#willing to be unkind to get it

[theloveinc]

As someone with a visually weak lazy eye, I'm really grateful for your takes. Listen, the glasses I need to help my vision are too expensive for me right and I have other expenses I have to prioritize, and, yes, sometimes I'm going to skip some chunks if I can not engage with them/don't feel interested/I think they're not as important to the plot in order to actually put some energy in the rest of the reading, and I don't think that makes me a "bad reader" or that "I just don't know how to read", specially when reading, to me, is painful and tiring, but still something I enjoy.

I don't do it always, but anyways, I feel some type of way seeing people commenting such things.

"feel some type of way"....... u are too polite lmfao

[solelifauna]

Yandere Batfam & Neglected Reader Prt.1

When your late mother had a one-night stand with Gotham's richest man, you find yourself at odds and cast aside by your father and his wayward family. Yet, it's only when you find peace that it all comes crumbling down.

TW: Neglect, injury, violence, death

(Y'all, it gets worse in the next post)

To be adopted by Bruce Wayne was akin to a golden ticket; rare but life-changing. You had been one of those (un)lucky souls who just happened to catch the infamous Bruce Wayne's attention, but not how you’d typically expect. You see, you weren't just some random kid, no, you were the byproduct of a one-night stand between your mother and Brucie Wayne. Of course, you obviously didn't know, and your mother was more than content in keeping who your father was a secret. So for the first 11 years of your life, you lived in ignorance of who your father was. Not that it really bothered you; your mother’s love was more than enough, and as long as you had her you knew you’d be fine. 

Then of course, tragedy struck. Your mother was caught in the crossfire between two rival gangs, a stray bullet lodging itself in the side of her head. You don't know how long you spent crying, cradling her dead body, willing her to come back to life. It wasn’t until police and paramedics had to pull you off your mother, that you realized the gravity of your situation. Without your mother and no father, you’d no doubt be sent into one of Gotham City's many orphanages left to be trafficked and killed. Running away seemed like the best option until a positive paternal DNA match came in for one Bruce Wayne. To say you were dumbstruck is an understatement. Bruce Wayne was your father? The man known for adopting children and loving them as his own was your father? You were both relieved and delighted. You didn't know Bruce Wayne personally, but just seeing the way he treated his other children gave you hope, hope that you could heal with this man and finally know your father.

So when child services dropped you at the manor, a small suitcase in tow and a shy, nervous smile on your face only to be met with poorly hidden annoyance and contempt; to say you were heartbroken would be a disservice to yourself. It was easy to discern that your presence was not welcome and considered a hindrance. Bruce spoke to you disconnectedly, offering a quick apology on the loss of your mother before handing you off to the family butler, Alfred. At least Alfred had the decency to apologize on your father’s behalf, taking his time to talk to you and show you around the manor. You liked Alfred, he seemed kind. It wasn't long until you both ran into one of your other siblings, the eldest brother, Richard or Dick Grayson. He seemed the kindest out of the bunch on tv, so you were hopeful he'd have a different reaction compared to your father. 

Disappointment was your friend once more when Dick gave you a strained smile and conversed with you with fake interest. He left as soon as the opportunity arose. Your other siblings were no different; Jason was rarely ever at the manor and when he was, he certainly didn't bother even acknowledging you (not that you minded, he was scary when he was mad). Tim couldn't care less about your presence, finding annoyance when you’d go up to him and try to converse.

Cass or Cassandra talked to you here and there, never unkind, but you knew you were just an afterthought for her; Stephanie on the other hand initially interacted with you, asking you questions and occasionally sitting and talking to you. It was soon that you realized she was just bored and you were the newest “thing” in the manor. Her interest wore off a week later, her interactions with you now short and dry.

The family as a whole just seemed to disregard you and often stilted their conversation around you. You’d notice the dining room would be filled with laughter and loud talking until you'd walk in; silence would overtake the once lively place as everyone switched to hushed conversations. It’s as if everyone but you knew something you didn't, a big inside secret that bonded everyone together. It wasn’t until you accidentally discovered that Bruce Wayne was Batman and that the rest of your siblings had vigilante alter egos that everything made sense. This had to be why everyone left you out! It was because they had a secret identity to protect and you obviously couldn't know!

You thought that once they knew that you were aware of their nightly activities, things would change for the better, that you’d be included and accepted. If anything, your admission was the worst possible thing you could have done. At least before, some of them had pretended to interact or say something to you. But now that you knew their big secret, they no longer had a reason to maintain their forced fronts and pretend to care (even if it was barely caring). They had bigger, better, more important things to worry about than some random girl who popped up and wasn't even a vigilante. 

But ever the idiot, you still tried. You still craved their love and affection, going out of your way to take gymnastics to impress Dick or take coding classes to try and engage with Tim. You even tried talking to Jason about books, something Alfred had mentioned was dear to Jason. You tried sign language with Cass but she was never around long enough for it to matter. None of your attempts were successful. You didn't even bother trying with Bruce, you knew that the man wanted nothing to do with you. 

The straw that broke the camel's back for you was when your half-brother, Damian Wayne was introduced to the manor. You thought that he'd be met with the same coldness as you, and that you’d finally have someone who was in the same boat as you, someone who'd understand. Boy were you wrong. Damian was met with such a warmth it made your skin itch and your eyes teary. You wanted to throw up, this isn't fair, he doesn't even try and he gets their love and attention, yet here you were begging for scraps. Regardless, you thought that at least you could try again with Damian, he was technically blood-related to you after all. Yet when he pulled a knife on you and almost cut your throat, instead leaving a cut on your cheek down to your jaw, you could only stare at him in shock. 

You expected outrage and at least some sort of punishment for Damian, considering he had attacked you unprovoked and that you had no prior martial arts training, you were just a civilian. Dick only pulled you aside after Alfred had patched you up, you’ll never forget the words he said to you.

“(Y/n), what Damian did was a mistake. He’s had a rough childhood with some very bad people and it's not his fault he reacted this way. I know you're hurting, and I promise that this will be the first and last time this ever happens. Please, forgive him.” Dick said softly and mourningly.

You just let out a quiet “okay” not even focusing on Dick’s words, no, your main point of focus was the large, warm hand tenderly cradling your injured cheek. You didn't even realize how touch starved you really were, practically melting into his palm. You almost verbally protested when he retracted his hand as soon as you said “okay”. He was leaving.

“Thanks (Y/n), we really appreciate it. He's a good kid, I promise, he just needs some love and attention is all. I’ll come around to check on you soon, okay?” He said, moving away from you, obviously distracted.

You just “hmmed” in response. You knew he was lying, he would never come see you after this, and you were partly right. He came around the manor all the time now, but never for you, only for your attacker. Damian never did apologize for attacking you by the way. He just moved on, most likely realizing that you weren't a threat and were not worth his energy. 

Your cheek would still forever be scared though, not that anyone cared.

That's okay though, you honestly didn't want to talk to him anyway. The entire “Damian” incident was forgotten about quickly as the family bonded and had movie nights, patrols, and hangouts that you were not invited to. Well technically you were, but you realized that your presence just ruined the overall mood so you just decided that it was better if you just stayed away. It's fine, you did NOT need them. You had other people in your corner that actually cared so you were fine (not really).

Thankfully, you had convinced Bruce (not that he really cared) to let you stay at your old school and not transfer to Gotham Prep. So you got to keep your friends, the only people who understood your plight at the manor, the only people who cared; it was after this that you decided to stop caring as well. You weren't chosen by Bruce Wayne, you were forced upon him. Wayne Manor was not your home, just a stop along the way.

So, you made your peace.

Then, of course things changed, and now the bat family was starting to turn their interests on you. 

Catching attention in Gotham was never a good thing.

[colleendoran]

So grateful to have to kind of support of the Dunmanifestin team, Terry Pratchett's estate, and Neil Gaiman who pushed back the GOOD OMENS deadline so I could recover from cancer treatment and shingles.

Wish I could say it's all smooth sailing, but it isn't, especially those exciting neuralgia events.

But with all this pressure now off my back, I am able to get a little more rest, restructure my schedule, and am working steady again.

I should also mention that I had various focus and health issues while working on the Neil Gaiman graphic novel adaptations for Dark Horse. https://amzn.to/44R3aML

Had Neil and Diana Schutz not been incredibly kind and patient, I'd have never made it through TROLL BRIDGE in the first place, and then there would have been no SNOW GLASS APPLES and no CHIVALRY. And of course, Daniel Chabon was a saint of patience with me on those. Never an unkind or cross word.

I know there are other people who never seem to stumble and hit every goal, but I'm not one of them. And certain people used to be very contemptuous of issues I was dealing with.

I don't work with those people anymore.

But I think you can see the results I can get when I'm working with people who are willing to be flexible and patient.

I'm very grateful to the Dunmanifestin team, Neil Gaiman, Diana Schutz, and Daniel Chabon.

Couldn't do it without you.

[tremendum]

Mr. Miller

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader (afab, use of she/her, use of the word girl)    

rating: explicit. (18+. mdni.)    

word count: 6.8k requested: yes. here and here :) 

summary:  “six months before you ran yourself into any trouble with somebody - that's no easy feat, considering your track record, so you like to call it a win anyways. but boy, talk about a rocky start with someone. Tommy's goddamn brother, no less.”

warnings: Jackson era, mentions of marijuana use, age gap (unspecified), sliiightly dub!con, smut (PiV, unprotected), creampie, overstimulation, pussy spanking, choking, spit kink, slight knife kink (do not look at me), dom!Joel (brat tamer!Joel if you squint), slight sir kink, so much dirty talk, lots of begging, degradation kink, dacryphilia, mean!Joel, this is just shameless smut i am horrible  notes: okay i kind of modified these asks but I thought it’d be fun to write it like this!!! as always reblogs/asks/comments are always great motivations :’) this is not reread because i am INSANE! xoxo

(  read the sequel other Joel fics:     fever       landmines    )

★  

to be completely honest, you never would’ve guessed you’d move to Wyoming. 

of course, in this world you didn't really have much of a choice of where you end up; it was hard to travel, yes, but there was some guiding hand that invisibly pushed you upon Jackson in the middle of a really rough winter. 

a girl, lost and on her own through the dangerous sprawls of what's left of the United States - of course Tommy and Maria had accepted you into the community; you were resourceful, willing, and strong-headed. 

most of Jackson was nice.

the people were good, the community functioned, and you were finally safe - you found a job working partly as a patrolman if an extra hand was needed, but mostly as a gardener.

it was a beautiful basin valley with sprawling mountains that glittered in the snow even during summer. 

you'd only been there for - what, maybe half a year? six months before you ran yourself into any trouble with somebody - that's no easy feat, considering your track record, so you like to call it a win anyways. but boy, talk about a rocky start with someone. 

