interactive and static. It's also looking out your window and seeing the first robin of spring. It's getting a message from an old friend. It's giving your pet a treat and being amused at how excited they get. It's a piece of code that's as efficient as it can get, and it's another piece of companion code that's half comments about how nobody understands how it works it just does and edit it at your own risk. It's your racist uncle's latest facebook screed. It's everything you read in the news.

Trying to impose a hierarchy on art is always arbitrary. You can't define art in a way that truly includes only what you want it to include and excludes only what you want it to exclude. Even saying "bad art is the soulless dreck coming out of certain over-large movie studios these days" is going to backfire if you stop and think through enough examples. It's still going to hurt people who are trying as hard as you are to share their hearts with the world, just in ways you don't approve of.

There is no difference between you making a sandwich and a Michelin Star chef serving more expensive versions of each ingredient deconstructed on a plate. There's no difference between you choosing an outfit in the morning and what's on the latest runway in Paris. There's no difference between this rant and the text of War and Peace. There is no difference between the latest movie from your favourite indie studio and the latest movie from the great rodent's palace.

Even the soulless dreck is being made by people, at least some of whom are trying to make something they feel is worthwhile despite interference from the people who want to take no risks. More, there's something worthwhile to be found in every "bad" piece of art. I have a friend for whom Ayn Rand's individualism was the key to escaping a culty evangelical upbringing, which doesn't retroactively not happen just because they know as an adult how awful the message was intended to be and how it gets interpreted by most AR fans. It is never as simple as "good" and "bad".

One of the most rewarding things we can do for ourselves is to learn to stop believing in bad art entirely. There is art that resonates for you, and there is art in which you have no interest, and there's art that does nothing but upset you, but everything means something important to someone.

There is no art, because everything is art, and we could all stand to take a step back sometimes and remember that.

I feel like some of you guys think "bad art" is like someone gluing rhinestones to a water melon, or a guy who made his own armchair out of Ohio license plates, or a trashy romance novel where someone says "the blue-eyed one kissed the brown-eyed one," when in reality bad art is a 1000000 Billion Dollar movie where none of the workers got paid and every single creative decision was market tested to see how lucrative of a profit it could foreseeably make to wow shareholders.

[chow0w]

oh i just LOVE your style!!!! if you wouldn't mind, could you explain how you go about designing and what your artistic process is with dragons specifically?? I love your lady jewel design the most!!!!!!

Of course, and thank you so much! @aldershadows also asked this question, and I hope I can give you a comprehensive answer, and will be taking this oppurtunity to create a one-and-done design tutorial to answer any similar questions that may come up in the future.

Bear in mind that I'm not a professional, and I'm not looking to dissuade people from following traditional techniques or other advice. This is purely a discussion of MY process, and what I consider to be good/bad design technique.

Where to Start

There are six important conceptual 'principles' I like to consider when in the initial stages of (Re)designing a character: Story, Personality, Aesthetic, Interpretation, and canon/fanon appearance. Fully understanding these principals can help you understand a character, which will make both your life and design better.

Story: What is this character's actual story? What's their lore? Where do they start, and where do they end up - and most importantly, where does your design fit into that timeline? When I design characters, I try to be clear on exactly what part of their journey they are on. (Ex: blaze and the coat -> sandwing succession war)

Personality: This one is pretty easy - what is your character like, and how do they present themselves to the outside world? When you make a character and show them to the world, everything in the canvas is interpreted by the audience: even down to simple details like posture or background. Treat it like an opportunity to show off as much of your character's personality as you can.

Aesthetic: Aesthetic plays the most important role of all: it's job is to make sure your design is cohesive. It can be a common theme, pattern, color pallet or shape - as long as it reoccurs throughout a design, it's good. Use aesthetics to amplify the other principals, and figure out how to make it *look* nice as a secondary goal.

Interpretation: This one is specific to redesigns, but could also be applied to OCs - I like to consider my personal interpretation of a character: the media I see, the opinion I have... Multi-animator projects, other fanart pieces and personal quirks make up my interpretation of most WoF characters. You don't always need to incorporate your interpretation, but it's good to have in mind.

Canon/Fanon appearances: If you want to design and OC, ignore this. If you're redesigning an existing character, it's useful to consider how your audience views them - for example, most of us collectively agree on a few key design aspects of most characters. That doesn't mean you have to follow those conventions, but keep in mind that they may make your character more or less recognizable. You can also call on the other principles of design to make up for any leap-of-faith redesign choices you make.

Narrow It Down

Now that you're thinking, it's time to narrow those ideas down! Be aware that sometimes, less is more: you might have a ton of cool concepts, but your design will look BAD if you can't stay cohesive. The number of different ideas that can co-exist in one design varies a lot by preference and similarity, so be evaluative when doing this. If you follow my blog, you might notice I tend to walk the line between detailed, cohesive design and overwhelming animator repellent. To combat this, I try to step back often and consider if I've gone too far.

At this stage, it's good to make notes or small sketches - anything to get your ideas down.

Experiment

Test your ideas out with more sketches - alter, add, subtract... whatever your heart desires. Experimentation is the best way to discover your specific design tendencies, as well as breaking new ground and stepping out of your comfort zone. The more you experiment, the quicker you'll improve. This is usually the point where I start testing out different patterns, since those are the main highlight of most of my redesigns. Pertaining to dragons, it's always a good idea to test out different shapes - especially wings, spikes, arms and tails, which are generally the most customizable features of a character. Looking to other artists for advice/inspiration is also a great tactic, but be sure to follow the 80/20 rule of originality within your designs!

Judge yourself (not literally)

Evaluating your designs as you make them is always a great idea, but sometimes you need multiple tests/sketches in order to know what you REALLY want. Compare your experiments - what do you like about them? What do you dislike? Which are more faithful to the character, and which ones confuse you? understanding the flaws in your design can help you to overcome even the biggest challenges.

I've used Kinkajou to show how important evaluation is: despite being my favorite character, she has proved exceedingly hard to redesign (to my satisfaction,) even with multiple attempts from this year and the last. She might not even be released by the time this post airs - but with the power of critical thinking and good evaluation, her design has gradually improved over my last few attempts.

Stay on your toes

Did you think you were done? Did you think it was over? NO. Life doesn't get easier just because you made it past the idea stage. When you have your final thoughts and want to get chugging with your reference page/illustration, make sure to stay alert! Keep evaluating, keep experimenting, and make sure to stay mindful of what you do! One of the more common issues I have is that I turn my brain off while I draw, and then slowly my designs drift further and further away from the idea I actually wanted to put down. Asking yourself questions along the way can help to sharpen your design, and train your mind to think more artistically.

It's always good to take a once-over of your final product: check for errors you might have made, and think about whether or not your design still looks good. Does it show personality? Is it consistent?

If you do find that your end product isn't what you really imagined, don't despair - there are plenty of lazy tricks you (And I) can pull to string things back together again. Using gradient maps is a great way to fix your colors, and simple filters like 'overlay' (procreate) can help to neutralize your pallet. My favorite trick is to use the 'curves' tool (procreate) to make certain colors darker, in the case that I feel my design doesn't use a wide enough range of light and dark shades. I also like to turn saturation down if I think there's a color problem, to see if it's actually my pallet or if I'm using too many colors with the same tone.

Keep Going

My design strategy relies on confidence. You won't be able to improve if you doubt that you can! So, my most important piece of advice is to keep going, no matter how fast or slow you seem to make progress. My second most important piece of advice is not to compare yourself to other artists - focusing on their progress is neglecting your own.

To everyone who made it this far, thank you so much! Posting here truly is an amazing experience and I adore you guys. Sorry if this got a little out of hand. I hope this was helpful to you and anyone else with the same question, as well as being a useful resource to other artists in the future! As always, my askbox is open to any and all questions + requests for redesigns!

( ´ ω ` )ノﾞ

[novelconcepts]

I think it’s important to hone the art of realizing when something—a movie, a book, a food item, whatever it may be—is just not for you. I think that’s an incredibly critical feature of moving through the world; not leaping to “this is trash” or “this shouldn’t exist”, but “this isn’t for me.” So much of life is subjective. There’s a power in embracing that in positive ways.

I think it’s also crucial, maybe even more crucial, to add the caveat: “right now”. This is not for me—right now. Maybe it’ll always be so. Maybe you’ll never learn to like that genre of story, or that style of cooking, or that musician. But maybe it just isn’t the right time. Maybe an actor you can’t stand so far will pull out a performance five years from now that will resonate with who you’ll be in five years’ time. Maybe that thing you always picked off your burger will find your taste buds shifting to appreciate it. Maybe it’s just a case of wrong place, wrong time. Some stuff isn’t for you, and that’s totally fine, and should be respected. But sometimes, it’s so wonderful to stumble over something you thought you hated or just didn’t get, and realize…hey. That didn’t work for the me of back then. The me now is having a great time. It’s so important to craft the art, the skill, of keeping an open mind. It’s wild the things that will surprise you.

