#this doesn't line up perfectly. what can i say i am lazy

[bobbinalong]

i've been meaning to do this with this drawing.

[platinumink]

Who the hell was in charge of casting the actors for HTTYD (live action version)?

sooo... i've finally seen the cast forbthe live action version of httyd... and I am not impressed. (Keep in mind this is my personal opinon. Also, I apologize for the bad quality of those photos, someone sent them to me and I was too lazy to find themnin a better quality online)

Let's start with the man, the myth, the legend, Hiccup himself. In one word: no. They cast for a post puberty!Hiccup to portray 15 year old Hiccup. Just no.

They officially destroyed one of the greatest characters in advance. Someone please tell me how they look even relotely similar. The hair color is the worst part.

Yeah okay, I actually like this casting. : )

I'd rather say no. But then I saw the ears and leaned towards yes. Then the hair color changed my mind again.

Anyone who has seen Deadpool 2 will agree with me that a-splash-of-diabetes Firefist is actually a good casting here. I can totally see him doing an amazing job. : ) But please someone give him a wig.

In one word: wtf happened here?!??!?! Did they just roll up to a random gas station and abducted a guy?

I would like to say a thousand mean and hurtful things. Let's just say these things: The hair color and I don't know how they did it but how they managed to cast an obese actor for the scrawniest character is beyond me. : /

After The Acolyte, I definitely disliked the actor but I will 100% give him a clean slate because they finally managed to cast someone who looked remotely similar to the character thwy were going to portray.

What the hell... This character had all but 3 lines in the movie ("What are you doing out here, get back inside", "To the ships" and "Everyone is so relieved") and they felt the need to cast someone for her. I am begging you all, don't even give her a costume. Just give her the hat. It'd gonna be great comedic relief. xD

To finish this off: I really hope this movie doesn't flop, though I have no confidence in it. Not a single live action movie was ever good in the history of live action versions. I grew up with the books/movies. They were perfection. To the producers: please don't destroy a perfectly good franchise in a hope for abgood money grab...

[miasmaghoul]

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

Rating: E

Pairing: Sunshine/Aurora

Contains: transfem Sunshine, stoned ghoulettes, banter, snuggling (gone sexual), something of a first time, new discoveries and these two just having a real good day together.

HAPPY FEMSLASH FEBRUARY Y'ALL I HAVE NO IDEA HOW LONG THIS IS BUT WHO CARES BECAUSE WE CAN ALWAYS USE MORE WOMEN!!

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"You're so fuckin' pretty," Sunshine slurs, a stoned grin plastered across her freckled face. "You know that?"

Aurora chirps, pleased, raking perfectly manicured nails over the ghoulette's scalp. She's on her stomach between Aurora's legs, arms around her waist, tail curled around Aurora's ankle. Those nails scritch at a spot by her horn and Sunshine purrs with it, nuzzling Aurora's belly through the soft yellow cotton of her sundress. They've been here for hours now; what started as a self-care day had devolved into lazy snuggles and endless snacking once Sunshine revealed her secret stash of edibles. Not that either of them were complaining.

"Yeah?" Aurora giggles, twirling a russet curl around a slender finger. Sunshine nods against her stomach, rumples the fabric under her cheek. "Then why'd it take you so long to get me in your bed, huh?"

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Read the rest below the cut!

Sunshine shoves herself up just enough to look the little ghoulette in the eye, delighted at how heavy and distant they look. Silver-green irises shrunk to thin rings by her blown pupils, eyeshadow glittering in the rosy light of the setting sun. It's the same shade of cotton candy blue as her hair, gentle waves cascading over her shoulders. Her cheeks sit flushed and full, a dopey smile stuck on her perfectly pouty lips.

Pretty doesn't even begin to cover it.

"Whaddaya mean 'so long'?" She reaches up and taps the tip of Aurora's upturned nose. "You've only been here for like a week!"

"Um, excuse you - I've been here for 23 days," Aurora corrects, nipping after Sunshine's outstretched finger. "Thought I was gonna die of old age waitin' to get here."

"Pfft, drama queen." Sunshine gives her a wink, scooting up until they're chest to chest. "You're s'bad as Rain."

"Am not!"

She says it with an indignant pout, that lovely lower lip stuck out in deliberate biting distance. And, well, how could Sunshine resist?

"Sure y'are," she lilts, kissing her cheek. "Actin' like I've been ignoring you," another kiss, to her jaw, "when we both know," one more kiss for good measure, to her chin, "that you've been getting plenty of attention."

She takes Aurora's lip between her fangs, gives it a playful tug, and the little ghoulette's eyes sparkle. She can't keep her pout in place, mouth curling at the corners when Sunshine pulls back to give her a wink.

"Okay but not from you," she trills, looping her arms around Sunshine's neck. "A girl can only handle so much making out and over-the-clothes stuff, y’know."

"Are you callin' me boring?" Sunshine feigns hurt, makes her eyes go all watery and sad. Aurora pays it no mind, offers up a one-shouldered shrug even as her tail sneaks its way around Sunshine's thigh. "You wound me, Roro," she sighs, flopping with all her weight onto the smaller ghoulette's chest, forcing out an oof. "I thought you liked dry humping!"

"Not as much as you do," Aurora teases, and well, Sunshine's pretty sure no one likes dry humping as much as she does. Hell, just the thought has her cock going all tingly. "Besides," Aurora scratches at the space between her shoulderblades and Sunshine purrs again. "How'm I s'posed to not want more when I hear the way you make Lus scream?"

Oh now that makes her tingle. Sunshine shifts, drags her nose down the slender line of Aurora's neck. She sighs, tilts her head to give Sunshine more access, a move the ghoulette rewards with a nibble to Aurora's earlobe.

"You been listenin' in, little bird?"

"Didn't mean to," Aurora admits, not a hint of shame in her voice. "But she leaves her windows open 'n I'm right next door." Sunshine drags her fangs over Aurora's pulse point and the little ghoulette huffs out a soft oh. "Can't blame me for bein' curious."

She certainly can't. Sunshine still remembers her own early days, when she would perch on windowsills and bits of the roof that let her peek, let her listen. Let her spy on Dew riding Aether like a stallion, Rain getting Mountain his knees, Cirrus tying Cumulus up in pretty blue ropes and Swiss doing...well, everyone. She still thinks about those days sometimes, most often on the rare occasion she sleeps alone.

Which raises a very important question.

"Tell me somethin', Roro," she murmurs into the soft skin of her throat. Kissing a slow path over her collarbone, fingers teasing at the strap of her dress. Aurora makes a questioning sound, and Sunshine decides she needs to see her face when she answers. Aurora's cheeks have gone pinker than ever, bottom lip caught between her own fangs. "You ever touch yourself when you listen to us?"

Aurora doesn't hesitate, not even for a moment. She nods with enthusiasm, eyes going wider and her parted thighs falling even further apart. Sunshine grins, delighted, rolling her hips against the mattress in the most obvious way possible. Aurora makes the sweetest little gurgling sound.

"Good," Sunshine breathes, warm against soft skin. She plants both hands on the mattress when Aurora's hands slide back into her curls, dragging her lips over the pale plane of Aurora's chest, until she hits the top of her dress. "You ever imagine what I'm doin' to make Lussy sing like that while you play?"

"Yeah," Aurora whispers, hooking her ankles around the backs of Sunshine's legs. "Every fuckin' time, Sunny, can't help it."

Sunshine believes her, without question, but Aurora sounds far too pretty for her to stop now. She readjusts, wriggles one arm under that slight body to splay her hand over Aurora's spine. Her other hand slips down to hold her waist, thumb brushing the underside of her breast through her dress.

"Then how 'bout you tell me what you think I do," Sunshine kisses the center of her chest, inhales the scent of fabric softener and fruity perfume, "tell me what you do to yourself," she drags her open mouth over the slight swell of Aurora's chest, "and I'll tell you if you're right."

Sunshine punctuates her words with a kiss to the little ghoulette's nipple, stiff and straining against the fabric, and Aurora hisses.

"Fuck," she says on a slow exhale, "you're such a damn tease."

"S'what I'm good at, baby," Sunshine coos, the hand on her waist gliding up to cup her breast and give the soft mound a squeeze. "Now start talkin'."

Sunshine latches onto her nipple through her dress, and oh must the weed be affecting her because the little ghoulette arches right off the bed with a shocked whine. She's never that sensitive.

This is going to be fun.

"U-um," Aurora stammers, clearing her throat in an effort to regain composure. It sort of works, but Sunshine doesn't stop suckling so it's a pointless effort. "W-well, there's - there's this one noise she makes..." she pauses, sucks air through her teeth when Sunshine rolls her nipple between her fangs. "It's like...like a moan, but chirpy?"

Sunshine hums her understanding and Aurora shivers with the vibration. It's a sound she knows well, one Cumulus doesn't make for anyone but her.

"And, um...when - oh - when she does that, I...I imagine her on top of you."

A good guess, Sunshine thinks, but far from the truth. She gives Aurora a reprieve from her mouth, pulls back to admire the wet spot she's soaked into her dress. The little ghoulette sags in her arms, and Sunshine can already smell the arousal on her. Sweet like candy and twice as addictive. Sunshine throbs against the mattress.

"And what do you do," she croons, taking that nipple between two fingers instead, "when you think about her bouncing on my cock?"

"I use my fingers," she answers, wispy as a springtime breeze. "I...I kneel on my bed, I put two inside," she drags a heavy hand from Sunshine's hair, hold it up and crooks her middle and ring fingers, "and I...I ride 'em."

Oh, what a gorgeous picture that paints. Sunshine can imagine it now - she has yet to see the other ghoulette naked, but it's so easy to picture Aurora panting and writhing, little tits bouncing while she uses her own hand like a toy. Flushed down her chest and grinding her clit against the heel of her hand until she can't take it anymore.

Fuck, Sunshine hopes she can squirt.

"Hot," she says, ever eloquent. She moves to Aurora's other nipple, laves at it until it's as wet as the first. Twin dark spots that make Sunshine's balls ache. "That's a good guess, sweetcheeks," she murmurs, low, "but it's not what gets her to make that noise."

Sunshine gets both hands on her breasts, gives them a nice fondle, and Aurora groans.

"What does?"

Sunshine looks up, prepared to tease farther - she can go for hours, if allowed - but the look on Aurora's face has the words catching in the back of her throat.

She looks gorgeous, glassy eyed with bite-swollen lips and the tip of her tongue poking out between her fangs. She's breathing heavier already, fingers twitching against the back of Sunshine's neck and her tail gradually tightening around her thigh. Barely any stimulation at all, and yet the poor thing looks wrecked.

Sunshine surges up to kiss her, and decides teasing can wait for another day.

Aurora moans, an indulgent, wanton sound that flows into Sunshine's mouth like the sweetest water. Their tongues dance, their fangs click, Sunshine's pretty sure she's drooling down her chin, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is the way Aurora clings to her, the taste of her strawberry lip gloss and the way Aurora's hips roll to find her own. Sunshine reaches down to grip her there, pins the little ghoulette to the bed, and can't help but rut against her thigh.

Aurora's the one to break the kiss, gasping, and Sunshine can see the demand in her eyes before she has a chance to speak.

"Don't worry, little bird," she rasps, nosing at her bangs. "I'm gonna give it to you, I promise."

"You fuckin' better," Aurora spits, and it's so cute that Sunshine has to giggle.

"Don't you wanna know the answer first, Roro?" She tips her head, a cascade of short curls tickling her forehead. Aurora blinks a few times, seeming lost. "What makes Lussy scream," she clarifies, and Aurora's eyes roll.

"Uh huh," she nods, licking already wet lips. "Tell me, please tell me."

"I think it'll be more fun," Sunshine gets a knee under herself, presses her thigh right where Aurora needs it just to hear her choke, "if I show you."

The little ghoulette makes the loveliest keening sound, a warbling thing that makes Sunshine's belly warm, and then she's moving. Slinking down the short length of Aurora's body, kissing down her chest, the slight softness of her stomach, the curve of her hip - Sunshine settles between her legs, presses her face to the crease of her thigh through her dress, and can't wait to finally get underneath it.

"You really are beautiful, y’know," she coos, resting warm palms on Aurora's knees. They slide up her thighs with deceptive slowness, gathering soft fabric and exposing inch after inch of porcelain skin. Rucking the skirt up over her hips, exposing the cutest pair of silky pink panties Sunshine thinks she's ever seen. The not-small wet spot only adds to the experience. "Been dyin' to see how beautiful you are here, too."

Sunshine slides two fingers over the damp fabric, the barest pressure, and Aurora makes that gurgling sound again.

"You're gonna kill me," the little ghoulette complains, mindlessly tweaking those impossibly stiff nipples through still-damp fabric. "Fuck, Sunny, c'mon..."

Sunshine clicks her tongue, chastising, but she doesn't have much room to taunt the other ghoulette for her impatience. Not when she can feel the place where her boxers are starting to stick to her.

"Alright, alright, sheesh," she chuckles, giving Aurora one more rub just because. "But nex' time you're gonna let me have my fun first."

Sunshine nips at her inner thigh, makes her jolt, and then she's pressing her open mouth to that wet spot. Licking at the fabric and groaning at the taste of her, heady and sweet and utterly delicious. She groans, savoring her first taste of the little ghoulette, and hooks two fingers around the gusset. Aurora reaches down and gets a hand in her hair once more, rocks her hips towards Sunshine's face, and the soft growl that escapes her is nothing but hungry.

Sunshine pulls that strip of fabric to the side, exposes her properly, and -

"Oh," she breathes, suddenly dizzy, "isn't this a pretty surprise..."

Aurora's as beautiful here as Sunshine knew she would be, pink and slippery with the lightest dusting of platinum curls just at the apex of her thighs, but all Sunshine can focus on is the sweet little silver barbell threaded through her hood. Each end is decorated with stones that match the blue of her hair, and Sunshine's brain short circuits when she considers the possibility of the little ghoulette having a color for every time she dyes those luscious waves.

"D’you like it?" Aurora lets out an airy giggle while Sunshine drools onto the sheets, hooking one leg around her back. "Swiss n' Cir said you would."

Sunshine traces the piercing with her thumb, gives a slow nod, and feels a blurt of pre soak into her boxers when she taps the lower ball against Aurora's swollen clit and the little ghoulette shakes.

"Baby," she huffs, grinding into the bed, "you have no idea."

Aurora tugs at her hair then, just enough to pull her attention from the shiny thing that's making her throb, and Sunshine can't believe how good she looks from down here.

"Aren't you s'posed t'be teachin' me somethin'?"

Aurora blows her a kiss, and Sunshine hurts.

"Oh, sweet thing," she slurs, fucked up sixteen ways from Sunday, "I'm gonna make you sing like an angel."

"Good," Aurora breathes, palming her tits once more, "'cause I want everyone t'hear me."

Oh, Sunshine hopes she screams.

[the-scooby-gang]

Character assassination and delayed puberty: VelmaHBO mishandling of Fred Jones

As I write the "I watched Velma HBO so you don't have too" reviews for episode 1 and 2, I decided to post this thought process I had regarding Fred's mischaracterization and, specifically, about the choice of giving him delayed puberty.

In the show, Mindy Kaling's self insert (because that ain't Velma in this or in the next life) comes to the conclusion that Fred is such a "spoiled white privileged brat" that his body didn't see the point of growing up at all.

First of all: Fuck that

Second of all: Whose brilliant idea (we all know who, but lets pretend for a second here) was it to turn FRED JONES: cheerleader; net lover; circus enjoyer; himbo friend; golden retriever sunshine boy and "I love my friends and my van so much you guys" into THIS?!?!

Is it because he is white, blond and has blue eyes???? Because it would be easy to make him into a caricature of white supremacy???

Yes. That's exactly why they changed Fred. Because it was easy.

I will go deeper on this in the full review of episode 1 and 2 (god help me) but this whole show is written in the most lazy way possible with jokes that would have fit perfectly in a edgy early 2000s show, where characters become those straw men versions of liberals conservatives IMAGINE exist.

Where people of color complain all the time about white supremacy but don't go deeper into it, its just complaining for the sake of complaining;

Where they bring genuine arguments people make but with zero nuance or though behind them, instead the writers put what THEY imagine it is about and, 99.9% of the time, they attribute it to people being "tOo sEnSiTiVe" and " tRiGgErEd SnOwFlAkEs"

Where people blow things out of proportion and accuse people left and right of being fascists (when they call Fred "Hitler" the background character says "he looks like Hitler. And I'm not just saying that because we call anyone Hitler nowadays") completely disregarding the WHY people in real life are calling out fascist behavior when they see it. Hello rise of fascism happening on the world, how is the INVASION OF CAPITOL IN AMERICA and THE INVASION AND DEPREDATION OF THE PLANALTO IN BRAZIL going for you?!;

This show is Family Guy. I would say it's worse than Family Guy even.

Third of all: Delayed puberty is an Actual Thing That Happens To People. It's something that can happen at random or it can be a genetic disorder shared in the family. It can be a symptom of something way more serious or something benign.