Tommy's goddamn brother, no less. 

you didn't particularly get off on the correct foot with Joel Miller. when he showed up in town, people were thrown off. you surely understood that - but it was Tommy's brother, and Tommy insisted he would be fine; he and the girl with him had already been 'round Jackson before, leaving just a week or so before you showed up, apparently. 

you'd definitely heard about him. 

coincidentally, you'd actually moved into the house that Tommy had wanted Joel to have; the house that had the spare girl's bedroom which Ellie came through to ravage once they came back into town. (apparently the towels at Joel's were too rough no matter how many times they were washed, and Ellie really liked that Tamagotchi you'd found in the bedroom she once slept in.) 

maybe that'd already put him off, the short time in which Ellie had found company in you. who knows. 

but unfortunately, your first impression of him was muddled by a very real lens of beer-goggles and a long week's aching exhaustion in your brain. he was large, a tall man whose disposition dripped of domineering power; he didn't trust anybody here and by the looks of it, they didn't particularly adore him. he kept to himself besides Tommy -  who unfortunately along with his wife were really your closest comrades in the community. 

you almost felt bad for him, because that's how many people saw you at first. but on that night, you were just drunk enough, as you greeted Maria and Tommy at the bar with smiles and a joke about your libido, that you didn't quite realize that Tommy's big brother Joel was sat there, eyes watching you with a glimmer of something lurking behind the rim of the beer bottle. 

to be fair: everybody in this life is unkind in their first impressions. that's just how the world is now - 'every man for himself' is an unfortunately ugly reality and those who are too soft to see that are rarely spared the gore.

but when Tommy introduces you to Joel with a huff of a laugh and a friendly slap on your shoulder, Joel's eyes are distrusting, judging. he doesn’t say anything to you.

you try not to be offended. 

"pleasure to meet ya, Mr. Miller." you nod with a grin, your cheeks hot with slight intoxication as his large, calloused palm slips into yours. his grip is tight - your wince is covered with your words as you momentarily shoot Maria a look, turning back to the man in front of you.

"I met your girl earlier. stormed into my house like she owned the damn thing. was lookin' for some stuff she'd found last time, I guess. I'm just glad she didn't find my collection of big-girl toys." 

okay. okay, yeah, maybe you are too drunk. Maria laughs, at least, and Tommy lets out a chuckle, eyes flickering to Joel. but he just hums, eyes glancing over you once more before returning to nurse his dark beer with a furrow of his brows. “right.”

and pathetic as it is, he was too damn irresistible; you’d imagined that stare -that brooding scowl- one too many times in the dead of night, hands down your pants or in a stranger’s bed. 

and it hadn't gotten better in the months following. 

it was of circumstances most unfortunate for you that Joel and Ellie moved into a house just a few down from you - as much as you wished to just never see the man and his censorious stare, it was unavoidable. especially when Ellie showed up nearly day-to-day with questions, excuses, or even just complaints of boredom to coax you into letting her inside your house. 

a week or so ago, you’d overheard Tommy in a hushed voice down at the dining hall trying to convince Joel it was a good thing, that Ellie was learning to garden, learning about woman stuff (yes, he actually fucking said that), and - god forbid- make friends. 

but you love Ellie.

she in't like Joel. she’s funny, and lively, and easy-going once you warmed up to her. in fact, you actually started to collect things from around town to show her on her ceremonious visits; books, tattered board games, once you even found a trumpet in the crawlspace of your old house. it was rusty and honestly probably still had dried saliva from whichever fifth-grader played it way back before the outbreak, but it was enough to entertain you and the fifteen-year-old girl for hours even if neither of you knew how to play it. 

and maybe it was after Ellie mentioned to you with a giggle that Joel complains about you calling him ‘Mr. Miller,’ or maybe it was when she said he’d always ask about you and what you’re like whenever she returned from your days together. 

no matter what the catalyst really was, you just know you have it bad for that man, in the worst way - because he is a fucking asshole. 

but the worst of it was when Joel and you get paired up to patrol together on the outskirts. it means hours together of breathing and awkward looks, silence from you because he was silent and clearly wanted nothing to do with you. 

you suffered through hours of Joel’s rugged sageness for survival, tugging you effortlessly through boulders, lifting yourselves high through dilapidated structures in the middle of the wilderness. he was strong and capable and fucking sexy, and that made it all the more unbearable when snide comments about your youth or your inexperience or your lack of punctuality would pass his lips. it was annoying how hot it made you. 

as the summer rolled around, the horde was growing ever-present at the lips of Jackson county, festering like the moss that spreads along the woodsy forests in the northwest - hence your increased activity with the others who patrol the area and keep the community safe. 

he was a many of almost no words, and though you were in no way the same when you were around people you trust, the man just brings out the skeptic in you - so for weeks, it was days of the two of you walking in silence, the only noise being weak impasses and jabs at the other’s self-esteem all veiled by a smirk or an eye-roll. 

and still, each day out passed with your untrustworthy gazes pinned on the horizon just as much on each other's trigger fingers.

-- 

you're at your wit's end on one Friday evening as you finally return into town from patrol with him. 

Joel is a man plagued by too many unnamed illnesses; the likes of which you so fondly call in your head 'can't-accept-help-itis' and 'stubborn-old-asshole-luenza.' part of his symptoms render him unable to say full sentences to you without a judgmental look or a skeptical scoff, and sure you're not always the best judge of character, but you're confident that Joel has his eyes on your backside every single time you bend over to move your marker on the trail. he’s thought about it, too. 

but right now, you’re so tense you’re about to snap. 

his gaze hasn't left your profile for - you swear to god - almost thirty fucking minutes. like, nearly the whole walk from the first outpost. he’s been staring at you like you’re a ghost, or a second head sprouted from your neck. 

the heat of the summer night is unsullied; though you’re high in elevation, the warm wind blows a gust over your bare knees and ruffles your hair, coaxing a damp feeling to settle between your thighs under his gaze. 

"if you stare any harder at me, you'll get a fucking nose bleed." you sneer, keeping your eyes ahead as you grit your teeth. his gaze is burning into your side and with your words, they maintain their heat. 

whatever he was thinking, he keeps it to himself. you glare at his own profile, thick thighs, sturdy chest, hair that blows gently in the warm air. his jaw, glinting against the lights that guide you back into town. at least he’s looked away from you. good.

your victorious smirk is wiped off of your lips with his next words, the first in several hours from him besides grunts and directives. "d'you have the logs on you?" 

you look at him with revelation. "shit." you sigh shaking your head, "they're- they're at home." 

his face slides into a look of disdain, deep vexation at the task of now going back with you to your own house to sign the logs and confirm your findings for this patrol. "great." he mutters, feet kicking into gear to hightail it up the street, towards your house. 

the heat is swirling around your legs in the darkening evening as you finally enter your house, sighing into the empty air. the lights flicker when you switch them on, and you'd bring yourself to be more embarrassed about the disheveled state of your things if it had been anyone else with you. 

it doesn’t even matter, after all; his sights are set one one incriminating little piece of evidence in the corner of the living room. 

the small nub that sits on the tray by your windowsill seems to be more salient for Joel than the hurricane that threw your belongings across the space. 

your hands fall onto your hips, sighing as he accusingly lifts it from its ashy grave, eyes furrowed in irritation. your flannel sticks to your sleeves in the heat as his eyes meet yours. 

"is this- 's this marijuana?" he's incredulous as his fingers pinch the burnt-out roach, and you screw your brows at him; is he serious? you ignore the dwarfed look of the small old joint in his large hand, instead rolling your eyes. "yeah, some folks call it weed. you can smoke it and it makes you feel real good. you ever heard of it, Mr. Miller?" you snark, the sarcasm spilling from your lips deliciously; Joel eats it up like a man starved, his jaw ticking as he tilts his head. 

you know he secretly loves when you taunt him with the honorific; yes, it gets on his nerves, but there’s a secret air about him that suggests he likes it that way. it is easier to blur the lines between hate and desire than affection and desire, after all. 

"Ellie comes over here every day." he hisses, eyes sharp. you blink slowly at him, trying to fight the laugh that creeps up your throat; his gaze is dark, furious - did he think you were smoking weed with the girl? she's, like, thirteen. (fifteen, she corrects you in your mind. but still.) 

"that’s correct." you confirm, turning from him to search the kitchen for the log you'd forgotten in your haste to leave. his footsteps ring angry onto the floorboards. "if you're worried about that, I’d never smoke around her. 'm not that disrespectful." you defend, avoiding eye contact as you shuffle through your drawer of junk. 

"doesn’t matter. she won't be coming round much more." he threatens it - tests the waters. as if he has the authority to punish you.

you lift a brow at him, "don’t you think she should be able to make that choice?" you throw back at him, tossing your switchblade onto the table to your right as you sort through the miscellaneous items with both hands. 

uh oh, that struck a nerve in the man. 

his eyes sharpen as he breathes harsh at your words; "don't talk about things you know nothing about, girl." he snaps, crossing his arms, "now find the fucking log so I can leave." 

you glare at him, gesturing in front of you; your eyes scream no shit, Joel, I’m looking. 

it's silent as you search through the drawer, gritting your teeth in the tense silence of anger, thicker than molasses. 

you click your jaw, refusing to let it go, let him think he won. 

"I do have self respect, y'know." you pipe up, lifting a brow as you finally stumble upon the log, pulling a dying pen from the drawer and scribbling notes as you plop down on a wooden chair at your kitchen table.

Joel stays standing; it does not go unnoticed when his eyes take in the contours of your body, the clothes that stick to you in the heat of the summer; a pair of jean shorts, torn from years of use, and a thin tank top, covered with an unbuttoned flannel. his eyes sear into you at your words.

wow. fuck him. 

(no, not like fuck him, but- fuck him.) 

"never said you didn't, darlin'." he mutters condescendingly, the pet name leaving his mouth bitterly. any form of backlash you were going to unleash on his dies in your throat quickly when he leans over your shoulder to sign his own name next to yours. your eyes widen to search his face as his own skim over your account of the patrol. he's- wow, he's closer to you than you would have expected. 

holy shit. smoky swirls of gunpowder, pine, and dark amber whiskey. they fill your nostrils, dizzying your mind as you let out a stuttered breath - it's hot in here... your eyes glance as a small lick of sweat trickles down his neck. your throat is dry, heat swirling in your abdomen as he hums, "jus' think Ellie should start hangin' around with others." 

"why's that?" you snap, daring him to say it. fuck, your heart is pounding in your chest. oh, if he just admits it; that he thinks he's better than you, that he thinks you're pathetic - lord, you yearn for it, you’d have a fucking field day. you want an excuse to hit him. or bite him.

fuck Joel Miller, and- okay, fine. fuck him, too. 

his brows are furrowed as he glares hawkishly at your stubborn form; his gaze is serrated with disdain, jaw clenching with the words you're just begging him to admit.