[cris-doing-cris-things]

And Russia existed for hundreds of years, pooling all the resources of a massive country into one major city for pretty much it's entire existence, sometimes just switching up which city was the favorite It also did not need fascism to do so, it actually even actively fought against fascism at some point If your only conclusion out of this post is "yeah, but we don't need nazis for that to work" - yep, you got it, this governing system can suck in many ways even without them Because oppression and shitty government structures aren't exclusively tied to fascism, it's just that centralized governments are doomed to become empires with one massive weak spot, a parasite feeding off its surrounding territories, and they lean towards fascism to not let the victims throw it off and restructure Coruscant can survive off the backs of the slaves no matter what the system is called, this you got right Just a reminder: Republic endorsed slavery, in more ways than one From direct owning of people as property to aforementioned "contracted workers" who lived in company-managed villages, working to pay off generational debt in the mines It wasn't fascist, that's very true, it was democracy, therefore immediately perfect with no flaws whatsoever, right? But did it matter to people who died in slavery while serving the Republic, and not the Empire? Did it even matter to the majority of population that lived below the poverty line - whether it's fascism they're starving under or not? But at least Coruscant can survive, because that's the only important thing Not the human lives that are being throw away to feed its hungry maw, which is exactly what OP is talking about Not to even mention that timeline in Star Wars makes no sense, because sometimes things take thousands of years to be shifted around ever so slightly, and sometimes a new regime collapses in 25 years because otherwise the story would have too many gaps between its parts and major parts of character development would be simply missing together with whole characters When you strip the numbers away, Republic follows the same pipeline as any other "too big for it's good" governing system, and this pipeline can be clearly observed throughout the history in different countries and eras Just because Star Wars numbers are made up entirely by the whim of its creators just to spice up the cosmic setting and artificially make its history and world seem more rich, doesn't mean the real world pattern this story follows isn't there We live through it right now, welcome to the show

star wars is about coruscant

[leikeliscomet]

Why The Story and The Engine works for me is bc every single theme is woven together perfectly. The barbershop as a metaphor for Fifteen as a Black incarnation finding community, with natural hair as a metaphor for storytelling & story as an act of creation.

Dwtwt & some of dwblr (as per) flattened all my D&B criticism to RTD being white when in reality it was all about storytelling. Dot and Bubble in RTDs own words is for white people. It's a story about Blackness packaged for a white audience not out of any actual "allyship"

Throughout my OG essay & OG thread, my main point I've been tryna drill home is that Black creatives never get to tell our stories but instead theres a script assigned onto us. The UK creative industry will back 10 Dot and Bubbles before a single original Black British story.

And if a Black British story gets greenlit it has to be perfect. There's no room for error. Meanwhile writers like RTD can create Dot and Bubble and that becomes our truth. This is how we're seen and how our story is told. And when our stories are ignored, we don't get a say

RTD can create his own story of what Black representation is. That racism will always exist in the future. That the Doctor has no knowledge of racism at all. That the Doctor has no anti establishment roots. 'Let him write POC!!1' they cry, as if he hasn't already got this power

Then fandom will create their own stories of us, also known as lies. That Black writers can't write. That RTD had a secret POC sensitivity reader. That RTD paved the way for Blk representation. That Black fans who didn't like Dot and Bubble are angry aggressive beasts.

Meanwhile, Black writers are left in the dust. It's cancelled show after cancelled show. 'Woke propaganda' this, 'forced diversity' that. And that's why I'll ALWAYS hate Dot and Bubble not just as a Blk person but a Black creative. This is what we're up against in this industry.

I know Inua Ellams said it was a spiritual successor, but I don't claim The Story and The Engine as a mere continuation of Dot and Bubble. I see it as a correction. I see it as an evolution. The David to Dot and Bubbles Goliath. It's almost everything that story will never be.

Dot and Bubble, the white liberal racism story for a white audience by only white writers and now the 1st solo written Black episode in Doctor Who history on the importance of Black storytelling, credit and sharing our ideas. Poetic justice and its never been sweeter#

[DO NOT reblog saying u liked Dot and Bubble i dont give a fuck. Its a pile of shit and it always will be]

[rottmnt-residuum]

I just realized who your owl lady reminded me of! That witch from The Last Unicorn!

Almost a spitting image. I can't add an image to show you here, but I was wondering how your character were inspired? Not just the owl lady.

Like, did you have animals you wanted as characters, or mutant variations you wanted to see in the show?

i mean, they're directly ripped from the last unicorn. so, yeah! (owl??? i dont think you've seen an owl before) anyway

i only design the human characters and unimportant background mutants. All yokai are ripped from pre-existing stories that involve transformation or from japanese yokai, duende, cryptids, fey folk, and various other mythological creatures.

all important ocs are co-authors and i have no idea how they decide what mutation type their characters are. I just steal them. go ask them this if you want a real answer.

(there are also characters from goosey and wren later in the story from when we asked people if they wanted to design background characters for residuum)

[killmeleatherface]

I’m Here Part 2

This is the second part to my ongoing series.

Here’s Part 1

AN: hey yall! Loving Shawn Hatosy and Jack right now. I think this is going to be an angsty, yearning, will they, won’t they, type of thing. I’m not good at writing steamy stuff, but maybe I’ll get back there some day. Otherwise I do love a good Jack Abbot love story :)

TW: medical setting, no procedures, mention of Alzheimer’s (main characters mother has it). I think that’s it? Lemme know!

—

You really had intended to leave for good. You never imagined yourself standing in front of the ivory walls of the sterile environment before you. Pittsburgh Medical Center. Three years away and even seeing the double doors of the emergency department sent you head spinning into visions. Flashbacks. Past memories. Past traumas. Past people.

That fated night on the top of the roof.

You can’t let yourself think about that. What that night meant and what it did. How it didn’t just gradually coax your feelings out of the void, it grabbed a hold and choked it out of you instead. You loved Jack and he loved you, but he was marrying someone else. Married someone else…

That was the last time you’d been here and the last time you’d seen Jack. The last time you worked at the Pitt. After he’d finally let you through to the staircase, you burst into tears, finally letting years of pent up emotions go. By the time you’d gotten to the ground floor you had already decided to take the position at Mayo and quit immediately. You couldn’t work with Jack Abbot anymore. The thought of having to look at the hazel green eyes that used to only softened for you now belonging to someone who had probably long forgotten about your existence. Your mind swirled with endless scenarios.

You assumed Jack Abbot still workers worked here, you could almost bet on it. This place was his drug, his getaway, his home away from home. Everyone knew that. It’d have to take a life altering event to get him away from this place.

Like maybe his favorite resident (Best friend? Confidante? Mistress? All of the above?) not becoming an attending and instead taking a position twelve hours away without notice, or at least a goodbye. Of course Jack had every right to be hurt. But that was years ago. He’d moved on and married Rachel and probably had a had or two by now. That last part makes inside of you feel odd, like something is pulling you deep into an ocean.

“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. Welcome back to the ED Doctor Garcia.” The blonde haired nurse says with a smile and her arms thrown up. Dana Evans, the sweet head nurse who had your back a miriad of times. The one who talked you down when you needed it, who talked you up when you really needed it, and the one who knew about you and Jack, even if neither of you admitted it or even spoke it out loud. She was good that way. Like everyone’s mom.

—

She called you before you got on to a plane that night. You had just thrown the last of whatever you could find in your room into a large suitcase, giving a final scan of your room. The room where most pivotal moments in your life happened.

You didn’t answer her.

“Hon, I heard you’re leaving on a plane tonight. Jack just told me some big news, said he can’t get a hold of you and I..well I told him I’d try because it’s important. Call me back sweet kid.” The voicemail you’d finally listened to a week later spoke.

You took another look around your room. You lived here through residency, studying endless nights with a Samara about whatever the other could think of. You became best friends with Samara here. You cried in here. You laughed in here. You lived the best and worst parts of a lot of your adult life in here. And now you were leaving it. You thankfully already had most everything boxed up anyways, your lease end matching up with your fellowship ending. Coincidence.

While zipping up your suitcase due to a yelling Samara announcing the Uber was there, you spotted a familiar piece of black fabric. It was a hoodie, and not yours or your roommates, but someone else - Jack’s. You instantly gravitate towards it, pulling it up to your nose. It still smells like Jack- mint, lime, antiseptic. At another call from Samara you stuff the hoodie in your carry on and bolt out the door.

You had a month off and you were originally had no plans, just thinking you’d unpack and get used to your new place, maybe take a spa day with Samara. You hadn’t thought that far.

When Jack kissed you, it changed everything for you. You had to get out of there. Out of the hospital. Out of Pittsburgh. Out of the state. And when you got home and decided that wasn’t enough you convinced Samara to come with you to Ireland. Ireland turned into a sort of world tour neither of you planned, but thoroughly enjoyed. Thankful for your dads ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you as a kid and your mom and I divorced so spend whatever you want’ credit card. While you were there you’d accepted the job in Minnesota officially. And that’s where you’d been for the last three years.

—

Until your mom needed someone to look after her and when you got back to town and realized that wasn’t the extent of it, you had to put your dear mother in a nursing home. She was deteriorating faster than you thought, and needed to be under constant supervision. Thankfully she’d gotten a spot at Shady Rose and could be with other elders experiencing the same symptoms as her.

“Hi Dana.” You smile back, genuinely happy to see a friendly face. You always loved her, and even got Christmas cards emailed to you every year. Then, throughout the year emails became variations of updates about her, her kids, other nurses, doctors, who was an attending, who wasn’t going to last through residency. Then the emails became “The nurses miss you. I miss you.” Then the emails started mentioning Jack and you stopped paying attention, stopped replying.

“Glad you’re back. Heard about your mom…let me know if there’s anything I can do.” She offers, and you give a head nod in response, choosing to focus your attention on the admit board in front of you, with her passing behind you and putting a friendly hand on your shoulder. She was probably on her way to help someone else who needed it. Dana, the departments surrogate mother, a woman worth a thousand men, the best charge nurse, shoulder to cry on, and friend you could ask for. Damn, you missed her.

As you’re trying to preoccupy yourself with anything else, a loud voice booms, “Rounds!” This causes any and all available staff to staff to gather in the center of the department and listen to the head attending brief the incoming staff on the past shift.

“Okay everyone, last night was pretty tame considering. A11 and D18 need to be continuously monitored for 24 hours but other than that, they can be discharged. But people, that waiting room is packed already. Let’s pick up the pace if you can. I know, I know. You’re all tired and doing your best. Trust me, I know.” Doctor Michael Robinavitch offers. His best friend Jack Abbot looks up at him.

“Let’s do it.” Jack announces, clapping his hands and beginning to walk away.

