#there isn't really that many things to remember when drawing him especially this little

[canisalbus]

Lil guy deserves all the snails :>>

I sketched this out way too fast, sorry if theres any mistakes ^^

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[serendark]

Misc. ideas and thoughts about Journals 1 & 2, as inspired by Forduary this year

I have too much going on to participate, but I really like the Forduary prompts this year!

Journal 3 has some things that help with inventing both Journals 1 and 2, I think.

Isn't it weird that gnomes and various other creatures are in Journal 3 instead of Journal 1, when it just feels like Ford would have met them 6 years ago when he first arrived to Gravity Falls? Like, did it really take six years before he wrote about or saw gnomes? Who knows, maybe! However you want to imagine it. I think Journal 3 itself can be used for examples of Journal 1, or you can work backwards from Journal 3 to invent more of what the landscape was like for Ford when he arrived here and was first getting his footing. Journal 3 has various bits looking back at his earlier years, like about his house being built iirc and Steve, so I think there is likely overlap with Journal 1 (and 2) already.

Journal 1 sounds fun as a novice Ford being awestruck by so many things for the first time, and trying as many experiments as he can, and having all kinds of inexperienced clumsy missteps. He traced this town as a big home of anomalies and now he is actually here, and beginning his dream on his own, fresh out of college! And there's all the locals to meet for the first time. Was it overwhelming in the best way possible that everywhere he looked there was just more and more and it felt impossible to possibly study it all? Were his first years really social while he tried interviewing everyone, before falling into his eventual status as a recluse who doesn't really connect with them, before he realized how lonely he was, or maybe he pushed through all of his negative feelings because there was so much that was exciting to focus on instead? Were there more weird holidays like Summerween that don't exist in 2012? Or, even, did Ford witness the very first year of Summerween? What are some local mysteries and ghost stories? Did he meet more of the parents of individuals we know about in 2012?

Were Ford's first notes a mess that he had to go back and reorganize later? Did he have to figure out ways of being better able to draw anomalies when life drawing isn't always an option? What's up with the camera and photos and all those other weird objects in his house in that one flashback scene in ATOTS? How much did Ford have to study and catalogue and take samples of local plants and water before he started noticing weird connections and magical influences? How did he figure out what equipment, tools, machinery, and anomaly specific magic detectors or whatnot that he needed? What was the iterative process like? Did he have a bunch of failed drawings, machines, and samples at the start? Did he hear about the underground weirdness black market and spend a lot of time trying to track it down before realizing how hopeless the endeavor seemed to be? One failure of many he would remember moving forward in his time here, but also exciting fuel to keep learning! Gravity Falls has so much to offer, far too much to stop learning just because of some unanswered mysteries.

I don't recall if Hirsch has ever spoken on the content of Journal 1 but I really think it has a lot of potential as a prompt if you're a little creative! Yeah it isn't super guided but I don't think it's boring at all!

And then Journal 2 is especially extremely super hype imo!! That's the one when he was really throwing himself into researching and learning about spells and magics, including spells he would even carry with him in Journal 3 as useful protective tools on excursions if I'm remembering that correctly. There's so much here that must be related to forest creatures, not to mention the artifacts. Did he catch wind of the Hand Witch or other potential similar individuals? The Love God? Were there more witches and creatures during the 80's than we see in Gravity Falls in 2012? Like how zombie uprisings were a regular monthly occurrence, mentioned in Journal 3, when that clearly chilled out and settled by the time of the show, not to mention the blood rain.

Wizard Ford! Warlock Ford! Ford, the DD&MD dork! Did he learn defensive enchantments? Was he really into useful utility spells instead, like one that keeps himself dry in rain? Or refills his quill ink? What offense might he have liked, or even felt uncomfortable with? Did he practice writing and learning sigils and runes and fae language? Did he sew any into his clothes, or wear any in temporary tattoos or skin paint? Were there things in the library or museum he was able to translate?

Were there other events like that carnival in Journal 3, or weird black magic holidays before such things were wiped from the townsfolks' memories? Was there more visible magic on average back then, and magic interacting with people and vice versa? How did Ford compare his experiences and studies with his beloved stories of fiction, historical reading, myths, and folklore? Did Ford make or find magic rings, pens, wands, hats, clocks? What are some really dumb and silly spells? Did he research how different phases of the moon, weeks in the month, days in the week, or certain hours in a day, or even the weather, influenced any of the rituals or how to acquire materials and items? Did some spells or rituals demand him to sit in pose for 12 hours before activating, and which spells or rituals were more instant or immediate? How about astrology?

This also overlaps with the period of time where Ford knew Bill for like 2 years before the portal was ever proposed, and before Ford had felt himself stuck at a dead end. Ford was still eagerly exploring and researching and practicing like normal, surely with some doubts and difficulties, but I think he was still starry-eyed, too. What was Bill like? How much did Bill help? How much of the stuff in Journal 2 came about from Bill helping Ford with leads, giving him breadcrumbs about things Ford wouldn't have known on his own? What questions did Bill answer, and did Bill tell Ford about any spells outright? Did Bill and Ford hang out working on translating runes together? Did Bill give Ford spells and sigils and all to solve himself like a mentally stimulating puzzle? Is this the period of time where Bill was the most like a practical helpful teacher and friend, and a stronger bridge between Ford and the local weird? Did Ford investigate different ideas about geometry and its relation to religion/spirituality/history/myth?

What potion recipes and ingredients could Ford have found and made and jotted down in Journal 2? The steps and materials needed for rituals? What about notes to be taken on the anomalous and magical properties of random materials and how those interact with mundane technology and science, like hen's teeth, fairy wing dust, certain mushrooms that only grow around fairy circles, silk from weird spiders? Or even how more familiar earthly materials interact with these, like mercury, blood, salt, gold, silver, onyx, honeycomb? What are some local legends and myths? Did Ford use any variety of magical ingredients, ritual, or spell for experiments specifically in his mindscape while he was asleep? Or maybe meditating in a fairy circle?

What offerings did Ford need to learn how to prepare for different creatures, spells, or rituals? Did he have to learn how to bake certain desserts as acceptable offerings? Did he have to make candles and parchment out of custom materials? Did he have to wear clothes of only very certain materials and dyes? If he got on the bad side of very dangerous creatures, or got himself cursed, how did he negotiate with them or figure out how to solve it? Does some magic only work on humans and not the beings of the forest? What experiences did Ford have regarding dreams and the mindscape? What experiments did Ford try? What technology and engineering did he attempt to etch with runes or control magics with? Did he have to lean more into his artistic skills and make sculptures, weave cloth, knit tapestries?

I don't remember if Hirsch has said anything about the contents of Journal 2 either outside of what we see in the show, and it's been a while since I've read Journal 3 to particularly remember what nods it may have had to Ford's pre-Journal 3 experiences. But there's so much potential! It's SO interesting!

I just completely don't relate at all to people who find these prompts boring just because two of the books basically don't exist. And if you don't like what Hirsch has said about them, then don't use or follow what he said? People always want more creativity about Ford's portal adventures and Stan's first acclimation to the weirdness of Gravity Falls after Ford disappeared, yet people are shutting down at the creative opportunity of these prompts.

There's so many different angles you can approach this stuff from, and I think that's a big part of what makes it fun to think about, personally! It is pretty hard to invent where there is nothing or not much guidance, but I think it is truly worth the attempt! There's nothing wrong with looking up secondary prompts if you need them, whether they're past Forduary/Stanuary/Fiddtober/Maybel/Dipcember/Dipril ones or from events like Funguary/Witchtober/Inktober/Mermay! I do really like how Stanuary has a bingo of additional prompts, and I think such a thing would be cool for Forduary too. I notice some previous years did have various extra prompt ideas.

I'm excited to see what people make, especially for Journal 2! Good luck everyone!! :D

[angelltheninth]

Arcane Characters Hand Headcanons

Pairing: Jinx, Vi, Caitlyn, Maddie, Ekko, Vander, Silco, Sevika, Viktor, Jayce, Mel x Reader

Tags: fluff, size difference, hand-holding, scars, bruises, hand comparison, cuddles

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: I remember there was a post where an artist drew the hands and made some headcanons in their drawings but I don't remember who the artist was. But that was my inspiration for this.

JINX

Long and skinny fingers

Lots of calluses from tinkering with her weapons

A strong grip because of the Shimmer

If looking at her hands in the dark you can see Shimmer running through her veins

Has to constantly be told to be careful when working because she has no concept of safety and has come close to losing more fingers

VI

Her hands are really rough all over

bruises on her knuckles that never seem to heal because she's always fighting

A few bones have been broken over the years and healed haphazardly

Gets the biggest puppy-dog eyes if you take her hands and kiss each finger paying special attention to the bruises

You're the only one she trusts to help her wrap and unwrap her hands every day

CAITLYN

A lot of calluses on her hands, especially her fingers

She's been shooting with a riffle since she was young so the pads of her fingers are tougher than the rest of her hand

The skin on the pads if her fingers is hardened

Likes to wear gloves, which you will say is a shame

Knows you like her hands a lot, but she has a better grip on her guns with the gloves on

MADDIE

Her hands are dusted with little freckles

A bit small, perfect for hand-holding actually

Can crack her knuckles and she doesn't even realize she does it most of the time

Many faded scars from her time growing up and training in Noxus

Refuses to elaborate when you notice how scared her hands are, but if she gets to know you well enough and trusts you she might share a story or two

EKKO

Because he's always working his hands are really rough and even have a few burn marks

There are more than a few broken bones in his hands

Never healed well because he refuses to take Shimmer and it's a bit difficult to find good doctors in Zaun

Habit of tapping his fingers against surfaces, even your arm or back while you cuddle

To keep your relationship on the down-low he often holds your pinkie finger with his

VANDER

His hands are huge compared to yours, you have to use both to hold one of his

The strength he has could crush a man if he tried

Definitely a working man's hands, you can tell he's never skipped a work day in his life

Long faded scratches on his arms and wrists

Still enjoys punching things and has a big punching bag in his room, but he often forgets to wrap his hands, which makes them a bit bloody after

SILCO

For someone in Zaun he takes pretty good care of his hands

Cold compared to yours, like his body temperature isn't quite where it needs to be

Skinny, long fingers but he will paint his nails if you or Jinx ask him to

Takes care of himself so he never has dry hands despite how they look

Always places his hand over yours, it's a protective and possessive habit

SEVIKA

She only has one human hand left but she's reckless with that one too

Always fights so you always help her patch up the bruises and clean the blood

Marks from tearing off scabs or making them bleed again

Usually has a hard grip but softens it for you

Has a few ash burns from her cigarette, she doesn't always move it away in time

VIKTOR

He grew up in Zaun and then threw himself in lab work so he's not the best at taking care of his hands

Skinny, almost boney hands

Has a habit of biting his nails when he's thinking about something

Broke his fingers and wrists more than a few times

You always tell him to wear gloves but he never does, not because he doesn't think he shouldn't but because he doesn't remember

JAYCE

Big, meaty, rough hands, very strong

He always wears gloves when he works, be it the lab or the forge

And yet he still gets that slightly rougher skin, not fully though because he's really careful

Uses hand lotion when he finishes working, it's what makes his skin extra soft

Won't admit that he does it but when you hold hands he's doing math in his head and comparing the hand sizes

MEL

If she didn't tell you then you would have never guessed she grew up in Noxus because her hands are so smooth

Her hands are delicate, with really well manicured nails

Only when you look really close can you see just a few, very tiny cut marks but they're almost completely faded away

Enjoys getting hand massages from you and you complimenting her hands

Tickles you when she runs her nails across your skin

[medusaesque]

Kim's itchy trigger finger

So, Kim reaches for his gun often. Very often. sometimes for the most ridiculous reasons- opening the bear fridge, the experiment in the church, a note from Klaasje.

This one is just from being anxious going into the communist reading group. Kim doesn't want to be the kind of cop who draws his gun constantly, who shoots instinctively, but he is, or at the very least it's very difficult for him to stop himself from becoming one.

Perhaps the most horrifying example is with The Pigs-

Even if he KNOWS the gun isn't loaded, even if he knows it's safe, the instinctual muscle twitch could have ended in an unnecessary death. Kim is very well aware of that fact, and it's horrifying to him. @shufflerock-jam has this really good post about it, where they wonder how many of Kim's kills were unnecessary. "Something about a pair of traumatized cops, one fighting against shooting himself and one fighting against shooting everyone else".

At the end of The Pigs exchange, if Harry says she tried to kill him, Kim begins to interject, but stops himself and agree this situation could've been very bad. Then Empathy chimes in- 'He's trying not to think about how bad it could have been had the gun been loaded.' Which is the heart of the issue, right? that leads us to Eyes-

This is such a fascinating background to give Kim as a character- not just losing his partner, which gives him the trauma and survivor's guilt that lead to this unhealthy relationship with his gun and frankly with death in general, but losing his Eyes, and having that not interfere with his shooting. Kim doesn't need to see well to hit, he doesn't need to think. It's all in his hands, a reflex. A reflex that nearly took an innocent life. That might have taken one before.