"she's been cussin' and speaking...vulgar." he mutters, eyes flickering away from you. your jaw unhinges as you huff in surprise; he has the audacity to accuse you for teaching her to be foul-mouthed? hadn't she traveled with him for, what, a year? she’s a teenager - that’s what they do. 

"oh, please." you snap, "that girl was far from a princess when you showed up here, you know." you mutter, tossing a look over your shoulder up at him, the buttons undone at the top of his shirt staring at you, mocking you. 

"I know." he dismisses. his hand falls to stable himself on the back of your chair as he leans down towards you, "but you ain't helping. don't need her gettin' into any more trouble." 

you narrow your eyes, "trouble?" you parrot, accusing. 

the air is warm, thick as you cross your arms, the windows open and flowing the outside summer air into your nostrils. "how could I be trouble? you hardly know me." you snap, offended. you swirl with irritation. 

"because I listen. people think you're harsh. untrustworthy." he spits, smirking down at you as if his words are poison that'll dissolve your whole being into a small puddle of regret. but no, it's gasoline; his words are enough to incite your flames, lick you alive with ardor. 

he doesn't like you? oh, big fucking deal. you don't like him. 

"you ever heard of the pot calling the kettle black, Mr. Miller?" you drawl, lifting an accusatory brow. “what if you’re the bad influence? it’s not like you have any more manners than I do.” 

his jaw sets and his nostrils flare from his sharp exhale; you let your eyes swipe over the splattering of freckles that peek out from under the scruff beard that grows; a scar jags across his skin, frown lines creasing his scowl in a dark, terribly attractive way. you’re tip-toeing a line here, you can feel it. 

he can feel it, too. 

his eyes dip down, though you try hard to hold his heated gaze; they trail slowly over your shoulders and down, down to the dip of your collarbones and then over your breasts, heaving slightly with the proximity of the man. his gaze nearly melts the tank top that stretches over your torso and a flood of excitement rushes through you, pooling in the seat of your underwear. a smirk creeps onto your face at his wandering stare - resentful, loathing, heated. 

something in you snaps, and you can't deal with it any longer; not with his proximity, leaning over your shoulder and staring you down, with half-rolled sleeves. his forearms, they’re thick- goddamn, he's so-

"-I can't tell if you're looking at me like that because you want to kill me, or you want to fuck me." you snap, breaking his spell as you snap his attention back to your own eyes with your bold choice of words. "either way, it'll have to wait. I got shit to do, Mr. Miller, and for some reason, you're still in my house giving me fuck-me-eyes." 

"-you better watch your mouth." he snarls, chest heaving as he leans forward menacingly, his jaw clenched. 

you let yourself smile up at him, "or what, Mr. Miller?" you ask kindly, voice dripping with perfidious innocence. 

he sneers, eyes raking over your form, jaw ticking. your body flushes with warmth under his scrutinous gaze; one of your bare legs slides up to rest on the chair next to you, on full display snd illuminated in the light of the kitchen as you smirk at him. his dark chocolate gaze slides over the skin revealed; your skin tingles in excitement under his watch. it makes you chuckle. 

"what, you don't like the way I speak?" you hiss, glaring at him. "chastising me for shit that you do, too?" you mutter snidely, pulling your leg back down as his eyes glare into yours. "I'm an adult, you can't tell me what to say. fucking hypocrite."

your hand presses into his chest, standing to your full height. his chest is firm, hot, but he lets you do it easily, moving back out of your space; giving you an out, offering you a chance to say this-isn't-what-I-want. but you won't take it. no, instead you slide up closer to him, until you're too close. 

"why so quiet now, Mr. Miller?" you almost purr, your hand still toying with your switchblade, the glint of it reflecting in his eyes. slowly, you lift the blade to trace it gently, softly over his jawline, as you’d do with your fingers. he watches you like a damn hawk, breathing heavy. 

the scratch of it against the facial hair is enough for him to snap; suddenly snatching the blade from between your fingers in one quick motion. 

“you’re testin’ my patience.” he growls, shaking his head as he holds the handle of the knife in an iron-like grip. you shake your head, “yeah, well, you’ve taken all mine.” you counter. “so…” you start, raising a brow at the knife in his hands, the way your legs are turning to putty, “you going to kill me, Mr. Miller? or fuck me?” you whisper it into his ear, up on the tips of your toes as the peppering-gray curls at the base of his ear tickle your lips.

a sharp exhale - almost a surrender. then, a rough hand pushes you down against the table, hard. your body is pliant, willing, excited as his force brings you to thud against the wood, his hand flying down quick just to your right in a loud thud.

your head snaps to your right, eyes wide and jaw open; your switchblade pins your own flannel to the table, stabbed down and holding the material and your arm in place. christ, it barely missed nicking your skin.

“depends on if you can learn some goddamn manners.” he growls, leaning over you, his hips slotting between your thighs.

maybe it’s the look on his face, or just how damn long it’s been since you had someone, or just because it’s Joel – but your facade falls so quick and you’re soon keening up towards him, arching your back so your chest sticks out.

“I’m a fast learner.” you promise; at that, he merely hums, his hips grinding slow over yours. you let your eyes squeeze shut, groaning lightly at the bliss of his rough denim sliding against your shorts-clad cunt, throbbing with desire.

you’re breathless; shivers cascade down your spine at the press of his hips against yours, licking your lips to wet them; “fuck, Joel-“ your breath is strangled, “please. I can be good for you.” you try to convince him, blinking your eyes up at him. his smirk is downright evil as his hands fall to your top, skating over the tops of your breasts before one hand grips your jaw in his large palm, squeezing hard onto your cheeks and forcing you to stare into his eyes.

his grip is unforgiving. “y’think you can jus’ bat those pretty eyes at me?” he sneers, his breath hot and fanning over your face. you’re overheating- god, it’s so fucking hot in your house; your hand raises to grip his forearm, swallowing your pride for the sake for finally getting to feel him inside you, “’m sorry, Joel.” you mutter, cheeks squished by his hand.

his brow furrows, shaking his head. a chastising tutting noise escapes his throat as he rolls his hips, grinding sloooow and smooth against your dripping cunt, aching with desire.

“no, you’re fucking not.” he spits, pushing you harder against the table. your throat is dry, a whimper of desire escaping your throat. his lips brush the shell of your ear as he leans more of his weight on you, your legs wrapping around his hips and your own surging up, up in search for some friction, “say it. say you’re not sorry. you like it, I can tell.”

shivers spill down your spine as you bite back a moan, cheeks alight with heat at his teasing. Your eyes lull over towards the blade that holds down your shoulder, pinning you against the table. a hot rush of arousal floods your underwear as you swallow, eyes rising to meet his in a lidded gaze. 

“I like it,” you admit in a shameful gasp, hand sliding up to explore his chest, “I’m- I’m not sorry. I like it, ‘m not sorry.” you mutter, voice desperate, pathetic; you’re swallowing a whimper as he grinds slowly against you again, his hardened cock straining against his jeans.

 his hand snaps to pin yours down to the edge of the table; your eyes snap up to his, meeting the swirling lust within his deep eyes, searching your face with a dangerous smirk. “you aren’t sorry?” he asks, voice dripping with condescending cockiness.

you shake your head no desperately, searching his eyes to see if he’s pleased.

he smirks at your desperation. "you will be, darlin’." he mutters, his own eyes exploring your chest as it heaves, breasts barely spilling out the top of your tank top’s hem. you smile up at him despite your desperation; hunger curls in your chest as you move your hips up against him and his face falters, a groan escaping his throat. his eyes swirl with the dark shine of a man who is nothing less than dangerous. 

the hand that isn’t pinned by the blade creeps up his arm, brushing the thick cords of muscle that rope his bicep and shoulders; soon, though, one of his hands is gripping your wrist and slamming it down against the edge of the table.

you gasp from the roughness, biting your lip as your fingers curls around the edge and hold tight under his grip.

“don’t move your hands,” he mutters as his lips dip low to trace over the seam of your top, breath brushing over the soft skin of your breasts. “or I’ll leave you here, pinned to this table.”

arousal floods you at his words and you nod silently, swallowing as his teeth bite roughly at your pressure point. “d’you hear me, girl?” he grunts, his hands moving to pull out one of your breasts from your top, your peaked nipple instantly tugged between his prying fingers.

you let out a yelp at the sensation and he huffs against your skin, biting again. “fuck,” you whimper loudly, bucking your hips as your hands grip tight against the edge of the table; one arm is pinned with the knife anyways, but your heart thunders as his tongue peaks out, brushing hot against your sweat-sheened skin.

A hand snakes to your throat and you can’t stop the moan you let out, air sucking through your windpipe at the light grip he keeps; you’re obsessed with how all-consuming he is.

Joel’s everywhere – his smell, his eyes, his hands, tongue – you want him to be inside you, you want him to be in you forever, ever, ever.

fuck Joel Miller. fuck him, and fuck him.

“I asked you something. answer me.” he squeezes your throat as he emphasizes, as he demands you; you buck up against him, convinced you’re soaking through your goddamn shorts, leaving disgusting proof of your sick, twisted arousal as you move against his crotch.

his dominance causes your face to flare with heat; you weren’t expecting him to seduce you into submission - you love it. “y-yes, yes, sir. I he-heard you.” you gasp, face flushing hot as the words leave you. he smirks darkly as he pulls away from you, danger lurking in his eyes deliciously as he nods, seemingly pleased.

he nods. “good.”

his hips are gone from you in an instant and your gasp is choked – but he wastes no time in popping the button on your jeans, sliding them and your underwear off of you in one long motion.

his pupils somehow blow even wider as he stands in front of you, palming his thick cock through his jeans, watching you pant hard.

you’re exposed in front of him – your pussy is swollen with need, pulsing with desire as one of your breasts rests exposed to the air as the knife pins you down by the arm of your flannel; you’re fucking exposed and you love it. he’s intoxicating.

 “you’re soaked.” he says after a moment of silence so long that you barely register his gruff voice. you blink, bringing your eyes back up to his from where he’s begun to undo his belt.

you can’t help the light smirk as you stare up at him, “maybe I happen to like it when you’re vulgar with me.”

he glares at you but there’s a hint of something more that flashes through his eyes; adoration? no, it couldn’t be. Joel Miller can’t adore anything.

but then out of nowhere his fingers delve through your velvet, slippery folds in a fervor; your breath chokes yet again in your lungs as you tense with the sudden stimulation.

a low, guttural moan falls from your lips as the pads of his middle and ring fingers rub tight, slow circles on your clit, “bet you taste so good, don’t you?” he murmurs, his teeth finding purchase upon your neck, sucking a mark so hard you’re sure you’ll have it for weeks. christ. “y’want me to taste you, pretty girl?”

fuck. images flash through your mind of him on his knees, tongue unraveling you, drowning in you while your thighs close around those thick greying curls.

your moan falls from you fast, nodding quick, “yes, yes, please, please, use your mouth.“ your whines are downright embarrassing – you’re not a wide-eyed virgin teen, for fuck’s sake – but Joel’s stirring you just right, making you purr with pleasure.

but instead of his tongue, a harsh swat falls onto your aching cunt and your hips jolt at the stimulation, your clit throbbing and the sting making you groan his name. you can’t help the moan of disappointment.