“Wait, guys! Just another minute!” Robby says loudly, trying to stop the crowd from leaving.

“We have a new attending starting today, everyone. Let’s introduce her, make her feel welcome.” Robby offers.

Huh, a new attending starting the same day you come back? Maybe they’d be someone you could meet and bond with over being the new kid again. You’re in a daze thinking and don’t hear him announce.

“Dr. Garcia, can you come up here just for a second?”

“Dr. Garcia?”

“Uh.” He laughs. “Dr. Garcia, are you here?”

No, no, no. He cannot be talking about you. You’re not new! Well yeah you’re a new attending here, but you’re not a new employee here. This cannot be about you. Robby is calling you front and center, in front of those old and new, and familiar…

The crowd is looking around, not sure who Dr. Garcia is. Suddenly a hand pushes your lower back. “Daphne, honey, that’s you. Robby’s talking about you!” Dana is pushing you forward now. Finally you give and push through the crowd until it opens to the two men in front of you. They both freeze, Robby mid stance, and Jack crossed arms.

Robby immediately clocks what’s going on and who you are. He glances at Jack who is standing with a stone cold expression. Robby walks over to you and motions to the crowd.

“Everyone, this is the new attending, Daphne Garcia. Treat her like you would me or Jack, she’s a good one.” He looks down at you.

You smile and do a half wave to the crowd. How embarrassing. You want to melt into a puddle and disappear into the ground where you stand. And the worst part is, you feel the unmistakable heat of Jack standing behind you. So familiar, but also like lava, so beautiful and mesmerizing with its trance of colors, but toxic if touched.

Again, you’re in a daze of heat, embarrassment and at a complete loss of what to do. You don’t hear Robby telling everyone to have a good day and get to work, the crowd actually dispersing for good. Once Robby steps in front of you, you come back.

“Good to have you back, Garcia. It’s nice to have a familiar face here again.” Robby offers, leaning over the nurses desk to grab a chart. He throws a smiler and heads off.

You still haven’t turned away. You don’t dare, because if you do, it becomes real. The person you tried your damndest to forget, the one you cried endless rivers of tears about, the one who gave you nightmares so vivid you could’ve sworn he was in the bed next to you. When you finally gain the gumption to turn around, there’s a ghost behind you. Nothing.

“Welcome back to the Pitt.” You mumble to yourself, grabbing your stethoscope and starting your shift.

—

[queerkat]

From my perspective, for the purpose of what I believe OP initially intended to express (correct me if I'm wrong), religion and science *are* the same - as in, tools humans use in order to construct a shared understanding of reality that enables us to communicate and cooperate more effectively.

No tool is perfect. It can help us understand the world, but it's important to recognize how these tools we use to frame our experiences can be used to harm us just as much as they can be used to help us.

Religion, in the best context, is a great method of using stories to establish moral guidelines, encourage introspection, and develop community. At its worst, it's used to dominate the internal lives of a populace for the benefit of those unwilling to accept the nuances of reality, force people to conform to their personal expectations, and destroy entire cultures and histories to avoid questioning their own or expanding their awareness through acceptance.

Science, at its best, is an incredible tool for understanding our world at the smallest and largest scales, expanding our awareness of the material world and our unique place in it, and passing on knowledge that can be further developed to save and improve the existence of future beings. At its worst, science can be used to create systems that self-justify the infantilazing or lack of consideration for beings considered "less worthy" by criteria it has developed for that sole purpose, to rewrite and reframe a culture's history in such a way that rejects nuance to label a people as "savage" and justify their "re-education" or destruction, and to force people into boxes of expectations based on "biological realities" as forcefully narrated by a government with a specific agenda.

It is very important to understand the nature and nuance of these tools to avoid propaganda that can lead to internalizing ideas that you may not even initially recognize as harmful because that's often the point. Taking a good thing and trying to repurpose it for a malicious cause is a common tactic.

But the reverse is also true.

Don't let bad actors use tools of connection to further divide us.

When criticizing religion that promotes or claims some form of bigotry as a central belief, it's very important to remember that people who don't want to believe in god but want to be bigots will find new ways to frame and justify their bigotry.

For example, "women are more likely to be possessed by demons" easily turns into "women are more prone to mental illness that compromises their judgment."

"The gods decreed that these people would be our servants forever" easily turns into "these people never evolved intelligence like we did, and they need us to guide them and tell them what to do."

"You'll go to Hell if you do that!" easily turns into "This is what's destroying society! You're betraying everything your ancestors worked hard to create!"

"They worship evil gods! We have to convert them to our good and pure religion!" easily turns into "their culture is primitive and barbaric! We have to free them from these backward beliefs!"

Basically, remember that what you're criticizing is selfish, fearful, and manipulative behavior, which can and will emerge in any context; and that atheism is not a quick fix for systemic issues and deep-seated prejudices.

[saintrvckwell]

The fair and the brave and the good must die (joel miller x platonic!reader)

joel miller x platonic!reader

summary: it felt frightening when the world gave you a second chance. but how many chances could you give joel, before it was too late?

warnings: angst at times (what a shocker with me), joel sees his daughter in reader, they travel to find her family but instead, find it in each other (sappy at times, lol almost never), reader is somewhere in her mid-teens, appearance not really specified, the father-daughter dynamic hitting as per usual, joel sabotaging himself 24/7

wordcount: 7.1k

a/n: well look at that, me releasing two pieces in one year, wow. well anyway, i got this idea last year, wrote it last year and then rewrote the ending this year. it's very much chaotic but thought the idea was cool. with the new season around, figured we need some joel x platonic!reader. well lmk what u guys think! hope u like it, it's a mess

A few months ago, if you were to describe what kind of man Joel Miller was, there probably would not be enough curse words to spit out. A few months ago, if you were to choose between saving him and saving yourself, you would probably be the one responsible for his demise. A few months ago, Joel's presence in your life was a mere part of the deal and nothing more, or less. A few months ago, you would not allow his existence carry that much importance in your life.

But now, no question needed to be asked. No hesitation on your side, no second thoughts. Just a gun in your hand, finger on the trigger, eye focused on the one who would stand in between. Because for Joel, you would not question anything. For Joel, you were prepared to walk to the edge of the universe and back. For Joel, you would lose yourself.

Not him, never.

You walk through half of the continent with someone, expecting to keep to yourself. The final destination hanging in your mind like a warning. You are not here to make friends, you are not here to share wholehearted life stories around the fire. The only reason your steps kept following Joel's, was his lead. Lead towards someone you have been searching for ever since you escaped the FEDRA school. With stolen ration cards in your back pocket and shiv attached to your belt. In the dark of the night you ran through the Boston's quarantine zone, knowing exactly who you were looking for.

He was the best at this, you kept hearing. No one had the soldiers wrapped around their finger like him. Side to side, the word didn't change. If you wanted to find someone who decided to become unwanted, he was the right fit. You bet your everything on Joel Miller. He was your one-way ticket out of this shithole. Following the same tale you had been studying since your mother died. 

Whether there was some credibility to her words, you never found out. But she made a plan for you, from one connection to another, from person onto the next one. Until you found yourself standing by his door, knocking so persistently until he could no longer pretend he was not there.

Disgruntled and annoyed, he looked at you, your hair wet from the rain, muddy clothes. He was prepared to send you away, tell you to go back where you came from. He was no babysitter, no tour guide. 

But then, you pulled out the picture. Ripped in the middle, old polaroid picture taken by your mother, you presumed. And he wondered. If it were her, looking for him. If she were to survive, get lost in the escaping crowds. Would she be standing in your place, at someone else's house, with his picture?

The salvation was something he could not decline.

Not when you kept looking at him that way. The desperation hidden behind your determined stance. The little child in the eyes of someone who had to grew up before the world did it for them. You were too much of a painful reminder to shut the door in your place. Especially once he let you come inside and saw the scars on your neck, from pulling through all the wired fences around your school. Fresh, washed down with the rain, drips of blood on your collar. It was either him or some other smuggler. Who would use the desperate adolescent asking for help.

Taking more without giving anything in return.

No, Joel made the decision. Let you lay out on the table all of the leads you had gathered over the past few weeks, from the connections your mother had left you. Day and night, he planned, he searched. And before long, he knew exactly where your father happened to be. There was a warrant on his head, not so long ago. Nothing good came his name.

Except for you.

At dawn, three days later, you set off. You noticed, second before the door shut, that he had left a note on the table. For a moment, you wondered for whom it was written but before you found the answer, Joel was already nudging into your shoulder, urging you to move faster. You had one shot at sneaking out of the zone. And although Joel had become experienced traveler over the years, he did not take your inexperience into consideration.

And thus, how the trial started.

It appeared the second you and Joel set foot out of the quarantine zone; trouble seemed to follow you everywhere. Closed calls turned out to be a daily dish and ammunition rarity that you almost never stumbled upon, unlike the traps in each city you wandered in. Just two days in and Joel started to regret not thinking this through. 

No amount of ration cards was worth saving you from every trap you managed to step into, he thought. You were a loose cannon, catastrophes seemed to walk hand in hand with you.

"How was I supposed to know it's going to be a trap?" you mumbled, whilst trying to fix the cut on your left ankle.

Joel looked up from his backpack, where, just a second ago, was trying to find what was left of his first aid kid. If he knew you would be such liability, he would pack more. No, he would not have gone in the first place.

"Common sense?" he hissed, walking over to you. "Didn't they teach you that in school?"

"No, they just taught us how to hang smugglers on the streets," you replied.

The amount of sarcasm accompanying your cutthroat response kept making it harder for Joel to maintain his calm demeanour.

Without much thought, he threw the bandage away and got up. "Fix it, smartass. We're leaving in ten minutes."

Not wanting to poke to bear any more, you hurried up and managed to join Joel back on the street. With revolver in his right hand, he looked at you, disgruntled.