His awareness of looming danger, to him and to his partner, is fueling his version of Hand/Eye Coordination to have him constantly on edge, his whole body is like a loaded spring, always prepared to make sure it doesn't happen again. Then it does-

In his nightmare scenario, leaning over his partner's bleeding body, Kim only needs one word to shoot without a second's hesitation. He's never not ready to take that shot. He doesn't need his Eyes.

Harry is distraught to discover he's killed before- his body remembers it. He wants a drink to soften the feeling. Kim however is impressed with how little he's killed- especially coming from the bloody murder unit. He wants to be 'one of the good ones' (Kim's adamant belief in the possibility of a Good Cop is a whole other can of worms) the kind of cop he would think highly of. Kim is disgusted by cops who kill like it's a game. Espirit gives us a vision of a cop exactly like that, who kills so often it doesn't feel like anything anymore. In a way that is completely mechanical- no thought, no feelings, just a thing your body does. Not unlike the way Kim shoots- like a spring unloaded. Kim has 6 confirmed kills before the tribunal, double the amount Harry has. He doesn't react the same way though-

It's doesn't bother Kim that he has killed, even if he declines to elaborate on it, and he seems to frown upon (or worry about) Harry's destructive coping mechanism. If they're unable to save Ruby, he says "Control your emotions. We did our job. This won't be the worst thing that happens on this case… believe me. You can't let this break you." When you wake up after the tribunal, he doesn't dwell on the lost lives on either side. Harry's skills call him a killer, a bloodstained killer, but when he tells Kim he also killed he simply nods. He's smoking though. I'm not saying that Kim is heartless or careless, he's rattled by nearly blowing The Pigs' head off, very sorry for the lives lost during the case, and clearly hunted by death, having been surrounded by it for his entire life. But I do think death is a part of the job for him- not just possible civilian causalities, but his own potential death. He speaks plainly about how he might die in the lie of duty, and he narrowly avoided it more than once, with others dying in his place..

He walked into the line of fire with harry expecting for of them to die, and his quick fingers on the trigger made it so they lived another day. Even if more ghost joined the list that hunts him in his sleep, he is alive. He goes on. He can't afford to fix this habit, as much as he wants to.

So it's so horrible and so touching that when Dros asks "What have you done?" Kim says-

It's a tragedy, really. A wartime orphan who wanted to be a revolutionary pilot and played with Franconigerian knights, who grew up to be a cop, a job that slowly shapes his body into a killing machine. And when you ask what he does, what you both do, he says keep people alive.

[netherfeildren]

With Mercy for the Disturbed

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: He's a father and then he isn't, and then he's in the perfect place with the perfect girl, and he's done so many bad things that terrify the both of them. And then, finally, he's saved and there are dancing bears and doors newly opened, and everyone's a little mad at the end of it all.

-OR-

the Hannibal/Alice in Wonderland AU wherein Joel loses his mind

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: AU; Dubious Consent; Dark Fic; Doctor/Patient Relationship; Forced Orgasm; Rough Sex; Face fucking; Oral Sex (f!receiving); Bondage; Power Imbalance; Exploration of Power Dynamics; Unreliable Narrator; Memory loss; Blasphemy; Discussions of religious disdain; Discussions of morality; References to suicide; Beware of the old man who’s crazy and lets all his intrusive thoughts win; Older man/Younger woman; Creampie; Light breeding kink; Like very light for the likes of me promise; Possessive Behavior; Kidnapping; Joel POV

A/N: Hello and hallelujah, I’m so happy to be posting this!! For a minute after I finished Pink I felt like it would be impossible for me to write anything else ever again, and felt so weird and without anything left to say.  I struggled so much just getting these words down, and it was supposed to be something very different initially compared to what it turned out to be, but I think I quite like the final product. I hope you do too. 

And one million kisses and thank yous and all the praise in the world to @frannyzooey for giving this a little looksy over before posting. You’re the greatest and the bestest, Kelli, thank you so so much :)

Please heed the tags carefully and err on the side of caution!!! The goings on in this are very strange and this is probably the darkest thing I’ve written to date. 

Word Count: 8.8K

Read on AO3

He can’t remember her name anymore, but he remembers the number. It’s been seven hundred and thirty eight days since his daughter died. 

Sometimes, he’s not sure if he even remembers his own name. He thinks it’s Joel, and the sound of it brings him comfort in a way, when it’s especially dark and confusing in his mind, and so he tells himself over and over again that that’s what it is. Joel. Joel. Joel. I am Joel. That that’s what it’s always been. That that’s the name she knew him as. 

Sometimes you call him that too.

He used to be a father, and then one day, so suddenly he can’t recall how it even happened, he lost everything. Like dominos falling over in his mind – the girl, and then his memories and then the man with the face like his. He plays dominos all the time now. 

In his spot in the sun in the big blue room, wearing his whites and his soft socks and taking the pills they force down his throat. He plays dominos, and he does his exercises, and he thinks of that daughter whose name he can’t remember. He says his own name over and over and over again so many times until it’s not even a sound anymore, only a buzz or a hum or a scream. 

His beard is thick and his hair is long, and he does not recognize his own face in the mirror. All he sees are ghost green eyes and dark hair and a fathomless sort of failure. A father, no longer a father. He goes for walks in the garden, he eats the food they give him even when he doesn’t really want to, even when it tastes like ash or greater madness than the one he’s already swallowed. And he waits for you. All the time he waits for you to come to him, he watches the big doors that go out into the world he’s too frightened and broken to step foot in now, draws his fingertip over the gristle of scar tissue at his temple mended over invisible fracture, and he waits and waits, and he says his name and he thinks of that nameless daughter and he waits and he thinks: the morning after I killed myself, I woke up in the perfect place with the perfect white walls and now all I do is wait. 

He sits in his chair in the corner now and counts the seconds for you to come for him. Always at this time, always when the sun is at that spot in the sky. When it rains, and he can't tell where he is in the world, and the clouds are swollen purple gray verging on melancholy and anger, he feels something like despairing. Something like the sort of insane they whisper he is behind his back now.

He watches the puddles filled with dark mercury grow and grow like the ocean rising out of concrete, and the orange tree that drips and weeps and sags and he thinks he feels very much that way inside too. Sometimes, when the sun shines and there are no clouds and he doesn’t feel so terribly downtrodden, or maybe worse than usual, each orange blossom opens like a hand reaching out for him. Begging him not to do it, not to think of it, not to go back to that bad place. Focus only on me, she says. Focus only on the blue walls and the perfect room and the place where the sun sits in the sky, she’s on her way, she’s almost here. 

The first time they’d told him he was ill – or dead – the first morning in the perfect room, he’d been angry, affronted or offended, and he’d howled and fought and said I’m not fucking crazy, it’s only that my daughter is dead. But as much as he’d fought or kicked or screamed, wept until he was brittle and dry as a whale bone, they’d not believed him. And so, he’d come to appreciate the peace of the perfection surrounding him, the perfection of a lie, or the perfection that comes to visit him in the shape of a woman, soft and round in all the right places and pretty. Fuckable. He tries not to think of it. He swears he does. But there’s little else to consider in the perfect place. So really, he thinks of little else. 

You’re almost here, he knows it’s almost time.

A few more moments of the sun in the place where it is until it’s in the place where it should be, and then you’ll be here, and he looks down at the stone in his palm, held for so long it’s turned dark with his sweat now. I shouldn’t have, but I brought you something, placed it in his hand, done that thing with your eyes and your mouth that told him secrets he wasn’t sure you were even aware you were telling him. 

He knows that it’s November now because you’d said it was, and he doesn’t know why, but when you’d told him, he’d wept and wept and wept. Become inconsolable which had sent you to worrying, put the different sort of look on your face, in your eyes, the one that vibrates, that screams instead of whispers. And he’s positive you don’t know you show him that one, but he sees it anyways, you’ve got a shit poker face. And he’d told you between sobs and chokes, it’s November and it’s terrible and I can’t explain why except to say that it’s as though the earth has suddenly realized that she’s grown old and cold and there’s nothin’ she can do to prevent it except weep, and I feel very much like this in my own heart too. And when he looks back up at the sun, it’s finally where it’s supposed to be, and when he looks back at the double doors that lead away to all his fears and all the bad, there you are. You walk towards him slow and measured, and you’re perfect, perfect, perfect. Precious, impeccable, absolutely exceptional in every way. He wants very much to ruin all that pure magnificence. 

He knows that he did something very bad after his daughter, after they took her, lots of very bad things to lots of very bad people. He knows this, he remembers this vividly, enjoys the memory of it, savors it like something sitting sweet and light on his tongue. 

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love with the idea of a girl who was gone who’d come from me who is never going to be again. Who I never made enough time for when there was still time to be made.

You always wear beautiful clothes, and it makes him appreciate the blandness of his own. That you stand out, that he’s merely a blank canvas for you to inflict yourself on. Wool skirts and silk blouses and sheer pantyhose he wants to rip to ribbons with his fingers. Makes him appreciate the beauty of you, faultless, guileless. Sweet in a way he’d never witnessed before like a kitten that’s so adorable you want to squeeze and squeeze and smother until it bursts. Big eyes and a full, soft mouth and breathy voice, and then you’re right there.“Hi, Joel,” and yeah, that’s right, he does know his name, you remind him of it all the time.  

“Mornin’.”

“Ready?”

“As ever.”

The room you usually sit in to talk has a big painting of a field in it, a bear in the far off center up on its hind legs, somehow, appearing as if it’s dancing away. Even the paintings are mad here, but he likes it, wants to dance away into the far off unknown like that too. 

“The middle of the day’s not the best time for fishin’ usually.” Sometimes, you let him start where he wants. Silent until he chooses to break. He pulls the thought out of nowhere. “Bein’ out there’s just the excuse, I suspect, in the sun and the water.” 

He listens to the scratch, scratch of your pen. You write with one of those fountain types with the sharp point, and he wonders if you’ve ever considered how easily he could turn it into a weapon. How smoothly it’d pierce the soft, satin skin of your throat he likes to fantasize about. He would never. But he does like to think about it, pretends it’s a show of your trust, wonders if the guards and higher ups know you bring something like that in here with him. Scratch, scratch, scratch, and it makes his brain itch. 

“You used to fish?”

“Think so.”

“Are you remembering?”

“Nah.” The morning after I killed myself, I lost my memories – it’s only that they’d hurt everywhere I’d touched them, and so I’d had to let them go.

“No?” 

You’ve got the loveliest voice, and sometimes he wishes he could tell you to stop asking so many stupid questions about him and talk about yourself. Endlessly. He chooses a new route. “What is it about empathy that people find so difficult to be generous with?”

That soft hum in your throat he loves, the one he feels soothe that itchy brain of his. “Humans can be inherently selfish. We’re born with only ourselves, we die with only ourselves, sometimes that gets in our way.”

“No… Don’t think that’s true.”

“No?” He knows you like to lead him sometimes, like a game he doesn’t want to enjoy. “You’re the one saying we’re greedy with our empathy.”

“Forgiveness too,” he adds.

The click of your tongue, “Do you think you’re forgiving?”

“Not at all.”

Scratch, scratch. Once he’d asked what it is you write about him during these talks of yours, and all you’d said was notes. It’s the only time he’s ever been angry with you, refused to talk to you for three days after that. Only because if you wouldn’t tell him things, then he wasn’t going to tell you anything either. “Then what’s the point you’re trying to make? What’s your question?” But then he’d missed the sound of your voice too much, had felt the burn of your gaze on his skin too intensely, had masturbated too many times without satisfaction to the memory of your eyes on him that he’d been forced to relent. He needed the sound of your voice in his head also to be able to come. 

“Why is it so difficult?” He asks again because he has to understand. Because he needs an answer desperately. 

“It’s hard to see someone as simply themselves, simply human – a sentient flaw, so to speak – when they make a mistake. And yet, as grievous or offensive as something can be, we all do it eventually. Some people have no patience for that.”

“Even though they themselves will eventually, inevitably, do it too?” He can feel himself getting upset, his heart beating too fast, a cold sweat sprouting at the back of his neck while his face flushes hot and red. 

“Yes.”

“That’s bad.”

You shrug, “Perhaps.”

“Selfish.”

Again, “Perhaps.”

And then the true source of his anger, “I think I’m like that.”

You nod like you understand, and he wants to shake you and make you see that there’s no way you actually could. “Would you like not to be?” It pisses him off when your voice goes all even and patient like that. 

“Yes. I hate people like that. I hate people that can’t find it in themselves to forgive – to give someone a second chance.”

“Why do you think that is?”

He can’t help himself when he vomits the words, not fully expecting them to come out so slicked in truth as they do. “Because I wish someone would give me one, even if I don’t deserve it. F– forgive me– But even then… what does it matter? What does it matter if I’m forgiven, given a second chance, absolved of all my sins? Look at where I am. Look at what I've become. I’m entirely lost to myself. You know, sometimes I can’t remember my own name if you don’t remind me of it.”

“You’re Joel. You had a daughter. Her name was Sarah.” He flinches at the sound of it, wants to bare his teeth at you like a rabid animal. “Your brother is Tommy. He calls every Friday at three o’clock to ask how you are. You’re Joel Miller.” That’s right. The morning after I killed myself, I met my brother for the first time. The real him. The him who’s afraid of me. The real Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Sometimes the name rings familiar in his mind, again, when you remind him of it.