“well, isn’t that too bad?” he snarls, his voice mean. you feel tears of frustration spring in your eyeline as you huff a sigh, his fingers slowly, torturously moving over your clit yet again. “bet you’d love if I ate your cunt. probably dream about it, don’t ya? d’you think about me when you touch yourself?”

Christ, you’d never expected Joel-don’t-fucking-talk-to-me-Miller to be so fucking dirty; but you learned your lesson last time, so you nod quick, eyes lidded through the euphoric, teasing pleasure from the pads of his fingers.

“all-all the time, J-Joel, fuck, think about you all the time.”

and it’s true.

“that’s right. my slut, thinkin’ about me.” he spits, mouth peppering bites over your throat. “gonna have to make y’cum fast, baby. Maria’s probably waiting for us t’turn in the logs.”

the possession in his voice brings you even further towards the edge, catapulting you, sending you frustratingly close as your body tenses, puckering hole clenching around nothing as he slowly works you.

you nod your head, unable to open your eyes as your legs close around Joel’s fingers; in anger, his hand tears your thighs apart, swatting the soft skin of your thighs in punishment. you yelp at the sting, biting your lip as a new gush of arousal leaks from your neglected hole and drips down onto the table.

fueled by frustration and adrenaline and some desperate fire of attraction that’s been burning between you since he first showed up in Jackson, you nearly scream, “please, fuck me now, Joel, please I’ll do anything-“

his hand leaves his ministrations quick, his glare sharp as his fingers glisten with your desperate arousal; they’re soaked. you feel yourself flush in embarrassment until he smirks darkly, tugging himself out of the confines of his jeans. “there, see? learnin’ some manners.”

his cock is heavy and thick as it slides through your wet, slick folds. your breath, panting out and puffing as you watch in awe. his: stuttering as the tip of his dick notches at your clenching hole, teasing.

“Jesus, you’re trying t-to swallow me, darlin’.” His hand reaches out, grabbing a palm full of your tit as he rocks his hips, once again nudging your leaking hole.

your whole body shivers in anticipation; you will your eyes to not reveal how fucking turned on you are about his size - you’re more wet than you’ve ever been in your life and his cock is - well, it’s thick, long, bigger than you’d like to admit. 

“greedy fuckin’ pussy.” he grunts to himself as you hold yourself as still as possibly, one tear escaping as you your eyes clench shut in desire.

“’m ready, Joel.” you whimper, eyes opening to find his hot gaze already searing through you; he just smirks, nodding slightly. “yeah, bet you are, pretty girl.”

he can’t thrust all the way into you, not fully- his cock is too thick, your cunt slick with arousal but still so goddamn tight. the rumbling moan he lets out as he inches in slowly is fucking heavenly.

a strangled gasp leaves your lips when he starts to slide into you, inch-by-inch, stretching you open and filling you full of him. your fingers twitch at your sides as you yearn to card your fingers through his thick curls; his head falls heavy against your chest as he mutters, “s’tight, baby, fu-fuckin’ tight.”

“so much,” you whimper, fingers tight and shaking as you restrain from grabbing his arms to stabilize himself, “‘s too much.” you mumble, tears stinging. he hums, the ghost of a kiss over your cheek before he’s in your ear, whispering, “am I too big for you, baby? gonna hav’ta work you open on my fingers first next time, yeah?”

his dark grin grows as you nod your head dumbly, “fuck- yeah, yes.” you agree, nodding,

his voice is starting to slur, accent getting thicker as he soon splits you fully, speared and sheathed deep, deep into you. you’re fluttering around him as you accommodate to his size, the feeling of him nearly breaking you open as he starts to shallowly thrust.

you let out a loud moan, his thickness stretching you and sliding deeper than expected, kissing against a spot that has you keening. your toes curl and your head falls back as he pulls out, thrusting back into you slow, grinding, deep.

all you can say is his name; it falls from your lips like it’s the only word you know, his hips soon pistoning into you with fervor, chasing the feeling coiling in your abdomen. 

his hands roam. 

they explore every part of you they can reach, his teeth marking every inch of your throat and painting you into a beautiful piece of art. for him. 

the noise of your pussy swallowing his girth in is downright filthy as it echoes through your kitchen; your head lulls to the side as you let out a languid moan, the spot he's hitting making your eyes roll back. you can feel stray tears leak down your cheeks, hot and heavy as you whimper in desire; you're so goddamn close, already, you know he can feel it. 

“y’gonna-“ he grunts, eyes screwed shut in pleasure as yours leak down your cheeks, body shaking with desire, “-gonna take my cock and say thank you, ‘s that right?”

a shaking rush of arousal just slickens you even more; the sounds of his body rocking into yours wet and loud in the room as you nod frantically, the pleasure coiling dangerously fast. 

but it seems you weren’t quick enough with your response: Joel’s hips slow, then stop completely. 

you’re left gasping, eyes wide as you stare up at him in shock: “wh-why?” you whimper, his pulsing length half out of you, teasing you. 

Joel’s eyes meet your own and he sternly swats your tits, eyes watching as the breast exposed to the air moves in recoil. 

“do you want to cum?” he asks, as if he’s asking what 2 + 2 is. your face fucking burns as you nod, “yes-“ 

but he grunts, hips too agonizingly still as he leans forward, “then take my cock, fuck yourself on it. and use your fuckin’ manners.”

you blink at him, spurring into action only after a very brief short-circuited moment. your hips stutter and shake at the angle, unable to move in a way that stimulates yourself enough to bring you back to the edge.

you shutter, muttering, “th-thank- thank you,” but you can’t do it. you glare at him as you move your hips, hands shaking, muscles straining, but you can tell he’s not pleased: brows drawn, a swat to your exposed breast that stings and spurs your hips quicker.

“come on, this is pathetic.” he snarls, fingers gently pinching your clit. the yelp you let out is dry, starved. “why so quiet now, darlin’?” he throws your own words back at you deliciously. 

he stands stationary, eyes judging you, focused on where your cunt tries to swallow his cock, your movements choppy and weak. tears spring in your eyes; he feels so good, but you just can’t get it right. 

“please.” you nearly whisper it, but it’s exactly what he was looking for. he rocks his hips shallowly, your body rocking gently with the slow, deep force of him splitting you open. 

“please, what?” he whispers into your ear, teeth scraping your jaw. resentment and arousal flows through your veins as you let out a strangles, “please, s-sir-“ 

with the words, Joel’s hips cant up into you, the slight angle making your legs coil and your throat burn. 

“please fuck me, y’feel- I can’t do it, need- you feel so good, fuck me hard, please, I want it.” you let go, begging and desperate to give you what you crave. 

his hips pick up a brutal pace. your back is pounded into the wood below you, the cool blade of the knife cold against your flannel as one of his large hands moves you until your legs are thrown up, over his shoulders.

the stretch is unimaginable and he doesn’t give you any time to adjust; his hips are unforgiving, fucking you open and letting your juices of arousal spill over the skin of your thighs and onto the table. 

“such a foul fuckin’ mouth on you.” he spits, one hand gripping your jaw until it opens for him, your mind clouded with the chase of your highs. 

he spits into your mouth, saliva warm and intoxicating as you swallow it happily, nodding in a daze. “gonna fuck you stupid, aren’t I? you won’t think about anything but me for weeks.” 

he’s right, and he fucking knows it. 

you nod at him, unable to form full words as he hits the spongy, delicious spot inside you that nearly makes you pass out. your hands fucking ache from the grip on the table, but you hope he’s pleased that they haven’t moved a damn inch this whole time; even as he splits you wide open and takes you apart. 

you’re so close you might actually start to sob as the crest of your orgasm tingles your thighs, your toes curling and legs shaking. 

he's close, too. his thrusts are getting slower, sloppier. 

“whose pussy is this?” Joel grunts, his movements soon desperate and deep; his tip kisses your cervix and your body jolts up the table with each movement of his pubic bone against yours.

the pain is fucking euphoric, delicious as you grip the edge of the table so hard you’re unsure they’ll ever relax. his finger pinches your nipple and you yelp, sweat sticking to your forehead, “-y-yours, fuck, Joel- yours, a-always.” you whimper, breathless.

you feel his smile grow against your neck and the butterflies that grow in your chest seem out of place with the bruises that will soon blossom on your skin from his teeth, his fingers.

you smile, too.

"god, you're perfect- f-feel fuckin' perfect around me, baby. need you to cum." as his sentence ends, his head jerks up, one hand rising to grip your jaw tight. your eyes snap to his and the anger boils, festering with the desire and lust within his eyes, "know y'can't help it, can you?" 

you shake your head fiercely as your orgasm nears. he hums deep, a rumble from his chest, “what do you say if you want me to let you cum?” 

fuck. fuckfuckfuck you’re too close- your muddled mind spits a barely cohesive babble of pleads, “please, p-pleaseplease I-I’m sorry I’m sorry-“ 

“you’re sorry?” he presses, hips not giving up; your whole body burns as you wait for your orgasm, knowing in any second it’ll be ruined. “look at those pretty eyes. did y’learn your manners? y’gonna say thank you?” 

you let out a sob of pleasure, his thrusts so deep you can feel them in your throat. “yes, Joel- please- let me cum, please-“ 

his hand slides to your throat. “cum now.” 

you swallow around his grip and let out a near scream of his name as his other hand snakes between you; a finger brushes against your abused clit, the combined stimulation pushing you over the edge. 

you see colors. 

your orgasm explodes as you gush around him, pulsing, begging, unraveling around his touch. your voice is broken, mutters and whimpers of his name followed by thank you, thank you drifting through the room.

your thighs are soaked with your own spend and he feels you grip him like a vice; he can't help but kiss the tears from your cheeks as he milks you through your orgasm, muttering soft grunts in your ear. 

"that's it, baby. there y'go, cum on my dick when i fuckin' tell you to." he kisses the column of your throat as his thrusts slow to deep, long thrusts. "atta girl." 

you scream at his words and the overstimulation. he shushes you, thrusts slow. "'m gonna cum." he sounds almost desperate, his body so close to yours it's almost like he's trying to smother you.

he groans your name in a broken sound; his grip tugging your hair. he moves back, frantic to pull out and ride his high- but you panic. 