"Move, we gotta make it before sundown."

You didn't know at which particular comment or situation Joel started to withdraw. His patience seemed to be running out with each day he was forced to pull you out of the trap or save you from a close call you had caused. Every time, you would be sitting on the ground, fixing up, looking at a dead point, trying to get through his scolding. He would yell, throw hands in the air, taking out all of his anger. 

At a certain point, you weren't sure whether your behaviour was truly the reason, or his chance to get everything out of his system and blame it on your recklessness.

Neither did Joel know. 

There was something so triggering about seeing you so helpless. Seeing you get into numerous troubles that could have cost you your head. He had no emotional attachment to you whatsoever, you were a business part -- if a teenager setting off with smuggler could be even called something like that. But the look, the damned look in your eyes. Each time, with each moment, his paternal instincts awakened a little more. You were a walking reminder of what he had lost, what could have been.

He would be sitting by the window, late at night, keeping the watch, wondering. How easy it would have been to take his backpack, walk through the door and never look back. No note, nothing. Go back to what he had got used to -- the stillness of life in Boston. Where nothing would remind him, nothing would pull out those rotten roots. That settled somewhere in the pits of his mind, along with the shame. No one to force him to face his mistakes.

It was odd what power your presence had in Joel's life, despite knowing nothing about you. Perhaps, when you stick to someone, twenty-four hours a day, when someone else's life depends on your actions, the fine line becomes thinner. 

Until there's none.

In certain aspects, at certain points, he could no longer tell the difference between you and Sarah. The way you quickly came to enjoy making fun of him and testing his patience. The days you spent on foot, you kept irritating the living soul out of him. You found the string to play on and there was no reason to stop. You hated the silence, that he was subtly trying to enforce.

You noticed pretty quickly the effect your comments could have on him. And, of course, you found amusement in it. The days on the road were long, especially without a vehicle so you were looking for anything that would distract the anxious thoughts in your mind. 

The longer you were gone, the more second thoughts arrived.  

You had never met your father yet here you were, travelling across the infested country to see a man who, perhaps, was not even interested in acknowledging your presence.

Why did he leave your mother? Why did he leave Boston? Did he know about you and if so, what did it say about him?

And why would your mother send you to look for someone who might not even be aware of your existence?

The answer was simple, at least according to your conclusion.

You had no one.

Your mother was the last person you had and when she died, you found yourself living in a tiny, three-bedroom dorm room at the military preparatory school. And every night, after the curfew, you kept on reading her notes. The letter she had left you. Place like that did not leave enough space to carry a hope, yet you managed to squeeze it in. But were her last words enough of a reason for you to risk your own life? Perhaps, you were about to find out.

Although, probably not from Joel.

He was not the most talkative individual. After all, his only job was to lead you to your father, collect the rest of the ration cards and head back. This was strictly a business deal, which he kept reminding himself, each time he caught glimpse of you. Looking at you made him wonder -- about you, your life. Where your parents had been. He knew that now, in the world, there were far too many children like you, wandering alone. 

Even in the Boston QZ, there would not be a day that Joel would not run into a child, sitting on the pavement, counting their last ration cards. He usually paid no mind to it, fed with false belief that he was not interested to care in the first place.

But then, there were you. And that hopeful spark you had every time you looked at him. He was there to protect you, despite the reasons. So, naturally, after years of almost forgetting how it had felt, you found comfort in Joel's presence. He could have been mean and spiteful. And you could send him to the deepest pits of hell, screaming your lungs out.

And yet, you would not turn back.

You could have screaming matches all the way through abandoned suburbs, you could slam the door in his face and ask him to go fuck himself for being such an asshole to you.

Despite the inner voice telling him to leave, he would sit down on the stairs and wait. Until an hour later, when your anger boiled down, you would open the door and go back on the road. And he would follow. And that conversation would never be brought up again.

That was the cycle.

Through the cities, through the suburbs, through the meadows, through the highways.

There were times, where Joel's patience ran over the edge, and he ended up going further than he had initially intended. Only then his falsely justified arguments came to slap him in the face. When his eyes would lock with yours and he could see how determined you were to keep your tears back. 

"You are being an asshole," you whispered, grabbing your backpack from the floor, not giving your impulsive ideas second thoughts.

Joel sighed, rubbing his chin, before he looked your way. "Where are you going?"

"Anywhere," you shrugged your shoulders, opening the doors. "Anywhere but here."

He chuckled, crossing his hands over his chest. "Good luck with that."

Your eyes fell on the cracked floor, as you let out a deep exhale. "You really are an asshole," you whispered. "Fucking asshole."

Trying so hard to keep it together, not giving him the pleasure of winning over you, you stood by the door, watching the raindrops outrunning each other. It was already dark out there, the storm was settling in the skies, as quickly as one falls asleep, and you had no idea where to go. And when you thought about it, it was probably better to draw your guns now, as opposed to coming back here, hours later, soaked and cold. Serving the win on a silver platter.

Joel waited, convinced you would not leave. He was the compass holding this plan together and besides, as he knew, you had nowhere else to go. Your father was your only remaining connection. Joel was aware of the position he found himself in. An argument he already knew was a win. But in his preoccupied mind, there was no lust for such thing.

Perhaps, not now. Not when he noticed how swiftly you wiped away the tears with your sleeves. Of course, it was not the first time that Joel had become the reason of your momentary sadness. His words managed to hit your sore spots one too many times. 

Though, why now? Why would the guilt float above the surface of his false beliefs, waving the red flag? Why now would the regrets start to squash his entire, washed-out being?

He would ask, despite already having the answers.

There was something about watching you sit there, on the floor, leaning against the door. The shouting, the threats of leaving. It was as though he was back in Texas, twenty years ago, sitting in the kitchen and listening to Sarah complaining about short curfew. Begging Joel to let her go out with friends, stay a little longer. And he would refuse, being as stubborn as he is. Inheriting those qualities, she would insist on her wish. Until it ended up in a scream match and she would threaten to go anyways, with or without his approval.

Then both sides ended up defeated. Sarah, sitting in her bedroom, listening to the regrets setting down in her mind. And Joel, sitting by the kitchen table, cursing himself for being too harsh. He was a man of few words, always has been, when it came to expressing his feelings out into the world. So instead of struggling to find the right ones, he would take her favourite DVD of Curtis and Vipper and knock three times on her bedroom door.

She would know exactly what he meant.

But you were not Sarah, you were not Joel's daughter. There was no relation, other than the business one.

Which, in the end, did not even matter anymore.

"You should have said no," you whispered into the rain.

The reality pulled Joel out of his thoughts.

He frowned, puzzled over your statement.

"You should have just said no," you mumbled, turning around.

He stood still.

"I should have talked you out of it," you whispered. "If I knew how much you will hate me, I would never knock on your door."

And suddenly, everything he had convinced himself with, came undone.

You found all the sore spots, striking into the pits of their existence. Until the shadow of man, he once used to be, stood right behind you, looking into his eyes. What he thought had died that night with her, was standing in one piece. He had nowhere to run, no beliefs to feed himself with, only the truth. Now it was up to him whether he was going to face it.

You wanted him to say something, more than anything. Even if he should just scream at your existence, damning you to hell. Everything would have been better than him, surrendering to his shame. The anger in you was starting to boil. You loathed Joel -- simply for the fact of what his role now meant in your life. Joel was your source of safety, despite the arguments, the curse words headed into his direction. And the only thing you wanted was to know whether there was at least a part of him that would sympathise.

You knew giving your hopes into someone like Joel was a risk with little to no chance of winning. Yet, you allowed yourself to hope, as you looked at him, awaiting.

You should have known how that would end.

Putting a faith in a man who’s past has been coming to haunt him every night for the last twenty years was perhaps as reckless, as running towards a clicker, with a friendly handshake. It would cost you an arm and a leg, you knew it. Of course, you knew it. 

But the hope, rotten to the core. The sweet-talking hope. 

Which he was well aware of, seeing it in your desperate eyes. The guilt was about to swallow him all. What Joel wanted and what he allowed himself to want were two different categories. And what frightened him the most, was the fact that you were in both. 

Despite his best of efforts to bury it. No matter what he tried, the truth could not be undone or destroyed. Even though his guilt kept feeding him with the false claims. Convincing him that after betraying her, he was no longer worthy of that title. When in reality, he would never become someone else. It was who he had always been. 

Didn't matter where would he run, what amount of liquid courage his organs would absorb to numb the pain, it would always be there. Waiting for him, waking up from a hangover. Joel spent twenty years searching for salvation in the wrong places, in the hands of wrong people. 

And there he was, scarred, old and defeated. 

You were his second chance. 

"Stop confusing me with the man you are looking for." 

But the anger, oh the anger. And the frustration he fought with. The what ifs, the possible scenarios recreating his life-long failure that haunted him relentlessly. It could go wrong, he thought. He could not even count the exact number; it was too many of them. 

So, he settled with the thought of doing what was best for both of you. But selfishly, as he was well aware, he welcomed the pain with open door and a handshake. Whilst you were left in the rain, watching it close. 

It would have been too dangerous to act differently, he continued to sweet-talk himself with lies as the dawn fell upon his feet. The truth kept on eating him alive, through the roads and through the woods. Flesh by flesh, until there was nothing left. Joel stood against his own mind, his own beliefs. 

How long could he keep on denying them? 

You wondered about it, even though you forbid yourself from doing so, when you stood in the door the following morning, eyes swollen from how you quietly cried yourself to sleep. The consequences of Joel's previous actions were falling down on you. You avoided him like plague, waking up before sunrise and hunting in the nearby woods before the two of you set off. 

He did not comment on your unannounced morning trip but with all honesty, there was not much to say anyway. One thing that Joel knew, which you were grateful for, although you would never admit it out loud, was to keep quiet when it was needed. 