Many people that suffer from delayed puberty suffer from low self esteem because they have to watch their friends grow and develop when the same thing's not happening to them. They may feel like they're never going to catch up.

People are bullied over this, people develop depression.

And now these people are the punch line of this mean spirited joke.

I can even envision a better show where Fred still has delayed puberty, but instead of being the butt of jokes where people keep commenting on the size of the penis of this HIGH SCHOOLER, they treat as the constitutional delay it is. Fred is a late bloomer. It may be caused by a pattern of growth and development in his family, it may be a chronic illnesses he has. Can you imagine Fred with something like asthma or diabetes?

Lets go with that, lets imagine a Fred with diabetes, who is not receiving a proper treatment for said diabetes (maybe because his parents subscribe to that style of parenting where they are more concerned about appearances than the well being of their kid. "No, he has no problem. He is a perfectly healthy Jones."

Or they are the kind that say shit like this: "He doesn't have blurry vision he is just a lazy student, that's an excuse," or "You would stop going so much to the bathroom to piss if you stoped drinking water all the time" or even "I told you to not stay awake all night on those weird net making websites, now you're tired in class. What kind of mother they must think I am..." "But I didn't stay up all night, I swear–" "Don't you lie to me Frederick") and as such the side effects and symptoms are left unchecked.

So the Fred Velma, and we the audience, are introduced too is the heir of this fortune... who can't stay standing because he is constantly tired, has completely given up on trying to apply himself on school because he can't see the fucking board his vision is so blurry, has passed out at least once in gym, drinks water like he lives in a dessert and is so self conscious about his body that even his girlfriend hasn't seen him shirtless even once. The swim team hasn't seen him shirtless even once, so there are these whiplash inducing photos in the year book where is a bunch of guys in speedos nest to this one dude in an early 20th century striped swimming suit.

In episode 1 itself Velma's vision of Fred can start biased, after all from a distance a person that doesn't know Fred personally can chalk his behavior to "rich dramatic boy that knows he doesn't need to put effort into learning since he already has a fortune guaranteed for him after all this, so he is just sleeping and vibing and being dramatic through high school" but as the episode progresses and she gets to know Fred, she notices that the image doesn't fit. Fred, who has such in depth knowledge about physics and mechanics, who clearly loves his girlfriend very much and feels bad about the murder of this girl he considered a friend. The image of "Rich guy that doesn't care" is not fitting.

I want it to be a Velma and Daphne epiphany. About Daphne talking about all these things Fred has told her or that she noticed about him to Velma as they look for clues and it hits Velma as a she connects all together. The tiredness, the pissing, the thirst, the blurry vision.

Daphne may have not seen it because she is too close but with Velma's outside perspective the pieces fall into place.

Now lets imagine that instead of cop lesbian moms, Daphne could have lesbian doctor/nurse moms. They take him to them and they give him what he desperately needed:

"No, dear. You're not lazy, or broken, or an attention seeker, or any other bullshit your parents called you. You have diabetes. Type 1 to be precise."

After Daphne and Velma hug a crying Fred until he has no more tears to give, the series progresses with Fred now treating his diabetes as one of its recurring plot lines.

I want Daphne to have extra insulin in her purse, I want Shaggy to help Fred with his new diet, I want Fred and Velma to go exercising together and have deep conversations about body image and how they deal with it (Fred with his delayed puberty, Velma with her extra weight)

"Mature" and "Adult" content doesn't need to be edgy sex-violence-and-drugs.

It can be simply a story of a high schooler having to deal with diabetes in a country were insulin is expensive as fuck, some parents are more willing to let their kids suffer than offer any kind of help or even admit that there may be a problem in the first place, of dealing with body image and things that are out of your control.

Just a thought.

This is a post by The-Scooby-Gang, thanks for coming to my TED Talk.

[mariyekos]

As Azure Fades Analysis, Part 1

Azure Dragoons: Aging and the Impact of the Eyes

@scrollsfromarebornrealm made an EXCELLENT analysis post about the newest short story from the official FFXIV sidestory website, and in my attempt to respond to it I ended up with something so long it probably won't fit in a single post. So, I decided to split it up before i hit the image/text limit.

And yeah, in case you didn't know there's a new official FFXIV short story out relating to Estinien and Haldrath. Go check it out, because it is AMAZING.

First things first, as is typical of me: I will be discussing both canon and headcanon here. I will do my best to make it very clear when I am discussing something explicitly stated or heavily implied in canon, and when I am discussing headcanon. Some of this will come from the new short story, but I will also make references to the whole game, so get ready for sources galore!

Introductory Sources:

(Above: from the new story)

(Above: from the quest Heart of Ice)

(Above: from the sidequest Thar be Dragons)

Hraesvelgr's Line, and the Lifespan of Elezen

Alright with my sources out of the way, I actually interpreted the new story and Hraesvelgr lines differently! First, when I read Hraesvelgr's line, I took it as him saying that Estinien would be old and unable to effectively fight by age 50, rather than that Estinien would be dead by then.

Elezen live to be 100-120, but Edmont and Charlemald use old face models by age 56 I believe, so it's not like they stay spring chickens forever. I'm taking the fact that Haldrath and Aureniquart have young faces as the devs wanting them to be recognizable, or maybe aging a little more gracefully. It's been 20 years, so I would put them at mid 40s, maaaaybe mid 50s since Estinien and Aymeric are 32 in HW, which means 32 is a perfectly good age to still be fighting. If elezen live to 100-120, then 45-55 could definitely fit for "a brawny man well into his middle years."

In canon, it is heavily implied if not outright confirmed that transformed heretics can live for centuries (see: Thar be Dragons). In my long-established headcanon, Estinien ends up aging slower because of Nidhogg's power. In that HC, Hraesvelgr doesn't necessarily know of the impact that Nidhogg's Eye had on Haldrath, since Hraesvelgr basically peaced out after handing Nidhogg his own Eye. This new story is making me re-evaluate that HC... In Canon, the actual Eyes of Nidhogg are gone at this point, but Estinien spent some time a few days according to Lucia, but it's months/patch time in my HC again possessed by Nidhogg with the Eyes in his flesh, and there's no denying there have been lasting effects. Going purely on canon, Estinien can do the clone thing now, and is a huge powerhouse. The dragons recognize the bit of Nidhogg that resides within him too. Stuff like scales is pure HC that I happily accept but acknowledge isn't canon as far as anything we've seen. But imo that could partly the modelers being lazy since that would require excess effort .

(Above: Estinien making clones, à la Nidstinien. Source, with video)

Haldrath, Estinien, and How They Age

Now, Estinien's lifespan might not be impacted at all by what happened with Nidhogg. But since heretics can live centuries, and we know Estinien has been impacted somewhat...I think it's possible Hraesvelgr's assessment about Estinien being spent by 50 was wrong. Especially if we go with the idea that in his isolation he didn't know what happened to Haldrath beyond just that Haldrath had the Eyes (general had, no knowledge of the merge). Plus, his "spent" assessment came before Estinien ended up melding with the Eyes. If we go with the assumption that Hraesvelgr does know about what the Eye did to Haldrath, it could also be that Hraesvelgr told Estinien he would be old and infirm by 50 because he assumed Estinien would get rid of the Eye before it had any lasting effects on him, like all the other Azure Dragoons. By getting rid of it, he'd get old too.

(Above: from the new story).

Haldrath was still able to slay dragons during his middle years, after all. He collapsed because of Nidhogg's growing influence. Which admittedly could've been better-able to get him because maybe in aging he was growing weaker, but I think you could say it was more prolonged exposure to Nidhogg making him vulnerable than aging-induced-weakness.

(Above: Thordan upon revealing Haldrath in the quest Heavensward)

In the new story, Estinien mentions Haldrath's aging corpse. In the quest Heavensward, Archbishop Thordan VII makes reference to the body's lack of decay. This preservation is why I HC that maybe Estinien would end up aging slower- maybe the aether would be enough to maintain him as he is, just as Haldrath was. Now we didn't take of Haldrath's armor so who knows what lies beneath, but what I find interesting is that his corpse apparently did not change. He most definitely didn't turn into a full-on dragon. He's still an elezen (albeit with an eye in his chest, which is notably smaller than the Eyes bound to Estinien! I really wonder if there is meant to be a lore reason, like the Eyes tunneling deeper into the flesh over time, or if that was just a visual thing to make possessed!Estinien seem creepier). It could be that Haldrath neither decayed nor transformed because Nidhogg's power could only transform living beings, not dead ones. Haldrath's body never rose on its own to return to Nidhogg, after all.

Dragon Eyes and Consciousness/Control

Which brings into question how much consciousness is afforded to the Eyes... Vrtra can operate Varshahn and his true body separately, but given the scene when he freezes as Varshahn while he calls to Azdaja with his true body, maybe Dragons can only instill consciousness in one Eye-containing vessel at once. Haldrath kept both Eyes, even if only one merged to him (and why only one...? just to make sure the story could happen, or maybe because Nidhogg was weakened by the attack and only one could...?). Estinien had both Eyes when possessed too. When Nidhogg speaks through the Eye to Estinien in the lv50 DRG quest, we don't see his true body (with Hraesvelgr's Eye) and whatever that's doing. Maybe Nidhogg can only keep his consciousness in one place/with one Eye (so it's rendered moot when both Eyes are together).

Maybe dragons can only use their Eyes operate living beings (Varshahn is made by alchemists, so he's special). Maybe there was some sort of seal on Haldrath's dead body that kept Nidhogg from making it rise and deliver the other Eye unto him, even after Berteline/the next Azure Dragoon(s) held the Left one. Maybe he just didn't feel like going through the trouble to reclaim it because he could wage his war perfectly well with Hraesvelgr's Eye and wasn't going for extermination/didn't need full power until HW. Maybe the writers just needed an Eye in Haldrath's body and let the reason for Nidhogg not reclaiming it slide to make an awesome story moment.

(Above: comparison of Eye sizes. Also Estinien's Eyes move)

Summary on Aging, HC and Canon

In any case! Back to canon: 1) Transformed heretics can live for centuries. 2) Haldrath's body ceased to age and did not decay after the Eye merged to him. 3) The Eye was able to remain in Haldrath's body for a thousand years and was still functional when it merged to Estinien (it wiggles in the CSs).

HCs from this: maybe Estinien will age slower and be able to maintain his form. Maybe he will gradually be transformed into a dragon or more draconic being over time. Even a drop of dragon's blood- supposedly- is enough to transform an Ishgardian, and Estinien got fully blasted with Dragon Essence upon possession. We even see a middle form during the Nidstinien fight! Nidhogg's shade (dragon form) might just be an aetheric projection rather than flesh. But back to HC, I interpret that as Nidhogg attempting to actually warp flesh, before going to his Shade and then returning to the form that his body- Estinien's body- recognizes best as its own.

...All of this is a really long way to say that I don't think Estinien would necessarily be dead by 50. Well. Unless we take it with the idea that Nidhogg would have taken full control of him, and that the "youthful vigor" he would lose would be his ability to reject Nidhogg's influence before being lost as Haldrath was. For some reason that did not occur to me until this very moment, over an hour into writing this, despite the fact that that was probably what scrollsfromarebornrealm was implying... And/or that scrollsfromarebornrealm just meant that Estinien would probably get himself killed by 50 because yeahhhh, that man did NOT seem to care about himself enough to be safe and survive that long. Especially if aging meant he grew weak and then said weakness had him fall in battle (rather than Nidhogg's corruption straight up killing him by 50. Which is also an intriguing possibility).

"Becoming the Azure Dragoon is a death sentence."

The quote above comes directly from @scrollsfromarebornrealm's post. While I'm not looking at it as dragoons being too old/weak to fight by 50, I do wholeheartedly agree with the idea that (nearly) all Azure Dragoons die young. Partially because of the dangers of their job, partially because of the risk of Nidhogg's influence.

First, Alberic. Alberic retired 20 years ago and he's fine! But two things: 1) Alberic was 24 when he retired (don't feel like taking a picture, but in my Encyclopedia Eorzea it says he's 44, and it's been 20 years). 2) Alberic is a hyur. Haldrath held onto BOTH eyes of Nidhogg for 20 years before he could no longer handle it, and drank of Ratatoskr's aether. Most Azure Dragoons were probably Elezen given the racial distribution of Ishgard. Alberic, a hyur, does not bear elezen/dragon blood (as long as he's purely hyur, which I am assuming he is). In addition, he probably only had the Eye for a handful of years at most, since he was only 24 when he rejected it. It makes sense that he would walk away from Nidhogg with relatively few impacts. He didn't die in battle and he firmly rejected the Eye when it threatened to take control of him. I think retirement for an Azure Dragoon (followed by at least two decades of survival) is EXTREMELY uncommon in Ishgard's history.

(Above: from the new story)

A few things here. I'll start with the point I was trying to make: "While the Eye lent him strength, in harboring Nidhogg's undying malice, it was also slowly corrupting his being. Ere long it would finally consume him..." In other words, the Eye is most definitely a death sentence. It will kill Haldrath eventually. Possessing an Eye long term- at least as a part of one's own flesh, though since it seems possessing it long term binds it to the Azure Dragoon's flesh you could just shorten that to "long term" only- will corrupt the Azure Dragoon to the point of no return. The only options left at that point seem to be Getting Consumed And Becoming Nidhogg's Puppet (Estinien) or Being Killed As To Not Become A Puppet (Haldrath). It was too late to reject the Eye, which is what Alberic did to make his escape.

Back into HC territory, I now want to pick up an old fic of mine about a previous Azure Dragoon basically having to be put down upon being too far gone due to Nidhogg's Corruption. Not to the level that the Eye melded to their flesh as it did Haldrath and Estinien, but mental corruption, and maybe attacks like the one Haldrath has. Ishgard would be wary of another Azure Dragoon being claimed by the Eye not only because they don't want Nidhogg to have a new pawn, but also because they can't afford to lose the second Eye with the first still bound to Haldrath. They also probably wouldn't want news of the Azure Dragoon's corruption leaking to the public, since the Azure Dragoon is supposed to be a hero and that would be Not Good for the Azure Dragoon's image. So maybe Ishgard kills Azure Dragoons who are too far gone (whether they're actually too far or whether the people in power are paranoid about it).

A different HC I'm not sold on but thought of is that the stress of being Azure Dragoon could lead to an early grave. Yes Dragon blood does extend the lives of transformed heretic, but it could be that without the transformation, the stress of it all causes damage to the insides of Azure Dragoons in a way that prematurely ages them and/or just causes them to die young. Alberic at 44 has some white hair. Which 44 year old men can definitely have without anything bad happening, don't get me wrong! But that could be a fun HC interpretation of that.

So yeah. I HC that Azure Dragoons die young as based on 1) them potentially needing to be killed to avoid falling to Nidhogg, 2) their jobs being so dangerous they're killed in battle (and the Eye retrieved) or die from wounds, 3) the stress of the Eye causing irreparable damage that leads them to die young even after relinquishing the Eye. Plus, as @scrollsfromarebornrealm points out, Valeroyant died 2 years after fending off Nidhogg. We don't have many named Azure Dragoons so even one early death is suspect!

Haldrath and the Two Eyes

(Above: from the new story)

Yes, one of these is a repeat of the one above. But I really want to empahsize something in this because my eyes (haha) are SO wide at this. Haldrath refers to an Eye, singular, being what is corrupting him. Not the Eyes plural. And only one of the eyes has fused to his body, which matches what we know. At first I thought that maybe he only had one or something. Yet he tells Berteline that he will "entrust [Nidhogg's] eyes" plural to her.

So this is odd. Haldrath only mentions drawing on a singular Eye, and only a singular Eye has fused to his body. But he entrusts both to Berteline. My thought here is that maybe he stopped drawing on the power of the second one once the first fused to him, unwilling to give up the strength afforded by the first, but wary of drawing on the second lest it fuse to him too. I do wonder if he thought Bertiline would be able to pry Nidhogg's Right Eye from his corpse (in addition to presumably taking the Left Eye from him, which is the one Estinien has), or if when he said he was entrusting the eye to her he meant he was entrusting his dead body (containing the Eye) to her to...keep away from Nidhogg, or something. In the Echo Flashback to Haldrath following the events of The Aery, we can see Haldrath holding both Eyes and then storing them. It's heavily implied (if not outright stated) that Haldrath never met with any of the Knights Twelve again, save Aureniquart on his deathbed, so I assume Haldrath would've also had the Left Eye on him at his death even if only the Right had fused to him.

But yeah. Haldrath says he's been corrupted by One Singular Eye. It could be that the second just isn't mentioned here because it hasn't fused to him, and maybe I'm reading too far into this (see: me going feral over Estinien saying "Then you and Alphinaud threw my eyes off a bridge, and I’ve never known peace since."). Yet he must possess two to entrust both to Bertiline. Interesting.

I do wonder if anyone ever attempted to pry the Eye from Haldrath's body. It is possible they thought he was a Holy Object and didn't want to disturb him so never tried. It's possible that those who knew of him were worried they might also be corrupted if they touched the Eye, so they didn't want to try. It's possible they tried and failed. Who knows. But it seems like the Eye remained undisturbed within Haldrath's ageless corpse until Thordan used Primal Powers to fuel his ascendance to a God-King.