"w-wait!" you rush, hands springing without thinking to push his hips hard against yours. you can't bear to imagine him pulling out of you so soon - you need to feel him, be full of him. "cum in me, Joel- I need it, j-just- fuck!" 

his hand slams over your mouth, effectively silencing you with a loud grunt of his own, "shut the fuck up," he growls, sounding too close. “jesus, girl- gonna wake up the whole n-neighborhood-“ but even his shamefully dirty mouth falters when he chases his orgasm.

soon he thrusts shallowly into your pulsing cunt before he's moaning, spurting his seed into you. 

hot, thick ropes of cum paint your walls as you flutter, whimpering as you breathe heavy, hands skittering up his back despite his earlier orders. 

his lips brush over your skin as he lies on you, heavy; "jesus christ." is all he mutters, pulling out of you with a slick sound and tucking himself into his jeans. 

you can only stare at the ceiling, the light above the table you’re laid upon swinging with the residual force of your bodies colliding.

a hand falls in a sharp thud to your right, pulling hard to dislodge the knife from its home against you; the notch it leaves reveals the patrol log; speared in the middle with the evidence of you and Joel's digressions. 

oops.

you're wrecked. you're a trembling frame of a structure after the hurricane of Joel Miller took threw you, stripping you to your bare bones. a ghost of lips over the inside skin of your knees as they fall, weak, off of his shoulders. and then he stares at you as you shakily sit up, setting your clothes right, swallowing on a raw throat. 

“‘m sorry about the flannel.” he gestures to the rip in your arm where the knife had pinned you down and something about it makes you chuckle, smoothing down your hair. “are you- are you okay?” he asks suddenly, hard eyes looking almost soft under the glow of the lamplight.

he hands you your underwear and jeans and helps you slide back into them in a surprisingly sweet turn of events.

“more than okay, christ. if you make me cum like that again you can do anything you want to my clothes.” you wink with a deep breath, smiling gently at him when he helps you stand back up on shaky legs. he actually sends you a half-smirk at that, and it flutters along your chest. 

the nighttime air is not so suffocating as you and Joel make your way towards Maria, his hand grazing over the small of your back as you walk on Jell-o legs, faces flushed and sweat slicking to your skin.

it’s awkward.

“I-” he starts, swallowing air as you stare up at him. sweat trickles from his brow and you itch to trace it with your tongue. 

“I actually think you’re not too bad,” he finishes, turning to walk up the steps to Tommy and Maria’s. you blink, heat fluttering in your chest as he admits, but soon whirls around to ensure you hear him, “for Ellie. just- don’t do that shit around her, right?” he clarifies.

you grin at his reddened cheeks as he tucks the log into the box set near the door, filing it under the western outpost for the date. 

“yes, Mr. Miller.” you mock-salute him, smirking to yourself as his flush deepens, the scowl ever-present on his face softening slightly at your smile. 

“christ.” he shakes his head, “you’re gonna get me into a lot of trouble.” you don’t miss the smile that creeps on his face as he starts to walk you back home. 

--

read part 2

requests open

--

[richarlotte]

something on your mind?

Time to talk about love.

My friends, my good friends who are in Chicago, D.C., Montreal, Philly, and New York and who are in amazing relationships, share one thing: they focused on bettering their lives and themselves, and good men fit into the picture they were focused on painting. There was no “I’m going to find a good man and do the work later,” and there were no excuses made as to why they were neglecting themselves in favor of finding someone to take care of them; there were many distinct efforts made to better themselves, and when the right people came along, things fell into place naturally on both sides and progressed smoothly.

 

There’s a lot of focus on whether someone will fit into your life on Tumblr, but not a lot of talk about what’s going on on the other side. If you’re unhealed, uneducated, emotionally unstable, and unfit for a relationship, do you really think that you’ll find someone who’ll want to stay with you and do the healing for you? I say this not to be unkind but to be realistic. In order to form a strong, long-lasting relationship with someone, you have to be healthy and ready to deal with the conflicts and disappointments that occur in anyone’s life. If you have never had to deal with the things that can arise in any romantic relationship and you’re not mentally prepared to in the first place, you’ll find that it’ll be harder for you to keep things together and remain stable when life feels hard.

 

I have been in relationships before—healthy relationships—and I have thrived in them. But I’m also a person with trauma, and I know how that trauma presents itself and I know my triggers. It took me plenty of therapy, lots of listening to myself and acknowledging my feelings, and tons of breakups before I recognized both what I needed and what I was subconsciously seeking out. All of my friends who have made their longterm relationships last know what they’re looking for, know what they need, and know themselves well enough to walk away before things end on bad terms. Self-work must be done if you want to truly thrive in life, and you must have the ability to reflect on the things you could have done better.

 

Myself and the people I’ve known who’ve gone from struggling to thriving in relationships all share one common denominator: we’ve done the hard work associated with success, and we’re all willing to continue doing the work needed to get what we want. It’s incredibly hard and very damaging to one’s psyche to go through life with a clear image of what you want in your mind but a lack of awareness that limits you from getting what you want. It’s important to understand that you can overcome the obstacles in your own path and you can also overcome being an obstacle yourself. There are effective ways to heal, books you can immerse yourself in, therapists you can see, and things you can do to build yourself up so that you can thrive and feel more confident in your love life.

TL;DR:

You have to be willing to do the inner work before you seek out a romantic partner. A relationship won’t repair you if you feel broken; only you can heal yourself and fix your trauma. It’s an important part of finding yourself and finding a love that lasts and feels healthy.

[carmenberzattosgf]

i don’t like spanking too much but…you mentioned belt?

lip is all for it. he’s literally 😏😁 super stoked. tells you flat out that he’ll do it, hey, right now even? you’re not busy, right? he’s definitely the type to tease, drag the belt gently over your ass before snapping it against you. is willing to be rough, groans at the sight of your tears. obviously does a quick check in, cooing at you softly and pecking your face before he’s satisfied that you’re okay and wanna continue. makes you cum twice afterward and cuddles you close, praising you and making sure you did actually like it. bro bullies you the next day when you can’t sit comfortably (might as well sit in his lap now, right? maybe even higher up? he can be your chair, let him make up for it <3)

carmen? immediate 😳🤨 no. he doesn’t mind spanking, but a belt seems so…unkind. but he’s down to try anything once, especially when you beg so nicely. plans it meticulously. is far more gentle—you have to ask for him to go a bit harder. he rubs over the mark to soothe the sting, soft hands and soft kisses, mutters of ‘you okay? color?’ Very Often. ends up liking it more than he thought and lowkey feels ashamed until you assure him it’s okay. makes you cum as many times as you can afterwards to make up for being so ‘mean’. has cream on DECK and is so gentle in the aftercare -💫

Okay because you’re so right and I wanna talk about it.

I’ve always felt like Lip leans more to the side of mean dom. It just—fits him. So when you bring up the belt…he’s instantly down for it.

After getting all the boundaries and safe words in place, he has you drape yourself over the bed, lying on your stomach. He lets you keep your shirt on, not wanting you to feel too exposed. Your ass is completely bare to him, though.

You shudder when you hear the sound of Lip undoing his belt, and jolt when he makes the leather slap together. He runs the cold metal of the belt buckle over your ass, making goosebumps appear on your skin. “You still wanna do this?” he asks, voice soft and gentle.

“Mhm.”

“I need words, baby. Gotta hear your words.”

“Want it, Lip—please,” you beg. Lip responds by bringing the leather of his belt down hard on your ass. A sharp whimper leaves your mouth at the sting. Another spank from the belt comes down a moment later with just as much strength as the first one. The feeling makes a warm heat grow in your belly.

“Can see you squeezing your thighs together—should have known you’d like something like this,” Lip remarks with a chuckle. The next couple hits from the leather are lighter in comparison, giving you a moment of a break. The red welts appearing on your skin give Lip a raging hard on. He has to palm himself to relieve some pressure inbetween spanks.

It doesn’t take very long for tears to start running down your face. The pain from the belt sets fire to your skin, and to your core. “Lip—“

He pauses for a moment, leaning down over your body to trail kisses from your neck to behind your ear. “M’here—you’re so fucking gorgeous like this—fuck.” He resumes kissing all over your face, praises pouring from his lips. “J’st a couple more. You can be a good girl and take a few more for me, okay?”

Once he’s finished with the belt, Lip flips your over and sinks to his knees to eat you out. He’s not satisfied until you’ve cummed all over his face at least twice. He only stops when you physically push his face away.

He’s so soft with you afterwards, cleaning you up and treating your skin. Lip likes to hold you in his arms after something like this to make sure you’re completely okay. In all honesty, he has you cockwarm him afterwards. It’s not about getting off for him, he just wants to be as close to you as possible.

Now sweetie Carmy is a MAJOR soft/pleasure dom. He enjoys a giving you a spank every once and awhile with his hand, but he’s scared as hell to try a belt. You have to beg for him to agree to it.

He’s so gentle, not having the heart to put any force behind the belt when it makes contact with your ass. “H-harder, Carm—please.”

He obliges, finally putting effort behind the leather, and you whimper loudly at the strike. Instantly, Carmy takes his hand and rubs softly at the skin. He leans down to press kisses to your cheek. “Sweetheart? You still okay? Can you tell me your color?”

“Green—green. Please. Want more,” you whine desperately.

Afterwards… Carmy makes you cum so many times you fall into sub space from overstimulation. You’re vaguely aware of him cleaning you up and applying cream and ointment on the fresh welts on your backside. He lays you on his chest so you can fall asleep without putting pressure on your ass.

[gogogodzilla]

✧ 𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝟠 : 𝑀𝑒𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑐  ✧

【 𝑇𝑜𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤 】

╰› 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑒 𝑠𝑤𝑎𝑛 𝑥 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

╰› 〖 𝑆𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠 〗: Your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, allowing you to reunite with Charlie after all these years

╰› 〖 ��𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 〗: nsfw 18+, slight age gap, light angst, charlie's pov, slight dirty talk, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering

╰›  ✧ 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑡𝑜𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑚.𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ✧ 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑜3 ✧ 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑝𝑎𝑑 ✧

Rain patters against the roof of Swan Auto Repair, and the smell of motor oil, grease, and the remnants of old coffee fills the air. Charlie sits slumped at his desk in the back office of his shop, his head propped against his arm wrinkling the papers underneath. His faded flannel shirt is worn and rolled up to his elbows, exposing his oil-smudged hands and forearms. A distant ringing pulls him further out of his slumber and he blinks blearily as he attempts to regain his senses. 

He sits up with a groan, his back aching from his uncomfortable position. His steps toward the reception area are uncoordinated and he stumbles a little as he reaches for the phone on the wall. 