Unfortunately, this habit of his showed up even when it wasn't required. 

The distance he created between the two of you could not be erased. So, for your own sake, you followed his lead. There were no more jokes, no more comments about Joel's age being close to dinosaurs. Because there was nothing left to say or do. 

And as the days continued, your guilt and regret, naturally, turned into anger. 

Anger towards Joel. 

The more you thought about it, the more resentful you had grown to be. You gave him a chance; you gave him a piece of something only your mother has been worthy of. Something you had once buried but for Joel, you would search for it through the deepest pits of your soul. 

You wanted to feel safe, more than anything else in this world. And there he was. When you looked at the picture of your father, then back at Joel, you knew which one was the option you would choose. 

But what would that be good for, when Joel did not choose you?

As hurtful as it might have been to admit it. 

It was pointless, stupid, you kept telling yourself. Joel's reasoning for this voyage was simple, different from yours. And it would always be different from yours. 

That's how it started to bubble up inside of you. Through days, through nights. It would take one look at him for you to clench your fists and curse yourself for ever being this naive. At a certain point, there was no reason for you to hide it. 

And Joel knew it. He knew how you felt when you yelled at him, spilled out that he should not care whether you had eaten or not, whether you had got enough sleep or not. You would let it all out, frustrated and disappointed. 

He would never say anything, just let you get it out of your system. And once you were done, he would hand you the last bits of jerky from his backpack because he was right -- you did not eat that day. But he would not once try to get back at you.

Perhaps, when he stood against you, watching your eyebrows dance up and down, your hands gesticulating in the air, hearing each word sounding faster and angrier than the one before, Joel had realised he now stood in your position. 

There it was. 

The metaphorical blink, perhaps? 

That found Joel standing above the map, marked with your estranged father's supposed location. 

If you kept heading east, you would arrive to his quarantine zone by next week, according to his counting. A week. 

Seven days. 

There was an odd feeling, growing inside his chest. The symptoms of guilt had arrived into their places, occupying his indecisive existence. The time was slipping through his fingers and selfishly, Joel did not anticipate the meeting that was yet to happen. Despite not doing anything to stop it. 

Your father was no exemplary man, quite the opposite. He made trouble wherever he went, so it was not that shocking when one day, Joel saw a soldier putting up a warrant flyer with your father's face. 

He was supposed to be hanged, the day he vanished from the Boston quarantine zone. FEDRA was searching through every place that could carry his trace, but nothing. A few months later, via radio tower, Joel heard his name again. 

With his connections around the zone, it was not too difficult for Joel to find his current supposed whereabouts. Still, as the days on the road went by, he started to have less and less sympathy for finding someone like him. If there ever was some. 

For personal reasons, of course. Being too attached and too subjective, he could not see past his selfish mind, despite doing everything in his power to have you run to your father with open arms. 

He could only blame himself for not seeing how lost you were. For not seeing through the opportunities falling upon his feet. Especially when they started to run out. 

"How long, Joel?"

Your voice pulled Joel out of his frustrated thoughts as he looked back at you, sitting by the fireplace. He realized he has been standing above the table the whole time, gripping the pencil. 

He has been still all evening, which you tried your best to not care about. Spent almost two hours drawing things on the map, running around the house, looking for more pencils. For a moment, you thought he was going insane. 

Would not be so shocking. 

You attempted to pay no mind to it, mostly browsing through the farmhouse, looking for something to kill your time with. The books were ripped apart, rooms raided, so eventually, you ended up sitting by the fireplace to warm yourself up. 

While you waited for the answer that did not seem to be coming. 

"Week or more," he replied, after another minute. "Though we will be lucky if he's still there by the time we arrive," he mumbled, packing up the map. 

The tone of his voice raised your eyebrows. You could have let it go. 

But weather got you both stuck here in the first place, you might as well square up. 

„Well, you won't be there to see it," you whispered. 

He looked at you, confused over such statement. 

"What?" you got up, "Wasn't your whole plan to drop me by the gate like some baggage? Suppose that was the only thing I ever was for you.“

There was no reason to suppress your frustrated thoughts inside. At such point, there was nothing to lose, not on your side. Miles away from Boston, in the middle of nowhere, your hands were empty. Nothing to treasure, nothing to hold. 

Nothing to hope for, anymore. 

The spark in your eyes that once scared the living soul of Joel was fading away. Perhaps, the reality of that became much more frightening for him. 

"You seriously don't have anything to say to me?" 

The desperate tone of your voice, breaking at the end, frustrated you. 

Not more than Joel's nonexistent stance, though. That was still at the top of your list. 

Just two feet away from you, halfway in the shadow of the night, he stood there defenceless.  

"Seriously, Joel?"

But then, for reasons unknown to your being, the cycle had fallen apart. 

"What the hell do you want from me?" his voice echoed around the living room. "We had a deal. That did not include reading you a goddamn bedtime story and tucking you in." 

Joel himself did not know why he was so harsh. The defence mechanism was running on its own system, leaving him out of the door. 

You could not help but chuckle over his angry statement. 

If he was going to cut deep, so were you. 

"Don't flatter yourself," you whispered, stepping closer. "I don't even think someone like you could ever be capable of that. You will always be too selfish for that." 

He knew he had it coming, of course he knew. Just, perhaps, did not realize how severely he would lose this war. How severely would the last strike hurt. 

Until those words left your mouth. Only then the dust settled as the room had fallen into a deadly silence, with Joel's dignity vanishing into the fireplace, like a lonesome soldier surrendering. 

There was no desire to look into your eyes. On Joel's side, there was no anger left; he waisted it all out. Now, the guilt had won the war, creeping through the pits of his mind, sitting on his shoulder, trying to pull down the rest of his tired, scattered being. 

The shame has been weighing on his shoulders for the past twenty years. Its existence could never be denied nor annihilated. He knew, somewhere in his heart, she would never want him to wander through life like this, of course. But choosing to let go was a price he was too afraid to pay. 

When in his mind, he was not allowed. To have life she could have had. It would have been a betrayal, he thought. To leave it all behind, to prove to you that there once had been and always will be part of him that would do anything for his child. 

Joel was aware of the amount of childish naivety you had within yourself when you knocked on his door. The dedication to see through the plan your mother had prepared for you, Joel knew the final moment would never live up to the expectations you had fostered in your mind. The salvation you had been waiting for. 

And there, it ached. The idea of having you reach the final destination, only for the spark of light in your eyes to die once and for all. To see the disappointment settle in your mind for the rest of the days. 

Same as the one you had; every time Joel let you down. 

By the time the truth had dawned on him, you were already sitting on porch, right by the stairs, wiping away the rest of the tears you had waisted on him. If it were not for the lack of weapons and dark night, you would have been gone. 

But where to road would lead, suddenly remained unknown. In the middle of nowhere, stuck by an old farmhouse, you wished to retrace your steps. Stay in Boston, pull through the military school, become another soldier without a soul and eventually, walk into death with open arms. 

What else would the world give you anyways. When what you had yearned for, has been declined. 

By Joel, standing still in the living room, analysing the spot you occupied just a few minutes ago. He looked around, seeing the glimpses of life this place had before outbreak. The last bits of wallpaper, the broken framed photographs on the credence. He used to wonder what it would have been like to set up a little sheep farm, somewhere outside the Austin, just him and Sarah. 

The two of them running the place, not needing anything or anybody else. Occasionally, they would spare a room for Tommy, force him to help out with the livestock, to repay Joel for bailing him out of the jail, again. It sounded almost idyllic; what could have been and never was. 

Joel knew that he was not the only father losing part of himself on the night of the outbreak. Yet, he found no comfort in this fact. If anything, it added another layer of guilt upon his shoulders. He thought, there was no father who had failed as miserably as him. In his eyes, there was no father guiltier than him. 

What he had buried under glasses of moonshine and traded pills, you ripped out. Pulled it on the surface and close the door on your way out. 

After everything that happened, all through the woods, all through the meadows, there was one, last question Joel had to face. 

Was surrendering to his shame worth losing, perhaps, the very last chance of making things right? 

Of honouring what he once had, instead of grieving what he once lost. 

Of being the one for whom you had knocked on his door in the first place. 

Despite his actions, Joel was not an idiot. He was well aware that the chances and opportunities you had given to him would run their course soon. And then, then -- he will be left alone, awaiting the arrival of his remorse. Why couldn't he try, you wondered by the moon. 

You sat there, eyes on the skies. 

The thought of your mother danced in your tangled mind. Of the wish she had put together for you. Back in Boston, you would do anything to fulfill it -- after all, that is how you found Joel. 

But now, there was no desire to continue. 

Of course, there was the urge to know your father. The other half of you. But would he do what you had done? Would be travel across the states, just for you?

Even if he would, you thought, he could never live up to Joel. 

Whose steps pulled you out of your thoughts, as you heard him closing the door. 

Not so long after, he found himself sitting on the opposite side of the stairs -- doing so, when he realised how persistently you tried to maintain your distance. He would not blame you, only the numerous times he had managed to disappoint you. 

There was no desire to look at him. Part of you wished for him to never speak, to collect the little he travelled with and set off, for good. Part of you wanted to curse him out. 

But the other part, oh the other part. 

That damned part. 

The questions that came along, the thoughts. 

The fear. 

That joined you on the stairs, in the dark of the night. 

The fear you caught in Joel's eyes. Clear as the skies above you. 

There was one last battle remaining, for Joel. 

The broken watch sitting on his wrist caught Joel's attention. The crack was bigger than Joel had remembered. Surely, as the years went by, as the roads came along, some of the glass pieces fell out. But the hands stayed the same. The time forever more imprinted in his scarred mind.

Long ago, he convinced himself his clock would never resume, never having a reason to do so, without her. 

But, perhaps, the reason was sitting right next to him. 

"I know you think I am an asshole," he whispered into the night. 