End Note

I honestly don't know what to say anymore other than Wow.

This one short story has blasted my mind open. I'm not sure how many words this giant essay is, but it's been about 3 hours so I think i should stop for now, despite the fact that I've hardly even begun to talk about some of the most intriguing parts of the short story! (See: Estinien being able to see Haldrath's memories and attributing it to Nidhogg, a more in-depth analysis of corruption, being able to hear Nidhogg and him sounding like the wind (hey remember that dragoon helmets are designed to make the sound of the wind going through it seem like a dragon scream, thank you levequest), whatever the hell was in that drink (I think it would be fascinating to explore it being an intentional flashback on the part of the Alchemists, using the blood they took from him...maybe fic worthy hmmmm), the parallels between Haldrath and Estinien losing their burning passion to fight, Aureniquart and the pain of being told to kill your liege-lord plus potential backstory there and some lines about loyalty...needless to say there's a lot more to talk about!)

So for now I am going to stop here. There's a lot to think about. Haldrath did not die in battle as I'd assumed, but due to the Eye's corruption. He entrusted the Eye to a successor, as Nidhogg had already begun to call out to others. He asked to be killed. This has big repercussions.

If you've read this whole thing, thank you! I hope my rambling was somewhat interesting. If you want to discuss anything here, reblog or reply and I would love to talk xD. I don't have every lore piece memorized, and I've definitely forgotten some things, so if I'm missing some crucial information I would be happy to know!!

[pale-flower-of-darkness]

i did it. and it has proper grammar. i hope. also it has key art in it. for flavor.

fe casts ranked by continent not including elyos cuz dont know enough about them.

9. Tellius

I am going to get crucified for this take but I don't care. I hate the story of Tellius. Nothing about it interests me. FE9/10 is the first time in the series where I was actually endeared to a grand total of 0 members of the cast. I seriously don't know what else to say. Like I don't think I would feel this strongly about Tellius if it wasn't praised as the best this series has to offer. I would genuinely just see it as a mediocre story with decent world building and forgettable characters.

Also if you do like Tellius, I am very happy that you could connect with something I couldn't. I mean that, the fact that people like something you don't should be a good thing. Most of the time. To be perfectly honest I am very picky and snarky when it comes to fantasy media because I dislike when people use simplistic metaphors for complex real-world issues.

However, I know that there are people who like simpler fantasy with more clear metaphors. It exists for a reason. There's an audience for Tellius 100%, but that audience is not me.

8. Valentia

So. What can I say I like about the Valentian cast? I like Sonya. That's about it? Yeah... I think FE15 does a good job breathing life into these characters but the problem is that more-so than any other game, this cast is riddled with misogyny. I won't get into it in this post because it's a very layered issue, but out of every original playable female character, only one of them is independent and doesn't marry, she gets turned into a witch in her epilogue. Sonya deserved better.

7. Archanea

Archanea characters don't have personalities but they get to be higher then Valentia and Tellius solely because they don't annoy me as much. I can point out what I don't like with the other casts. Like, I don't like that Danved is the only black character in the franchise and he looks like that. I don't like that Shinon doesn't really have a reason to be an asshole other than he's just an asshole. I don't like how Leon is one of the only gay characters in the series and he falls in love with a straight man. I could go on. What can I say about Archanea though? Nothing really. There's nothing there to like or dislike about the characters. They just exist to exist, and they exist to be cannon fodder. That's really it.

Tiki is neat though.

6. Ylisse & Valm

Ah yes, the game where every playable character has an annoying gimmick. Listen, say what you want about Awakening's cast, at the very least they're all memorable. I have an opinion on most of the Shepards. In theory, it works. Everyone can make an impression on the player, and it can make you want to learn more about them just from a line with a lot of personality. In execution it's just really annoying. However, I still find myself liking quite of few of them. The children especially, probably because their gimmicks are more subdued half the time.

5. Nohr/Hoshido

Same thing as Awakening. Most of them have an annoying gimmick. Keyword: MOST. I think it's way worse with the kids, which was a much, MUCH better call. If I had to spend time with the pickle guy in the main story, I would just drop Fates entirely. I'm being so serious.

4. Fódlan

Three Houses has the best written cast. It also has the most written cast. You could say the non-lords have gimmicks and I'd agree, however because the way it's set up those gimmicks aren't on full display in every one of their non-support lines. They aren't annoying because they're written like people, ya' know? Think of your acquaintances, you probably only know one thing about them. Hilda is lazy, Caspar is brash, Marianne is self-deprecating, Ashe is nice, etc. However just because you don't know them very well doesn't mean that's all they are, it's a big part of who they are but it not always on display. Three Houses does a really good with its cast in that regard and I think that's why so many people gravitated towards that game in particular, you really are getting to know your students and are beginning to care about them. Three Hopes does worse with this but it's a spin-off. What did you expect?

3. Jugdral

I think I've cemented myself as someone who knows jack-all about Jugdral, and I honestly intend to keep it that way, (even though I know it pisses off FE4 fans and I don't like making people genuinely upset, just like haha silly upset) but. But, but, but. I DO know stuff about FE5- and my verdict is- for a game with absolutely no character writing, they really do make you care about these characters. Unless it's Kane, Alva and Robert. I'm not kidding you, I genuinely LIKE Osian, even though he has like 10 lines if that. I genuinely LIKE Tanya, even though she only has like 3 lines that aren't about her dad or her boyfriend. I fucking LOVE Mareeta, because she GETS LINES. I also love Salem, his design is rad and 'Ruining Moomin' has endeared me to ex-cult members. If any Kaga game deserved a remake with supports, it was FE5.

Also I like Tine. I know very little about her but her theme hurts my soul and what I know of her backstory upsets me in the same way Jaffar's lack of backstory upsets me and that's a good way for me to attempt to adopt a fictional character.

2. Elibe

"But it's just an Archanea rip-off! How can you like the cast of FE6 and not the cast of FE1/3/11/12?" SHUT UP. SHUT UPPPP. THAT'S THE POINT. Everything about Elibe is supposed to subvert your expectations based on what you know from previous games. Does the lords father die? Nope. Is the creepy shadowy figure lurking behind the main antagonist controlling him? Nope. Is the woman who's in love with the main antagonist in love with him because he secretly has a heart of gold? Nope. Are <blank> dragons inherently evil? Nope. Even Roy having red hair is a subversion. Red is often treated as the opposite of blue, ya' know? The cast is full of Archanea expies to make you THINK it's a rip-off. However, if you forgot, the cast of Archanea is full of damn pawns. There is nothing to rip-off other than appearance, role and a vague idea of what their personality is. The cast of FE6 isn't bland. You just haven't looked past how the early game is purposefully full of expies. I'm not apologizing for this one. If you think FE6 has a boring cast I will fight you.

For FE7, everything you could say about that cast has been said. They're incredibly strong in their own right and connects pretty well to FE6 even though the story didn't. Nino and Jaffar are my all time favorite Fire Emblem characters for a reason.

It also has a trio of preteen boys with contrasting personalities and if you've been on my main you know I have a weakness for that dynamic solely because of Ed Edd n' Eddy.

1. Magvel

Hey, look my most obvious take since the time I said "Magical Mystery Tour" is a better album then "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band!"

I want to get one thing clear, it does not take much for me to like a cast. The one requirement is that every character is involved with a story for a reason, Scared Stones is the only FE game where that's done correctly. Everyone you play as has a reason to be in your army, and everyone who opposes you has a reason for that too. Even the characters that are otherwise pretty bland have a role in the story somehow, even if its very minor.

I could honestly gush about this cast till the end of time but thats boring. I'll just say that FE8 has the best axe guy duo and the best red/green cavalier duo in the franchise.

[echoes-lighthouse]

fellow vampire lover!! answer for whomever you feel like 👍

2, 21, 24, 33 (how would your s/I describe them), 34, 35!

-supernaturalinguist

I know this was supposed to be to answer for an f/o because of the specificness on 33, but I'm going to do it the other way around and do it for my vampire self-insert!! It's just easier for me to write about myself, I think part of me is always scared I'll say something canonically incorrect about my f/os. You know?

Anyways!!! Here we go!!

2. what sort of music would they like? have you thought about what genres or bands do they lean towards? do they have a favorite song?

They really like music in general: they enjoy listening to whatever someone else puts on. But for their personal taste, they like rock and alt-rock stuff! They were a Smiths/Siouxsie/Cure kind of person in the eighties and they've more recently been into Radiohead and July Talk and Nick Cave. They're a bit slow to discover new music but they settle in and do the whole discography when they find a new band.

21. their favorite place to be?

The lazy and correct answer would be 'wherever Gabrielle is,' but aside from that... they like New York, they like the colder forests on the Canadian Shield or in Russia. Their favourite American city is Detroit. They like abandoned buildings, they like art galleries, they like cities with good graffiti.

24. do they have any creative hobbies? (art, writing, music, etc)

They're very good at drawing people and objects in a void, but they're no good at backgrounds or larger scenes. They have a good voice, but they don't like to sing around other people. They haven't tried writing since they were a mortal, but they used to enjoy it. I think it would remind them too much of their unfinished degree.

33. if applicable, how would your other characters describe them? i mean specifically the people around them.

Lestat- "Echo? The little nuisance? They're small but they're very loud. And demanding. They always want something."

Gabrielle- "My only fledgling, yes. They are very important to me. They like to read books, and they like to dance. I love to hear their favourite poetry. They fit perfectly into my arms, I always forget it until they're with me again."

Louis- "I know Echo, yes. Gabrielle's fledgling. They love her... probably a bit too much. I can introduce you, if you'd like."

Daniel- "They're the young one. Turned in the eighties, only twenty years old, but you would absolutely think they were younger. And they don't let you forget it either."

Armand- "Echo is another member of the coven. They're small. Blue eyes, like the others of the Lioncourt family. You'll know them when you see them."

34. how would your character describe themselves? it doesn't have to line up with how they really are.

I am the Vampire Echo. I have honey-coloured hair and blue eyes like my blood-mother and her son. I'm just over five feet tall, and everyone else in the coven is taller than me. I was turned at the age of twenty, but everyone always thinks I'm younger than that. I like poetry and books, and I love my family. I would do anything for my family.

35. do they ever return home?

They're dead. They can never return home.

[chiaraav]

Things I've learned in my first month as an over the phone spanish interpreter:

All the nurses and receptionists called Karen that I've encountered have been SO nice! Always understanding and forgiving if you make a small mistake and very willing to help out, not racist at all and many of them actually have learned a little bit of Spanish to help their patients! So nice, so cute, hope I keep encountering them on the job.

The Sharons though, I've had 5 Sharons and all of them were awful, treated the patients horribly and they also treated ME badly!! Like wtf Sharon, I'm here to help YOU. Racists all five of them.

Also this is specifically for the fourth Sharon, I may be able to call your patients for you, but I'm not your secretary, I CAN'T make calls where interpreting services are not required, no I don't care how busy you are, no I'm not lazy this just isn't my job, pick up the phone and make the english calls you need jfc

EVERYONE IN PEDIATRICS IS SO NICE I LOVE Y'ALL!!!!!!!!

No kidding, they're the nicest of them all, always happy to help and happy to see their patients! And so am I! I'm not someone who particularly likes babies or kids but honestly the cutest appointments. Everyone is so nice, EVERYONE: receptionists, nurses, doctors, everyone in between the absolute best, always a pleasure to receive a call from you.

Labor and delivery nurses are so nice too!!!! May be a little less enthusiastic but overall so nice and kind, love y'all!!!

On the other hand we have neurosurgery, god I hate this calls, it's not that the terminology is hard (it is, but I can look it up) but is2g neurosurgeons are SO unwilling to help out, they get annoyed of you can't do things quickly and perfectly, and if I ask for a repetition or a spelling they get annoyed and I'm like hello???? Your patient NEEDS to understand this and as such you should HELP ME understand otherwise we are all losing our time. Not racists tho, just assholes. Hope I find some nice ones.

Urologists! Please, you shouldn't be uncomfortable talking about penises and prostates with a female interpreter! You are a physician! But if you truly think that it would be better to have a male interpreter ask for one!!!! So there won't be any awkward silences, that just makes it way worse!!!!!!

Male nurses I love all of you, you are so kind and willing to help! Always saying please and thank you in a soft voice, love love love!

Actually tbh most of the nurses are very very nice, especially as I said pediatrics, labor and delivery and oncology!

Not u neurosurgery nurses, y'all are not exactly nice, can't blame you tho you have to spend so much time around neurosurgeons, there's no way you will stay nice around them.

Oncology you guys are the best, such a difficult specialty and so hard to give bad news, you deserve the best.

Family medicine! It's obvious that you guys are on a rush, so much respect for you really, you also deserve the best!

Don't even know what to say about gastroenterologists, you guys are really strong, definitely not for the weak

And that's all that I wanted to say about providers! Though here's a list of things that annoy me:

So hey, I know that some of you are in a rush, but could you PLEASE at least tell us when you are going to hang up? We don't want to be reporting calls as disconnected, it's annoying.

In the same line, hey I don't have this problem with my company but my friend's company has as goal to finish calls with their scripted goodbye if not those are detractor, so could you guys please at least allow us to say goodbye I know that it doesn't feel necessary (it isn't) but it may impact someone's income

Please could you speak a little slowly, some of us are relatively new and can't keep up with accents if you guys are running with your words

For some of y'all it's not even to speak slow, just at a normal pace! I can't understand terminology that way!

[treasureplcnet]

do you have any drawing tips? i'm just starting out and your style inspires me to keep going fr!!

HIYA !!! thank you that is so kind of you, i would say to keep drawing with references and do studies!! typically art studies (in like art school lol) are of old masters (da vinci, etc) but doing studies of styles that you like, like trying to copy a certain artist you like, also helps you develop skills !!

for example, lots of people (especially fanartists lol) do studies of artists like leyendecker while making the models their favorite characters/ocs, so it helps to make studies fun. literally look up leyendecker study on tumblr dot com and you will see hundreds.

(gets a bit long and rambly so i've thrown it under the cut :')

style studies can be anything! above was done while watching wolfwalkers, just loose sketches that copied the style as the movie went along. i love the design and style in that film, wanted to incorporate it in my character design work, so i tried it out myself! it let me know the kinds of shapes used in the construction, the way it moves (wrt to animation) and silhouettes. by copying something, you learn how to do it on the way (so the kinds of colors used, what works best with shading, etc) it's like. reverse engineering

even very loosely copying something to identify what you like about the style helps! these were modelled after the way slimsense on ig paints (her work is 2nd + 4th examples below, my attempts at 'paint' 1st and 3rd lol), but doesn't really look like her work. i'm not necessarily trying to make perfect copies. i liked that her paint didn't blend perfectly, was blocky, and the additional lineart over the painting, so i brought that into my own art. i tried to create a painting style that was 'my own' off of lots of trial and error, and seeing what stuck!

also find brushes you like! adobe has a bunch on their page (if you have photoshop, but i know there's some for procreate and other programs) and if you want the adobe brush files, lmk. i will send a drive link to you LOL (sketches of the same characters, using different brushes below. the two i used the most often, one being a solid inker and the other being a paintbrush)

generally doing figure drawing is good too. i've heard advice about art where you can only start breaking the rules after you understand them, and a good grasp on anatomy, proportions, etc is definitely a good place to start! good sites to use for this are line of action for poses, and the morpho books (if you need pdfs of this let me know, though you should be able to find them if you look lol) !

i would also say learn perspective early on. i have no tips for you here i am so sorry. i didn't and now it bites me in the ass, but there has to be a youtube tutorial for this out there that can help you AND me. same goes for color theory. quickly dropping my favorite van gogh quote of all time:

(quote is from a letter to his brother) just everyone needs the fundamentals first. don't worry about a personal style: that just comes naturally as you develop as an artist, and i was certainly inspired by a lot of the things i watched/consumed and artists i admired which absolutely shows in my work i think (manet. western comics. fma. avatar. pjo fanart. there are tells. you know how it is.)

also flip your canvas !!! like see below ... frankly this marcille is so lopsided (her entire face should shift to the left) LOL !! flipping horizontally makes the anatomy mistakes obvious, and shows you you what you need to fix. i should never have posted this as is but sometimes it works for humor and an artist is lazy </3

AND ALWAYS USE REFERENCES WHEN YOU CAN!! i should use more references tbh!!! it helps with posing, getting anatomy correct, etc, and my friends use pinterest a lot, though i tend to just google when i need to LOLLL

also draw what you like. there is genuinely nothing that is better for your art than getting into something REALLY BAD and then non stop drawing it. time + practice will lead to improvement no matter what the subject is!

i hope this was not too much information all at once !!! and some of it is helpful!!! it's a lot of basic improvement tips that i try to practice and use when i can :) so sorry that this got so long!!!!

[i-literally-cant-with-this]

Spread love to fanfic writers! 🤍 Answer these questions about your fanfics then send this to 5 other fanfic writers

Name a fic you loved writing the most.