He shakes his head, swallows a gruff sound, tries to shutter the manic look he knows floods his eyes, reverts back to his initial thought, “False senses of moral superiority disgust me.” The sun’s shining in at an angle so that there’s a single tendril of sunlight wrapped around the slim of your crossed ankle, gripping the nylon covered limb in its light. Joel’s eyes shift jealously from that held piece of you to the shadow of far off rain he can see in the distance through the window, trying to find some measure of peace in the sight. It’ll reach here eventually, and he tries to ground himself in the inevitability. “Yes, there’s right and wrong. There’s also humanity. There’s also the right to grow and learn, and to make mistakes that, in the end, make you better. Who are you to condemn me? Is your glass house so pristine not a stain mars it? Grace, forgiveness, empathy… I find those infinitely more valuable than whatever false sense of good and bad you’ve decided makes me worthy or not,” he says, eyes cast towards the coming rain. He can feel your gaze on his face, and he does not want to acknowledge it. 

“But the things you did were bad, Joel. You hurt people. You killed people.” 

That makes his eyes snap back to yours for the way you say it. As if you’re sharing a bit of inconsequential news with him. The weather is about to hit, the rain is almost here. Can’t you see it, just there, in the distance? Voice so even and soft. Sometimes he calls you angel, when he knows he’s charmed you enough just to get away with it, when he’s said all the things he knows you want to hear from him and smiled all the right smiles that cost him so much. Voice like a goddamn angel, face like a goddamn angel. Everything else… like something come straight from Hell to drag him down to where he really belongs and never let him go. 

He eyes you suspiciously. “The Bible says an eye for an eye. They killed my daughter so I took their eyes.” And then other parts.

“And then their lives…” And then their lives. He nods once, succinct. “You ascribe to the scripture?” You snap that little leather bound book open again, red, scratch in it once again, all your secrets about him. That itch returns, stronger than before. He bites down on it, chews it away within himself. 

“What? Like I believe in it? Fuck no. Fuck religion. It isn’t real. A weak construct made for weak men in need of comfort. And– and… like what – it’s going to save my soul? I ate that a long time ago, angel. Look at where I am…” He shrugs, letting his head fall back in a circular motion, coming to rest on his shoulder. He can’t help but smile at you, he knows you hate it when he gets like this, all ornery and heretical. 

You purse your lips, shake your head at him gently, and he wants to eat the lipstick from your soft mouth. “You believe in angels though… you call me–”

His smile cranks up another notch for a single beat. “Gotta believe in somethin’ that’s right in front of my eyes, don’t I? What d’ya think, that’m crazy?” And his eyes slide to the window again, smile melting off his face. “‘Sides they told me so–” 

“Who told you what?” Voice slow, measured, all serious-like. He rolls his eyes, feels the stone of anger in his belly heat, spin, jump to his throat. 

“They killed my daughter,” he spits like a whispered scream instead. The shadow of rain is closer. If the dancing bear were out there, it’d be lost to the deluge by now. “I should’ve done worse. I would have, had I not been thrown away in here.” He remembers that a man with a face like his left him here, but he doesn’t know who. He shakes his head, jostles the non-memory out of his ears, searches harder for the dancing bear, killed a bunch’a people, he murmurs to himself, once more again, because he likes the sound of it.

“So you’re talking about yourself. You want to be forgiven.” He doesn’t like when you tell him, when you don’t ask. It makes him feel like you know something he doesn’t, and he wants to know everything you know. 

“No. I don’t know.”

“Do you feel thrown away, Joel?”

“I feel forgotten – impossible to remember,” his voice cracks at the end, eyes suddenly wet and hot.

“By who?”

“The world.” He can’t remember his childhood. He can’t remember what he was like as a child, and it makes him sad. 

You’re quiet for a long time, no more scratch, scratch, scratch, no more itch. No more angel voice, and then, very soft, like you know you shouldn’t. “I remember you. I haven’t forgotten you.” 

Once, a time ago because he can’t discern lengths of it anymore, it doesn't exist here in the perfect place, amidst what, he thinks, is a lot that you know you shouldn’t have allowed, you’d changed the routine up on him. Had sent for him, instead of coming for him yourself. When he’d stepped into the room where you have your talks, you’d been facing the big window, looking out at the green, the line of your shoulders and the dip of your waist and the swell of your ass in your skirt that shifts like water around your knees and the saliva pooling heavy in his mouth, it’d been too much, too much for a broken thing, and you hadn’t turned. Like the pen, like more trust, you hadn’t turned to face him even though he knew you’d heard the door snick shut behind him. He’d stepped as quiet as he could up behind you, quiet like when he was sneaking to kill, and he’d brushed a single tip of his finger up the length of one of your skinny, little ones, so much smaller and finer than his thick, brutish ones, stroked the palm of your hand. You’d made the tiniest sound, interrupted by a swallow, but he’d heard it. He’d heard the want in it. He’d not forgotten either, and he sees that sound in your eyes now, again, as you stare at him with an intention he’s not so fucking crazy that he doesn’t know you shouldn’t possess. 

He smiles a little again, and you don’t return it, but it’s okay, he sees the sound of your want in your eyes anyways, and that’s infinitely more satisfying to him. “It would serve us all well to remember to try to be a little more empathetic, a little more forgiving.”

You swallow, shaken, he can tell. Shaken by that thing inside you for him he knows shouldn’t be there. You scratch a little in the book, say slowly, “It starts with you, I think, you have to forgive yourself first.”

He doesn’t acknowledge that. There are things you talk about you clearly have no understanding of. You’re young. You don’t know better. He understands. “I think… I think, I haven’t been myself lately.”

“Who have you been?”

And again, he doesn’t mean to say it, but you tell him so much you don’t mean to say either that he feels he might as well also. “Someone–” That anger again, he can’t help himself even though he desperately wants to. “Someone my daughter would be afraid of.” Full blown rage now. At you. Yes, at you. You force things from him he doesn’t want to give you, and there’s a thing within him that wants to punish you for it, take a pound of flesh in repayment. “I want someone to forgive me. I want to be forgiven. I want to experience it.” Truth is like fire, hypnotizing, seductive, once it catches, inextinguishable. He wants to hate you sometimes for forcing these things from him, for not giving him a choice, and worst of all, done so unintentionally, unknowingly. He wants to not give you a choice either. 

“From who?” You ask. Silly little girl. You need to learn the art of restraint, of temperance. He should teach you. 

“Our hour’s up.” He looks away, dismissing you. As if he’s the one in charge here, and not the one caged. Divested. 

“No, it isn’t. It’s–”

“Our hour’s up,” head snapping back towards you, barking–  “It’s time for you to go.” And something in his gaze must tell how far he’s been pushed, by you, for you jerk up and out of your chair suddenly, turning to scurry towards the door, not bothering to say goodbye, not bothering to turn back, not bothering to notice the clatter of your pen on the linoleum. 

He watches you go, a single black seam runs up the back of your hose, and the sight makes him feel violent, eager for darkness and the solitude of his white box room. 

-

He doesn’t know why, maybe the way the rain beats against the singular tiny window in his room, maybe the way it whispers at him like all the other things that whisper at him now, but he knows you’ll come before he hears the stunted jangle of keys, the sigh and click of his door, the bare pad of shoeless feet on the hard floor, you’d thought this through, your too fast, too shallow breathing. 

He’s staring up at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head, cock hard, a little chafed. He wasn’t able to make himself come tonight, sometimes it doesn’t work, sometimes he needs the imagination of your wet cunt more than just the mere memory of your voice in his mind and the remembered feel of your gaze on him, but he’s never let himself picture the full act of fucking you. Thinks it would send him to a level of unhingedness he’d find unable to restrain in your presence. He only thinks of bits and pieces of you, like a dissected doll pulled apart for his half pleasure. Never the full thing, ever. 

You try and say whatever it is you want to say several times before it finally comes out, all choked and feigned regret, but you do try and put on a good show, swallowed up by nerves as you are. “I– I just– I just came to make sure you’re okay,” you whisper. You’ve never been in his room before. He’s never had you in his space like this, and it makes him leak. 

“You didn’t come for that.” Voice slow, still wide eyed, looking up at the white domed ceiling, something like victory in the shape of a hymn pounding through his veins. He won’t look at you until he’s ready. 

“I… I felt badly about how we left things this afternoon. I shouldn't have– I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t end our talk the way– the way… Joel?” You stutter,  trail off, voice small and unsure. 

He sees you move out of the corner of his eye. One step forward, two back, pressing up against the door again. Little bunny full of regret for coming into the wolf's bed, and he moves suddenly, swift despite his age still. He has little to do here besides move his body, make sure it doesn’t grow rust. He sits up quick as a whip, swinging his legs over the edge of his too small bed, planting his feet wide and sturdy on the cold floor. He can see the tremble of your throat even from here, the pristine lines of you. Your hair and your face and your tits and the tiny little pearl buttons of your blouse like soldiers waiting to be felled on the battlefield. He’s going to rip them from you, pluck the garments keeping you hidden away from your skin, spread you out, filleted. 

“That’s not what you came here for, angel.” He shakes his head slowly, and your panic ricochets higher, makes his cock harder. Your arm reaches back for the latch slowly, fumbling behind you, and he braces his legs. Your other palm outstretched, fingers trembling. He gives you another slow shake, as if that small gesture could keep him at bay. “I hear all the things you tell me. Don’t worry. I always hear.”

“Wh– what do you mean?”

“I always see the things you want me to know. I know… I know. It’s okay.”

“I don’t– I’m not sure… I shouldn’t have come.” Your hand finds the latch, angling your body to slip through as swiftly as possible, and his muscles coil tight and ready. “I just wanted– to– to make sure…” You pull the door open, move to slip away, and he lunges for you, catches the edge of the swinging door, lets you float in the lie that you’ve gotten away for a few seconds, scurrying a few paces down the dark corridor of his perfect place where he’s found his perfect girl. 

The morning after I killed myself, I found an angel. 

You make it as far as the bend in the hall before he’s trapping you in his grip, swinging you around so fast you bounce against the white tiled walls, cages you there, open mouth immediately at your jugular, biting down hard while his big palm completely smothers your face, forces your choked cry back down. His other arm wraps around your waist, lifting and dragging you back down the hall towards his white box and his little bed and all his fantasies, artery caught between his teeth, no more choices to be had, exactly like you leave him all the time. He whispers at you to be quiet, quiet, quiet, angels are always good, and then he’s shutting the door behind him, trapping you inside and plucking the keys from your skirt pocket, locking the two of you away together as you should’ve been from that first day. 

You try and struggle in his arms, little feet kicking weakly at his shins, scratching at his sides where he has your arms trapped, but the sound of your fight is restrained, held low and gurgled in your throat, and he knows that you know that this is what you’d come for, that you’re getting exactly as you’d sought. 

“Fight harder if you’d like,” he says low in your ear, throwing the keys to the far corner and wrapping both arms tight around you, pressing all the air out. Finally, fucking finally. He’s touching you, the plush heat of your breasts against his chest, the soft swell of your belly against his stomach. He’s so fucking hard he wants to rut into you like a beast. “I want you to be scared,” and it’s the foremost truth he’s ever shared with you. The heart of all his depravity. “I want you to want it so bad you’re terrified. As bad as I want it. I want you to not want it also. Want you to fight and cry and scratch and bite, and then take it anyways ‘cause I’m gonna to give it to you anyways. You always take all of my choices from me,” he adds on, voice going barely there, mumbled, pressing a tiny kiss to the tiny hammering pulse in your throat, and you let out your first soft moan. An angel singing right into his ear. Your fighting tells all sorts of lies. He hoists you higher, presses you closer, and you wriggle and squirm, grinding his erection into the soft apex of your thighs. 

“Joel– stop, please– please. I– I didn’t think–” He bends his head to your breast, drags his nose over the hard peak he feels beneath the silk of your blouse, nuzzles there, enjoying the sound of your breathlessness, again that feigned shock. You’re right, you didn’t think, and it’s too late now. What did you expect would happen, coming here to his cage like this in the middle of the night? He catches the taut peak between the edge of his teeth, tugs gently, plucking your cords.

With a fist wrapped in the length of your hair he forces you to your knees at his feet, jerking your head back roughly so that your mouth falls open on a gasp giving him the opportunity to hook his fingers over the edge of your bottom teeth, stretching your jaw open wide. “Open– lemme see,” he orders. “I wanted you so bad,” dragging the pad of his thumb along the sharp edge of your jaw. “I want you so bad. All those days when you forced me to tell you things I didn’t want to tell you. I’m going to show you temperance now, angel,” he nods his head down at you condescendingly when you try and protest. I didn’t force you to do anything, “But you did. You did. You pulled things out of me I didn’t want to share. And now I have to have you. You always take all of my choices from me.” He clicks his tongue down at you, and there are tears in your eyes that go wide and something worse than frightened when he tugs the elastic waist of his soft white pants down, pulls out his angry erection and heavy balls. Your expression morphing from something worse than frightened, to something like desperate, like hungry, like his for the taking. And he’s big, he knows it. Much too big for the pretty little throat he’s about to force it down. But he’s going to be gentle, he’s going to help you, teach you. 