Joel had to think. It has been a while since he led a conversation with an adolescent -- a conversation, not a screaming match. Surely, he had his fair share of arguments with Sarah. But the differences were incomparable. 

Unlike her, you grew up in the world where kindness came with a price ticket and dignity as an exception not many accomplished to hold onto. You had no recollection of what it meant to have a home. 

Or perhaps?

"That is an understatement," you mumbled. "It is not fair, you know?"

Joel's gaze met with yours. The sadness danced in your eyes. 

"It's not fair how hardly I tried to hate you, Joel, but failed miserably, whilst you succeeded for both of us," you uttered, not letting go of his sight. "You have to hate me, you made it so obvious. But, I  still wonder. Why walk through the woods, through the roads, through the cities with someone whose presence holds no meaning in your life?"

You got him, time and time again. How far was he willing to test your abilities to forgive him? Until there was none?

"Did you walk all the way because of the pity you had stored for me? If your guilty conscience needs a verbal order, then you are free to go," you mumbled. 

The silence entered the empty sphere. Your trembling voice went quiet, as the sleeves of your jacket wiped away the rest of the tears, strolling down your red cheeks. The anguish seemed to never end. 

"Joel, leave," you whispered, not daring to meet his gaze in such condition. "Pack your shit and just leave."

"Actually," he spoke, as though ignoring your disheveled state of mind. "Now, that the deal is off, I think I might stay for a while.“

For a short moment, you could not say for sure whether was mocking your statement or happened to be deadly serious about staying in this half-destroyed house. The jury was out. 

You dared to look up -- solely to convince yourself that there would be a vicious smirk on Joel's face, hitting the final nail in the coffin of hope you had left for him. 

There was no such thing, other than him, looking around. 

"Joel," you whispered, "Leave."

"Some of the walls are busted, the roof is leaking but it ain't nothing I could not fix," he mumbled, not paying a single ounce of attention to you.

You thought you might as well go insane. 

"Joel, I swear to fucking god, leave!" the frustration was pouring out. The hands were thrown in the air, the redness in your cheeks filled your whole face, as your voice rose because of Joel. "Seriously, you treat me like some fucking burden the whole time, but now, you have a what, a change of heart?"

He shrugged his shoulders, remaining calm. "I don't need a change of heart. I just need to fix this house."

Unbelievable. 

"If you do all of this to just laugh in my face, you are probably more pathetic than I ever thought." 

The longer you stayed, the heavier the ache had become. 

"You know, I was so afraid meeting my father would disappoint me," you whispered. "Thankfully, you had prepared me. Now I know that whatever waits in the east, it won't hurt nearly as much as this."

In that final moment, Joel knew the chances he waisted, took for granted, had, at last ran out. There were no words to say, no ropes to hold onto. Everything you had given him, everything you allowed yourself to feel for him, vanished into the night as you got up from the stairs, brushed off your knees and disappeared inside. 

The hopes you had given into this, now ached deeply in your chest as you walked upstairs. For a moment, you wondered, whether this would be the end -- of everything. Whether this wound be the final destination. 

Head buried in the bedding; you thought the agony would never go away. The suffocating feeling in your lungs, the cries. The pain swallowed you whole, piece by piece until you found yourself wishing to tear off your own skin to escape it. 

There has not been this much pain inside of you since your mother died. That night, you held her lifeless body, screaming until there was no air left in your lungs. Cursing yourself, cursing the world itself, wishing to come away with her. 

You hoped to never go through this ever again. 

Now, here you were. 

Yet, what turned out to be the worst part of it all was not the pain itself, however intense it might have been. It was the sole realisation that for Joel, you would go through it. The same way you had done with your mother, for Joel, you would do it, too. The role he had earned in your life, despite denying it, settled down. And there was nothing you could do about it. 

Only accepting the grievous conditions. 

He would not, you thought. No, you convinced yourself. 

Would he? 

He wondered, as he found himself standing by the door of your temporary bedroom, watching you sleep. Would he? Would he put his shame and guilt to rest? How many times would he need to ask himself this question before the time ran out? Before the last bits of patience, you had stored for him, vanished along with his chances. 

He looked around the room, taking it all in -- the teared-up wallpaper, missing pieces of furniture, cracked wooden floor. He was right when he said that house was no lost cause. He could have done wonders with it, saving the treasured, replace the destroyed. 

He would paint the walls for you, fix your bed, find new bedding for you -- just to make sure you would have a place to call home. In the middle of nowhere, surrounded by peace. He would make you dinner, he would eat it with you on the front porch, whilst the two of you would be watching the sunset. He would force you to help around to garden -- only because he would want to make it safer for you. 

You mattered -- that was the most frightening part of it all. However big of coward he could be, his impulsive urges could never be stronger than the fear. The swallowing, harrowing fear.

So, would he? 

He asked himself again, sitting on the edge of your bed. 

Would he fix it? Instead of the broken windows and leaking celling, would he fix the damage he had done?

Joel sighed. 

His hands grabbed two ends of a blanket. 

There it was -- the feeling. Looking down on you, lying there quietly, he wondered again. 

He wondered that long he did not even notice you had woken up. 

Only when his gaze met yours, all red and tired, he realised he was still holding the ends of the blanket. 

He could have waisted the words. 

Or he could do what felt right for him. What felt familiar. 

"Joel," you mumbled, half-asleep trying to grasp the situation. 

It was hard to keep your eyes open, being too worn out. The only thing you felt was the warm of the blanket you wished to hold onto. You grabbed so tightly on the thread of comfort -- as tight as you could, before you passed out again. 

Holding Joel's hand. 

There it was.

His world collapsed. 

The spare defences left in his scarred hands, vanished. Now, the only one he could have held onto, was your hand. 

Almost twenty one years later, under the hoards of pain and buried memories was the feeling of peace he would never find at a bottom of any bottle. 

Looking down on your, falling asleep under his guard, Joel sighed, before he leaned over to your face. Staring at you quietly, he felt at strangely calm. 

How easy it was for Joel’s world to collapse, with just one look at you. If there were ever to be a salvation, a chance to fix what he had done, pay for mistakes no one would ever put on his name, there it was. Holding his hand.  

There was nothing to forgive, nothing to repay. Despite the anger and frustration he managed to awaken in you with confusing actions, despite your vocal wishes of leaving you alone, you held for your life on the last thread you had given him. 

He wanted to leave -- somewhere in his mind, the coward voice of his past failures urged him to leave and never look back. He could have done it anywhere on the road, having more than enough opportunities. But if his doubts made him a coward, then the fear of losing you made him a twice of one. 

He walked through the cities, through the highways, through the meadows for one reason. The one he denied himself of having, pushing you so far away, he almost lost the last thread. He could never lose the reason, no -- for it lived in him for the past twenty years. It never left, however much Joel tried to convince himself. 

There was something to fight for -- someone to fight for. 

He sat there for a while, losing track of time, holding your hand. He could not move -- he did not want, no. Instead, with shattered breath and trembling existence, Joel dared to squeeze your hand.

In that moment, across the quiet bedroom, Joel could have sworn on his life, his watch started to tick again. 

[goodboyaudios]

hey just a few questions

Q1. About the 7 planes of existence, are there any creatures that live there like Queria? I know there must be but I never was able to find anything about it

Q2. About the incubus yandere guy, I always thought that was cataclysm but the time just dosent make since for me. I mean yargwins parents were on thunderhive A.E.D But cataclysm got defeated by lunar during the tectonic War. Those are like thousands of years apart. So was cataclysm not killed by lunar or was that not cataclysm at all. (I was going to say this about how cataclysm shown up in MOTH too but its the same question)

Q3. There seems to be a lot of diffrent variants of loyal and servoss but we see most of this in SPS but also in small stories you post here so I was wondering if they were big to your lore.

Q4. Why the hell are there time traveling demons!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

Tons! Faenenites, the first vampires, werewolves, basically every race and creature you've dreamed of exists there.

Cataclysm was not defeated by Lunar Eclipse, only Sam was killed. The others Lunar recognized as living beings wronged by the Archangels and the lives they lived before. So Lunar banished them across the universe where they would be less powerful, in hopes that they would find a peaceful and content existence. Some did, some didn't, most got themselves killed.

Loyal and Servoss were some of my first ever characters. Loyal was my first channel character and Servoss was my first attempt at a vampire, so yeah I made them a little important. IN the grand scheme, not that important, but they were fun to write.

They can only time travel as long as you believe them to. Since you believe they exist, they exist~

[daughterofheartshaven]

So, The Story and the Engine. Here are my thoughts

Okay that's a great opening, and some real discussion about our first fully nonwhite main cast in the show's history. Love to see it.

I also love the emotional maturity shown by Belinda here. Like she wants to get home but also is okay with the Doctor having a moment of healing

The setting is so, so wonderful. The Doctor having a community here means so much to me. Like, this is not what my community looks like, but it is such an authentic community and that's beautiful.

The concept of something being powered by stories is also a really clever one, and I like how it is implemented here

The story about Belinda made me cry - like that was above and beyond for her, but also worth it. Also if we're gonna have a random Mrs Flood, I appreciate how they put her here as opposed to tacking her on at the end.

The imagery of the barbershop on the spider is so, so good. I really wish the spider hadn't been in the trailers; that would have been such a cool thing to be surprised by. Even so, it's another really powerful image.

I have no idea why Belinda sees Poppy from space babies (I didn't recognize her but I see that others worked this out), but I am... intrigued. Also why did her causing a mess not get followed up on? Feels like either a scene was cut or we're gonna circle back around to that

To me at least, the religious aspects of this story feel very ambiguous, and I like that. The Barber has been spreading stories, and he is going to kill those stories. The Doctor has been in places and had experiences that were meaningful because of those stories. Are the gods those stories are about real? They can be. They can not be. This isn't about the gods, it's about the stories. And I really like that - I would have been very frustrated if I felt like the episode came down hard in either direction.

relatedly, Abena is clearly something. But at the same time, she acts like a person. Not a god. I don't think she's a deluded human. Maybe she's a god. Maybe she's something else entirely. Like I said, ambiguity.

unrelatedly, but the existence of a Big Finish character called the Barber-Surgeon is really throwing me off as I type this.