Name a fic that others loved but you didn't care for as much.

Name a fic you had the most fun writing.

Name a fic that you are the most proud of.

Name a fic that you wish had gotten more recognition.

Name your happiest/saddest/most comedic fics!

Hi Milky & Mack!!! Thank you both for sending this to me! I should NOT be lazy and give you each different answers. But unfortunately, I am feeling very lazy today. <3

A fic that I loved writing the most

‣ It would have to be Hush, Little Baby It's a story about Katsuki getting up with his baby (6 months ish) after she has a bad dream or something. I wrote it in less than 15 minutes and I damn near cried at the end. It was so sweet to me coming from a man like him. And I think my favorite part of it was obviously the last line of it, but the fact that I can totally see him doing that after he's grown up a bit is what brings me the most joy.

A fic others loved but I didn't care for as much

‣ I think I'm my number one fan, tbh 😑. Like, I think stuff I write is ok at the very least and I think I'm not alone in this when I wonder why the fuck some of my stuff doesn't take off more. At least, I kinda hope so. At the beginning of the year I started this stupid thing where I wanted to be more candid about stuff - try to be more open? I guess. So I made up a little series called Clean Dirty Thoughts. Honestly, Mack and Honee were the only ones who even bothered to look at it. And I think Mack did it out of pity lmao (Thank you Mack, ilysm).

Name a fic you had the most fun writing

‣ It wasn't really a "fic" but my @katkitkats (a new moot turned friend I talk with almost everyday) shot me a really fun HC for Kat's ask for Sweet Hanma and I have never been so in love with such an asshole as that moment in time. It's spiraled tremendously since.

Name a fic that you are the most proud of

‣ Talk Dirty To Me is the small small small piece that I feel put me on the tumblr map. It's so short and I'm a little saddened by the fact that I've written things 5x's longer than that and they get like, next to no notes. I guess the people want short fun things to read? Idk. It could totally be me. I'm learning more and more to write for ME and if other people enjoy it that's fantastic. Just kidding. I get excited every single time someone likes my stuff lol.

Name a fic that you wish had gotten more recognition

‣ What do you mean pick only one??? Over Thanksgiving last year I wrote a fic about TAMAKI AMAJIKI that I was so fucking sure was gold. Like I said, I am my number 1 fan. I thought I nailed him perfectly in that. I dunno. Maybe my #'s are all wrong? Maybe I just suck? 😂

Name your happiest/saddest/most comedic fics

‣ The happiest fic ... off the top of my head I think it would be *Say Yes, Or I'll Shoot. It's about Hange. It's 100% an inaccurate portrayal of them. But I thought it was super cute.

‣ The saddest fic ... hmm ... I started a series called Throwing Down the Gauntlet and it's about Katsuki x F.reader and all of their shit. I'm not done with it yet. I've had to step back from it because the motivation to keep going was next to nothing. I do plan on finishing it. Currently sitting at part 7.

‣ The most comedic thing would have to be Wrong Hole. It's just a stupid little thing about some of the guys from AOT. Made me giggle. Made like 3 1/2 other people giggle, too. So my job here is done.

[whimsyswastry]

Right back at you for the creating your OC ask! :)

Numbers 3, 15 and 17 for everyone?

Oooh...goodness :D This may take a while...as I listed a lot of OCs.

All the Info below the cut 💛

3. How did you choose their name?

Ellaria Trevelyan -> I think I must have been in the midst of reading Game of Thrones. Which, naming her after another character was completely unintentional. I don't even remember thinking about it, until I saw the GoT episode with Ellaria Sand and being like... "Huh... I wonder..."

Ori Lavellan -> Oriana's full name actually came from the fantasy name generator website. It didn't really seem to fit the naive and idealistic character I was crafting, but the shortened version of Ori really did. Plus, I just love nicknames.

Eliza Shepard -> I really like the word Elysium. So, initially, the name was Elysia. But as her background is a twisted version of a War Hero, I didn't want her name being so close to Elysium. I figured Eliza kept the feeling without seeming uninspired.

Lucette de Sardet -> This is another one that I got from a nickname. She's very close to her cousin Constantin. I wanted Constantin to use a petname for her that was one part obnoxious and one part adorable and settled on LuLu, but she's a diplomat and part of the royal family so she couldn't be named Lucy, but Lucette worked perfectly especially with the surname De Sardet.

**I should note that both of my Ryders look the same (default), but I kept waffling on his personality. I couldn't decide between a bitter, angry, daddy-issue ridden asshole who doesn't want anyone to know he has a heart of gold (Thomas) and a goofy, adrenaline junkie, with a nerdy side (Alexander). So I just ended up using both for different stories.

Thomas Scott Ryder -> I created Thomas Scott around the same time I was playing Greefall, and Lucette's faceclaim has always been Antonia Thomas. I thought the name sounded really natural. I like to think he's named after his mother's grandfather who was 10x the father to him that Alec ever was.

Alexander Scott Ryder -> This one was lazy. I just wanted him to be named after Alec, but Scott Alexander didn't sound nearly as good as Alexander Scott.

15. What is something about your OC that makes you laugh?

Ellaria Trevelyan -> She is really outgoing, but doubly so when she's around Cullen who is so reserved. She makes bawdy jokes and gets in his space because she finds it so funny and can tell he likes it, even if it turns his ears scarlet.

Ori Lavellan -> Having grown up with only the noises of nature, she's actually really skittish. Not scared, but easily startled by loud noises. This has lead Varric to calling her Cricket because she jumps so high.

Eliza Shepard -> She has a voracious sweet tooth (in part inspired by my own blasted sugar addiction). She keeps a secret drawer of sweets that Kaidan and Liara pilfer from to help them cope with their biotic metabolism. Eliza still hasn't figured it out because she thinks she ate it and just doesn't remember.

Lucette de Sardet -> She is really diplomatic. It's her job. She's representing her entire country! But she also has a really strong moral compass, and when someone crosses those lines, she has no qualms punching them in the face. Needless to say, she's caused a diplomatic incident or two.

Thomas Scott Ryder -> His relationship with his sister. I only have sisters, but I have a couple cousins who have always been really protective, playful, and rambunctious with me the way I imagine an older brother would have. It's really fun to write and I hope equally fun to read. Especially since he's an asshole to just about everyone else.

Alexander Scott Ryder -> Just how energetic he is. I am always drained so it's lots of fun to explore a character who acts like a kid hopped up on an entire bag of halloween candy. And, just like that kid, how he crashes into his bed at the end of the day.

17. Is there some element you regret adding to your OC or their story?

Ellaria Trevelyan -> Big YES for this one. Initially, her backstory involved abuse by a templar. I thought it was an important part of showing the power imbalance between mages and templars in the circle. But, even though the abuse was only ever eluded to and not explicit, it never felt right. I couldn't do justice to her experience. So Unharrowed (my fic about the Inquisitor pre-DAI) has been on hiatus for the last...5 years. I recently had a breakthrough with her backstory and finally starting writing the version of Unharrowed I've always wanted.

Ori Lavellan -> I have a few ficlets when Ori is really struggling with Solas' departure and uses another character to feel something other than pain...These were written for fictober a few years ago and upon reflection, she never would've done this no matter how much pain she was in.

Eliza Shepard -> This is more of an oversight on my part. But half of her storyline is written as though she has biotics and the other half as though she's just a soldier. I like the story with her as a soldier, it makes her interactions with Kaidan's biotics more novel.

Lucette de Sardet -> It's been a while since I've read any of my Lucette fics...but nothing comes to mind for her :)

Thomas Scott Ryder -> I both love and hate that he smokes clove cigarettes. It fits his angry at the world, leave me a lone so I can sulk outer persona. But I worry that readers will judge him because it's 2185/2819 and he's still partaking in a really unhealthy habit.

Alexander Scott Ryder -> It's not really a character element, but another writing regret regarding him. The only stories I've ever written about Alexander Scott take place after High Noon / breaking up with Reyes. I feel like I could've made the stories infinitely better if I'd taken the time to think about specific storylines or head canons about the way he and Reyes got together. As it is, it feels somewhat generic.

[somedaytakethetime]

I'm procrastinating my life and I feel like mush so.. I'm back to my papyrus scrolls of text. Today? The Sewing Beast™

And that is to say: Inspiration Images - The Actual Sewing Time! Let's get cracking and break it down.

I was up until like 2am last night (I have horrible sleeping habits lately) and I came across a seamstress that has the perfect style for what I'm going for currently in my life. And I mean in terms of dresses that is. I've figured out that I no longer care so much if I think I look fat in clothes, because the thing is: I'm actually relatively skinny. I'm not supermodel levels of thin, my thighs definitely rub together and I'm meatier on my bottom half but I'm slender still. I have a perfectly healthy weight now, after a few years of... not so great "eating" habits and being not-so-healthy-weighted let's put it in that softer way. I just feel fat. Due to previously mentioned reasons. So, the way I look in my own head likely doesn't actually match the way I look externally. And that's hard to move past and let go of. I would like to look a certain way, but realistically I'll never manage to sustain that, I tried and it's just not possible for me. And with that that's all I'll touch on that subject, so refocusing on the problem at hand: I sort of strongly dislike the look of me in the mirror BUT you know what I dislike even more? BEING UNCOMFORTABLE! I can't stand feeling like I can't breathe when I'm wearing something, or feeling like I'm pinched and pulled tight everywhere. Which has led me to this current approach for more looser fitted clothing. My plan still includes some more "fitted" dresses but my definition of fitted has changed massively lately. Let's break that down.

I need some of this style of looser fitted smock/babydoll type of dress:

I feel like this sort of style will be so comfortable in the clammy days of summer.

My new definition of tighter fit is this:

I'm not a huge fan of the longer sleeves on the wrap dress and the buttoned dress, but I could easily change that. As for something that I like the look of but is a bit more whimsical (so it still fits my personality):

Longer dresses (and skirts) that are flowy and have slits because I think that would balance out how short and stumpy I am. Rompers and dungarees because... girl.. I love a romper and a dungaree okay?? And granny prints. Still want to cosplay your nan's couch, yes I do. (all the photos above belong to Janelle at Rosery Apparel)

The overall look for daily wear dresses would be: comfortable, simple cuts and easy, quick makes (I'm making everything myself so.. need to take in consideration my own laziness). Smock dresses, wrap dresses, and sort of 90s flower child inspiration going into it.

Now let's get into skirts because those are super simple: mini pencil skirts and mini a-line skirts. That's it. That's my new aesthetic. For a woman that hasn't shown a knee to the general public in nearly 8 years? This is ground breaking. Let's look at images because I'm visual.

(links: image 1 and 3 are ill gotten from Pinterest, image 2 belongs to Maja, image 4 belongs to Stephanie, image 6 ill gotten from Pinterest, and image 5 belongs to Stacie)

Easy peasy, super simple, quick to make. I own a million skirts that need re-fitting. Will have to get to that soon. Send help.

Also to add a touch of fancy, because this is my idea of holiday attire:

(all pilfered from the internet, no sources for these)

Wide legged trousers, a-line flowy skirts, sparkly or silky, sweaters on top. That's the whole idea and the whole look.

As for trousers I'm going simple: high waisted, straight cut or wide legged. I feel better if I have breathing room in my clothes, I feel less like a sausage in a too tight casing. So think:

Also letting the kids influence me and throwing it back to the 2000s when I used to wear:

The Cargo Pant™

I like pockets as a style choice and not so much as a practicality choice, what can I say? yes, I know that cargo pants were "appropriated" from men's workwear, especially factory workers and mechanics that needed all those pockets

I think denim I need very little of. I don't like how denim feels, it always feels so uncomfortably stiff to me. But that could just be because I'm poor so the quality of the denim I've worn over the years might be lacking or something, I have no clue. Linen and cotton wrinkle like hell, oui, but they make such comfortable light clothes.. muy needed in my wardrobe. Other features that my trousers might need: elasticated waists. The front would look totally normally but if maybe I add elastic at the back portion then maybe when I eat they won't be too tight over my stomach. That's one of the bothers that I find with my clothes: I don't like being pinched over my stomach area (which fun fact sits essentially above the natural waist level, and on my body it always feels like it's sitting at actual waist level) when I'm eating or when I've just finished eating.

Looking at all of this that seems about it. I'd add a few fun elements with overalls and rompers because I like one full outfit of pants (a dress is a full outfit, but when it comes to pants you always need a layer on top or you're bazooms out in public.. the fix? Rompers. The downside? Bazooms out when you use the toilet..). I also love the idea of some skorts... now, I know I'm old, but there's nothing that delights my heart more than seeming to be wearing a skirt and BAM! they're secret shorts (or pants, depending on how long you make them) plus as someone that tends to sprawl out when she sits OR sit her ass down anywhere in public if I get too tired or bored (yes, I'm 5 years old why do you ask?) I think a secret short or pant is the perfect solution to not flash my Tweety Bird to the world.. 🥴🥴

[spacecadetspe]

A snippet from last year...

Jul. 16, 2023

I'm sore and sun-tired.  It's a pleasant but lazy feeling.  I spent a few days at the beach with W and my mom, just to try and reset.

That doesn't mean that I've been totally idle.  The situation with the Daktyloi has progressed, somewhat.  I say somewhat, but I mean it's mostly been resolved now.

The Daktyloi, or Finger Men, are followers of Gaia and whatever entity most represents Mother (the Divine Flame) to them.  Theirs happens to be Orpheus.  I had to find this out the hard way, though, since nobody actually wanted to communicate what was going on with me.  My first day at the beach, I awoke from a dream about doing emergency surgical triage on a group of Oneiroi, and I was immediately contacted by Vassilios, who rushed in wondering if I was all right and my burns had healed.

Burns?  I'm basically fire-proof.  The only fire that can really harm me is Mother's fire, and I'm susceptible to chemical burns.  So I was perplexed as to what happened.  But nobody seemed to be forthcoming, so I asked to be directed to Orpheus.

And boy did I give him an earful.

He was sitting in the guest quarters, playing his lyre, and asked me to wait until he finished his sequence, a set of phrygian chords.  I gritted my teeth and obliged, since it gave me some time to get my thoughts together.  And, unfortunately, the encounter just got more and more frustrating from start to finish.

"I might be pretty green as a Dream Lord, but last time I checked you didn't have the authority to admit visitors.  Especially ones who have demonstrated that they're hostile to the naturalized citizens.  So I hope you'll explain what is going on here before I take my wrath out on somebody."

He answered by putting down his lyre.  "Morpheus, Phobetor and Phantasos have reawakened a seal in their dreaming.  A seal Hypnos cursed them to prevent heirs from ascending to prominence."

"I figured," I said tersely.  "What about it?"

"Before the reincarnation of Lord Phanes, there will be a great destroyer born from the line of dream spirits..."

This is not explaining anything.  "There already is."

"Yes, and you harbor her."

"She's not here."

He responded by summoning a ring of iridescent fire, intent on showing me a vision.  That's what clued me in to him being an astral guide.  But I wasn't having it.  He asked that I call Morpheus, and I did that, at least.

"Chalcon followed the path I opened to this realm.  He was tasked find the three brothers and reveal the seal of the curse before anyone else could take advantage."

Morpheus poked his head in the door.  "Take advantage of what?"

"Of Cure," I replied.

Morpheus growled and struggled through the ring of fire to listen to Orpheus.

"I still don't understand what happened last night," I said.  "Were Chalcon and his men successful?  And if they were, why were there multiple injuries?"

Chalcon entered and spoke up.  "Because this level of power is beyond the ken of your retinue."

I was completely done with this whole conversation.  "That's why I asked why none of the Dream Lords were alerted in the first place.  I am Chief Virtue, the Song of God..."  I began exuding my own divine aura.  "And I am my Mother's daughter.  I am angry that I was not informed of any of this, and that the children of my world were made to feel unsafe under my protection.  I am perfectly aware that my retinue can't tolerate the sheer magnitude of what I do, which is why I don't ask them to, and I rightly expect any of those requests to be communicated to me effectively!"

Chalcon offered a placating tone.  "Like many, your followers value their loyalty over their own safety.  They were warned that this would become dangerous."

"Especially if none of us knows exactly what the fuck is going on," I retorted.  "I am happy to have such loyal followers, so it pisses me off that you lot have undermined my authority, threatened my consort's children andtaken advantage of my being asleep two days in a row."  I threw up my hands.  "And then you just expect me to roll with whatever the fuck you have planned because it's a prophecy!"  I crossed my arms.  "No.  We're not doing that."  I jabbed a finger at Chalcon.  "If you and your men wish to stay here, you answer to me and the Dream Lords.  Accountability is key with me, and if you can't handle it, you will leave.  Are we clear?"

"We are," he answered defensively.  "We are only trying to stop a catastrophe."

"Oh good," I said.  "Then the first step is not to fuck with a literal force of nature."  I turned to Orpheus.  "And you," I growled.  "If you ever expect me to hear you out, now or at any point in the future, then I want a little goddamned empathy.  I am not your fucking tool, nor will I ever again be used like one.  Is that clear?"

"Clear enough, yes."