“Joel, please–” And look at you beg, so pretty with tears in your eyes, running down your cheeks. He brings the searing brand of his erection to your cheek, presses the burning hot skin all over your face, coating himself in the wet of your tears, marking you in the thick male scent of him. And the feel of you, just like this, just this little bit – with his fingers still hooked over the edge of your teeth he turns your face so that your open mouth brushes against his length. “Taste– I know you’re hungry for it. Give it a kiss hello, little angel.” 

Your eyes flash up to his face for a brief moment, almost too quick for him to catch, and then you’re pursing your mouth against him, swallowing the shudder that moves through his entire frame. A tiny kiss to the ridged underbelly of his cock, the drag of your lips against the length of him to the fat tip, and then another kiss with wet lips and enough tongue to undeniably lick up some of what’s slicking it. You want him, even if you won’t admit it, even if you cry or fight. It’s all he needs to know. 

Still caught by the teeth he jerks your head back forward, opens you wider and forces his cock down your throat. You gurgle around him, whining, shrieking, false, he knows what you really want. Can feel it in the slicking of your tongue around the proof of his desire for you, he’s giving you everything he has, and he spits your name, purges it from his belly like an infection over and over again while he starts to fuck your mouth. Feels you gulp hard just at the right moment to get his leaking tip caught tight at the choking opening of your throat. He could come just like this. He could, he could. You’re all his. Fill your belly with his semen until it bulges, feed you himself until you’d never be without him. He lets his head fall back, looks up at the white dome, at the false home of the false God, tells you again, voice all cracked and broken and gone away from him, “I don’t believe in God anymore, but that’s okay. I have you to believe in now,” fucks harder, listens to your cries climb up the walls, savors the scratch and shove at his thighs when he tightens his fist in your hair to a painful degree. You always take all my choices from me, always. But he knows that if he’s to show you temperance he must exercise his own, and after a few more slick thrusts, he pulls wetly from your mouth, enjoying your whistling groan as you sag face first against his thigh. He pets your hair now gently, fingers twisting through the softness. He’d always wanted to feel it, memorize its texture, its scent. There is nothing about you that isn’t worthy of veneration, of doing the worst thing in the world just to have you, taste you, keep you.

He lets you rest for a moment, wonders at the fact that you haven’t screamed yet. You easily could, call for help, salvation, an escape. You haven’t, and it soothes him. Makes him feel disgusting in a way that doesn’t match up with how disgusting it should feel to force himself on his pretty angel; a self satisfied type of disgust. Something he should be more ashamed of than he truly is. But when you have so little, when you barely have yourself, when theft is the only means of self satisfaction, little recourse remains for creatures caged in perfect places with only bad avenues left to them. 

He hauls you up by your underarms, lets his wet cock press trapped between the two of you, and he’s so close, so close, so close to what he’s needed for so long. He gathers you in his arms, cradles you gentle and with purpose. Tucks your hair behind your ears and wipes the tears and spit from your face, takes it the sparkle of your big wet eyes. So pretty. “Truly like an angel,” and chucks you beneath the chin when you shake your head at him. “You are. So pretty and so soft.” And then finally, like so many times he’d forced himself not to imagine it because he was terrified of what the fantasy would turn him into, no longer the dancing bear in the distance finding it’s escape, but a hungry one, a violent one, an animal so far beyond control all it could do was devour, he pulls you close by the tip of your chin and swallows your mouth whole. All tongue and teeth and the slick slide of your own fervor because yes, it’s there, tangling with his own mouth, pressing your own spit onto his tongue like an offering. You kiss him back.

You kiss him back.

 And, “I want to make you my little butterfly,” he says, “Spread you open, pinned just for me to look at. Only me.” He whispers it into your mouth, soft and secret and true. He’d string you up if he could, split you open and peer inside, rifle through the shafts of your ribs like a lexicon that spells out the truth of who you really are. And then that sudden anger again, that furious stone spinning in his throat. His touch becomes harder, punishing, “You’re going to tell me everything about you,” he says with all that rage in his voice, spits the stone out at you. “You shouldn’t have kept secrets from me.” Fuck the little red book and the scratch, scratch, scratch. He’s going to have all your truths. He’s going to be the one taking all of your choices away from you now. 

He hauls you towards his little bed, popping the pretty pearl buttons as he goes, knowing he’s going to go to his knees later to collect them like treasures for himself after this is done. He rips the blouse from your shoulders, shudders at your indignant little gasp with the sound of the tearing silk, and you’re all soft skin and fine lace and the prettiest thing he’s ever beheld with his own two eyes in this whole life. 

You bring one delicate hand up to his throat, try and grip him there, push him back, but he presses into the touch, sucks at your mouth again, harder, biting, and you say onto his tongue that you shouldn’t, and please, Joel, just wait, but he won’t and he can’t and he tells you it’s useless to fight because he’s having you regardless. 

“No, no– none of that. You’re going to take your fucking like a good little girl,” and something about his words or his tone or the look in his eyes must make the connection in your brian that this is happening click because you suddenly go boneless, head falling back to bear your throat for him, soft sound of concession slipping from your lips. 

He goes in for the kill, he’s always been exceptional at that, after all. Teeth latched at your jugular, tongue up and across the slope of soft sugared skin, and you taste like salvation. He’s saved now, he’s sure of it. Everything he’d lost, his daughter, his mind, himself, he’s going to find it buried in your cunt. Joel is absolutely certain of it. 

He divests you of your skirt, the pretty lace, leaves the nylons held up by tight elastic around your soft thighs, and then it’s all just bare skin and heat and your soft whimpers, the coolness of your hair between his fingers. He lays you out across the length of his bed, takes in the majesty of his winnings. An angel felled and caught. You lie there staring up at him, and there’s an innocence to your gaze that brings him to his knees, set down and at your mercy now. He parts your legs slowly, one small kneecap in the bowl of each palm, the softest skin he’s ever felt beneath these death roughened hands, and Joel could sob now, weep if he had the time for it. He spreads your thighs wide, palms dragging up the insides, calluses catching on the smooth nylon and watches the dip and hitch of your belly as you gasp and shiver. 

“Are you scared?” He whispers right as his palms reach the uppermost part of your thighs, and you’re all softness and warm, damp skin, plush in a way that makes his mouth water and his gums ache, and then he’s finally laying eyes at the center of you, and you’re slicked in the gloss of your desire for him. Playing pretend, feigned fight and reluctance, but he’s looking right at the heart of you, and all he sees now is your truth. You shake your head no, let out a soft breath. “Look at this drippy little cunt,” and he drags his thumb over the pearl of your clit just as whisper soft as his voice is. A half screeched hitch claws up your throat, your thighs jumping at that first touch. He needs to see more, hooks a thumb at each delicate lip and spreads wide, but gently, so as not to hurt you. That’s for later. He stretches your little hole, enjoys the shy wink it gives him. 

“My God… look at you,” he says with something like reverence in his voice. So slick and gorgeous. “I think this little cunt’s going to take me in very nicely.” He runs the pad of his thumb over your swollen clit again, clicks his tongue when your knees try to struggle shut. “None’a that, angel. Be good for me now.” He presses harder at your clit, runs his thumb down to your twitching opening, passes there lightly, coating himself in your leaking slick. “I wanted you so bad,” he tells you, one more moment for confessions before he starts. “I want you so bad. And you’ve always taken all my choices from me. Forced me to stay myself when that’s not who I want to be anymore.”

“You’re Joel,” you whisper, and bring your hand to circle the wrist of the hand he’s petting you with. Not pushing him away or pulling him closer, only a gentle manacle around the thick of his bone. He looks up and into your eyes as he presses his thumb slowly inside of you, hooking it over the thin edge, twists you open slow and gentle and measured, gets you ready for the thickness he’s about to split you open with. 

“That isn’t who I wanted to be anymore. I wanted to forget all that, all the bad, her, I wanted to forget all of it. I tucked her name under my tongue for so long it became blood, and I wanted it like that. And you didn’t let me.” 

Your thighs shift restlessly around him, and you bring one foot up to the edge of the bed, anchoring yourself there so that you can begin a gentle rocking motion of your hips, fucking yourself slowly on his thumb. Your breasts heave and sway with the motion and his balls go so tight and so searingly hot, he could come just now like this from the sight of you, suddenly green and untried like he was in his youth. He didn’t think it was going to be like this, and it’s like he’s wasting your honor, stealing it from you, but something given can’t be stolen and his plans are foiled, he’s not in control but he doesn’t really care either. He finally has you. 

He bends his head, brings his mouth to your slick swollen cunt and takes the first sip. Groans so deep in his chest he’s more animal than man suddenly, sucking hard and sharp on your clit, he pulls his hand from you and laves his tongue over the entire slope of your sex, tongue dipping into the well of you. He spreads your lips again, wide, stretches your hole and fucks you with his tongue, big nose pressed to your clit, drowning in your sweet musk. Your fingers twine in the overly long curls of his hair, and he grips your thighs so hard he’s sure you’ll be left with the mark of him later which only makes him rougher, stronger in his hold. With your grip in his hair you sing for him in soft moans and whimpers and more feigned resistance with whispers of no, Joel, and please, stop while you ride his face, his entire mouth covering your cunt, eating it. More beast than man, not Joel, not a father, not a brother, not a killer, only yours. Carved in the image you’d wanted him to be. The one you’d made him with your words and your looks and your scratch, scratch, scratch. All those times you’d asked him what do you want, Joel? And he’d never had an answer for you because what was he supposed to say? You, this, freedom, your wet cunt, the far off field and the dancing bear and my daughter back, alive, my brother, face not unknown. My name, my name, I want my name back. I want myself back. To be alive. I want to be alive. You come on his tongue, first with a shudder and then with a groan, your entire body flushes hot, and it’s a concession of yourself and a door opening, the first vestiges of what the rest of his life will be. 

“You’ve got the sweetest little cunt, baby. Goes so tight and wet and fluttery,” he licks up the sticky sweet of your come, runs his tongue over the wet around his mouth, feels it trickle through his beard. “Think I’ll keep you.” 

Pulling his shirt up and over his head, he crawls up the length of you, slotting his hips between your damp thighs, pushing his soft pants down his legs as he goes, gathering the small of your wrists in a manacle of his fingers to pin them up above your head. He drapes himself over your body, covering you entirely with his weight and pauses for a moment, nuzzling through the curtain of your hair to get at your ear, your throat, your smell. “Are you going to fight back?” He says soft into the small shell of your ear. 

“No, I don’t want to.” You turn your head further to the side, bearing more of your throat to him. 

He follows your orders, runs a line of wet kisses up the delicate column, tastes the pulse of your heart and the slope of your shoulder. “Why not?”

“I don’t have it in me. I’m not a fighter, I came from a place where there was always fighting, where I always had to do battle constantly. I don’t have it in me now, anymore, ever.” You turn to face him again, lick at the line of his mouth, suck on his tongue, your hips rolling now against him, his erection slotted between the soaked lips of your cunt, swallowing him in warmth. “But also, because you were right. Because I want you. Because I did take all your choices from you.” 

Your words pull a groan, a whimper from him, and he pulls his hips back, presses forward, uncoordinated and slipping against all that slick, hot skin. He lets one of your wrists go, keeps the other trapped above your head. “Fuck– grab my cock,” and he feels the heat of your fragile formed hand wrap around the thick of his cock. An ugly, brutish thing held by perfection. You squeeze gently, twist just barely, and he feels his tip rim puckered skin, hot and round and persistent, probing against you as you try and find the right angle. “I’m gonna ride this cunt – hard. And you’re going to take it just how I give it. And you’re going to beg for more and harder and you’re going to thank me.”

Yes, yes, yes. Please, Joel. Thank you, Joel. 

You notch the tip of his cock at the wet mouth of your cunt, and then he’s pushing in, saving himself, finding salvation, returning or leaving himself, it doesn’t really matter anymore. He presses in, in, in all the way until he’s sitting hard and heavy and deep inside of you, and he’s sure he can almost feel your heartbeat when he bottoms out, balls pressed to the slick curve of your bottom. Your breaths scratch in whimpers against his ear, his hair fluttering in the wind of your gasps, and your free arm wraps tight around the back of his neck, your hips rolling to take more, impossible, for he’s already deep as he can be, tip to womb. But he shifts his weight, grinds against your cervix and enjoys the sound of your pained moan. 

“You feel right there? Where it hurts? That’s where I fuck you full’a my baby, little angel.” And his thoughts are unhinged, his desires full of madness and future and possibility. He pulls his hips back, drops them and shifts his weight forward inside of you. “And right there?” Grinds against your most sensitive spot, “That’s where I make you cream all over my cock.” He pulls his hips back again, focuses the tip of his cock at that desperate place inside of you and with his hand gripping your bottom to the point of pain he pounds into that place over and over again. The slick wet, obscene sound of his cock fucking in and out of your drippig cunt rings in his ears, and he grits thourgh clenched teeth, “Say thank you, say thank you. Beg me for it harder.”