Okay the Fugitive Doctor's cameo... like. fine. whatever. I don't like the character and her place in the lore, and I don't like her showing up here, but her appearance is basically inoffensive.

That being said, the Doctor remembering something Fugitive did doesn't make sense with what we know with the position the tv show has taken. I'll probably have my own take on that whole situation from the perspective of my headcanons later

Okay the story of people weaving maps into hair - that was so, so well done. I might have cried here too, I don't remember.

I loved the camerawork while Doc and Belinda were in the maze

The actual engine is... just wonderful to look at. Visually, this story is fascinating and I love it.

"I'm born. I die. I'm born." Damn, Gatwa is good at his job

I love that the past lives on the screens went out of order. And they started on what might be the most important moment in all of Doctor Who for me - that crucial moment in Tomb of the Cybermen that I understand the Doctor by - and I did start crying again.

Doctor Who often has the Doctor try to save the villain and fail, and it usually feels like it's just the writers trying to make the Doctor have the moral high ground cheaply. So to see him actually save the villain, and to talk about forgiveness with both him and the man who betrayed his trust, is such a powerful move.

For a story that doesn't really focus on her, Belinda has so much emotional maturity. She tries to help. She tries to de-escalate the situation. She gets out when it's time to get out. This story may be the one I return to understand Belinda in future - I really, really like her here.

And there are still consequences. Abena leaving the Barber behind. Just because he will try to be better doesn't change what he did.

The ending is very quiet and contemplative, and I like that.

The Robot Revolution is probably still my favorite episode with Gatwa, but The Story and the Engine is now, in my opinion, his best.

[voidcatdoll]

Its also problematic because it assumes that a failure to find the door is a failure of the approach itself rather than its execution. We're ultimately telling a story here, if the hidden door is important and you haven't telegraphed that It Exists then you have failed at writing the story. And if all your players were too enamored with the snack bowl every time you did then you should just remind them of the various things their characters would know.

The same can be said for the perception roll approach, if something is that important either it shouldn't be a roll or you should give it to whoever did best if everyone flunks it. Again the problem is execution.

An approach isn't flawed just because you cannot do it well. Me never having shot a gun and being a lousy shot doesn't mean marksmanship is useless and hosing down everything with a MG3 is objectively the better approach just because I am more likely to hit the target if I spray the general area with 20 rounds a second, and you can figure that out by actually thinking about it for a moment instead of just going "well I cannot think of a way to do it so it must be impossible".

I mean that approach to dungeon crawling is all fun and games until the adventure grinds to a halt because everyone failed to read the DM's mind to find the secret door to the next room.

Leaving aside that I still think "reading the DM's mind" is an incredibly bad faith way to describe it. If there's something that makes your adventure completely dysfunctional if the players fail to find it, why are you making it secret in the first place????

Like by virtue of making something hidden or secret, you're introducing the possibility that the players will fail to find it. So the first thing you should ask yourself before you put a secret in is "am I okay with my players not finding this? does the adventure still work if they don't find it?" and then if the answer is "no" then you. just don't make it secret. Easy as that.

Like personally I think if at any point your dungeon has only one available way for the party to make progress you probably already fucked up a little bit. But if you decide to make their one way to move forward *secret* you're kinda just actively shooting yourself in the foot, regardless of whether you're using perception mechanics or not. Because with perception mechanics the same situation can just as easily turn into "the adventure grinds to a halt because everyone failed their Mother May I Use My Fucking Eyes To See What's In Front Of Me check to find the secret door"

[eringobragh420]

⋆˙⟡ SORRY, NOT SORRY

➔ Pairing — Chris Sabin ❤︎ f!Reader ➔ Summary — You try to get back at Chris for scaring you, but the turns always table. ➔ Word Count — 2.7k ➔ Warnings — NSFW. Cockwarming, dirty talk, unprotected p in v, cum 18+ ➔ Taglist — If you’d like to be added, please click here!  ➔ Requested By — @magicalbuttertarts for the 10-for-30 Kink List, thank you so much! ➔ Support — Buy me a coffee! ☕ ➔ MASTERLIST

Normally you were well-behaved, acted like an adult—which usually meant letting your adult boyfriend spend hours playing video games online with his friends—but you’d been in a mood for a few days since waking up next to Chris, who’d snuck beside you in the middle of the night, only to terrify you in the morning when you thought a stranger was spooning you.

Playing on your iPad in the living room while he was in the game room left you plenty of time to scheme. Even if he was in some kind of tournament, it would be difficult for him to stop if he were … otherwise occupied. Closing the cover, you tossed the device aside, stood, and all but skipped your way down the hall. You could hear him barking orders over his headset before you even opened the door. You grinned, shaking your head—sometimes your grown ass boyfriend was a small ass child, and you couldn’t deny how adorable it was.

His game room was a thing of beauty, actually. Multi-colored LED lights hanging near the ceiling, an elaborate desk that held three curved monitors, a keyboard, and a few other trinkets sprinkled throughout. Chris was in the monster of a chair that had taken him days to put together because he refused to look at an instruction manual. Please, it’s just a desk, he’d said. On the third day of assembly, after hearing nothing but vulgarity spew from his mouth, you’d stomped in the room and launched the manual at him, hitting him in his bare chest and not leaving a paper cut—or, leaving a paper cut, depending on who was telling the story.

And speaking of shirtless, he was shirtless now, wearing only a pair of jeans. Gaming was serious business, and he easily became overheated from all the shouting and … button pressing?

He was still barking into the headset, sexy hands manipulating the black controller expertly. He seemed to be winning at whatever he was playing—killing zombies or terrorists or some other baddie you didn’t care existed—which couldn’t have made this a more perfect time to execute your simple but effective plan. He didn’t notice when you removed your own shirt, dropping it to the floor, and, at the last moment, decided to remove your sweatpants, too, leaving you in mismatching bra and panties. Normally that would bother you, but you weren’t sure you had time to change one or the other.

Strutting closer, Chris glanced, returned his crystal eyes to the monitors, then immediately returned his now-widened eyes to you. Those ethereal irises mapped your body from head to toe and back, then he did it again. You heard his friends yelling at him through the headphones, and he reluctantly returned his attention to the game, trying to figure out how he’d fucked up in those ten seconds he’d given you. As he tried to save face, you closed the space between you and Chris, standing in front of the monitors so he had to lean and look past you. 

“Babe,” he said.

Ignoring him, you carefully threaded one of your legs through the hole made by the armrest and seat of the chair, Chris having no choice but to raise the controller to the side as he watched with nothing short of interest, confusion, and maybe a little nervousness? The game he was playing must have been important, so, as much as it offended you, he was having a difficult time deciding whether or not to put the controller down. You inched your pussy higher and higher until it was seated atop your boyfriend’s growing erection, making the jeans a little uncomfortable, but you were willing to soldier through. 

“Guys, hang on a second,” Chris stammered, jerking the headset off, ruffling his hair, and you smirked. He was flustered, cheeks already blooming, but he painted on an irritated expression. “Hey, babe,” he said  to you, smiling. 

“Hey,” you beamed.

Chris tilted his head, brows raised. “You see I’m … playing a game, right?” 

“Kinda hard to miss.” 

“And I have a team that I need to … back up?”

You shrugged. 

“Honey, I literally love you more than anything in the universe, but right now, I need you to move.”

You pretended to think—narrowing one eye, raising your gaze to the ceiling. “Nah, I’m good.” You scooted closer, Chris tilting his head, and as much as he attempted to feign anger and aggravation, you saw right through the façade—his charming, sapphire eyes dancing with mischief and enthusiasm. He was getting harder beneath you, no matter how much he tried to fight it. 

“Is this about the other night?” he asked, brows rising. 

“Of course it’s about the other night! You scared the shit out of me!” 

“Bro, are we playing or not?” came from the forgotten headset.

Chris’s eyes never left yours, and you smirked, the taste of victory moistening your mouth, though when your boyfriend began growing his own smile, your heart pounded and your stomach somersaulted. Normally those things happened just because Chris Sabin was Chris Sabin, but that wasn’t the case this time. What had you just walked into? You’d thought for sure this would work and he’d apologize and do something elaborate—even though it wasn’t necessary—to make it up to you. 

Chris hooked the headset around his neck, gaze still focused on yours, and your eyes instinctively lowered to watch as the sexiest set of hands you’d ever seen in your life unbuckle his belt, open the button of his jeans, and leisurely lower the zipper. He reached up, two fingers lifting your chin so your eyes could reconnect. “I promise I play games way better than you,” he cautioned.

You licked your lips, chewing on the bottom one, and you swallowed, Chris’s attention drawn to your throat momentarily. Well, you were in this now. You certainly couldn’t back down at this point, despite knowing how skillful and clever he was, and also how deviant he could sometimes be. 

“I guess we’ll have to find out,” you challenged, though you both knew perfectly well who would come out on top.

Chris’s smile widened. “I can’t tell you how bad I wanted you to say that.”

He was pulling his cock free from his jeans before you knew what was happening. Shocked, but thrilled that, by hook or by crook, you’d won this exchange, after only moments ago accepting defeat. His coarse, gifted hands landed on your hips with a soft smack, long, deft fingers tickling your soft skin as he played with your panties. You gasped, Chris’s thumb sliding along your dampening slit, but then his eyes darkened, a storm forming in the distance, and you were suddenly about two steps behind. He had the thin material of your underwear pulled to the side, his thick cock in hand, and he cupped your pussy, encouraging you to raise up. Under the Sabin spell—every time he enchanted you with his eyes, you swore to yourself you’d figure out a way to become immune to it, and then you never did, and so he was able to do it every single fucking time—your hips rose, and he positioned the spongy head of his dick at your entrance, massaging it back and forth across your clit. 