He picks up the phone and presses it against his ear. 

“Swan Auto” he answers, his voice thick with sleep. 

“Charlie?” your voice rings out on the other line. 

He straightens at the sound of your voice, and he’s surprised his heart didn’t lurch out of his chest. He can’t remember the last time he heard your voice, but it sounds just like it did the day you left.  

He forces himself out of his thoughts. “Been a while. Everything okay?” 

Your voice quivers as you speak. “I’d be better if my car didn’t break down in the middle of the night. Would you be willing to give an old friend a tow?” 

He likes to think you were more than old friends. The nights you used to spend tangled in his sheets surely meant something to him.

“Where are you?” 

He holds the phone with his shoulder as he searches for his jacket. You rattle off your location, which is mostly just a combination of landmarks. 

“Stay where you are. I’ll be there soon,” he says before hanging up. He grabs his jacket from a nearby coat rack and heads toward his tow truck. He wonders if you’ve changed at all. Forks had been a constant in his life, even after it felt like his world had been turned upside down by your departure. He figured the same could be applied to him. He hadn't changed except for a few more gray hairs and the sense not to get attached.

He sighs as he climbs into his ancient tow truck. It sputters to life, and Charlie begins his drive towards your location.  

He pulls in front of your car on the side of the road and hardly has enough time to throw it in park before he jumps out to meet you. You’re standing near your car, soaked to the bone. 

“Charlie!” you call as you head toward his truck. 

He wraps an arm around your shoulder and ushers you toward the passenger side of his truck. He practically shoves you in the seat before slamming the door behind you. 

He clambers into his truck, grateful to be out of the rain. He turns to look at you, taking in your appearance. The rain had soaked through your clothes, forcing them to cling tightly to your form. He can’t help his gaze from wandering, watching as water trickles down your neck and dips between the valley of your breasts.

“You’re drenched,” he says, forcing himself to look anywhere else but your tits. Your teeth begin to chatter and he reaches over to turn the heat up. 

“Why didn’t you just wait in the car?” he questions, his voice rough but not unkind. 

You shrug, “Felt weird just sitting there.”

His gaze softens as he looks at you, really looks at you, not just your soaking wet clothes. You hadn’t changed a bit. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d dreamed of just being in your presence once more, and now that he was really with you he didn’t know what to do. 

You turn to face him, “Thank you, Charlie. I don’t know where I’d be without you.” 

“Probably getting hypothermia,” he sighs. “Stay here while I hook your car up. We’ll take it back to the shop, and I can take a look at it there.” 

He doesn’t wait for your reply before jumping out of his truck. He works quickly to hook up your car, the rain only slightly inhibiting his progress. By the time he returns to you, he’s drenched and shivering. He’s thankful you’ve cranked the heat, and he takes a moment to defrost. 

“It’s good to see you, even if the circumstances aren’t exactly ideal,” you said, cutting through the awkward silence that fell upon you.  

He cleared his throat and started his truck. He was silent as he pulled out onto the road. Pine trees passed by in a flash as he picked up speed. The sooner he could get you back to his shop, the sooner he could get away from you. That’s what you wanted, right? 

“I told you to get rid of that piece of crap when you had the chance,” he mentioned, nodding his head toward his rearview mirror. 

You grinned, “It got me this far, hasn’t it?” 

“Speaking of, why now? Couldn’t find what you were looking for halfway across the country?” he questioned and it came out harsher than he intended. 

His words lingered between you, leaving a bad taste in his mouth. The silence that filled the cab of his truck was suffocating, and he counted down the seconds until he pulled into his shop. 

The rain had lightened up only slightly as he dropped your car off at his shop. You followed him into the back office as the tension simmered between you. He leans on the edge of his desk, taking in your appearance. You haven’t aged a day; you just look a bit more tired, maybe a little more sad. 

“M’sorry about earlier,” he begins. 

You wave him off, “I deserved it, don’t worry about it.”

“Still,” he shrugs, meeting your gaze, “it wasn’t fair. You had every right to leave this town and chase your dreams.”

You take a step towards him, “I shouldn’t have left the way I did. That wasn’t fair.” 

He resists the urge to pull you in and kiss all the regrets away. You shift on your feet before taking another step closer, situating yourself between his thighs. It almost seems like you’ve read his mind. 

You cup his face and he leans into your touch. A soft noise escapes him as you drag your thumb across his cheek. 

“I missed you,” he murmurs as he looks up at you. 

Your eyes search his for a moment, and the next thing he knows you’re leaning in. Your lips collide, and it's everything he’s dreamt about for the past few years. You kiss him, and it’s like nothing’s changed. It’s like you never left. 

You tangle your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging him impossibly closer. He groans against your mouth and slides his tongue against your bottom lip. His hands wander downward and squeeze your ass, earning a small yelp in response. He uses the opportunity and runs his tongue across the backs of your teeth. 

You pull away, panting, your breath tickling his cheeks. Your eyes meet, and the slight nod of your head is all it takes for the rest of his resolve to crumble underneath your fingertips. 

He grabs you and spins the two of you so you’re pressed against his desk. “Gotta get you outta these wet clothes, baby,” he mentions as his hands wander under the hem of your shirt. 

You hum, pulling him in by his flannel. Your lips meet in a sloppy kiss, and his hands skim across your body, almost as if memorizing the feel of your skin under his fingertips. Although, he doubts he could ever forget the feeling. 

One hand pops the closure of your jeans while the other wraps lightly around your neck, squeezing slightly as you kiss him. 

“You miss me as much as I miss you?” he questions as he dips his hand down your pants. His fingertips brush against your clothed core, and you gasp against him. He hums, “Certainly feels like you missed me.” 

He presses open-mouthed kisses against the side of your neck as he teases you through your underwear. You tucked yourself into the crook of his neck, and your quiet moans quickly turned into desperate pleas. 

The urge to have you desperate and crying for his cock nearly overwhelms him. A small part of him wants you to feel like he felt all those years– release just close enough that you can taste it but too far to fully grasp it. 

A larger, louder part of him wants to bury his cock in you and have you singing his name within the next 30 seconds. That part of him won. 

He pushes you back against the hard expanse of his desk and makes quick work of your jeans and underwear. He tugs them down and off your body, leaving you bare before him. He could’ve come just from the sight of you. You looked up at him as you spread your thighs, baring your glistening cunt for him. Just for him. 

He slides a finger through your folds, and you sink your teeth into your bottom lip, muffling a whine. 

He halts his movements. “Let me hear you, baby. Wanna hear those pretty little noises you make.” 

You give him an obedient nod, and he continues. He swipes a finger through your folds, gathering your slick as he circles your clit. You arch against his touch, moaning a little. 

His free hand moves upward to push up your t-shirt over your breasts. His fingers run over the lacy front of your bra, and when that isn’t enough for him, he pulls down the front of your bra. He circles your nipples, mirroring his ministrations on your clit, and the buds harden under his touch. 

He sinks his finger into your core, pumping it a few times and eliciting a breathy moan from you. He wants to take his time with you, despite the raging desire to ruin you. He wants you to keep crawling back to him because no one can make you feel the way that he does. 

You give him an all too familiar pleading look, and he decides to take mercy on you just this once. He pops the button on his jeans and eagerly pushes down his boxers just enough to let his cock spring free. He pulls out of you and coats his cock with your arousal. He pumps his hand a few times before sliding his cock through your folds. You whine each time his head hits your clit, and it's music to his ears. 

He plunges into you inch by tantalizing inch. Your legs wrap around his hips, pulling him in closer. You felt heavenly against him, squeezing him just right. The plush skin of your thigh sinks under his fingertips as he pushes your thighs near your chest, practically bending you in half. He begins to rock his hips, nearly getting lost in the sensation of you already. 

Your walls flutter and clench around him. You arch your back as he readjusts his angle, hitting the sensitive spot inside you. He reaches down to where the two of you meet and draws lazy figure-eights against your clit, earning a whine in response. 

The familiar heat builds within his abdomen and he wills himself to last a little longer. He needs to feel you cum around his cock, and the thought consumes him as he thrusts harder into you. 

He grabs your face with his free hand and leans down to press a sloppy kiss against your lips. It’s a mixture of tongue and teeth, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. The obscene sounds of your sopping heat and skin slapping against skin fill his back office. It’s nearly enough to make his cheeks flush. 

Your thighs clamp against his sides as you throw your head back and cum with a strangled cry. Your pussy squeezes him like a vice as your release crashes over you, and his thrusts falter. 

He grips your hips and juts into you for a final time as he cums hard, filling you just how you liked. A comfortable silence lingers between you as you both catch your breath. 

He slowly pulls out of you and watches as his release leaks over your folds. He attempts to commit the image to memory, just in case this is the last time you’ll be together like this. 

You grab at his flannel and tug him down for a kiss. It’s much softer than your previous ones. He prays it’s not a kiss goodbye. 

“You in town for long?” he questions as he pulls away. 

You shrug, “For the foreseeable future.”

“You got a place to stay tonight?” 

You shake your head and look up at him with those eyes he could never resist. 

“You can stay at my place, and I’ll take a look at your car in the morning. Deal?” 

You stand and press a chaste kiss to his lips. 

��Deal.”