And you’re so good, so good, and all please, Joel. Harder, harder, more. You’re so deep, it’s so good, please, more. 

He’s going to fill you up and mark you and keep you for himself, and he bends his head, wraps his mouth around the full and heavy weight of your bouncing tit as he fucks you into orgasm around his cock. Going tight, tight as a fist, so wet it drips down his balls and onto the already soaked sheet of his too small bed, and you come for him the way he’d never let himself fantasize about before. Your moans like a song in his ear, and it’s so fucking good, better than any dream, better than anything the voices in his head or the dancing bear could have ever conjured up. He shifts upwards, anchoring himself above you so that he can look down at you as he fucks down deep into your cunt, cock punching against your womb so that it hurts, so that the look on your face is folding in on itself, but good enough still so that your pussy convulses again in another forced orgasm. He wants to look at you as he fills you with his spend, turns you into something he owns after this. 

“Gonna fill you up now– gonna fill you until you’re leakin’ me.” Your hands slide up the soft slope of his stomach, his chest, fingers dragging through the hair there, twisting and pulling on it, up to his face where you cup his chin gently, eye to eye and all wrapped up in your cunt he starts to come, the thick heat of his semen coating your womb while you milk him deeper, every last drop of every last part of him he has to give. 

When he’s done he pulls heavy and wet from you, the sight of your swollen red cunt gaping from him, he finally pulls the slick ruined panty hose from your legs, the marks of the too tight elastic leaving brands in your soft skin, he fingers the grooves gently, clicks his tongue at the sight in reproach. The only thing leaving marks in your skin now should be him. He pulls your wrists back into his grip again, and the look on your face is almost melting in submission, soft and spent and sloppy, leaking cunt all covered in him. 

He ties each delicate wrist to the iron frame of his bed, tight, he can leave marks here now, you’re all his, and returns his attention to the source of his salvation, ignoring your protests as he eats his own come from your cunt until you’re crying a little too loud to remain undiscovered, coming twice more before he gives you reprieve, but he’s the one taking all your choices now, and you have no say in what happens after this. 

He eyes the forgotten keys he’d thrown to the dark corner of his white boxed room, “If you’re not good and quiet, I’ll leave you here for everyone to find, naked and fucked and leakin’ me. Pretty used cunt for the whole world to see, that what you want?”

“No, Joel,” you shake your head, all falsely innocent gaze sparkling up at him. 

And he tells you how good you are because the two of you are only going to share truths with each other now, only going to share everything. “I had nothing for so long. Nothing. Not even my own body, not even my own mind. Now I have you, and I won't give you up for anythin’. You’re mine now. They all told me so.” 

“Who told you?” You ask softly, but he ignores the question as he draws his clothes back upon himself. 

“I find myself so hard to remember and so easy to forget, but you remember me. You said so, and now I’m going to make sure you never forget.” Joel collects the keys and the pearls brought to him for his salvation, the dancing bear is so close now, and wraps your shredded clothes back around you, unties your wrists from the bed only to re-secure them, and hoists you folded over his shoulder for the taking. 

Joel lost his daughter, and then he lost his mind, but now he’s found you. And they said it would all be okay now that he’s found you. 

The morning after I killed myself, I found the end of my suffering, and at the end of that suffering there was a door – behind that door, I am alive again.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

[zomb-rabbit]

Rubbing my hands together evily again

Wondering if I could make another request of it's alright

Tim, Brian, and Evan (I have favorites hehe) with a gn or Afab s/o whos an artist and sees them as a muse

(could be sfw could be nsfw whatevers more fun)

Tyty and your works are great :3!!

-🐟

hi !! glad to see you're taking requests for evan :) I was wondering if you could do some hcs for Evan with a reader who draws/sketches a bunch?? like they always use evan for inspo in drawings and they draw things they do in their relationship?? maybe something about how evan catches them looking and drawing him when they think he's not looking.. and maybe if you'd like you could include habit and his reaction to it as well.. I hope this makes sense and isn't too much!! if it is feel free to ignore 🫶

i decided to combine these two just to make it easier for navigation and all that, i hope that's okay !! thank you both soso much :) <333

🚬📹☠️🐇 Tim Wright / Brian Thomas / Evan Myers / HABIT x artist!reader

· · ·

Tim :

listen

he hates to pry. he really does.

but he wants to see EVERYTHING

he's trying to sneak peaks going behind the couch when your drawing in the living room, oh-so-conveniently needing to be in your guys' room when you're working on something at your desk- he thinks he's being very covert

he's an awkward and easily embarrassed man, he doesn't think to just ask to see no matter how many times you tell him he can

he is thoroughly thrown through a loop when he sees you drawing him

he has some. not great self esteem regarding all of the things he's been through and been told, and he has good reason to be anxious about most things- especially someone important leaving him

him getting reassurance that you actually do like how he looks and that you love him so much he's stuck in your mind when he's gone means so, so much more than he could ever comfortably express.

he does try to, though

through embarrassed and deeper mumbled praise, some red tinted cheeks and his finger nervously rubbing at the edge of the page

he asks if he can keep a smaller doodle on him :)

Brian :

YOUR !! BIGGEST !!! SUPPORTER !!!!

he's hyping you up however he knows possible

he was a theater and film kid, there's no way he didn't meet a couple art kids in there

he'll get a real good look at whatever it is you show him before he points out things like the shading in a particular area looks really good, the line art flows really well, things like that

as a former (short term lol) actor, he knows how frustrating it can be to just hear a "that looks great!" when you've worked really hard on something

if you draw HIM?? he's beyond flattered

and a little taken aback by how much you remember of him

Brian's big on trying to figure out other people, understand what makes them the way they are, what they're gonna do- so much so i think that he can forget how much other people soak him in, too

so when you showcase all of your focus and love for him through your art, it fixes up his worldview a little bit

he has a big burst of that "this is why i love you" feeling and he looks at you with the biggest dopiest smile

if you let him keep any of the work you do he'll try to find a way to keep at least one of them on him at all times

in his wallet, phone case, jean pocket, something like that

he just wants a little bit of you wherever he goes :)

Evan :

HE LOVES IT SO MUCH

little doodles on the grocery list, scribbles on the corner of a reminders list, drawing on his hand when you get bored; you name it and he's gonna cherish it

he thinks it's the cutest thing when you think he can't see you looking up at him every now and then while you're buried in your sketchbook across the couch

you have an entire page that's getting decorated with scattered snapshots of your life together

the two of you with your foreheads pressed together laughing at each other from when he was trying to butter you up to try and get you to go to a specific place for dinner, how he looked at you when you cut your finger making lunch and he decided he hand to kiss all over your hand for good measure- so many small moments that meant the world in both of your hearts and, eventually, you end up wanting to show him what you've been working on

and he may or may not have gotten a little bit very emotional about it

you just mean so much to him

this poor man has been through and lost so much

he's so grateful for you, and to know that you're so grateful for him as well? and enough to cherish the same moments he does and immortalize the two of you like that? he's gone

HABIT :

NOOOSSSSYYYYYYYYYY BASTARD

you couldn't hide a crumb from him

he's known you've been drawing him since the first time you did it because he is a little SPY

he can be so quiet when he feels like it, and he wants to see eeeeverything you draw

the process intrigues him

if he caught you looking up and back down to your sketchbook at him, i can see him doing two things

going over and seeing how the drawing looks already because he wants to know what you think he looks like

OR rapidly switching positions for you to draw him in, "is this my good side? make sure you get my face. can you draw me with blood? i want blood-"

he is very proud to be your muse, though

he'll hang up any finished pieces you let him have

[musette22]

Hi Minnie! I love your blog - you are a ray of sunshine and occasional (frequent?) horniness and it’s DELIGHTFUL. I’m not very far into the fandom, and I’m sure many many others have thought of this, but I love the idea that cats are drawn to Bucky’s arm. Maybe the tiny vibrations of the motors? Maybe the smooth-but-still-textured-so-perfect-for-rubbing-against plates? I can picture Bucky at a cat cafe, arm draped in many purring beasties, face blank but heart full.

Hiiii honey! Thanks so much for your sweet message, I'm so glad you enjoy my blog 💞 I have never been called 'a ray of frequent horniness' before but now I never want to be called anything else 😂

You know what... I'm not sure that I remember any other posts or fics talking specifically about this! But I have no idea why not, because it is a brilliant idea!! I LOVE the thought of cats being drawn to Bucky's arm, both because it's so cute and because Bucky loves cats too, but, perhaps most importantly, because I feels like it would really help a recovering Bucky to accept the arm as a part of him, and as something that isn't inherently violent but is capable of gentleness and good things, too 🥺

So now I'm imagining post-TWS Bucky, still in recovery, struggling to look at his arm in the mirror and scared to touch things with it (especially Steve, no matter how often Steve tells him he loves every part of Bucky, including his metal arm). And then one day, he's hanging out with Natasha, and her cat Liho saunters over him where he's sitting on her couch. Bucky keeps very still; he's a little nervous around animals because he's scared he'll hurt them.

Because of his nerves, the plates in his arm whir and shift, which draws Liho's attention, and then she sidles up close and sniffs his arm, before rubbing her head against it. She keeps doing it for so long that Bucky relaxes a little bit, and then Liho climbs into his lap and meows until Bucky finally, very carefully, curls his arm around her small body. Liho curls up into the crook of his helpbow and starts purring like mad, and Bucky shoots Natasha a bewildered look. But she just smirks and says, "Guess she like your arm".

Bucky still thinks it's a fluke, but then it keeps happening with every cat he meets (and he suddenly meets a lot of them, which he suspects is Natasha's doing). Finally, Bucky has no choice but to accept that cats really do like his metal arm, and that he hasn't hurt a single one of them, even when he fell asleep on the couch with a cat on top of him and startled awake when it suddenly dug it's nails into his chest. And if he's okay handling something as relatively helpless and fragile as a small furry animal, then surely he'll be okay touching Steve with it, too...

Steve, of course, is so happy with this new development that he decides to take a chance and gives Bucky a cat of his very own. Alpine and Bucky instantly adore each other, and from that moment on, Steve frequently finds them lying on the floor together, napping in a ray of late afternoon sunlight, Alpine curled up in the crook of Bucky's left arm 🤍

Love this idea so so much, thank you for sharing your thoughts with us, lovely! 😘

[reiderwriter]

I'm curious to hear your thoughts about the dom/sub debate when it comes to mr Spencer Reid.I personally lean towards believing he is more of a soft/rough dom depending on the day.And especially since your dom spencer fanfictions are some of my absolute favorites of all time (the margaritas part 2 had me weak on the knees),I would love to hear you profile my favorite profiler as to if he is a dom or a sub,which you believe is more true.(I know which one is like to believe to be more true😂)I would love to read your insight to his brain and how you understand him!Have a great day!! :)

Oh I would LOVE to get into it, and this is going to be a season by season break down so please bare with me lmao

Spoilers (kinda) for season 1-15 of Criminal Minds under the cut, only read up to where you are in the show!

Season One

You may be thinking "surely that is a sub" and you would be right, if he was having sex, which he is very clearly not. He graduated from his third PhD and then immediately joined the BAU, that is a virgin, your honor.

Season Two

At some point in season one, he loses his virginity. Probably to Lila Archer, maybe to Elle (no further questions, there are some amazing fanfictions that fill in this). But whoever he is doing it with is absolutely dominating him, he just doesn't know it.

Season Two Spencer is curious about BDSM, but having what he assumes is Vanilla sex (just because he isn't calling women Mommy yet, he thinks that he is having normal sex, when in reality he's like pathetically whining asking for release).

During his ongoing addiction days, I think he'd be more than happy to just switch off his brain during sex and just follow orders, do what he's told.

Season Three

A sub and he knows it. Still feels unconfident enough to not be in charge in the relationship, he likes switching his brain off when he fucks. But something does start to switch and he's suddenly a little bit more confident this season, so I can see him being a bit of a brat - talks back, doesn't follow rules, really very mouthy in front of other.

((The majority of my sub Spencer smut is set at around this time - I ❤️ whiny brats lmao))

Season Four

This is where I can see him becoming a bit more confident but I don't think he's a dom yet. I do think he's absolutely taking advantage of his leg injury and absolutely loving being ridden, not having to put in any work. I think after all this he decides he really likes the look on the other person's face when they're on the edge of ecstasy and he wants to explore drawing that out a bit.

Season Five

I think we're experimenting here. So many things have happened in his life by this point that I think he needs to gain control in some part of his life, and his sex life is just the easiest option. He's still giving switch energy, but that sudden short haircut? The brattier energy? He's suddenly coming into himself again, and he's definitely comfortable being a little more dominant now. But he's not an experienced dom yet, so I think he's just taking charge and telling his partners what to do, he's not into choking/ punishment/ degradation yet.