“Sabin, let’s go!” the headset hollered. 

“Sit on it,” Chris suggested, although you were fairly certain it was more of an order. Damn it. You should have known this was going to happen—you were axiomatically under your boyfriend’s control when his cock was rubbing against you like that, when he was looking at you like that, when his free hand gripped your hip like that. 

You impaled yourself on cock, slowly, allowing your slick walls to adjust to his above-average size until he was completely sheathed within you. You closed your eyes, a whimsical smile tugging at your lips with the fullness in your cunt and heart. As much as you loved fucking the man, you fucking loved the man more. Chris moaned quietly, adjusting your hips just a bit this way, a little that way, and it was like two Lego pieces clicking together. He fit so perfectly within you, dick barely kissing your cervix, stretching your muscles almost to the point of uncomfortability. You started rising again, but Chris held fast to your hip, keeping you in place. 

“Now you just sit there,” he sweetly said, smiling, crystalline eyes dazzling, “look pretty, and keep my cock warm while I win this tournament. And then you can yell at me all you want for coming home early and surprising you.” He placed the headset over his ears. 

“I could have killed you, you know,” you said, attempting a matter-of-fact tone, but instead it was strangled, breathy, a betrayal.

Chris picked up his controller from the desk. “You and what stepladder?” he jabbed. 

“Chris—” 

“Shh,” he hushed, finger to his lips. “You don’t want them to hear you whine, do you?”

You opened your mouth to retort, but noticed he flicked the mute switch on the cord of the headset. He announced he was ready to continue through the microphone which came around from the left earphone. And so looking over your shoulder, arms around your waist, thumbs dancing along the buttons of the XBox controller, he proceeded with his game. You’d been reduced to a cockwarmer, his hand briefly abandoning the controller to keep your waist and your hips and your thighs still whenever you got a little too squirmy. He’d already been hard enough to cut diamonds, but his cock still felt like it was expanding inside you, and as you clutched his bare, broad shoulders, pressing your face into his neck, you imagined him leaking precum inside you, giving your pussy a taste of its very favorite flavor of anything.

You were left to inhale his earthy cologne, the scent of his shampoo. Left to feel gorged, your warm essence seeping out of you and sliding down his balls. Left to simply experience and not participate. It was cruel and unusual punishment, if anyone ever asked you. But you couldn’t deny the excitement, the thrill of accepting the challenge—if one of you was going to move first, it most certainly would not be you.

And you were confident in your ability to remain still … until Chris started to engage physically with the stupid game he was still playing. He barked orders at his teammates, biceps flexing as he jerked the controller as if it would have any kind of effect on his performance in the game. Acting as though his dick wasn’t fully immersed in your now tight, clenching, soaking pussy, like he didn’t need to fuck up into you just to relieve some pressure. Like he didn’t need everything you needed. 

“Oh, come on!” Chris argued, attempting to stand like he often did, sending his dick lurching somehow further inside you, and your cunt clamped around him in a futile attempt at keeping it there forever. 

“Chris,” you gasped.

He muted the microphone. “You’re gonna have to be quieter than that,” he advised, pressing his face to yours, his hot breath ghosting along your cheek and ear. 

“Why do you care if your friends hear me?” you sighed, Chris resituating the two of you, but never removing himself from your warmth.

“Because it’s not just my friends,” he said. “Once a month some of the execs join us. That’s today.”

You pulled away to look at him, regretting it immediately when he shifted just a bit inside you. “So that means …”

“Hunter’s on. Adam and Nick are on.”

Your eyes rounded. You were loud during sex and you were an even louder whiner when you weren’t getting what you wanted, and you didn’t care if his friends accidentally heard or were actively listening, but his bosses? You really didn’t wanna take the chance for fear Chris might get fired, and so began to disentangle yourself from him. His arms tightened around you and he shook his head before he tsked you.

“Now now … we finish things around here, don’t we?” he rasped, lips grazing yours, and there your pussy went squeezing, gushing, squeezing again. Chris’s resolve was even disturbed, a slight jerk animating him from head to toe.

You nodded pathetically, and he kissed your nose, unmuting the microphone and returning his attention to the game. You weren’t sure how long you were made to sit and endure such torture—the occasional twitch inside you, which was then met with a flutter of your own muscles and a pool for your juices gathering along his balls and his shorts he’d tucked under them—in complete silence, but endure you did. 

Chris removed his headset and placed it and the controller on the desk, the game having ended with Chris and his team getting the W. The sapphires in his eyes sparkled indecently, and that was your cue to finally—finally—hook your feet around his legs, dig your nails into his brawny shoulders, and lift your hips, gasping into Chris’s open mouth as his rigid cock scraped along your oversensitive insides.

“This was supposed to be me getting back at you,” you panted, quickly picking up the pace, a proper bouncing, your ass smacking against your boyfriend’s drenched balls.

“I know,” Chris replied, standing, carefully removing your legs from his chair, and then he was free to set you on the desk. “And since there was no reason to get me back for anything, not only did I get you to warm my cock while I played a game, but I got you to be quiet while you did it.” He spread your thighs, shaking his head, licking his lips as he watched his cock slip inside your pulsing hole.

You observed with a dropped jaw and heaving breasts as he disappeared within you. “It’s not like I wanted Triple H to hear me beg you to let me move.”

“It’s okay, baby,” Chris cooed, caressing your cheek as he eased himself out of you, glistening in a thick coat of you, pushing back inside at the same snail pace. “Now you can beg all I want.”

Hand propped behind you to support your weight, your other hand was free to card through his thick brown hair, giving you a better view of his face, of his irresistible azure eyes. “Please, baby, please fuck me,” you purred, hand sliding from his hair, over his cheek, to his shoulder. “I was a good cockwarmer for you, wasn’t I? I stayed quiet, I … barely moved … and I didn’t cum or make you cum.”

“But baby, I am fucking you,” Chris remarked, teasing you with the promise of a kiss, only to pull away and shoot you a devilish smirk. A pathetic mewl escaped your lips.

“Please,” you breathed, “harder. Faster.”

“That’s all you had to say, sweetheart.”

The table shook with his sudden quick, ferocious thrusts, the monitors behind you threatening to fall off their mounts. You threw both arms around his neck, and he leaned forward, pressing his chest to yours, plump lips latching onto your jawline. You’d already been sitting in his lap too long, had his cock lodged so deep within you for too fucking long, and then to have his flawless mouth nibbling and licking every spot he knew you had?

Your cunt clamped down as you came, fingers tugging at Chris’s hair, and suddenly his hand slammed onto the desk, hips doing much the same to yours, and then you weren’t just cumming, you were milking him.

“Just don’t sneak in bed like that,” you exhaled, resting a cheek on his shoulder.

“So what do you want me to do when I wanna surprise you?” he asked, lips grazing your ear.

“I have an idea … and it might sound a little crazy, but hear me out … How bout you just don’t?”

Chris chuckled, hand cradling the back of your head. “But when I do, this happens.”

Rolling your eyes but giggling just the same, you kissed his neck. “Touché. Asshole.”

TAGLIST: @southerngirl41 @yourmommyagone22 @femdisa @riverina69 @jeypunkk @the-whatever-22 @rollinssection @paramedicnerd004 @brianochka @sweetmoonlove0214 @partypoison00 @missbmc94 @lils2795 @aureliacorvina @magicalbuttertarts @madimcg14 @lov3rla03 @plaidpajamallama @princesstiti14 @madhatterbri @atomicskincareeyelinerkid @aceywaycy @riddleebabyy @pyro-romantic @livslunaticdamiansdisciple18 @beyondthebelle @tweetthang96 @flowersbloom8787 @terrortwinunicorn @jazzyboo123-blog1

[cattofwatt]

Enemy review part 3!

Does anyone actually care about this guy

I guess I like the mix of parts but it kinda looks silly to me

8/10-dont think that’s a fun existence

Underrated boss

Still love this fella as a concept, just wish he was more important or explained more.

3/10 honestly if you manage to keep your mind that would be very useful to be like this

This is one of the main reasons I don’t really believe the photo theory that the monsters in Lyle’s apartment are like that because of photo smear or something. What kind of photo had to happen for this to exactly happen

Anyway I guess he is neat

8/10-would not want to be that nope

Ew. Just ew

I like it with how much it disgusts me

10/10-get it away

Imagine having some kind of cancer and then the visitor comes by

I like the whole growing idea in the fight. But it’s too easy to just kill it before it does that

10/10-yeah I don’t want a million tumor’s thank you

I’m just going to put all the rats that aren’t important in this one thing.

Yeah they are all neat but..Beside the notable rats they are kinda boring to me

I really like how this guy looks

I imagine he is like a right hand man to the rat king. Now us.

4/10 he seems sapient enough to be respectful if your apart of the rat clan at least

I’m pretty sure everyone I’ve seen play the game and encounter him. Has gone “woah”

Its design is really cool. And I like its little story with Frederic

7/10-i don’t think you would be sapient anymore

Honestly just the cutest

Look at this little fella. Absolutely no horror factor in this guy

2/10-i think it could be fun

Popsicle

Haven’t seen many people appreciate the frozen enemy designs. They are great! There we go appreciated now

10/10-yeah no just look at his face

[samuraiyeehaw]

She didn't exist. She was a fractured mote of a person in the Aetherial sea. It's a pretty important part of her story that she didn't really have a childhood, she was just fused together from some specific soulstuff and dumped into the world. She has a very vague idea of how things work but without any context for it.

2/10/25

What was your wol(oc) doing before ARR?