"Good.  Then get on with it before I decide you should all just fuck off."

Once that boundary was set, the truth came out a lot more easily.  Orpheus had been granted a vision by Mother about the potential destruction of the dream spirits, due to the prophesied rebirth of the cosmic deity Phanes coinciding with the massive curse that Hypnos placed on his progeny.  Hypnos had used Phanes' primordial energy to cement the curse, as well as placing a kill switch that would potentially allow him to tip the scales if the coup against Hades should go awry.  The effect: the complete annihilation of the Oneiroi... and the death of about half the mortal population.  The curse was drawing Phanes' power so that he couldn't reincarnate, and the brothers have been in and out of the dream state for almost two weeks because of it.  They're killing each other.  

And the one person who can undo the curse... is Cure.

After that whole conversation, Orpheus called the exhausted brothers together to show them his vision, and I sat by and watched the fire rage.

"You're quite dedicated to them."  Orpheus noticed.

I growled.  "Why do you think I got so pissed at you for hurting them?"

"That was not my intent."

"I know what your intent was.  All of this nastiness could have been avoided if you had just talked to me instead of running roughshod over all of us.  Nobody benefited from any of that.  And you can hardly expect me to suddenly believe you care about any of us."

He turned his head to look at me, but said nothing.

"I've lost too much this year," I murmured.

"Do you think I am a stranger to loss?" he asked.

I rolled my eyes.  "I know your story.  It's kind of why I figured you'd take me fucking seriously.  Especially as somebody who could bring Eurydice back if you had just bothered to ask."

"I figured you were on your last leg with Hades."

I sighed.  "Probably.  He's likely had enough of me for awhile.  And the last time wasn't even my fault."

He chuckled, then paused for thought.  "I really do care, Hope.  I wouldn't have done all this to try to stop the inevitable if I didn't."

I took a moment to groan about "prophecy," and Orpheus put his hand on my shoulder.  

"I'm here to help, Hope."

I curled into a ball.  "If I trust you," I replied.

"And trust is earned, right?"

"You didn't exactly make the best impression."

He pulled out his Dream Nail and handed it to me.  "For when you trust me," he said simply.

[strawberrycakelove]

Honestly, and this is a very unpopular opinion, even though I'm a woman and I'm sympathetic to feminism (I'm not going to say feminist because I'm not an active activist, I'm not politically active or anything like that), I think it's silly to want EVERY FEMALE character to be involved with the main cast HAS TO GAIN RELEVANCE AND BE SIGNIFICANT, it NEEDS to be EXPLORED AND DEVELOPED.

Because feminism, female empowerment and so on, being less macho and sexist etc, because everything is always aimed at men, only they get the best etc….

But honestly, I PREFER (this is a personal preference) to look for a work where the author REALLY was inspired to create a character who feels like this, who corresponds to this model, where he REALLY WANTED to create a character from this perspective than to expect that an author unwilling and WITHOUT WILL AND INSPIRATION does so.

And I speak because of entertainment, and only because of that. (And because I am not obliged to consume something with taste of political and social activism, because yes, there is a difference, and it is terribly noticeable)

Ah!, but male characters are not exempt from this and so on and so on, they are also constructed by cultural models and values ​​etc. and so on… (and all these arguments that EVERYONE KNOWS)

I know this very well, but what's the problem with me wanting an empowered female character who doesn't have TASTE of political and social activism? just like the male characters (macho and sexist, very stereotyped) are? What's wrong with me wanting a character who at least feels more natural and relatable? more authentic? Instead of her looking like a walking feminist primer?

I watch entertainment to embark on a fantasy world! It's to escape the real world! Not to remind me that the world is a mess and that is a product! I know that this is a product at the end of the day. But I don't want to consume entertainment whose product tastes like a product, I don't watch entertainment because of the design of its plastic packaging, I'm there for the content!

I don't want an empowered female character perfectly aligned with the ideals of empowerment and so "aligned and perfect" that it becomes caricatured and ridiculously artificial and inhuman (it's better to create a robot character right away that looks like it came with a program feminist training built into your system).

At worst, this is the most atrocious way to dehumanize feminism in entertainment and ridicule it.

Here is totally my personal opinion! I think that female empowerment loses a lot when an author, WHO HAS NO WILL, is forced to create a female character along these lines just to meet a demand, because unfortunately, this character will end up sounding, having that tone, CREATED ON DEMAND .

And there is nothing more discouraging than consuming media with a bland, poorly made, uninspired, dull "empowered female character", because it is terribly explicit that he is only there to meet a demand.

Between that and looking for authors who really write good and truly inspired female characters, I prefer the second, rather than wanting and hoping that work X, Y or Z fits my demand, because if the author doesn't have that profile, it will be a poor adaptation.

And this is to expect that authors of works, already consecrated and established, that we can adore but do not cover these aspects, that adapt (sometimes clearly against their will, as the poor and lazy result makes it obvious), would do this, that and that other to adapt, I think (and this is just my opinion) that this takes away the opportunity for other authors to stand out and shine, as it makes the range of options restricted and without space for new authors, new styles, forms of concepts etc., because the only ones, in one way or another, who continue to be "allowed" to shine, are those who have already established themselves and remove potential spaces, and at the same time I think it leaves them in a very comfortable position to deliver adaptations bad and poorly made of these demands.

And that to me is the same as holding on to the plastic packaging, the "brand", the label, and forgetting about the contents.

It's literally judging a book by its cover.

Because it won't matter how bad the result is, because nobody wants to know about authors other than them, nobody wants to look elsewhere, for others who can do it better and more interesting with quality entertainment, in a more authentic way, and they, " "They are allowed" to do bad things, because some fans never get tired of begging for crumbs.

And there is no reason to serve a banquet, for those looking for crumbs.

That's why I'd rather look for my banquet than beg for crumbs.

This is my personal opinion only.

[guyfieriii]

Lazy Sundays spent between the warm, damp sheets. Boredom. Afternoons strumming his guitar on the front porch. Sleeping in. Drinking at a saloon in town. Music. Laughter. 

This….hurt. This hurt to read. When I think of what it would be like to live in a world like this, between the people who lived a life prior to the outbreak and the ones who were born after, in a way the latter group has it easy. Because it’s all they’ve ever known. I’m sure they’d long for a life that’s not like the one they live but it’s a whole different kind of ache when you’ve experienced it and LOST it and remember it. Remembering something you’ve lost, something you’ll never likely get back but you long for it still. It’s a sharp and dull pain all at once. And I felt it, reading that. And yet, Joel’s found it in a way. Some bastardized version of it anyway. So there’s some respite, from the fear and the blood and the gore and GOD, LEV I’M CRYING.

She's much too heavy to be something carved from fantasy. 

I legit SNORTED at this.

It's a present he's sullied more times than he can count, each touch another tally to the neverending number of sins that pile higher than the hollow skyscrapers in Boston. 

What magnificent prose, holy fuck. And I’ve only started. You’re ruining me. In the beta of ways.

He's calamity in ageing grey, and she's the ripe, forbidden fruit he's not allowed to bite. Poisoned apple. Cherry sweet. 

Jesus this line. Fucking poetry, babe!!!

(He wonders if they'd recoil once they saw that her insides were gnarled; acrid and sour; bitter melon. Lemon drops. That she is far more like him than they could ever dream.)

I didn’t realize until now just how much I missed watching my sanity crumble away at the your words in parentheses. I am on my knees thanking you for it. I love that she’s like him— that she’s just as brutal, just as callous. And you immediately follow it up with him comparing her to a pin up girl. So there’s two versions of her in his mind. The fantasy and what’s imbedded in reality.

Broken promises carry a distinct sound. One he knows all too well. 

PURE BRILLIANCE, THIS. And so absolutely Joel.

(and, lately, make Ellie so incensed with anger, she cuts him to the core and spills his choleric blood out onto the pavement where it hisses and sounds just like Tess)

God you’ve fleshed out his character so perfectly I’m dying. Him hurt by Ellie lashing back at him. Also every mention of Tess is a dagger straight to the heart but it’s necessary and I understand.

He's a patchwork mess of a man sewn together with a churlish hand. The broken pieces are borrowed and maligned, but they sometimes feel like they fit when he shifts, and spits enough contempt to keep everyone else from getting too close, and—

I read this over and over and over. ITS JUST SO BEAUTIFULLY WRITTEN HOLY SHIT.

Joel doesn't think about then. He thinks about now. A broken world no closer to resolution, absolution, than it was thirteen, fourteen years ago. There is no roseate veil over his eyes; everyone else can see it. 

I’M CRYING. THIS IS EXACTLY RIGHT!!! CUZ IT HURTS TOO DAMN MUCH!!

HE DREAMS OF HER INFECTED AND STILL-

Beautiful, he thinks, even as he howls her name.

FUCKING HELL, LEV!!! I am full on sobbing now.

She says his name, and he'll drop anything in his hands to get to her quickly enough.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. I love how this has evolved. I had to read over bits again and again cuz the first time just felt so jarring to me, like my mind had to adjust and with every subsequent read, the transition of Joel’s feelings for MC just got smoother and smoother and I am in awe of you.

(The only person she dims for is him.)

What’s that screaming sound..? Oh wait. It’s me. I’m screaming.

Beautiful even as the cordyceps split her skull into blooming monkshood in hideous grey and plum. Pale and lifeless; a marionette on toadstool strings. A puppet in fluorescence. 

Jesus CHRIST my brain cannot compute such writing, Lev. Glorious bit of prose.

"Just… didn't know you knew the word we, is all." 

I’M DEAD!!! I love this!!!!!!

"What are you so afraid of, old man?" A cheeky wink. Her tongue dips out, and touches the upper corner of her lip. "I'm gonna outlive you, anyway."

God, he thought, he really hopes she fucking does.

YOU DIDN’T JUST GO THERE HOLY FUCK!!

He's a dog without an owner. A stray mutt on the outskirts of town, wandering through the city in search of sustenance. 

Makes me think of what Tess said in the first episode. “He answers to me.”

It pools an angry merlot against the indigo scab, but when it slides down her flesh, it's Phlegethon red. 

THIS IMAGERY IS ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS!!!

Sure thing, beautiful. If that's what you want, sweetheart. Go on then, gorgeous. 

I can hear this in his voice and I’m horny.

Cuddling, he thinks, a touch derisively, in the apocalypse.

I am WHEEZING.

"Call me an old man again, and I'll spank your ass, little girl."

I-

What-

JESUS

(He only dreams in black and white, but when he closes his eyes and dreams of her, it's in a startling palette of browns, reds, and blues.)

WHAT A WAY TO END IT HOLY SHIT THIS IS PERFECT YOU ARE PERFECT I NEED TO READ THIS AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN.

ATROPHY | Joel Miller x F!Reader

》 SUMMARY: It's her, him, and the beats in between. A slow simmer of sex to something more. Something he isn't quite ready for, yet knows he can't let go of.  》 WARNINGS: 18+ SMUT (mild); allusions to death, assault; female gendered reader, female gendered anatomy; minor game spoilers; Joel isn't bad at feelings – he just doesn't want them. Joel is tired™ 》 WORD COUNT: 10,9k

His grief, sorrow, the ones that he tries to shove into a box marked apathy, are worn in the crevasses that line his weathered face. Deep canyons make him look ages older than he is. He wonders if she can see them. If she can peel the divots back and uncover the festering sickness, the rot, that sits in the folds. 

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry.

》 NOTES: I did something different with my writing. It's still a Reader insert, but. I tried third person instead of the usual second. also, how this ballooned up to nearly 10k is lost to me since it was just supposed to be smut?? I had this clear image of older Joel laying in bed, his guitar leaning against the wall, catching the light of the sun as you slowly rode him, and now? I don't even know. ⤑The gif is mine. Please don't take or repost without permission

MASTERLIST | FAQ | AO3

Complacency is a death sentence in a world like this. 

Lazy Sundays spent between the warm, damp sheets. Boredom. Afternoons strumming his guitar on the front porch. Sleeping in. Drinking at a saloon in town. Music. Laughter. 

It doesn't exist. 

Shouldn't. 

And yet—

His guitar sits, abandoned, in the corner of the bedroom. The wood still carries the heat from his thumb this morning when he played a song alone on the porch. Eyes bleary, full of sleep, of rest, as he took in the varicoloured dawn cresting through the indigo sky.

Those same weathered, beaten hands that strummed the chords to Hurt are now occupied again. One perched on her hip, skin sateen soft and plush, full and warm and clean from the shower last night as she bears down on top of him in a quiet cadence, a muted, languid dance. The other cups the swell of her breast in his palm, nipple still damp from his hungry mouth, and flushed red from his teeth. 

This should just be a fantasy. 

A dirty thing in the recess of his mind when he has a moment to himself breathe. A thought, a whim. Something to needle away at the last vestiges of his consciousness when he sees her in the wild—vibrant, young, and free—and then sullied in the back of his head when he leans against a tree, and thinks of the dirt on her skin, the blood on her delicate hands, and how they'd taste under his tongue.

But this isn't a dream.

When he sleeps, he dreams in black and white. The only colour that bleeds through is red. Blood red. Pulpy and vicious. Ugly. Garish. It splatters across the pavement where he laid Sarah down, where he lost Tess, and everyone else he never promised to save and still couldn't. 

He knows this isn't a dream when he blinks his eyes open, and she's there. Sitting atop him in a kaleidoscope of colour, drenched in ochre from the still rising sun. The only red is her blistered lips, the rough burn between her thighs from the scrape of his beard, and that sinful little tongue that slips between her teeth when he slides in deep. 

And then—his eyes drop to her side—that ugly wound that cuts her flesh, ripped over the seam of her ribs. 

He's awake. Lucid. 

She's much too heavy to be something carved from fantasy. 

He doesn't say this, of course—Joel isn't stupid, and for someone so considerably smaller than he is, she packs a hefty punch in those slender fingers that curl into a fist barely the size of an apple. The sharp jab of a rusted, blunt knife. Knows where to hit him, too. 

He tucks it away, and lets his hands explore, feeling the tangibility of her weight, her presence, under the tips of his bloodied fingers. 

(Broken on the same teeth that caused her to hurt.)

The knob of her hip bone juts out through her flesh, and he grazes it with his thumb, feeling the soft curve. 

Real, he thinks. Flesh and bone. 

He can feel the flutter of her racing pulse under his hand when he kneads her breast in his hand, and lets her nipple graze teasingly over the rough skin of his weathered palm.

The tight clench of her around him—pussy a perfect knot around the base of his cock, all pretty and tied tight like a bow—is another stroke of realism his dreams, nightmares, fantasies, could never imbue. 

It's a present he's sullied more times than he can count, each touch another tally to the neverending number of sins that pile higher than the hollow skyscrapers in Boston. 

Joel feels each breath that leaves her heaving chest. Each gasping hiccup of his name when she raises her full hips up, and then slide back down the length of him in a slow, languorous roll until he nudges against the seal of her womb, and steals the air in her lungs. 

It's real. 

A paradox, then. 

One of those things that shouldn't happen, but is. Like her, and him, and everything else in between.

He knows what the others in town say when they see her—pretty and soft with a ginger touch and a sweet curl of a voice when she whispers his name. It doesn't make sense for her to be all wrapped up in him, following along behind like a shadow to a man who's cut from ashlar, and reeking of rot. Ruin. 

He's calamity in ageing grey, and she's the ripe, forbidden fruit he's not allowed to bite. Poisoned apple. Cherry sweet. 

(He wonders if they'd recoil once they saw that her insides were gnarled; acrid and sour; bitter melon. Lemon drops.

That she is far more like him than they could ever dream.)

They glare at him from the corner of their eyes when she swells like a lighthouse in the midnight gloam at the sight of him wandering back from patrol, eyes all bright and beaming, and beautiful—Christ. 

She's a picture, he thinks. 

One of those pinup girls he'd find in dirty magazines as a kid. When he and Tommy would sneak a peek behind the barn, away from prying eyes. A portrait of lust. Desire in high gloss. 

A classical beauty—the type that would make men drown themselves at sea. A starlet in the golden age back when it mattered. 

Writers' muse, maybe: she would have been the girl everyone talked about—the one that eluded the tortured artist, made him pine. 

Hemingway would call her brutal. 

Cat in the Rain. 

(She liked his old, heavy face and big hands.)

He doesn't know much about poetry but he knows she's the type who could make a man want to stain his fingers in ink just to capture the curve of her lips when she smiled. 

A vixen. Hellion. Lilith. 

Her voice is a song when she says his name. A hymn. 

Dangerous. 

He doesn't know when this started. 

Maybe, when they brought her in with the rest of the group she was travelling with. Beaten down, hungry. Clinging to life with frostbitten fingers. 

Her eyes were flat; a stagnant pond. Lips a grim, blue line. Placid. Gone. She'd been out there for too long to ever find comfort behind walls, and he knows the feeling of trying to crawl out of your own skin when people stand too close. 

She scoffed at the idea of this place, of sanctuary. Resentful and derisive. He could see the distrust in her clenched jaw, balled fists. This world was a whim—evanescent—and what they gathered from the rest of the group, survival hadn't been easy outside of safe zones.