I can't remember if its season five or six where he points out he isn't a typical "alpha male." A lot of people take this to mean that he's calling himself a sub, which could definitely be the case, but also, I think he likes being underestimated sexually, because it makes it more exciting for him when he does get the upper hand in the relationship, which he does in that episode (he interviews the wife and then tells her that her husband killed the actual father of her child and makes her stare at their faces until she cracks and breaks down into tears. He offers her no comfort is all I'm saying... 👀)

Season Six

This is controversial, but I think from this point on, Spencer is fully a dom. He has that scare where he thinks he's "developing" Schizophrenia, and his constant headaches, he just needs release and I think he finds it in multiple beds, lmao. He does have that moment of vulnerability at the end of the season when everything happens with Emily, so I think if he's having sex it's back to Vanilla, but like really passionate, and I'm not saying that he'd fall in love with everyone who's bed he falls into but I'm just saying he needs companionship at the end of this season.

Season Seven

This season starts with him literally cutting off the board of directors at the FBI to correct them and standing by his decisions and if that isn't the biggest dick energy ever idk what is. He's angry, and he's frustrated, and he thinks the team overlooks him a little bit, so you know what he's going to do? He's going to dominate whoever he's in bed with to regain some of that control. I can see this as the time that Spencer finally really gets into more aspects of BDSM. He let's demeaning words slip out of his mouth during sex and then notes the positive reaction they get, so he keeps doing it until he can make the other person cum.

((The majority of my dom smut with Spencer is set at around this time.))

Season Eight

This isn't a Dom, this is a dumbass. I'm pretty confident that for the first half of the season, he's not having sex, because he's committed to Maeve and he never meets her. Then after she dies he's too depressed and busy to get out there. I think if he did go out and find someone to keep him company, it'd probably back to the post-Emily-Doyle arc where he just needs to feel someone close to him someone wrapped around him, someone holding him tight, so it's slow. It's passionate and it's loving, but he's still pretty detached about it. He literally doesn't care about finding a release, he'd rather just have the physical touch for a while.

Season Nine

Straight up dom. Will choke a bitch, regularly does. I can see him getting a little bit rougher now, probably gets asked to spank one of his partners and then does NOT want to stop ever doing that. Grows to lightly slapping in the face. He does literally tell Garcia that he has a dominant side, and she straight up ignores him, though, so I think he's pretty comfortable in people "underestimating" him, I guess?

When he gets shot in the last few episodes, he's literally ready to get back out there as soon as possible, and I think that applies to sexual encounters as well. When some of his other "traumatic events" happen, I can see him taking a break for a while, but with this one, he gets medical clearance and is immediately burying his head between someone's legs.

Season Ten

I am only on season 9 of my rewatch, and to be completely honest, nothing of merit really happens to Spencer in Season 10 from my memory, so I'm just going to assume that he's basically the same.

The only thing that really can be cause for concern is Gideon's death, and I think that does truly fuck him up for a while, but that's anger and grief mixed together, so I can see him moving between rough fucks and slow passionate needy sex for a few months while he works through all of that.

Season Eleven

Spencer Reid vs Cat Adams is literally dom on dom crime, the entirety of Entropy is just them trying to be the one topping one another. And we know who wins that battle, so...

Definitely into pet names and calling his partners little sluts, whores, bitches etc. I don't want to say that Morgan babied him, because their relationship really developed a lot over the seasons and deserves it's own non-horny post lmao, but I think Morgan leaving really allowed the writers to let Spencer take more of a dominant role in interrogations, investigations and the like. And he's the last person who really considers Spencer a "kid" (apart from Rossi who literally thinks of them all as children) so he no longer has to, I guess justify? his sexual behavior. He's just all-in on it now.

Season Twelve

Pre-prison Spencer Reid in season twelve is a bad lover. He's inattentive, literally just chasing his own needs, probably pumping and dumping and now really paying attention to the aspects of a role that a dominant really should - the after care and looking after the person who is submitting to him. Then he goes to prison.

When he gets out, I can absolutely see the man suddenly having a breeding kink, wanting to be so close to someone, for someone to have such absolute confidence in him that he can fuck them raw and neither of them will care about the consequences. He's still a little damaged though, so I can see him oscillating between needing slow comforting sex, and harsh sex, really leaning into punishment/reward play and experimenting with different kinks, and maybe even public sex.

After he starts working at the University, I think role-playing and calling him "sir" would also really turn him on, and for a while he'd think it's a little gross as he's literally a teacher, but after a while he doesn't care anymore because it makes him feel so good.

Season 13-15

It's the same as above. He's dominant, but he still needs taking care of, but at this point he's so closed off from the world that he'll never be able to submit to someone again. So slow, sloppy, passionate sex, lasting for hours and hours is probably his way to go. I can see him being the type of soft! Dom that is just asking for "just one more" orgasm, over and over again, and then just overwhelming his partner with aftercare - running them a bath, cleaning them up, making them food or a hot drink, propping some pillows up behind them. He's a real gentleman, and I think his emotional distance could probably break a lot of hearts.

OVERALL

He goes from the whiniest virgin-sub to a bratty switch, all the way to a rough dom and then settles into being a very soft caring dom in his later years.

That's just my opinion though, and I'd love to hear what everyone else thinks!! I really didn't look too much into what happens in each of these seasons because I put approximately 0% research and 100% opinion and what I would want to see (lmao) into this, so if there's something specific that happens that has you thinking that he'd have a certain preference in any season then PLEASE tell me.

[unabashednightmarepizza]

Hiii could you make a dating Talbott Winger headcannons I love him so much and I really think he’d be like the I hate everyone but you trope

A/N: I'm sorry that it took such a long time for me to write but I was battling with stress and life lately, and now that I'm fine, I started to have so many ideas but I need to finish request and write the chapters that had been waiting for ages in my documents lol.

And thank you everyone, who waited patiently!

P.S: I don't remember whne this ask was sent so I'm gonna put this on my "Summer Celebration" post!

Requests are OPEN!

𝐷𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑇𝑎𝑙𝑏𝑜𝑡𝑡 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝐼𝑛𝑐𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒𝑠...

We all know Talbott is a silent boy, he prefers to stay away from trouble unlike a certain person that has his interest, but it doesn't mean that he doesn't have an adventurous side of him.

Yet, I still believe that he likes to have some kind of... control? When doing something? Like, yeah, he takes risks.

Just not extreme risks

Or, if you were to introduce him to some muggle vehicles, I think he would love to ride a bike with you and watch as your laugh would be carried to hus ears as the sight of you all happy and glowing would consume him.

Yeah, our boi definetly has a way with words.

Except the point that he made you swear to never talk about the first time he tried it as you showed how to bike, and he fell hard while being busy admiring you in return.

You, of course, accepted it with a giggle but not without crossing your finger because Bill demanded he had to know everything about your date.

He also swoons whenever you beat someone's ass in dueling. There were many times you rocked people's shits, especially Merula's since she always demanded one only to loose, to the point that no one actually stood a chance against you and refused to train.

Proud boyfriend Talbott and proud mama Bill moment 🥺😭

Like really, there isn't something you would do/make that he wouldn't be proud of and supportive

Crochet? Amazing, could you make a hat or a swan plushie? Draw? Excellent! Maybe you could teach me a few things, dove? You want to deceive the first years by playing an innocent game? Well, it's not like him... But he would be down with it anyways, especially after the ultimate "puppy eyes" weapon.

For some reasons, I see his whole vibe with you as Harry Style's "Golden" song 😭😭🥰🥰

It's literally the song that phrases your relationship!

"I know you were way too bright for me/ I'm hopeless, broken, so you wait for me in the sky..."

" Don't wanna let you know I don't wanna be alone/ But I can feel it take a hold, I can feel it take a hold..."

"I can feel you take control, I can feel you take control/ Of who I am, and all I've ever known lovin' you's the antidote..."

Since he didn't have his parents from a young age, and that they were killed right in front of him, Talbott had difficulties with associating himself with people around him.

That doesn't mean he hated them, or didn't want to talk. He did, he really did... He just didn't know how, and was scared that they would be gone too.

Especially early in your "friendship" that he often denied, but secretly liked the taste of the word on his tongue, he pushed and pushed people away, especially you... until only he was left.

But hey, it was a good thing that you were a persistent little shit because not only you were able to befriend him and show the true colors of life, show him that many people cared about him, you also took his heart and soul for yourself... like, for good.

Yeah, Talbott is definetly one of those rare guys who would stay loyal to his partner until the day he died and then even more.

If there was one thing you never expected from him by how he seemed so reserved, it was the fact that he was clingy when alone. Like, eagle boy would do anything to cuddle, hold hands with you, kiss and hug and do anything you ask for.

His hand holding is much more frequent than other forms of PDA. Talbott isn't very keen on them, since he hates attention, but hand holding under the table disecretly happens a lot.

He sits with you during breakfast and dinner, evennif you were in a different house, and your friends tease you for it affectionately.

He especially hold your hand thightly when he feels overwhelmed, or sad because of remembering his mother... to feel grounded, because he often feels like he lives in auto mode where he doesn't actually know what he is doing and doesn't have control.

That's when you step in.

When that happens, and Talbott usually tries to make it all go away through drowning himself in his studies, you would often look for him in thr library. But since he didn't want you to disturb your own peace just to find him, and he also didn't want to be found in a fragile state, he would go for less predictable areas.

He knew it saddened you whenever he refused to talk about his problems, he was aware and it broke his heart too... But he was scared.

You were the best thing that happened to him, even when he thought and still thinks he wasn't worth being loved, even when he thought he wouldn't find any ounce of happiness... Because why would he? He didn't have anyone left from his family at such a young age, his other relatives didn't care much and he was bad at socialising.

He fought and fought, but for what?

But then you came, stubbornly wanting to be his friend... Alongside the huge friend group you brought, and now he had a lot to loose but also a lot he gained.

He didn't understand why someone like you, the hero of Hogwarts, would find anything in him to activelly seek out to be friends with him...

But whatever it was, he was glad. Glad for your stubborn heart, glad because thanks to you, he found a new family.

You healed his aching heart with your sweet smiles, reassuring words and selflessness. Slowly but surely, you settled deep in his heart and after time, he realized he loved you... Immensely.

He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment obviously, but maybe... he always loved you, while watching from afar... While you won Quidditch, solved the mysteries about the Vaults, saved the school one many times... Or how you achieved more than average witch in your age, or how you risked your whole school life just to help him find the necklace of his mother.

Perhaps he realized right then and there that yes, he was in love with you and yes, he was already too deep to get out of that hole that was love.

And he didn't want to, for he was used to darkness when you came with the light of your eyes and heart, and saved him.

He could never be that boy he once was, and he didn't want to. Because now, he had you and a future to hold on to.

You both were the ones who confessed first, under the night sky as you both blushed at the cliche sight but you were content, happy to call this amazing, kind, thoughful and strong boy your lover.

Like I said before, there are a lot of things he wants to do with you: Travel together, have late night dinner dates, go to a beach, have a little cabin at the outskirts of Scotland...

But above all... There is one thing he wants to do with you the most one thing that often has him blushing and unable to sleep.

Grow old with you.

NOW TO THE FUN PART, ENOUGH DEPRESSING

Whenever you try to find him, out of class and studying sessions you both have, he is in the Owlery and all the owl LOVES him! Like really, whenever you two hang out in the school grounds, a flock of them comes and finds him and perches on both of your shoulders happily while picking on your hairs or hiding behind them in a way of playing with you.

He loves jewelries, mostly necklaces and bracelets, so whenever you buy something for yourself, he demands one too.

And he also loves matching with you too, so any necklaces, he's matching with you. It's one of the subtle ways of telling everyone that you/he was taken.

All the teachers and your friends knew you two would be end game, from how in love you both seemed and how Talbott started to smile genuinely after such a long time.

But what sealed it for you both was when he asked you to come to the Owlery, that he had an important thing to say and hive to you.

Imagine your surprise when he looked at you so softly and offered the necklace that had his mother's swan feather, accompanied with the pendants of his initials.

"This necklace used to be the sign of all the things I lost, a reminder of death... But I know my mum would have wanted you to have it, the girl who means so much to me, who I imagine my life to be spent with... I want this to be the sign of our love and my loyalty to you, for you to carry on your neck and hopefully never take it out... If you will have it and me..."

Like I said, he is a one-woman kind of boy and when you start a relationship and things started to get serious and deep, Talbott wouldn't shy away from hinting at marriage and a life together.

Because if this didn't show you the depth of his love, I don't know what would.

Another cute gesture he does with you, especially in like 6th or 7th year, is to wrap his arms around you from behind and put his chin on top of your head after laying a tender kiss there. ( why do boys get so much taller in like a few months when I'm stuck at the same height for the rest of my life 😭)

You two often visit and stay until late in the Owlery. That place had become some kind of a safe space for you both, where you can be with each other in silent, read books or simply feed the owls happily.

OMG HIS FAVOURITE WAY OF SPENDING TIME WITH YOU IS READING ❤️😍

You liked reading books by yourself, but when your boyfriend had a raspy voice and was food at imitations of the characters, you didn't have to do anything except laying back on his chest as you buried yourself in his smell as he read to you, thightenung his hold on your frame.

But just as you loved being read to, he actually likes it as well. He is just bad at showing and telling that. But whenever you see him looking at a book, then at you with a pout, you know what he wants.

And who were you to deny him of that when he looked so cute?