[edenmemes]

house of the dragon s2 starters

❝ there is a chill in the air. summer is well and truly through. ❞ ❝ it’s alright. there’s no reason to be nervous. ❞ ❝ i’ve little patience for the self-important, and even less for flatterers. ❞ ❝ you think me some kind of monster. ❞ ❝ it is my fault, i think, that you have forgotten to fear me. ❞ ❝ do you think simply wearing the crown imbues you with wisdom? ❞ ❝ i have been, at times, unkind but never untrue. ❞ ❝ mark my words, this is a black omen. ❞ ❝ it is your way, is it not? when something does not please you, you run. ❞ ❝ if i may seem so bold…you have not seemed yourself of late. ❞ ❝ i have come to see if we may uncover some path towards peace. ❞ ❝ i do not know if i trust you. and i sense there is danger in you yet. ❞ ❝ i wonder, do you have a moment for a quiet word? ❞ ❝ now i have seen your heart only belongs to you. ❞ ❝ it was worth the risk, no matter the outcome. ❞ ❝ some of us must serve in smaller ways…even if they are not what we would choose for ourselves. ❞ ❝ fuck dignity. i want revenge. ❞ ❝ you are not the player, but a piece on the board. ❞ ❝ is there no honor left in this world? ❞ ❝ stop wasting your life waiting for something that’ll never come. ❞ ❝ perhaps those who strive for the crown are the least suited to wear it. ❞ ❝ i find myself wondering…do we pursue the same end? ❞ ❝ and how would you define ‘victory’? ❞ ❝ once you get to know me, you’ll find i’m not so bad. ❞ ❝ thought you’d be happy. or at least less morose. ❞ ❝ i can sit still no longer. i must act. ❞ ❝ you struggle to see there’s an anger that blinds you. ❞ ❝ you must accept the path to victory now is one of violence. ❞ ❝ you only blame me because your true enemies are out of reach. ❞ ❝ there are many pieces at play here…some of which you can’t yet see. ❞ ❝ you will have all the vengeance you seek, but you must keep a grip on your impulses. ❞ ❝ which would you prefer? to be loved or feared? ❞ ❝ i don’t know what to think of you. i don’t know what you are, or who it is you serve. ❞ ❝ well, the gods favor the bold. ❞ ❝ you’ve thrown it away. after all i’ve done for you. ❞ ❝ what if the hand that’s done it is not to be blamed? ❞ ❝ the desire to kill and burn takes hold and reason is forgotten. ❞ ❝ the gods punish us. they punish me. ❞ ❝ the path i walk has never been trod. ❞ ❝ well…no use wondering what might have been. ❞ ❝ tales take on a life of their own…like weeds. ❞ ❝ this is not the time for blind accusations. ❞ ❝ hm, you wish to be rewarded. ❞ ❝ they will underestimate you. and this will be your advantage. ❞ ❝ i hope you do not confuse mercy with pliancy. ❞ ❝ there is no war so hateful to the gods as a war between kin. ❞ ❝ i’ve never trusted you, wholly…much though i wished to, willed myself to. ❞ ❝ you can’t possibly still be angry about this. ❞ ❝ boldness is one thing, but overconfidence… ❞ ❝ this world is cold and cruel, and there are few in it who are steadfast. you, i think, are steadfast. ❞ ❝ do not coddle me. grant me at least that dignity. ❞ ❝ history will paint you a villain. ❞ ❝ do you cling, even now, to what you think you lost? ❞ ❝ a sense of humor would do you good. ❞ ❝ if the gods call me to greater things, who am i to refuse them? ❞ ❝ you have done something i feared impossible. ❞ ❝ i’m not entirely sure we can declare this a victory. ❞ ❝ you should’ve been at my side. ❞ ❝ i see all your great adventures have done nothing for your looks. ❞ ❝ a jest. one you may regret as you’re supping alone tonight. ❞ ❝ soon they will not even remember what it was that began the war in the first place. ❞ ❝ i don’t need their love. i need their swords. ❞ ❝ perhaps all men are corrupt…and true honor is a mist that melts in the morning. ❞ ❝ let us put all the old unpleasantness behind us. ❞ ❝ are you perhaps the culprit who has been tampering with my peace? ❞ ❝ every man has a weakness. ❞ ❝ everything i’ve given you, you’ve thrown back in my face. ❞ ❝ oh, take heart. you’ve already written yourself into legend. ❞ ❝ you wish to wash your hands of what you yourself set in motion. ❞

❝ war is coming to the whole of the realm. ❞ ❝ you are a strange kind of woman. ❞ ❝ there are those that have mistaken my caution for weakness. let that be their undoing. ❞ ❝ i think you used my words as an excuse to take your own revenge…to indulge the darkness you keep sheathed within you like a blade. ❞ ❝ i came here to raise swords, not corpses. ❞ ❝ i cannot blame anyone for doing what i myself would do if i could. ❞ ❝ we cannot all hide in our castles waiting for war to come to us. ❞ ❝ call it what you will…i call it war. ❞ ❝ have the indignities of your childhood not yet sufficiently been avenged? ❞ ❝ you mustn’t be shaken from this. ❞ ❝ is this an order or a request? ❞ ❝ and they will pay for this. ❞ ❝ i will not be thought weak. ❞ ❝ i mistrust this silence. ❞ ❝ oh, you make an art of provoking me. ❞

[colebabey888]

ACADEMIC EXCELLENCE USING THE ELLE WOODS METHOD | THE IT GIRL DIARIES

Here is the long awaited Elle Woods Study Method by. This guide I've written out, is not only directed towards studying but to achieving academic excellence as a whole. I hope this helps many who are struggling to upkeep a positive attitude towards your academic life.

I object! 🩷

- Object to all distractions. toxic men, negativity, people who belittle you or friends that tend to have bad influences on you and that may push you in the wrong direction or off course.

Participation 🩷

- Participate in class discussions and all activities that would contribute to academic excellence. Don't be afraid to be wrong. If you are wrong, this just give you an opportunity to learn more, so in fact you can never be wrong.

Never undermine yourself 🩷

- Don't allow others opinions to affect your progress. Always being able to have a positive attitude can help you remain focused and on path. Remember everyone's path is different so don't look at yours in comparison to another!

Good Outfits 🩷

- If you look good, you feel good. If you feel good, you do good. It's not necessary to have an outfit picked out everyday, but make sure that you feel good in what you have on.

Be kind to EVERYONE you meet 🩷

- You never know who may be a valuable key to helping you achieve academic success. Having a good attitude towards others may give you the advantage of getting help in the future and asking for it when you need to, there may be that one person you were unkind to that wouldve added an extra percentage to your mark, but can't because you have a bad rep towards them and they aren't willing to help you.

Always have an Aesthetic study place

- Having an Aesthetic study space, will have you wanting to spend more time in it. Match your stationary and books to your aesthetic, example, if your favorite aestheitic evolves around pink, get everything in pink. Employ unconventional methods if they work for you, such as using colors or study groups.

Study ahead! 🩷

- Do not wait for the last minute to begin studying, this will drain you in the long run with having to cram in huge amounts of workload in a short period of time. Try and revise a topic before it's discussed in class, this way you will have an advantage and understanding of what's being discussed and could help you feel more comfortable in taking part.

Studying is important but so is Body Health! 🩷

-Take care of yourself, clean yourself, do your hair, work out, get a good night's sleep and so fourth. This is why studying ahead is so important. Instead of studying a day before a test, use that day to relax and do some of your favorite things. Take warm bubble bath with a book or have a skincare day.

Priorize Energy Boost 🩷

- If you're more energetic in the morning, prioritize that time for studying and if you're more energetic at night, prioritize that time for studying. Vise Versa

Celebrate BIG or SMALL 🩷

- Celebrate all your winnings. Whether it be big or small, a win is a win and celebrating them will motivate you to achieve more in your future endeavors.

" What,Like it's hard?.."

mwah! xoxo, colebabey8.88

www.thedigitaldollar/gumroad.com

[thesulkycroissant]

So there's this saying that the only time you see the middle of the road is when you're going from ditch to ditch, and that most of the time is how I feel about the canon v fanon debate.

Genuinely, I feel like people get so stagnanted in this idea that something isn't canon - which, what is comic canon anyway? I strain to unravel the mystery of which comics get to "count" and which do not - and focus on it so much that they miss any aspect of nuance.

Tim's parents are a great example. Tim's parents exist in the way they do for a simple out-of-universe reason: the writers wanted to avoid the mistakes they made with Jason by both differentiating him from Dick (making him not an orphan) and giving him a "buy-in" with Dick (something to connect them -> the circus). (Their logic was that Dick was the key to getting readers to like Tim, and that neglecting his buy-in was their misstep with Jason.) At the same time, Tim having parents is a problem because what parent is not going to notice their kid being gone all the time playing midnight vigilante? Solution: absentee parents. But now the shift to in-universe happens. Tim's parents are gone all the time, but it's not malicious; they're just kind of clueless. They love Tim. Tim loves them. But they are not around. And this out-of-universe choice, once you enter into the universe, logically can - maybe even should, if you're taking the characters seriously - effect how a character reads.

Tim's parents are gone all the time. There's every probability that would cause trauma. Unintentional, but fun to explore! The comics do a very little. I think fandoms can often make the mistake of believing subtle abuse (like neglect) is not sufficient, so it gets elevated to something physical. But your parents loving you and also causing you trauma is a relatable experience, I think. Even your parents doing their best and still causing you trauma is.

Jason being the angry Robin is another rough one. Because yeah, I agree, Scott Lobdell did some wacky and unkind things to Jason's backstory. But Jason, even going back to his original (not original, but his original non-just-Dick-but-blond) backstory, is a traumatized orphan willing to take the risk and steal tires from the Batmobile as a means of survival (in Gotham! In Crime Alley!). Why can't Jason be angry? In the throes of adolescence, at a time when he feels safe with Bruce, doesn't it make sense for his trauma to find its way out in anger? Can't he both believe Robin is magic and be angry? Can't he be sweet and angry both?

Dickie and anger. Yeah, anger plays a role in certain story arcs of his. In NTT, and in the first 80s Nightwing run, the stories take pains to show that the anger is triggered by something and channeled into brutal focus. And that it does not serve him. Dick's relationship with Kory in NTT nearly falls apart because of his anger. He treats her very poorly. I see a lot of people saying they want Dick to be angry, but not allowing Dick to learn how to control his anger is not giving the character his dues either.

And Damian. Shoot. Reading the One Bad Day comic for Ra's al Ghul kinda ruined me a bit because of how much Ra's obviously loves and respects animals, and how can you not see the echo of that in Damian's love of animals? Damian's League trauma is such a thing worth exploring, and I think the value of exploring it only goes up when you add in the complicated factor of the fact that Talia and Ra's do love him, and he does see them when he looks in the mirror, and every day Damian has to decide which parts of his family - his whole family - are good to keep and which are not.

Anyway. There's probably more, but this post is already pretty long lol. Nuance is cool, that's all.

[wake-me-up-inside-imagines]

could I request headcanons of uvo, chrollo, and phinks with a little sibling figure reader in the troupe and she’s ten years old maybe? :) platonic ofc . tysm and it’s ok if u can’t do this request ! (If three characters is too much just uvogin is ok ^_^)

Of course! I hope you enjoy!

Uvogin, Chrollo, and Phinks with a little sibling figure in the troupe

Warnings: none

Female! Reader

Uvo:

I know Uvo’s a violent man, but I feel like he would be the softest in the world with you, which is unusual because he helped kill an entire clan, including the children

-I mean first of all, he’s very impressed by the fact that your a ten year old and also in the freaking phantom troupe, with enough training you could even defeat him over time!