Wall after wall fell, she said, tone flat. Blank. Haunted by ghosts still lingering in the canyons of her eyes. Stopped believing in stuff like this after a while. 

Her eyes were stained—jaundiced and red, filled with burst blood vessels—and raw from how hard the edges of her knuckles had dug into the flesh of her eyelids. They spoke of sleepless nights. Ones interrupted by her own sense of survival, hyperarousal. 

He knows the feeling of jerking awake whenever his brain starts to lull, to slip into that dangerous facsimile of security. 

Pipe dreams. She wears her fatigue like its armour, wielding the brunt of her exhaustion like a shield. 

(Sleep often feels like a bad habit for people like her, like him.)

But like him, it waned slowly. 

The chips in her veneer cracked, split, and he saw the incipient filament start to seep in. Complacency. Comfort. 

A few months in, she stopped being so defensive when they invited her out for drinks, and when they talked about dinner parties, and birthday celebrations. Derision was still a heavy weight in her distant gaze, clutched in bleached knuckles like a claymore, when she looked at them, a touch incredulous. 

Joel understands the feeling. 

The itch in your guts, the discomfort in your chest. It festers, doesn't it? 

Children play close to the fences, making up games of tag, and hide and seek, as if those things with broken, pustulous faces weren't skulking within arm's reach just a breath away. 

This whole place is a vacuum. The interior is covered in thick molasses; stuck in stasis. They pretend that birthdays and holidays matter. Dance around the saloon at night with drinks in hand. Pale ale. Old booze. 

It's rigid in its structure: patrols that span the entirety of a day—from dusk to dusk in three shift increments—and daily checks of the fences, the gates. Trading with other communities. Rules. Regulations. 

It gives the idea of safety. Of security. 

(But the bruises on his hands and the gash in her side are proof that it's sometimes not enough.)

Slowly, though, as the days wore on and the fences stood proud and tall and secure, she softened. Tucked it away with a smile, and started saying, I'll think about it instead of clipped jerks of her chin, or nothing at all. 

Joel doesn't know if she ever really did think about it like she said she would. 

Broken promises carry a distinct sound. One he knows all too well. 

She never showed up despite the invitations. Never came to celebrate. 

She stood by the fence, and looked out, eyes wide, mouth flat. The coil in her shoulders, the tremble in her hands, reminded him of a trapped animal. Cornered, and tense. 

She'll bite someone eventually. 

(He just never expected it to be him.)

The tension didn't flee the crease of her eyes, but she tried to integrate herself into the fold, the community. Slowly. Slowly. 

He took stock of her in the same measure he does everyone new who wanders in. Assessing. Watching. Cautious. 

He could tell right away that she was a wildcard. A lit match slowly burning down the wick in a sea of gasoline.

Pretty, he finds, despite himself. Drawn in by her allure; a coruscating light in the middle of endless, unfathomable grey. 

He catches sight of the weathered face that blinks back at him from the frosted windows, hazy and thick with condensation that make the grey in his hair, his beard, look startlingly whiter than it was ten seconds ago. It's a jarring reminder of who he is. What he's done. 

It's not insecurity that keeps him from seeking her out, but self-preservation. Some people, he finds, just have this magnetism about them. A beacon. A light. A gravitational pull that drags you closer and closer. 

And hers is purely primal. Animalistic. She smells of sex and sin and makes him think of object permanence when everything around him had been clouded in the sharp shade of ephemeral grey. 

She's a fractured mirror. Medusa in the making. 

Joel's always avoided broken glass. 

(Ladders. Black cats. Cracks in the pavement. Pretty girls who swallow everything like a black hole—)

Too sweet, he finds. Forbidden fruit. Tart, ripe, and sugar dipped. 

(He never had much of a sweet tooth, anyway.)

Through his observations—necessary, he tells Tommy when he catches the way Joel's gaze follows her around when she moves; limbs ballerina lithe, swan songs after dark: just because we let them in, doesn't mean we can trust them—he finds out everything he needs to know. 

A rusted sign on the side of the road says, stay away. Danger in dulcet. Soft and sweet. A perfunctory bow in battle before the deadly blows come. 

He oscillates between finding her both too soft and too hard, and it's the unknown that makes him wary. 

She's a caged animal. Everyone is just kidding themselves if they think she's domesticated. 

Somewhere in the throng of people milling about, drinking and dancing like the world wasn't in shambles, she finds his gaze, matches his stare. 

Most people looked away. 

But she's not most people, is she? 

No, she's dangerous. Pretty in a way that's entirely too ethereal for the broken remnants of what remains. Left behind. Mouldering until death claims its victims. Until the spores released from the earth itself burrow in the rucked lines of your head, sprouting up like flowering buds. 

She makes men want. 

And while the pickings might have been slim, Joel knows there are several (and maybe a little more) above him in terms of desirability. He's older. Gruff. Rough around the edges without any whim of changing, or scouring himself down so that his jagged pieces don't pop something as tender and sweet as her. 

He doesn't put himself in the same bracket. Despite Maria's insistence, Tommy's needling, he isn't a bachelor. 

Hasn't made himself available.

And he isn't. 

Not since Tess. Not since—

None of that matters. He's too old to think about romance, about skin and sex, and warmth. And more.

The thought of it all leaves something sour twisting in the gnarled rot of what remains inside his chest. 

Despite that, or maybe in spite of it, she comes to him. 

(Somehow. Somehow.)

She asks him to dance, and the breathy tone of her voice tastes like a lit cigarette; it plumes nicotine in the air. Second-hand smoke. A contact high. 

He finds it disarming when she laughs after he says no. Firm. Hard. Dismissive. 

Not in your lifetime, sweetheart. 

The unspoken stay away rang clearer than the echo of her laughter. 

And that was that. 

But she came back. 

("If not a dance, then how about a drink?"

"Wastin' your time, sweetheart."

She grins, then, soft and coy. "Not much else to do with it these days besides chatting up a handsome stranger."

He pretends she didn't make him choke on his drink, and eyes her warily instead. Dangerous, he thinks. The type that just doesn't quit. One who is just small and malleable enough to slip inside the tiniest splinter.

Just like a raspberry, she'd rot fast. Festering. Clouded white and infectious. Worse, in many ways, than the parasites outside of the walls. 

"Just don't get your hopes up." He settles on after a moment, a lull, that makes her blood-red lips curl up like the curve of those stupid hearts dangling overhead. 

And hates that he doesn't really know if he's still just talking to her or the wandering eyes in his own skull when he says it.)

He doesn't know why she takes a liking to him of all people. Of all men. He might be out of touch with the reality they live in now, always on the fringes of waiting for things to buckle at the knee, and collapse into ash, but he isn't stupid. Oblivious. 

Joel sees the way she stares at him. Open, wanting. Curious. 

She shouldn't be. There's nothing in him—nothing left. His insides are polluted, gnarled. Ugly. A gurgling cesspit that doesn't know how to fix, only dissolve. Consume. He's acidic. Caustic. 

Bad for anyone's health. 

He can't keep anyone safe, and all he knows how to do anymore is push people away, and lie (and, lately, make Ellie so incensed with anger, she cuts him to the core and spills his choleric blood out onto the pavement where it hisses and sounds just like Tess). 

He's a patchwork mess of a man sewn together with a churlish hand. The broken pieces are borrowed and maligned, but they sometimes feel like they fit when he shifts, and spits enough contempt to keep everyone else from getting too close, and—

It's enough. 

(He likes it that way.)

But she—

His hands grip her tight sometimes—too tight—and the stains he leaves on her skin set his teeth on edge. It's too much like ownership. Possession. 

(And he finds the colour that blooms on her flesh to be too fucking pretty to ever sit comfortably in the gnarled pit of his guts.)

"Don't worry, Joel," she whispers when she catches him staring at the marks he left behind. Dark and ugly. Contrition tastes of old nickels. "You won't break me that easily." 

It's a bad decision. 

But he was never known for his good choices, and when she fluttered her eyes at him, hand pressed to his chest like she were allowed to touch him, he crumbled. 

She didn't give him much of a choice to fight back when all she asked for nothing but the warmth of his skin, and the taste of him on her tongue. 

Pleasures of the flesh. It's easy. Simple. He fucks her behind the saloon, rough and dirty, and swallows the sounds she makes against the brick like they're just for him. He takes her home, and knows that when he's nestled between her thighs, it's as close to heaven as a man like him will ever get. 

And then—it's over. She leaves. He pretends to sleep. 

Rinse. Repeat.

It carries on this way for nearly two years. Distant, cold. He can't remember the last time he had anyone warm his bed, but it takes the edge off, the stress and pain of Ellie's distance, her mistrust, and hatred, and she asks for nothing. 

She lets him grab her when he wants. Lets him bend her body into whichever shape suits him best, and says nothing about the fingerprints that he leaves behind, the astringent tang of rot when she slides out of his bed, his hands, and out the door. 

He lays back, the same hand he used to grip the back of her neck when he fucked her into the mattress now resting under his head, and he pretends doesn't feel colder now than he did before. 

There is no promise of forever. There's no promise of exclusivity, or monogamy, but he knows that she hasn't fucked anyone else since she got here, that those pretty thighs only ever parted for him, and he's too worn down to entice anyone else who wasn't looking for a sleazy fuck against a tree into his bed, anyway. 

Complacency begets comfort, security, wants.

They settle down in their borrowed homes, in their borrowed beds, and think about making the most of their borrowed time.

In that, they yearn. Family. Togetherness. Everything they had before they tried to drag into the now. Forcing a square through a round hole. A mismatched puzzle piece into the slot it wasn't made for.

Sometimes, they get lucky and it slips through. It distorts itself into something different, and new, just to fit through the preconstructed crack.

Joel doesn't think about then. He thinks about now. A broken world no closer to resolution, absolution, than it was thirteen, fourteen years ago. There is no roseate veil over his eyes; everyone else can see it. 

He isn't the type of man someone brings home. The one you push and push until he fits through the front door, and back into normalcy. Stagnancy. 

And she's not the type of woman who'd ever try. 

He likes that about her.

Poisoned candy apple. Pretty on the outside and rotted within. 

There is no future outside of the way he fits inside of her, and this is as permanent as the blemishes he leaves on her pretty skin. 

Then he dreams, and it's of her.

Lifeless, blue. The way her head splits open is beautiful in that macabre sort of way horrible things sometimes are. Flowers burst behind her eyes, petals budding out of the hollowed space that once made his chest stutter when the sun caught the crevasse of black that split from her pupil and bled into her iris. A small stream of ink. 

The canyons of gradient colours are now filled with blooms of enoki. Red amanita curls out from her ears. 

Where he once laid his palm over her chest is now a gaping hole flowering with a pulsing mass of candlesnuff and staghorn. 

Death cap where her heart once beat. 

Beautiful, he thinks, even as he howls her name.

He wakes up drenched in a cold sweat, and the curve of her name heavy on his tongue. His knuckles pop when he fists the damp sheets between his trembling fingers, but the ache feels good. The sting reminds him he's alive. Whole. 

He's awake, but the nightmare doesn't end. The sight of her body lingers in the back of his head when he strums his guitar and plays a song for the demons within. He thinks of her when he forks over the expired box of condoms he found on a run, and listens to Jesse ramble about how Ellie is doing in exchange for the loot. 

It's her he sees. 

She blinks at him, eyes that same shade that sometimes makes his breath hiss between his teeth, and then her crown caves in. Forehead splits down the middle. One half stands where it was as the other falls over on her shoulder. 

Fractals spill from the plumule that was once her brain stem until the two halves are bleached white like dead corals on a ruined reef. 

The flowering toadstool quivers. What was once her—wit, charm; that uncanny ability to make him feel like the ground beneath his feet was crumbling—is a mass of spores. Polluted. Rotted. 

Where she once stood is a puppet. Dead. Gone. 

Her head tips. Ink spills from the putrefying blood vessels, congealing in the air. It spools into a circle. A black hole. 

He lifts the gun, and feels nothing at all. 

Everything he could have felt, feels, is syphoned into the needlepoint of no return, the place where she once looked at him, and said, I don't want anything from you, Joel. I just want you.

He wakes before he can see the aftermath of pulling the trigger. 

A fluke, maybe. But it happens each night after that. 

He knows, then, that there's no turning back. 

Permanence doesn't belong in this borrowed home, but she somehow drags it through the foyer and into his bed, anyway. 

She stayed over last night. 

Joel doesn't think he tried to let go when he collapsed into the bed beside her, arms woven around her sweat-slicked back, locked tight like a pair of shackles that mean about as much as a prison or the law these days.

It was cold. Late. He didn't want her to walk back in the snow all alone. 

That's all. 

But Joel isn't a gentleman, and despite how much he wishes he wasn't, he's egregiously self-aware. 

He knows he's in trouble when it just makes sense to keep her close. When it's easier to have her within arm's reach than it is to meet at the front door, and let her in. 

(When he sleeps better if he can feel her burning skin on his.)

"You're thinking too much," she gasps, eyes lidded and heavy. Drinking him in. 

Joel doesn't know what a pretty thing like her sees in a man like him. 

He can't offer her anything except the cold comfort of a warm body, but even that is null. He knows there are younger men prowling outside her door, just itching for an opportunity to make her look their way. 

(She never does.)

"Yeah," he rasps, the word sticking to his teeth. "Never been much of a thinker."

"Really? Ain't that a surprise."

His hand slips from her hip, palm swatting at the soft flesh of her ass. The sting makes her tighten around him like a vice. 

"Watch your mouth."

The way she gasps his name, breathy and aching, makes him stifle a groan between clenched teeth, her voice rolling over him like warm sea breeze. 

She's a lot, he thinks, and yet—she asks for nothing. 

(Nothing but him. One of the things he can't give her. Won't.)

Still. 

Her nails press into his damp chest, catching on the smoked dusted patch of coarse charcoal hair. Bracing herself against the swell of his ribs, and slowly rocked back into him, taking him deeper and deeper into her soaked, tight cunt. 

The pulse in his neck throbs out of his skin, a tick she likes to press the flat of her tongue against and drink up the briny droplets of his sweat. He can see the want in her eyes when he catches her staring at the column of his throat, the way she bites her lip like it's a substitute for how badly she wants to sink those same teeth into his flesh. Mark him as her own. 

Possession. Ownership. 

Sometimes, he catches the glossy, rotund image of himself in the inky puddles of her pupils, blown wide with feverish desire, and he can see the same expression, the mien, captured in her startling hue. 

Mutual want. 

It's easier to give in sometimes. To let go. 

He can't, though, and selfishly, he knows she'll never ask. She will bite your lip, the inside of her cheeks, and your tongue until it's raw and bloody before she lets the words slip through the gap of her teeth. 

(He feels the rough, chewed ridges on velveteen flesh when he rolls his tongue between her ivory teeth, swiping over the insides of her cheeks; broken skin split and metallic—a testament to her own selfless desires.

He tastes it on his tongue long after she's gone. Wet pennies. Dandelion sour.)

It knots inside of him. She'd ruin herself before she asked him for more. 

Maybe somewhere in his avoidance, his distance, she knows he's ruining himself by just giving her this much. Nothing, and yet—

Everything to him. 

An impasse, then. Uncrossable when he's already two feet out the door. 

"Joel—"

"I know, sweetheart," he murmurs, low. Rucked gravel. Falling rocks. It jars him how easily he responds to her. She says his name, and he'll drop anything in his hands to get to her quickly enough. "I know." 

The wound on her side pulls taut when she moves. It draws his eye like a beacon. Makes him grind his teeth together until it sparks pain down his jaw, the enamel sawed to the raw nerve. 

His hand slides over her molten flesh, trailing over the soft curve of her waist, until his thumb brushes the seam that keeps her insides from spilling out. The swollen, bruised skin is warmer than the rest of her body. Glossy where it tugs against the black threads keeping her whole. 

Joel didn't go with her on this particular trade. She went with some new kid they'd picked up, all varsity grins and clean hands. He seemed so damned eager to get her attention in the pub. Her age, too. 

Made a pretty couple, Ron said. Fucking loud mouth Ron. 

He was supposed to go, but when the kid caught him in the corner, nursing a beer that sat in his guts like a stomach ache, and said, hey, man, can I take your spot? he didn't know how he was supposed to say no and still cling to the degrees of separation he wedged between himself and the world. 

So, he raised his mug to his mouth, and forced himself to drink, to nod. 

Knock yourself out. 

The flash of sadness that flickered over her face meant nothing at all—nothing—but he felt something churn inside of his rotted guts. Atrophy, he thinks. He isn't meant for this. Doesn't want it. Need it. 

She's a bigger liability the closer she gets. A slow-moving black hole consuming all of the counterscarps he dug until nothing is left but crossable rubble. 

It's better, then, to cut it at the root before it infects the rest. 

So, he does. 

Maybe, he expected something different. For her to call this thing what it was, and then demand more of him, yell and scream and beg for the things he wouldn't give her—if only so he could break her heart into pieces, and force her to let go. To stop. 

Force himself to do the same. 