Madam Pince, even though she resented you for pranking her and was close to banning you from the library, was now looking at you and your boyfriend softly because one, you finally weren't there to break the rules but rather trully reading and two, you also helped her clean the library with Talbott too.

But none of you needed to know.

Now that I mentioned her, all the teachers have had bets about your love life. Like when one of you will confess, when you will have a kiss, when you will have a date etc.

And quite creepily, Minerva and Flitwick almost all the time knows when and where and wins quite a few galleons.

Snape couldn't care less, because he hated your guts... Or mayyybee he was slightly interested since you gifted him a cake and offered good mornings every day even though he would snap and he started to not hate you but just dislike.

Sprout was just happy to see her two favourite students together, alongside with Minerva, and offered her blessing with an enchanted flower that would never wilt.

But Dumbledore? Oh, he always knew from the start and didn't bother with such childish act... but he had bets going on with others in the ministry soo~ (Don't get me wrong, I still hate him.)

You know when Hermione said that girls could get in boys' dormitory but they couldn't enter girls'?

Yeah, there were many times you did that, at the beginning for cuddles... And later in your last year, for different things *wink wink*

Ehem, another act he loves doing are ( and I need to say, if a man did that to me, I would simply melt) taking your hand in his and putting it on his chest, where his heart is and kissing your forehead and lingering his lips there for a few seconds more.

Just imagine the feels and how hard your heart would beat I-

FLOWERS! YOU BOTH GIVE EACH OTHER FLOWERS ALL THE TIME!

You giving him flowers actually has a funny story because you thought he wouldn't like them, especially early in your relationship

But you couldn't help but think that daisies would look good on his dark, long hair

So you hastily went to Hogsmeade, came back in a hurry and sent a letter to him through your owl to meet you in the Owlery

It was definetly worth seeing the dark red tint on his skin when tou explained why you wanted to give him them

"I wanted to show you that I care and love you a lot, and flowers are a great way to show it, especially since I enchanted them!.. And by your reaction, I'll do that more in the future!"

And yes, you did so... Even after being married for such a long time, eventually having kid/s and in your 60-70

And he never stopped blushing and returning the gesture just as sweetly, always adding a little blessing and thanks to Merlin for bringing you into his life

This headcanons are already taking so long so I'll stop here before it gets out of control lol

And I'll go and continue crying at the corner because I don't have a Talbott in my life 🥺

[midwestemoismid]

Do you ever love a character so much you sorta steal your entire personality from them,,

<autism rant>

Cuz like I'm obsessed with Nicole from class of '09, if sorta stolen my whole humor from her, Which isn't really a good thing because shes kinda a piece of shit, the game revolves around her being a horrible person or trying to kill herself or something like that, I'm not like as mentally ill as her, but my humor has evolved to be similar to Nicole and ive sorta had this not care attitude. I've also been really jokingly mean to one of my best friends (he knows its a joke, thats our humor) but I accidentally did that to my little brother and felt SO bad lmao,, (he said something very obviously and I loudly go "yeah no fucking shit bitch" then started apologizing profusely) This other time I was playing blooket w/ that same friend and I did something that made him eat a fake burger and I went really loud "have this fucking burger you fat ass bitch" and hje just stared at me like wtf,, and the other person on the call (who I just met) was SHOCKED.

i'm not a bad person,, hes okay with me making those jokes btw

well im sorta a bad person but i'm working on that

i sorta hate having obsessions over character because i want to BE THEM. and it sucks even more when theyre a horrible person--and when theyre a girl,, cuz like i want to de-transition and become a terrible person and chane my name to Nicole WHAT THE FUCK WHY I DONT KNOW and like i had an alt acc on tiktok where i used she/her and named myself nicole and it was like a class of 09 fanpage sorta. and like i dont wanna be a bad person nor do i wanna hurt people feelings or be addicted to drugs AT ALL but like NICOLE🙏🙏🙏

this always happens when i have some sort of obsession. i dont typically have favorites but when i do its like an obsession

and like one other problem with being obsessed with nicole is i accidentally obsess over mental illness and (stuff i shouldnt obsess over), wich is really bad and unhealthy.

I gain little obsessions over certain things, like right now im REALLY obsessed with a game called "bad parenting" and it's a really really sad game. I wont spoil it but its genuinelly depressing and made me cry. after i saw it i wanted to hug my dad and tell him i loved him for being a good dad. ive been listening to the backround song on repeat for a bit, i might even draw fanart of it idk,, but i feel like i shouldnt be hyper obsessed with it

as a kid i also was really obsessed with "salad fingers" wich had a sadish theme to it, i kinda forget the plot but i thought it was interesting and how the main charecter was kinda messed up.

I also really like "little miss fortune" wich was also really sad. again i dont remember the plot my childhood is sorta a blur and i dont remember it well

"Sally face" is another sad game i liked. not gonna spoilt it but i loved the supernatural bit and there was a lot of death.

I also really love horror movies, ESPECIALLY horror movies that go into psychology. Like for example, saw is pretty interesting because its cool to see if people would rather cut of an arm or die. I know it's fake but it's still really cool.

Theres a lot i find interesting but i dont wanna sound like im actually insane lol

This ran went in so many placed i forgot what the original post was about😭 took me abt 2 and 1/2 class period to wright

If you read this all, thanks! If you relate reblog or comment (or make a new post and tag me) and tell me what charecter you relate to/obsess over

[adrian-sheppy]

can you talk about aroace freemercy :D?

Freemercy being aroace is an important part of the character if you want to view him as a real guy and not an ingame avatar and want to keep his odd moral compass intact. It is intertwined with his personality and worldview. ESSAY INBOUND.

Freemercy is detached from the world. There is good or there is bad. There are people to save and there are enemies. Nuance and shades of gray are often lost on him. Can the concept of a savior love? Can a self-made lethal weapon be held without cutting the skin? Can a man so focused on saving what's good and exterminating what's not stop to smell the roses? Does he actually care about anyone, or is this simply an obligation to him? What drives him, drives his morals? He is not really a healer. His hands that have tended wounds could have also been the cause of the wounds. He will shoot someone or break a bone if it meant physically stopping them if it would keep them alive. Freemercy is a bundle of strange impulses and uncomfortable truths masquerading as an average man. After all, he laughs, jokes, can hold a conversation, has a calm, put together demeanor... but don't be fooled.

His rules and some thoughts behind them

1. Save as many of his own as possible (us versus them mentality. what qualifies as his own? Scientists? Civillians? or... non-Enemies?)

2. Remove as many Enemies as possible (Enemies, capitalized. He has enemies. People and things who are dangerous, or even have the potential to be dangerous. He goes as far as to kill leaches in the water. Where is the line? Remember: he is not merciful)

3. Remove Hazards if Possible (nothing to really overanalyze with this one, hazards was defined as things that could kill people)

So, when you take him out of his element, out of danger, his mind will concoct it. He's not exactly a man with many hobbies. He's selfless --- too selfless. Selfless to the point it wraps back around into selfharm (see: grenade jumping). He fills the Freemercy shaped hole in his life by doing good, by being kind, by being attentive. And he does it by saving lives, too. Present him with the trolly problem and if he is certain he cannot stop the trolley, he will flip the lever (even if he knew the person tied to the track), and the only thing he'd care about is he failed to save everyone, not that he knew the person on the track. (And then even then, he can't linger for too long. He has people to save)

People are goals to him. Keep them safe; and when that can't be done, keep them alive. And threats are to be sought out and eliminated. He is too busy saving and obsessing. No one person is more important to him than another. They are people, and they are either good or bad. Freemercy will hurt himself or others for the greater good, and that includes anyone "close" to him. And... he's aroace (and you could even say aplatonic if you want too aswell)! It fits him well. He reminds me of when Data fron star trek next generation tries to be in a relationship: Freemercy isn't mean and he might try, but the concept of intimacy is alien to him, and he doesn't "feel" the right things to be able to engage with it. He cannot prioritize a life, especially one that's not in danger. It's hard enough to keep friends. The only reason he has any is because the other Freemen HAVE to associate with him. He's deeply misguided and sacrificial to a fault, and that can be uncomfortable to be around.

But it's important to note he doesn't see the need to try and change how he operates. He doesn't feel it his burden to save others, it's more like his duty. It's a job he does and does well. And it works! And as long as he's saving people (his self worth is determined on how many people he saves), then he's doing well! He's in his element as the savior of humanity, and being a savior doesn't mean you need to have the ability to love. And... he doesn't.

little bonus:

I like drawing Freemercy with snakes. I've usually only done one, but he has two! A black snake and a white snake. These have multiple meanings and were given to him for symbolic reasons, and one of those reasons is aroace! The black snake is the Asexual ring and the white snake is the Aromantic ring. Just a little fun . smiles.

[cammy-mcspammy]

Tw vent, sch00l shootings, depression, mentions of S/A and abus3.. overdose, death talk?

Err, this post might be a little long- I'm writing out what happened.

I'm still processing this so I'm sorry if my art isn't sparkly cute or this isn't a pretty post. I normally dont speak about my life but I needed an outlet to speak about this. I'm still very shaken up so I'm sorry if this comes out randomly.

I uh, experienced something pretty traumatizing today. A party I was prepared for and even did my nails and freaked out about dresses and laughed with my friend groups basically just.. turned into hell. From the start theres videos of me at taco bell with friends, seeing and meeting up to music and all- before i realized i might of di3d today. And I HARDLY draw vent art or cry in front of people but- one of my friends ran up as the music paused and told us somebody had a gun. I just ran.

All I can really remember is calling my family and saying goodbye as I pushed by a crowd of people sobbing and screaming. It was horrible. I mean, I have a fear of death like no other and well- I was having about six panic attacks and adrenaline. I ignored all my friends shouting for me and just RAN. I don't know where, I just shoved whoever it was and hid.

I heard a few people in the group couldn't be found until much later and I was practically sobbing once I get out of a wall I was hiding behind, deciding to start calling my family. I could hear my mother trying to understand my sobs of "I'm so sorry" for everything. Even the abuse she put me through, I know i caused so much trouble for her too. I was practically sobbing out my goodbyes as my friends tried to comfort me. It was humiliating to cry in public, something I swore I'd never do again but SURE ENOUGH I was sobbing on whoever would comfort me.

I called my mom, and then my brother- who practically started screaming and sobbing about me. It made me comforted to see him rush out and drive to me, calling the police like so many others did, and sob to me like I was already dead. It was surreal, I could hardly notice the pain in my shoes or the stupid flowers my friends dad got me.

It was traumatizing. Just like my S/A or my parents abuse all together, i could see multiple cop cars and rumors spread around and I just felt numb? I couldn't breathe at all and all I could really do was sob again and again. I feared my life for the first time.

I remember when the music stopped I thought it was some fight. A kid already had gotten an overdose and two kids got caught getting handsy in a bathroom stall- I assumed it was some dramatic thing that happened at a party. Not a shooting.

When my brother rushed past a ton of red lights and my mother ran out of her party gathering, my father was already gone a country away getting his surgery. I didn't care, I called him and by all the stress and sobbing I thought he didn't care. I was so wrong about this and I'm honestly thankful nobody got hurt. I remember my brother just pulling over and hugging me when I got in the car, sobbing into my shoulder and freaking out more then I ever did.

He promised he'd buy me whatever I wanted, and I said some stupid fast food place. By the time we were far from the conflict and I called my family to tell them I was okay- it was weird. I just couldn't stop laughing and sobbing, when we got home we watched sonic and it felt so- surreal. Like I could of died and never got to see movies or my parents ever again. I was texting friends, informing people of what happened, and trying to understand through all these different voices what happened. But by then I shut my phone off and just let my mom cry into my shoulder.

I urge people to talk to their families and well- I don't know really. Take into account shit like this can happen, especially in private schools in America. Some idiot can threaten out their gun and ruin a night that was meant to be fun. This fueled my growing fear of death at every turn, so I fear this might make me fall into another depression pit. I already see my friends moving on and I feel stupid- so I wanted to vent about it to just- bring those feelings out there.

Love your family.

[saltyb0ba]

im soooo normal about ezran callum sibling relationship

the little kid who had to grow up too fast, leaving stolen jelly tarts behind for clean hands on the throne and the big kid who never got a chance to play house with his younger brother before worries took the place of imagination. the kid king who seems to be handling things well, but no longer laughs at jokes with his kind of humor, and would rather get to the point than have a bit of fun with finding out the answer.

ezran luckily has a strong support system and a brother that will be there for him no matter what, putting himself in danger just to ensure ezran's safety. he's bonded with zym on a psychic and emotional level, and can talk to animals with relative ease. making the burden of the crown just a bit lighter. he knows he has people he can reach out to and lean on, and takes advantage of that when the offer is handed to him. growing up hurts, but with loved ones surrounding him, it was okay. as okay as it could be.

callum is his own support system. soren's called him step-prince for as long as he could remember, and though it was never explicitly shown, it's not hard to infer the amount of damage that can inflict on someone's mind. he already was second in line to the throne despite being the older sibling, and to just have it drilled in your head again and again that someone doesn't want you there just hurts. and it forms an unhealthy mindset that sticks with him for a while.

soren's insisted that it was a joke, but it's not wrong for callum to take it personally. especially with how many times soren's repeated it. claudia lost his respect a long time ago. callum isn't really shown to have the same amount of familiarity with the royal court as ezran does, and his office is a bit isolated from the rest of the castle. it isn't where he sleeps (though sometimes falls asleep in), but even in his own quarters he's separated from ezran. that bed's either filled by rayla or just empty moonlight at this point.

callum's always taken his own path whereas ezran followed in his father's footsteps.

that's naturally led to callum exploring a new future alone (or at least, with minimal support) vs ezran having the entire castle staff to rely upon with centuries' worth of experience in handling the rule of a king.

and proven in the series, it's caused ezran to detach from callum a bit himself. how he thought callum's upset post-possession was about rayla and not the literal puppeting that had been going on. he was never able to see through his brother the way callum could see through ezran and that's likely intentional.

bait and zym are also like parallels to their relationship in a sense; ezran had accidentally batted bait away in his sleep and bait left, upset and a little angry -- until callum saw him and invited him to hang out with him. they don't have a connection like ezran and zym have (unless you wanna get super meta, since bait's sounds are made by jack desena), but they understand each other just as much as the king and dragon prince do. before that happened, however, bait was very clingy with ezran. see the connection?

they haven't abandoned each other, far from it. they've gotten more aggressive in their love, especially with the stakes raising and callum extremely prone to becoming a weapon. ezran would prefer to talk things out, though something tells me aaravos would rather have fun with his toys instead of discussing things. maybe the way they show brotherly love is different now, but callum knows what sacrifice he would have to make to protect his family, his brother. ezran doesn't want to lose callum, and is determined to find a solution that doesn't involve the loss of his brother. his only brother.

thank you for coming to my ted talk this was a massive brain dump that i just needed to get out haha! i'm a sucker for sibling relationships and theirs draws me in like no other.

[verdemoun]

Gonna ask about more Jack and John content pls sir. I dont remember if I said this before but I was in shock when you told that Isaac have dark hair, always imagine him a blondie like Arthur, but I fine with that. Also I think that Arthur can see that John is trying to get along with Jack, so when Jack ask if he can go with them to their father-son activits, Arthur have to unhappily say no, because it was suppost to Jack do that with John, and not use that as an escused to avoid John ( sorry about my bad inglesh, but I just relearned my art skills so I wanted to draw something of your AU) ❤

thank you! i thought it would be fun having a different isaac, considering eliza's reconstructed model had black hair very similar to mary it would be fun having a black haired isaac. also i always would've had isaac dye his hair black because he's emo and because physically i imagine he is really similar build to canon era arthur so they needed some obvious differences. just born ready to carry boundies over his shoulder.

Arthur can see John trying but he can also see how a lot of the time that trying backfires. Maybe John just has more daddy issues than Arthur but as much as John tried to change post 1907 for his family, the new John still wasn't quite the person Jack needed.

Because of this, there's a lot of things Jack would actually refuse to do with John but with Arthur he would happily go. Also spite. For example, if Isaac bullies Arthur into letting Jack come camping with them, Jack will just sit by the campfire reading while Isaac, Charles and Arthur go off for their usual father-son symbolic hunting of deer. He might join in campfire stories later or have a few swigs of beer but he actually hates hunting and fishing - which is what John associates with camping.

Maybe it's because Jack is just a gay little bookworm. Surely anyone who's ever spoken to him knows it, because Jack would never willingly admit it, but he's just - soft. He wasn't meant to be a gunslinger in every way. John knows that better than most!! He loves his son. John absolutely loves his son. All those times he sat there and listened to Jack ramble about books, completely overjoyed to see his son happy? But he never knew how to tell Jack it was because he loved seeing his son being himself, and happy! He knows his son is too soft and sensitive for his own good which is why he really believed Jack was safe FROM becoming an outlaw - yet he did.

Jack needs people so much. He's been isolated his whole life. He lost most of his family, the gang, in 1899. He got that diet child of divorce experience in 1907, lost his sister, the only other non-adult in his life, in 1910, his dad and Uncle in 1911, and mother in 1914. No one has ever just been there for Jack. He needs someone to be there for him, to understand how difficult it was for him, little gay bookworm Marston, to become an outlaw, how much he tried to be an outlaw because that's the only way he knew how to 'be a man' thanks to John.

John just. Can't be a boy dad. At least not Jack's dad. He has too many of his own issues, 90% of them are daddy issues. He doesn't know how to bond with a gay little bookworm. The days where he gets it wrong far outweigh the days he gets it right. He's fucked up too many times. Even when he tries to show interest in Jack's writing, Jack will snipe back with 'I thought they were just silly stories' because he remembers something John said in anger not even directed at him but about him in 1907. John knows how to bond with an outlaw, a bastard as rough as him - and it shows because he gets along with Isaac great. He doesn't know how to be friendly with his own son, and especially after timewarp Jack isn't willing to give him any more chances.

It's an everyone sucks. Jack knows he shouldn't have become an outlaw. He's ashamed of himself, deep down, for 'throwing away' the life so many people died to give him a change to. And John's ashamed of him for the exact same reason and it's really hard for John Marston to not wear his emotions. He might not be emotional but he's honest. If he's mad, you know he's mad.

Like god damnit Jack wants someone to be proud of him and say it's okay. That even if he thinks (or knows) it was a mistake, he did his best. He did what he thought was the right, what he was raised to think was right, because he saw John fall into the cycle of revenge and redemption over and over again so what else was he meant to do? But John - even if he said it, knowing how much Jack wants to hear it, it wouldn't be true and Jack would know.

Jack is a lot more sensitive than even modern era boys would let themselves be, let alone a 19th century outlaw, and John's judged him or let him down too many times, angsty teenage bullshit or not, for Jack to readily give him another chance. I say sensitive but I really mean Jack Marston is serving petty ass punk bitch.

Arthur would try very hard to help John out, try to give him tips on how to talk to Jack or offer to go on out father-son group things because Jack and Arthur? Great relationship! Arthur might be as emotionally intelligent as a lump of rubber, but he gets being creative and at least will give Jack the space to read and write without judging him. Sometimes it's nice, the strange days there's an activity they'll all enjoy (usually involving fire). Most of the time though, if Jack and John are talking without screaming it's because one or both of them are drunk.

[silenthillmutual]

do it! show us the ocs!!

okayyyyyy ^_^ this is gonna be kind of a long post so i'll clip it under the first image

i don't have much of my own art bc i'm still re/learning how to draw but this is a recent one i did of frost :] (genderfluid, gay, he/they)

frost is my bloodborne hunter buuuuut i have also thrown them into pathologic for shits & giggles. and sometimes i dick around with them in a modern setting where they remember bloodborne & pathologic as past lives. which is complicated by them having bipolar disorder (it is not an OR IS IT??? type situation it's literally both).

i'm trying to write a longfic for them for bloodborne but uh. i'm writing the boring bits and thinking. now why the hell am i writing all this. i have actually published fic of them in bloodborne (here) and patho (here). frost is the oc/canon guy, he has a friends -> lovers -> enemies -> ??? relationship w alfred. my problematic oc/canon ship. anyway in bloodborne 'verse frost is in yharnam to try and "fix" his bipolar disorder by any means necessary but as the night goes on his episode gets worse to a point where he's just kind of like fuuuuuuuuck it this is fine actually. i can be a little crazy as a treat.

and then in 'patho verse he's a utopian (cringe!) (makes sense thematically if you know bloodborne) and he's working with the kains, initially came over as a tutor for khan & maria but is actually kind of a living science experiment for the kains. i've gone through many different iterations of a "what are they doing with him?" but i think there's a lot of things they'd test, like "can a soul inhabit a focus without the body dying? let's find out!" and in return the kains are setting up to take care of his sister fox (@gemteeth)'s oc candra. he's friends with yulia but he cannot stand the stamatins and especially andrey. he's also a maria defender but not in a #girlboss way but in a "she is so young and has so many responsibilities please give her some empathy" kind of way. [i also borrowed alfred for this au because humble!alfred is so fucking hilarious to me.]

alos modern au frost looks like this (first pic ~14 second pic ~24)

so far this is my only bloodborne oc but there may be more...... eventually......

then i got the pathologic ocs starring....

[this is a picrew ^^^^^]

my baby girl chestnut......... (nonbinary, lesbian, she/they) chestnut is my ray of sunshine oc. nothing bad ever happens to her (nothing major anyway). she's my main fankid oc. chestnut is a nickname, her regular name is bayarma. the nickname is bc she's precious to her parents like chestnuts are to kids in the town.

she's semi-verbal. my buddy dj has drawn her for me quite a bit :] sometimes she's a twin or little sister to one of his ocs. sometimes she's a little half-sister to fox's ocs ksana and inisa her special interest is bugs & insects and her favorite kind are grasshoppers & crickets. she is very friendly and sociable. she doesn't have any enemies but she isn't fond of vlad jr (it's the facial hair). she also probably wouldn't like mark although other than 'looks too much like the cheshire cat when he smiles' i cant think of why.

she does occasionally get bullied but since her parents are artemy & daniil like. how much can you really bully the only doctor and surgeon in town. their uncle is rubin. do you want to piss them off? no. and anyway someone (i'll leave it up to the imagination who) taught them that if someone does something to you that you don't like, you defend yourself. so the one time a boy tries to kiss them they just slug him. love that for them!!!

i have two other burda fankids (buzzy & duunai)

the important thing to know about buzzy (he/him) is that he is a, the spitting image of daniil but fat, and b, INCREDIBLY anxious. he's agender aroace and his special interest is in technology, especially as it pertains to film and photography. (so the year update of 1924 is sooooo good you know when he heard about man with a movie camera he flipped his lid!!!!) (you should watch man w a movie camera it's v cool. to me. i like old films.)

also he's named buzzy because murky & sticky demanded they get to choose a baby name and they wanted a name that ended in y like theirs. so buzzy is indeed his legal name.

duunai (trans girl, she/her) is bix3 [bilingual bisexual bipolar]. she got both parents' sense of humor so you KNOW she is in trouble allll the time. she grows up to be a menkhu. she was the last one i came up with so i'm still developing her.

i have two thanatica ocs, svetlana & karol, but they're very underdeveloped. and then i have two ocs that aren't related to any fandom, isaiah & holly (who i don't have a pic of atm but here are picrews of the other 3)

svetlana (she/her) & isaiah (they/them) are both very autistic. karol (he/him) is dysthymic. svetlana is very energetic, so she & karol have a dog & cat kind of dynamic. both in the "happy vs stoic" kind of way and in the "we may be different but we will work to communicate bc we are family" kind of friendship. they r lesbian besties. karol kind of idolized daniil. he started out writing a paper about palliative care for a sociology course and daniil is the one who came to talk to him. isaiah i am trying to find a nickname for bc i feel like they'd pick one from sonic the hedgehog. i still gotta get into sonic myself it sounds like it rules, it just felt right they'd be a sonic fan. (initially i thought shadow for a character they'd be autistically obsessed with bc if i got into sonic at the right age that's absolutely who i would have been obsessed with but as i am still developing things.... wouldn't make sense to solidify that.) they're also a werewolf bc i'm thinking about werewolves as a metaphor for neurodiversity..... and nonbinary identity.... [thinkin abt that poem]

anyway ty for listening anon :]

[noel-levine-fan]

i did the meme thing

i'll probably do everyone because the character design in witch's heart is so full of little details that make the characters very distinctive that make them all surprisingly hard to draw because if you miss any one of the details they look super wrong but you can't remember why LMAO (i've mastered noel so this isn't really an issue with him but for other characters it can be hit or miss. especially claire, you'd be surprised how hard it is to actually get her hair and eyes right, at least for me)

what i changed & why (this is an excuse to rave about his design):

noel's ahoge is definitely a pretty distinctive feature of his design, and while helicopter ahoges (as i call them) are certainly not uncommon, he looks totally different without it

while the trope of "character with hair covering one eye" is not uncommon (it's my weakness...), i don't know as many that have noel's exact style, where like his bangs don't seem to come regularly from the top of his head but kind of portrude and also have a mcdonalds arc. (mcdonalds arc isn't too uncommon, but i've noticed it less with this hairstyle in particular), so i made his hair closer to what i see more frequently in characters with that design trope

noel has fancy eyes! if you look closely at the mens eyes youll realize noels eyes are given way more of a pretty boy treatment lmao. i don't think his eye details are essential to his design but the blue line in his top lash and the way his eyes are split between a more green leaning light blue and a more purple leaning dark blue is so appealing <3

i removed his eyelashes because i think it's easy to forget he has them (another case of "he eyes were given more pretty boy treatment than the other men") but they add so much to his Vibe...

because it's not easily visible, his shirt details are easy to forget, or i'm sure some aren't even aware of what his shirt looks like.

i noticed that his bow and coat were both blue, so to simplify the design/make it look more "basic" i harmonzied those colors, and since it's prominent, i made it smaller to look more like a typical suit

i actually forget noel's pin a lot when drawing, actually it's been forgotten in official art many times as well (which is understandable) and i know people who didn't even know he had one before i pointed it out, so i removed that feature

generally "removing details that might be easy to forget" or "making it less detailed" in general