But she doesn't 

It's a quiet acquiesce; a little more than a nod, and a grim line of her pretty mouth. Okay, it says. If that's what you want. 

And that's what she always says, isn't it? If that's what you want, Joel. Whatever you say, Joel. Sure, Joel. Okay, Joel. 

A spitfire in ochre. A bright lighthouse in the middle of the grey sea. 

(The only person she dims for is him.)

Joel doesn't see her off. Doesn't say be careful or come back safe because words like those don't fit between his teeth. They aren't meant for the nothing between them. The chasm of everything she can't pry from his gnarled fingers. 

She leaves with him. 

He drinks alone. 

Despite whatever nonsense Tommy says, spouted over rationed potatoes and deer meat stew, he isn't sulking. 

"Let your girl go out alone? Unlike you, brother."

The way the words sat in his chest felt like an anvil. 

"Ain't my girl," he muttered. He wanted to be angry but all he felt was numbness. "Ain't my anything."

It's Maria who gets under his skin when she scoffs.

"Joel Miller, you're the biggest dumbass I ever met, save for your damned brother. Gonna push a good thing away and die alone." 

"No one asked you." 

Maria tries to fill in the blanks of something that doesn't exist. 

It peels back the gossamer from his eyes, and he sees, then, the way they skirt around him and her like it's something. As if his name is permanently attached to hers. 

He pretends he doesn't feel the burn in Maria's glare when he doesn't see her off at the gate.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't. 

He isn't there when she comes back, and hates, even more, that he feels something prickle inside his chest when Maria catches him near the stables, and says, I expected more from you, Joel.

It doesn't feel good when he bites back, that's your problem, Maria. Shouldn't have gotten your hopes up. 

Joel lives in his vindication, in his pettily forced indifference. She hasn't come to see him, anyway, and he's sure that she and Varsity jacket are meeting at the pub for that date he'll never give her. 

Doesn't matter, he thinks. And then, if only to burn himself in the flames, he adds: better this way. 

She'll know when he's not there. She's smart like that. Know him in ways he doesn't think anyone else ever could. Ever wanted to. 

(He hates it, and her, sometimes, for it.)

She'll understand. She might corner him one day with that dry ire dripping from the corners of her mouth, patronising and grim, and she'll do what she does best when she strips him bare and leaves him to rot. 

Her eyes are cobra pits. Her teeth leak venom. 

But she won't push. 

It'll simmer out when she blinks, knowing that this is it, and she'll say: okay, Joel. 

Okay. 

He braces for it—hates that has to because that means something, something he isn't ready to acknowledge—and—

And it's all moot. 

She never shows up at the gate. 

It punctures something in his lungs when Tommy looks up at him, face ashen and worried, and says: "she didn't come back. They didn't come back."

It takes an hour to find her, left for dead and beaten within an inch of her life by the side of the road. A wound in her side—a gaping hole he swears he can see through. Milky bones poke through, drenched in red, and—

His heart doesn't stop, but a piece of it breaks off and lodges itself in his throat. He can't swallow. Can't breathe.

Something curls out from the moon-white line of her rib. 

A bud, he thinks. Distant. Warbled. A saprophyte. 

He has the image of her in his head. The same one he sees when he closes his eyes and falls into a fitful sleep. 

Beautiful even as the cordyceps split her skull into blooming monkshood in hideous grey and plum. Pale and lifeless; a marionette on toadstool strings. A puppet in fluorescence. 

"She's—"

Tommy's hand reaches down, fingers curling around the sprout. 

Don't— not Tommy, too—

He pulls back, and Joel catches the tremble in his joints, the whites of his knuckles, when he spreads his fingers. 

In the palm of his hand sits a leaf. 

A leaf. 

The bark that leaves his chest tears right through the clot in his throat. Rips him open from the inside out. 

"A fucking leaf—"

He carries her back, and doesn't let go until the doctor is there, urging him out of the room. 

"You'll get in the way." 

He sees the looks they give him when he passes, but Joel never cared what people think. 

Doesn't plan on starting now, either. 

He's on the wrong side of fifty, and has more blood on his hands than the looted bars of soap could ever scour clean. He knows who he is, and maybe, maybe, knows what he wants, and Ron's loud mouth never meant much to him, anyway. 

Joel gets a name when she's sleeping after surgery—lucky, he overhears, got there in the knick of time, any later and—and brings nothing with him when he leaves. He won't need it. Doesn't want it.

He finds them chatting over an open fire, and beats them to death with nothing but his bare hands. 

He doesn't burn them. Doesn't bury them. 

When he's finished, covered in blood and aching, and satisfied, he drives an ice pick through their skulls (the same thing, he finds, that caused the hole in her side), and leaves them to rot. 

They say nothing about the blood on his shirt, or the broken, mangled fingers of his hand. He's content to leave them. To feel the agony as his broken bones split through cracked skin.

(He thinks of her—broken, blue—and clenches his hands so tight, the pain makes him blackout.)

He only lets Maria patch him up when she hisses about infection, and blood poisoning. 

Says nothing at all about what he'd done, where he'd gone. 

She doesn't ask. 

When she's finished, she says: "woke up yesterday."

He knows. Still: "that right?" 

"Gonna go see her?"

"Don't need me crowding around her bed."

"Maybe she, for some reason, wants to see your ugly mug."

"She tell you that?" 

"Didn't ask about you, if that's what you're asking." She snorts. Shakes her head. "Both a'you are really perfect for each other, you know?"

"We ain't." 

Her brow raises. Something prickles across her expression. "Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing," she shakes her head with a small smirk. "Just… didn't know you knew the word we, is all." 

"We done here?"

He doesn't go to her. 

Stubborn as an ox, she comes to him. 

She says nothing about the bandages on his black and blue hands. Nothing about the way he can't make a fist through all the swelling. Her hands are soft, and warm, when they wrap around his. Small, delicate. A baby deer cupping the paws of a grizzly bear. 

His eyes flash with something that tastes of the same rotten satisfaction he felt gnarled inside of his chest when the man who left her for dead on the side of a road wheezed as Joel broke his nose, and then battered the broken bulb into a messy, mushy pulp. 

He didn't stop until grey matter leaked through the holes. 

She knows what he did. He feels it in the way she stares at the black, swollen mess of his fingers. Bones broke on teeth, on a fractured skull. 

He doesn't regret it. He doesn't even think he enjoyed it much, really. 

It had to be done. Had to. 

They took a life. Varsity Jack, she tells him. Stabbed in the heart when he tried to defend her with the same ice pick that ripped through her flesh. 

Her tone is flat. Empty. 

He sees bruises on her knuckles, those little fists were her only defence against them, and the red welt on the man's face makes sense now. 

He feels proud. 

She's not broken—battered, beaten, torn to pieces—but she still stands, whole, intact. Resilient. Strong. 

(A survivalist. The only time she ever alluded to more was to tell him that he was worrying for nothing. That, above all, she would survive. Outlive him, even.

"What are you so afraid of, old man?" A cheeky wink. Her tongue dips out, and touches the upper corner of her lip. "I'm gonna outlive you, anyway."

God, he thought, he really hopes she fucking does.)

It doesn't surprise him to see her eyes cloud with anger, arsenic white, when she brings his hands to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. Anyone else might have asked why. Said thank you, even. 

She just murmurs, "I hope they suffered." 

Saccharine sweet. 

Rotten to the core. 

He saw the same shade of calamity in her eyes when she wandered in, grim and distant, as the one that stared back at him in the mirror. Her complicity in this doesn't surprise him. If anything, he wonders if she's angry he left nothing behind for her. 

The thought makes his lips quirk in a needle of something he hasn't felt in a long time. 

"They did."

The words are uttered like a promise. His busted pinky twitches, and it makes her smile. A bloom of petal pink flowering across her face. Soft and tender. The swell of a sea mark burgeoning out in the gloom of grey. 

And all for him.

Joel pulled her in close. Closer still. 

(Too close, maybe, because now he doesn't know how he'll sleep without her by his side)

His thumb slips over the tumid skin poking out from tight, black sutures. The threads are the only thing keeping her together. 

Beneath it is a bruise. Black. The tip of his thumb presses against the cresting peak. Knuckle to skin, it's a perfect fit. 

(In all the same ways he and she aren't.)

"I'm okay, Joel," she whispers, and the thick, dulcified tone of her voice shakes him from the labyrinth of his mind. 

His grief, sorrow, the ones that he tries to shove into a box marked apathy, are worn in the crevasses that line his weathered face. Deep canyons make him look ages older than he is. He wonders if she can see them. If she can peel the divots back and uncover the festering sickness, the rot, that sits in the folds. 

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry. 

"Yeah," he intones, and he isn't sure if he's speaking to her, himself, or a god he hasn't spoken to since he was eighteen and Sarah got sick for the first time. Maybe everyone, all of them, all at once.

It makes her huff. "Am I losing you already, old man?"

"Ain't that old," he bites back, hips lifting when she slides down. It makes him nudge something that has her eyes fluttering, mouth dropping, slack. Her nails catch skin when they rake over his chest. 

Sex has always been an outlet. A comfort. It blankets that part of his head that never quiets—failures, failings—and offers a respite from it all. Her weight on his hips, chest, thighs doesn't dull it all but buffers it. 

White noise in his ears when her nails rake over his skin. The scent of her clings in the air around them—sex, kerosene, cinder, ash: the scent of a wet forest after a wildfire scorched the earth—and clots out the fetor of decay, of mildew, and moss, the earthy tang that reminds them of death. Of them. 

It's a distraction. Distance in skin, sweat, and heat. 

It's just sex, just—

"God, Joel," she gasps loud, sharp, when he pitches his hips into her, blunt and unforgiving, and hits deep. Carves out the shape of him in her soft, fluttering flesh, and tries not to get lost in the thick scent of her. 

It dusts over everything until he still smells her even when she isn't here. 

Temporary made permanent. 

It's the very thing he runs from finally catching up. He feels the graze of fingers ghosting over the nape of his neck when he looks at her, poised and centred above him. Aphrodite in flesh and bone. Her fingers prickle his skin with their sharp tips, and the indents left behind are soothed over when she gasps his name like it's something special. Meaningful. An orison murmured in the quiet box of a confessional booth. 

The curtain rustles. 

"Yeah," he grunts, low and filthy; the noise sticks in the back of his throat when he feels her tighten up around him. A little apple-sized fist of pleasure. He flexes his thighs, hands grasping her tight, and knows he's going to keep her here again tonight. "Fuck, sweetheart—"

The way she moves is liquid. Mercury. He watches, eagle-eyed and enraptured, as she squares her shoulders, and takes him to the root. The base. 

Her presence in his life atrophied his defences until they lay scattered on the sheets that reek of her. In the folds of his pillow where he rests his head at night. The featherlight wood of his guitar when she leans over his shoulder, and says, play me another one, Joel. 

He's a dog without an owner. A stray mutt on the outskirts of town, wandering through the city in search of sustenance. 

She's the one who keeps feeding him. Lays out a dish just for him, and scratches her nails behind his ears until the curl of his lips subsides. A slow broiled trust. He stops showing her his canines, his claws, when she shows him the vulnerable curve of her neck, and lets him mark her skin with his touch. 

Joel will mourn her the same way he does everyone else—achingly empty, and tearless—but he thinks, now, that he might think of her once, and then never again. He's selfish. Always has been. 

(Can't afford not to be when she looks better bearing his mark. When he sleeps easier with her breath in his ear.)

Just sex. The words are weak in the back of his head, and he feels the shaky resolve begin to crumble, chossy wobbling under unsteady feet, when her head falls back in a mockery of prayer, the utterance of his name heavier than the sins on his shoulders. Just sex. Just—

The grille falls, and shatters into smelted pig iron at their feet.

—it's just her, him, and the beats in between. A slow simmer of sex to something more. Something he isn't quite ready for, yet knows he can't let go of. Won't. Not now, not ever. He won't give her anything, nothing but the touch of his hands, and the weight of his body, but it's juxtaposed to the worry heavy in his chest, the anger still lacing the broken bones in his fingers when his thumb brushes the curve of her wound. 

It splits in her ardour. The bottom scab tugged too much, lifting from broken flesh. 

Ichor pebbles on the seam. It pools an angry merlot against the indigo scab, but when it slides down her flesh, it's Phlegethon red. 

His thumb catches it. It's warm, and sticky. He smears it over her quivering belly, and fights the urge to try and lick it clean. Knows, somehow, it would taste of Lethe. 

Joel's teeth ache when he grinds them together, tongue lashing across the ivory seal. He's thinking too much—abstracts, concretes; they blur together in a cacophony of want, take, run, hide—

Keep. 

"It's okay," she says again, as if all his secrets laid bare. As if the talons digging into his flesh somehow tapped a vein, an artery, that leads directly to his stem, and she's syphoning the thoughts in his head with the same ease that she steals the breath from his lungs. "It's okay, Joel. It's—"

She doesn't finish. Her words are shorn, bitten at the grain when he reaches up, holding her around the waist, and brutally fucks into her weeping cunt with the finesse of a starving man invited to a feast fit for a King. 

It jostles her. Breasts swaying, head bobbing back and forth as he nearly lifts her off the bed with the force of his thrusts. 

The brutality of it screams one shrill echo of it isn't. None of this is okay. None of it. 

She's chiselling him open until he's a raw wound exposed to the unforgiving air. Until he bleeds and thinks of her. Until the only sound that drowns out the terror raking across his synapses is her voice when she murmurs his name. 

"We're fine, Joel—," it carries the flavour of axiom. Aphorism when she says: "we'll be okay."

She trembles over him, muscles straining to keep up. This isn't her taking; despite being perched above him like a queen astride her throne, she gives. Lowers herself the way he likes. Circles her hips until he sees white behind his eyelids. 

The weight of her feels like an anvil. The heat is enough to liquefy his bones. 

"Keep goin'," he rasps the words out—a strange limbo of being both an encouragement and a demand. It lacks the bite it had before, when he'd bend her over and fuck her until he was satisfied, until the howling in his head, and the ache in his bones was eased with the soporific gossamer only sex could give him. "Just like that, pretty thing—"

It's a slip. An accident. 

Her rhythm stutters. Her ribs expand wide under his palms; ballooning up so much he wonders if she's trying to burst them at the seams or float away. Irrational, of course. Sex makes him stupid. Makes him hungry and needy, and has him feeling like he's almost, almost human, and—

He holds on a little tighter. 

Pretty thing. Her lips form the words in a soundless exhale. Pretty thing. She's used to him calling her all sorts of sobriquets smeared in a palpable stroke of derision. It's not contemptuous, but he makes his mockery of it clear with the flout in his tone. Sarcastic, caustic. 

Sure thing, beautiful. If that's what you want, sweetheart. Go on then, gorgeous. 

She always wore the same sour twist to her lips, the exaggerated eye roll. The heavy huff. 

It was never flirtatious, never complimentary. 

This—pretty thing—is the softest he'd ever regarded her. 

He watches her throat bob when she swallows, eyes tracing the nervous flutter as she struggles to grasp the concurrency of his words, the way he said them. Their meaning. It flickers through those depths that threaten consumption whenever they dust over the length of him. Thinking. Thinking. 

They were always abstract, but his words are concrete, and she isn't sure how to carry the heavy cinder he drops on her. Her fingers are used to the ephemeral weight of his scorn; the delineation of distance—unspoken but unignorable. Unequivocal in its separation. 

"Wow," she breathes, tremulous. She grasps at normalcy but he can see how much those two words have rattled her. She swallows again. Eyes narrowing. Viper pits. "Getting soft in your old age, huh?"

Joel isn't ready to acquiesce. 

He pitches his hips up, letting her feel the solid length of him—blunt, burning iron—and feels his chest flutter when she whines, head dropping back as he bludgeons into her core. 

"Fuck, Joel—"

He isn't soft. Isn't malleable. He's made of carbonised grief, anguish, despair. Reinforced with volcanic clinkers running rivets of apoplectic fury. 

He isn't soft. Isn't what she deserves, or needs, or should even want—

But the way she says his name is pyrolysing. 

Cinder. Soot. Ash. 

He spent so much time holding firm against the walls to keep her out, he never bothered to filter the air he breathed. She clots in his lungs. The scent of her builds. A mass forms. Metastasises inside of him. 

Her hands fall there, palms drawn to the steady thump of his beating heart. It drums under her skin, a stuttering rhythm that makes her own chest swell with her shaky inhale. 

His slide, rough skin scraping over her soft flesh. She burns hotter than the acorn stove in the corner of the room, and he feels the heat simmering in his veins. Scents the sulphur and volcanic ash in the air when she leans down, bending at the elbows to press her lips against his. It's chaste, as far as their usual kisses go. Biting and vitriolic. As if being sweet, tender, was forbidden. 

Maybe it was. He doesn't know what he'd have done if she kissed him like this back then. Honeyed rich, and molasses slow. It tastes like smoke but reminds him of the rock candy he'd make at home with Tommy when he was young. 

She moans into his mouth when his hands slip around her waist, her thigh. He holds her steady, and rocks up into her to the same tremulous beat as her clumsy, fragile kisses. The vibrations buzz on his bruised lips, and the tingle of her voice washing over him makes his cock twitch inside of her. 

The press of him, unyielding and firm, against her soft, soft walls makes him grunt. Another noise pulled into the cacophony of them. It's lower than anything he's ever made before. New. Novice. 

Fucking her now feels marginally different than it had only yesterday. It's raw. Vulnerable. 

He thinks of a slow burn. A candle wick. 

Wonders, then, if she feels it, too. This rawness that sits in his thundering chest; a scraped-out, hollow feeling that draws in more and more of her until the crater is filled with the essence of her sweat, the heavy breaths she tries to stifle in her throat to keep kissing him like she'll never get the chance to again. 

And that must be it. 

This isn't what he normally gives her—bruises and bites, beard burns over the delicate softness of her flesh; he leaves her kiss-bruised and drunk off of the taste of him, malt-heavy and whisky sour. 

Intimacy is saved for moments when she cums around him, tightening up like a strung bow in his archer's hold; when she squeezes herself into the nook of his shoulder, whimpering as he fucks her through her high, and chases his release in the spasming clutch of her willing body. When he cums, painting her stomach, her thighs, her ass, with the stain of his spend, the only physical proof he'd been inside of her, and smears the wet mixture of them on her heated flesh, still buzzing with the aftershocks of her orgasmic haze. 

It's reserved for the microcosm carved from their shared release, drenched in the glow of the chemical slurry that saturates their brains, releasing endorphins until they feel nothing but the buzz of each other. Skin to sweaty skin. Each breath a gasp. 

He lets her linger in these soft moments. This singular dissonance sits incongruously with everything else between them. But then she shifts. The microcosm that filmed around them bursts. 

She slips away after he does, slowly leaning over to pull on her discarded clothes, and wipe the stain of him from her body. 

His fingers itch for a cigarette when he watches her through lidded eyes as she stumbles around on fawn legs. 

She always hesitates for a moment. Joel often wonders if she's waiting for him to ask her to stay. 

He never does. She leaves. 

(Rinse. Repeat.)

But now—

"Easy, now," he murmurs, tongue slipping through the gap of her teeth to chase her taste. "Don't rush this, sweetheart."

Everything about this is unlike him, and she moans her disquietude into the scant space between them, brow knotting together when her stitches pull, and he leaves a bloodied trail across her waist, knuckles split and bleeding anew. 

They're both bloodied, he finds. Drenched in each other's sweat, spittle, and blood. 

It makes dizzy. Makes his fingers dig into her flesh, holding her closer to his heaving chest as he takes. His hips raise off the bed—a clumsy slant into her welcoming sex, and he feels her shudder when he hits deep, cock nudging that soft place inside of her that always makes her forehead crease. 

He can't see it when she leans down, peppering wet kisses across his grey beard, and painting hard through her nose when he presses the flat of his palm against the base of her spine and fucks into her with sharp, unrhythmical thrusts. 

"That's it, take it just like that—," he grinds the words off, and tastes the condescension in his tone. 

In response, she bites down on his pulse point. 

Another break in the routine. The rules lay scattered around them, smouldering embers of this incipient beginning to something neither of them is ready for. 

Her hands wiggle out from between their chests, bringing them closer together than before, and when she tangles her fingers in the damp curls behind his ears, he swears he can feel her heartbeat echoing through his ribs. 

He spears himself into her faster, seeking that place he knows will make her melt—

"Joel, oh—ah, fuck—"

—and once found, he cruelly angles the head of his cock into it, rasping out words of patronisation into her ear. 

Good girl, he says, and groans when her cunt tightens around him like a nautical bow. Taking me so good. Gonna cum for me? Gonna cum around my cock—

He can feel his release brimming up like a fever in his veins. White-hot and arctic cold. It sets his nerves on fire, and the pressure of her around him makes him see pure white. 

He thinks of church on Sundays when she chants his name like a hymnal—Joel, Joel, Joel—and finds nirvana when she sinks her teeth deeper into his flesh, unmarked and unclaimed until now. He'll have the perfect impression of her teeth embedded in his skin, and thought alone makes that gnarled spool inside of him loosen. 

Joel is taken by surprise when she cums—voice a shaky, shrill howl of his name, and the sound of it, the blood that stains his beard when she turns, baring her teeth and pressing them flat to his jaw, makes him grunt. It's raw. An oozing wound.

She flutters around him like the beat that echoes through his bones, and feels a hunger inside of him grow. 

The uncoiled knot inside of him rears, once dormant and dead to the world, now gnashing its jowls at the hands that prodded it from its slumber. Rapacious. A black hole when it yawns. 

The town knows she's his. Has since she sidled up to him, all soft smiles and viper eyes, and asked him to dance, for a drink, and what's a handsome man like you doing in a place like this? Got anyone I should worry about, Joel? Wanna dance? Wanna fuck—

And they know, now, that he's hers when he carries her in his arms, and knocked his forearm into the necks of anyone who tried to pry her from his clutch. 

They know. They know, but it's not enough. 

He wants to mark her, stain her. Leave her with the permanent smear of him on her pretty skin. 

Fuck—

This wasn't supposed to happen, but the keen awareness comes much too late. 

He fucks the frustration into the tight clutch of her willing, forgiving, body, and tries not to come apart at the seams when she mewls his name like he's just as much of a burden to her as she is to him. Bankrupt. Bereft of the walls and the rationale that kept him lightyears away from everyone else around him (until Ellie, the hospital—this place that reeks of stagnancy and burrowed into his marrow), he crumbles in her hold once more. 

His release hits him like a sucker punch to his gut, and the force of it makes him ache.

He doesn't pull out like he always, always, does despite the contraceptive she has, and spilling inside of her spasming cunt feels too much like heaven for him not to come apart at the seams. For him not to shatter into pieces when she pulls him closer, and murmurs, that's it, Joel. That's it—cum for me. Just let go, I got you—

And for the first time in a long time, he does.

It's an awkward assemblage of limbs that don't fit together, bodies that are too incompatible, but he tugs her down onto the mattress beside him, and makes it work. She rests the flat of her palm over his sweat-slicked chest, nails raking through the dusted grey smatter of hair on his chest. The inside of her thigh is wet with him, with her, them, when she slides it over his hip. 

Her head rests on soft tissue where his arm and shoulder meet, ear nestled into his armpit. His arm around her back, fingers resting on the curve of her elbow. It's then, when he finds his thumb brushing small circles into her dewy skin, that he realises what this is. 

Cuddling, he thinks, a touch derisively, in the apocalypse.

It was never a burning release, the aftermath of that intoxicating chemical bath of endorphins, oxytocin, and then a quick until next time. 

Being trade partners for most of the scheduled shifts—his brutality, and her knowledge of survival made them a perfect match outside of this clumsy moment of intimacy—meant that she often stayed for a few hours afterwards discussing plans, and who to barter with next or the places they haven't yet scavenged. Lying naked beside each other, shoulders sometimes brushing as they spoke—that was the extent of their post-sex ritual. 

This, he knows, is new. Different. 

It has the same cadence as last night when his massive hand swallowed her wrist in his palm, and he said, just sleep here, but it's a syncopation. Lighter, somehow, than the gruff way he demanded her company, the brutal divot between his brow. 

She moves, slow and languid, and for a moment he thinks about letting her leave. Repairing the chasm that crumbled between them into heaps of broken ruination and anguish, her hand brushes his when she pulls away, and he knows he won't. 

For such a massive presence, she's surprisingly small in his grasp. The bump of her wrist bone fits snug against the broken, swollen knuckle of his middle finger when he folds his hand around hers. 

The hitch in her breath, the rapid flutter of her pulse beating against his too rough, too worn palm are the only measure of her hesitation, her confusion. 

They're not themselves in this moment. 

The moor around him collapses. A sinkhole forms. 

He clings to her and drags her under with him.

The words won't form on his lips. His throat is bereft of what he feels in his marrow, unable to utter them aloud, to make them real. As if speaking his burgeoning desires is somehow worse than a death sentence. 

Wanting in this world is dangerous, and ruinous, but when Joel sees the dawning realisation buoying to the surface in those unfathomable black holes, he knows there's nothing more worrisome, more deadly, to him than her insatiable appetite. Her desire for more. 

More—

And just him. 

Something in her gaze splinters. Cracks. Her shoulder slump in something that tastes of the same defeat that taints the pinch in his brow. 

"You are getting softer, Joel Miller," she takes a stab at a joke but her hands shake too much for it to land properly. "Who'd have thought all it would take is old age and mortality—"

"Shut up," he grumbles, and fights the thrum of satisfaction that spumes in his veins when she lays back down beside him. "Didn't hear you complainin' this much five minutes ago."

"Yeah, well—" her hands settle on his chest, fingers carting through the damp, matted hair. "There's a reason I'm always on top, you know. Worried you might throw your back out." 

"You say that like I haven't already." 

Her chin scraps over the soft flesh where his bicep meets the curve of his shoulder, eyes bright in the morning sun that smears rays of ochre across the bridge of her nose.

She's pretty, he thinks, and feels that same gnawing in his guts, that same hunger, when she dips, and presses a kiss to his skin. 

"Poor baby," she coos, brows drawing together in mock sympathy. "I can't believe a little missionary ruined you so badly. Guess I should take better care of the elderly."

"Wasn't the missionary," he huffs. Her skin is soft, tacky, when he runs his fingers over her shoulder. "It was carrying your heavy ass home."

"Did my heavy ass snap your hips, too—"

"Christ," he bites out, but it lacks any heat. "You just never shut up, do you?" 

He hears the click in her throat when she swallows. 

"Guess you'll just have to shut me up, won't you, old—"

He presses his lips to hers, and steals the goading words from her quivering mouth. 

"Call me an old man again, and I'll spank your ass, little girl."

The condescending tone is thick, but where he expects her indignation over the same words spoken to her by everyone else when she said she wanted to go with him on runs—stay here where it's safe, little girl—it instead makes her suck in a sharp breath between her teeth. He feels the vacuum of it against his lips, and blinks up at her. 

"Did you like that—"

"No," she snaps, and drops her head to his chest. "God, Joel, you really know how to ruin a moment."

"Is that what this was? A moment?"

"Yes," she volleys back. "You don't think it was?"

He swallows down the tang of panic that salts his tongue, and presses his lips to her crown instead. 

"Ain't much of one, was it?"

"We'll make a better one," she murmurs, the lilt of a promise heavy in her words. 

When she settles in his fold, cheek laying flat against his chest—hiding her embarrassment he tones with a particular thrum of fondness so sweet it makes his teeth ache—he folds his arm over her shoulder, keeping her tucked into the bracket of his body. 

She's too small for him to ever be a perfect fit. Too hard inside that pretty little head for him to ever wiggle through. Too soft for him not to ruin her completely when he holds her too tight in his hands that overlap in a way that sometimes makes him dizzy, feverish with want, with fear. 

She doesn't click in the same way Tess does—did. 

A silent agreement of unspoken distance. Never ask for more, it hissed because you'll be brutally disappointed. Never hunger because you won't ever be satiated. Don't yearn. Don't want. Don't, don't, don't—

No, she doesn't click. She doesn't fit. Not with him. Not at all. 

(Tess left him whole. 

She devours.)

Consumes. 

Her eyes are black holes, and ever since she looked at him through the fanned ring of her lashes, and said: you won't break me that easily, he's been standing on the edge of her event horizon waiting for that perfect singularity to swallow him whole. 

(He thought her pull would happen quickly. Instantaneous. 

But she's been ripping him apart the entire time; morsel after morsel until all that remains is raw nerve. Scraps.)

A slow descent into comfort, kinship. 

She's on the same plane of existence as Tommy, Ellie. Maria, too, he supposes, a touch begrudgingly. His circle widens, expands. The bubble encompassing her, too, and he knows that he'd mourn her in the same hushed breath as the rest. 

I'll outlive you, old man. 

(He's never wanted something more in his life right now than for those words to come to fruition.)

For the first time since the walls reared, since the gunshot that still echoes in his ears like a reminder of his sins, his failures, Joel thinks of tomorrow. And the one after that. And after that. 

He thinks of her, and them, this, in the afternoon. Over old stew. Tommy's laughter. Maria's knowing glances. Ellie's anger. Her scorn. Distrust. 

Wasting the night away in the bar that's always several octaves too loud not to make him tense, antsy. Watching her dance around the room, ballerina nimble with a sprinter's pace. Listen to her joke and laugh with the men who look at her a touch too long, and a shade too intense, and—

Bringing her home after. Back here in this small house where he rots. Where he plays his guitar as if the chords of Hurt would ever be enough to drown out the bullets and the bloodshed. The clicks, the groans. The scent of moss, and fungus. 

Taking her to bed in the sheets that hasn't stopped smelling like her since he fucked her three times over Christmas until she sobbed into his pillow, and begged him for respite. When she brushed the grey hair from his temple with fingers that wouldn't stop trembling despite the ease in her grin, and the polynya in her eyes as she regarded him with more than just desire. More than just sex and sweat and the comfort that comes with losing yourself to the chemical high of another body tucked into the crevasse of your own. 

She doesn't fit. She doesn't belong. 

But fuck—

He knows he's gone when he can't imagine her anywhere else. 

"Sure," he says, and wonders when she let herself into his life, into the gnarled remanants of his chest. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

(He only dreams in black and white, but when he closes his eyes and dreams of her, it's in a startling palette of browns, reds, and blues.)

[oraclekleo]

Feedback 🥰 💜

https://www.tumblr.com/oraclekleo/736941190397771776/gellow-i-want-to-participate-in-your-game-send

Thank you so much for this reading 💜💜💜 "And I must say that your collage is pretty impressive." Hehe, thank you, i used Pinterst and Canvas.

"I can already tell you are most likely a pretty organised and neat person with a love for symmetry and clean lines. 😂 Feel free to correct me. I can be wrong. Nobody’s perfect. 🙂"

Hehe well, it depends, when it comes to online things, my phone's archives📱, my study papers and notebooks, yes I'm very neat but on my daily life i am very unorganized 🫠😔, I'm clean but very very messy(not fixing my bed after waking up, leaving my clothes on the floor, i haven't dusted off my nail polishes in a long long time, my makeup is out in the dresser/vanity ect, ect) basically for digital things i can be very organized but on my daily life , i organize the house once a week.

"Others might be still lazy and trapped in routine but it’s time for you to become productive and abundant. Start early and get ahead of others just like the cherry trees which bloom early and their fruits ripen before many others" owww i love cherry trees! They are so dreamy. I didn't know they bloom earlier than others.

"You might be standing in front of an important choice. One path will keep you grounded and safe, one takes you up to the sky and maybe into directions you could never predict. It’s important for you to make the decision with both a conscious mind and your intuition and heart" I defenely see this, I'm trying to workout how to either go with the flow of my university carrer or try to hassell it out with my pasión.

"You certainly have deep roots in your community and you are well cherished by them. On the other hand, you understand what self-love and self-care mean. Sometimes we are not meant to continue the legacy from the past rather start a new one ourselves and it’s important to decide this. You probably feel excited and full of eagerness now which is a good start. New ideas come to us for a reason but make sure to ground your dreams in reality so you can truly achieve your goals" sooo true! I want to start making sense of my dreams and wishes and do something to get them, i think I'm tired of waiting for a chnage to arrive insted of going after it.

"Don’t try to bottle your feelings up as you are perfectly able to feel them through and process them. Before making important decisions, sit down, calm down and think what it is you want over a cup of tea or any beverage you like" I agree, HIGH-key what i would love to have is someone with the known-how to guide me, but i guess i have to try to meet even more new people to get to this person or group of people.

Thanks a lot for answering this question, thanks a lot for all the details you put into them. You're very sweet and thoughtful 💜

Organising once a week is still pretty neat. I know people who never do. Like never ever. 😂 I'm actually the same. My digital files are in such a perfect order but it takes me days to fold and put washed laundry back into wardrobe. 🤣

As for the choice between career and hassling, remember that doing what you love as a source of income will turn any passion and hobby into real work. Sooner or later you won't be enjoying it that much and you might even completely lose interest in it. Regular job can be dull but it's only job, you do it for money and when your shift is over, you can unwind with your hobbies and passions. But what will you do if your hobbies and passions are turned into your job? How will you relax when you have a tough day? I'm not saying you should necessarily do what you studied. My mom was a construction engineer by education but spend her life working for insurance companies and banks and worked with hands as her hobby. It's important to remember that what we studied doesn't have to become our lifelong career. 😉

Chase after your dreams! Life might seem long now but it passes so quickly. It's never too soon or late to make at least some of your dreams a reality.

You can always acquire the know-how yourself through experience. It might be more comfortable to have guidance but it's bigger adventure to toss away manuals and find your own path. Even if you meet experts, their experience might be very different from yours and their guidance might not align with your personal path. If in doubts, seek within yourself. You know yourself the best. 💖💖💖

Thank you so much for your feedback and feel free to contact me anytime if needed or when you want to just chit chat.

I wish you all the best in your future, make it bright and brilliant! 💎✨

Kleo