-He very quickly decides he’s gonna look out for you wether it be in training, missions, or just when your all hanging around waiting for orders

-Speaking of training, he wants to see you reach your full potential as soon as possible, so he spars with you often. He won’t go easy on you, but he won’t seriously injure you either, he’s very aware that your both physically smaller and more mentally immature than he is (at his old ass age) so he’s aware that he has an advantage when it comes to fighting

-You learn a lot from fighting him though, he may make harmless taunts every now and then but he gives very constructive criticism and it does help improve your fighting skills significantly, perks of sparring with one of the strongest troupe members I guess

-He play whatever games you want in during times when there’s nothing to do, especially when your on guard duty with nothing to entertain you. He makes a surprisingly good playmate (he’ll let you play with his hair too)

-He keeps an eye on you during missions, but he’s well aware you can hold your own, you wouldn’t be in the troupe otherwise. That being said, if something gets serious enough (like Kurapika’s case for example) then he won’t hesitate to defend you with his life. There’s not a lot of people he’s willing to die for, but you’re one of them

-I kinda see him like a cool uncle more then a brother, idk why but he just gives off those vibes

Chrollo:

-I think Chrollo’s quite fond of children personally, he’ll still kill them if their in the way of achieving a goal but I don’t think he enjoys it and he also wouldn’t kill a child for no reason like he would an adult

-He’s very impressed by your power level, your a very useful addition to the troupe and he plans on utilizing that as much as possible

-But he does genuinely come to care for you later on though, that’s not surprising considering how the troupes practically family anyways

-He let’s you sit with him during meetings if you want, your also the only troupe member that’s allowed to touch him without explicit permission beforehand

-He doesn’t involve himself too much with you, but he does keep an eye on you more than he does the others, you may be powerful but your still young, it’s not easy living this kinda life at your age

-He’s the one to introduce you to the troupe and he’s also the one to make sure you get acquainted with the troupe without any issue, he can and will threaten any troupe member that is too unkind to you

-Like Uvo, he’s not concerned about you during missions, he’s very well aware of your powers, he’s probably the most familiar with them out of all the troupe members since he had to recruit you

-I honestly can’t see him treating you too differently from the other troupe members, your tough, you have incredible potential, he doesn’t see the need to coddle you like some of the other members might

Phinks:

-He’s skeptical if you at first, why did Chrollo choose you of all people? The troupe is no place for a child as young as you

-After seeing you fight for the first time though he’s immediately like “damn maybe she does belong in here” and now he’s curious as to how you turned out this way in the first place

-Phinks doesn’t approach you right away, he ops to observe you from afar for awhile, but the longer your in the troupe the more you inevitably interact

-For some reason, the two of you are put on missions often, so you grow very attached to him and he’s very confused about it. He has no idea why you cling to him specifically but he gets used to it after some time

-He’s definitely the most protective of you out of the group, he’ll never let you know how much you’ve grown on him but he makes sure nobody bothers you

-Especially on missions, in theory he knows you can hold your own but when your actually fighting and in danger he tries to do the bulk of the fighting no matter how much you protest

-He’s afraid to train with you because he fears he might hurt you, he’s a tough dude who doesn’t hold back when fighting so he’s not sure how well he could hold his strength against you

-He’ll “begrudgingly” (not really tho) play games with you if you ask him nice enough, but he’ll make lighthearted complaints the entire time

-Fears that your gonna die during your time in the troupe, it’s a very dangerous job and your super young compared to most of the guys they fight

-We have a tsundere older brother over here everyone lol

[cirrus-grey]

I feel that paradoxically, we learn more about Jon's feelings for Martin in terms of what specifically he finds most endearing about him - we know from various pieces of dialogue he finds at least some part of his stubbornness endearing, his resourcefulness... Martin seems to have always appreciated Jon's willingness to help people and to listen. I like thinking about it because many aspects of their relationship are somewhere between the lines, and I love hearing what other people think, so that's what I wanted to ask you - what would you say they see in each other? (it sounds like a negatively charged question but I just didn't know how else to put it, I swear 😅)

I am so, so tempted to respond to this by just linking you to the 200+ jmart fics I've posted on Ao3 and saying "Here. This is what I think they see in each other" because I have spent many hundreds of thousands of words trying to answer this question and I don't know if I can summarize 😅

Genuinely, though, I kind of feel like that is the answer? I truly don't believe it's possible to take their relationship (or any relationship) and simplify it down to a simple list of "this is what they see in each other". Yes, Jon likes Martin’s stubbornness, his resourcefulness, his kindness, his willingness to see the best in people, his shrewdness, his sense of humor, his determination to fight for a happy ending against all the odds... and Martin likes Jon's willingness to help people and listen, his compassion, his boldness, his stubbornness that matches Martin’s own, his bravery, his quick-wittedness, his perseverance in the face of impossible odds... but when Jon doesn't listen, or isn't brave, or collapses under the weight of everything he's carrying, Martin loves him anyway. And when Martin is helpless, or unkind, or gives in to despair, Jon loves him all the same.

More than a simple list of qualities they see in each other, I think the best answer I can give is that... they just enjoy each other's company. They're friends, first and foremost. They care about each other. Once you hit a certain point of liking someone it's hard to point a finger and say "this, right here, is why". Even bad qualities can become endearing, and good qualities can be annoying under the right circumstances, but neither of those things effect the fact that this is a person in your life you care deeply for; someone you want to spend time with, and see them happy, and are willing to put the work in to get past the rough bits together.

So as for "what they see in each other"... sure, maybe at first Martin’s crush started because he was touched by how Jon listened to him about Prentiss, and maybe Jon's started because he was impressed with how Martin handled the crisis when she attacked. But (and I know this sounds incredibly cheesy) I think the truest answer for what they see in each other, is that they see someone whose presence makes their life better, who they want to spend every day with, and who they can't imagine their life without.

[morethanwonderful]

Thinking a lot about how, in a series filled with liars and deceivers, when it comes to keeping big secrets, Wei Wuxian and Nie Huaisang lie in the exact same way.

In terms of truly big secrets that they have to keep for a long time, Nie Huaisang has one and Wei Wuxian has two. Huaisang's is the collective secret of his grand plot to destroy Jin Guangyao and avenge his brother, and Wwx's are the loss of his golden core and his post-resurrection true identity. And how do both of them go about covering the parts of themselves that they most want to hide? They play up their own existing traits and lean as hard as they can into their more negative public perceptions.

When Wei Wuxian wants to hide the fact that he's lost his golden core, he does it by putting on a show of arrogance, and this can only work as long as it does because ego is already such a big part of his personality. Young Wwx was already known as a willful, trouble-making rule breaker, so nobody's going to question it when he starts showing up to events without his sword. They might ask "what the hell is that kid doing?" but they can always answer their own question with, "Well he's Wei Wuxian. He's always been a disrespectful and done as he pleased."

Wwx never pretends to be anyone or anything but himself in his first life, but he dials up certain facets of "himself" to make the public think what he wants them to. Pretending to be the person that the outside world expects him to be makes a very good disguise, because it's against others' nature to question it.

And we can argue about how effective it is, but Wei Wuxian tries to do a version of the exact same thing when he gets brought back as Mo Xuanyu. He hears that Mxy was gay and a "lunatic" and says "well if you want insane, then you'll get insane." He leans as hard as he can into that public expectation, because if Mo Xuanyu is behaving like exactly the annoying, openly queer freak that everyone expects him to be, no one's going to wonder who else he might be.

Meanwhile, Huaisang uses more or less the exact same defense mechanism when he starts racking up things to hide. Based on his repeating school as a teen and late formation of his golden core, he presumably has a reputation from a young age as not the sharpest tool in the shed. People know him as the Nie brother who cares little for cultivation and developed far too slow to make use of his saber. To be unkind about it, he's a useless little dandy unfit to ever inherit his clan.

So when Huaisang wants to be sure that no one will suspect he's making moves behind the scenes, he leans into that and leans into it hard. He makes everyone think they're right—he is an idiot unfit to run his clan. But nobody's going to look twice at a fool, and nobody will suspect subterfuge of the head shaker.

Once again, though, Huaisang's act only works because people expect him to turn into a leader like the head shaker. The same act wouldn't have worked so well for someone like Wei Wuxian, because even though they disliked him, people knew he was talented and dangerous. Only Nie Huaisang can get away with playing useless for a decade, because he's playing as hard as he can into the worst of his established public persona. Others mistaking him for a fool lets him trick them into thinking that he is one.

Nobody wants to question you when you're confirming their expectations, and Wei Wuxian and Nie Huaisang both know how to use that to their advantage. It's easy to keep a secret when your cover story is something the public is already primed to hear.

[ohcorny]

csa warning in a fictional capacity

that we learn So Little about the dad in chobits despite him being the cause of every problem on earth (invented the persocoms, built chi and her sister) makes me crazy.

there is a deeply unkind reading of the situation with freya and elda and their father if you look at the fact those two were so isolated from other people that nobody knew they existed to the point of being an urban myth. their parents dressed them Like That, and freya completely shut down and broke because she was so messed up from keeping the secret about being in love with her father. and we only get told this story from the perspective of the wife, who loved that man, and the memory of freya, who loved that man. can we take either of them as objective truthtellers?

the man built his robot daughters with teenage bodies and genitalia. there is a much darker story here than CLAMP is willing to tell.

and the reason i say this is a deeply unkind reading is because the text that Is there is so light on the details, so hands off on everything, so insistent that the father was a good man with his heart in the right place, that i can't support it with text. it's full extrapolation based purely on aesthetic and dramatic choices that the story does not care to assign any moral value. it does not see anything wrong with chi's mother putting her in a dress that is designed to show her underwear. that's fine. it's just a pretty drawing. it's CLAMP.

[sailing-ever-west]

Rewatching Syrup Village arc and it's really hitting me how Usopp has never had anyone who was truly in his corner. The people in the village implicitly took care of him when his mom died, he didn't have to starve or beg and he considers them all loved ones, but they're tired of tolerating him and none of them really stop to actually have a talk with him. The Usopp pirates defend him a lot, but they're just kids and in the end he's really the one taking care of them. Plus they quickly abandon him once they don't look up to him anymore. Merry was never unkind to him before but he was willing to shoot him with very little context. And Kaya, well, they're obviously close friends and she cares about him on a deeper level than anyone else, but she doesn't really have the power to protect him in any way, and when it comes down to conflict she trusts Klahadore over Usopp. In daily life everything is fine, but when the other shoe drops Usopp very quickly finds himself completely alone.

So it makes it that much more meaningful that Luffy, Zoro, and Nami, three strangers more or less, take one look at him and his cause and decide they're going to fight alongside him. That they believe in him. They're the first people to ever truly stick with him at risk to themselves when things get hard, and that's so important.

[literary-motif]

Sakuverse Characters as Paintings

So, I had thoughts on this and I wanted to share them with you a bit extensively. Feel free to let me know your opinion on this, especially if your interpretations differ from mine.

I’m by no means an expert on art and art history, so take my analysis with a grain of salt. Apologies for the (mostly) Eurocentric collection. Shoutout to this website for helping me understand art movements and some of these paintings better.

Now, let's begin.

Alex — Narcissus, Caravaggio

Italian, Baroque, painted ca. 1597-1599

The myth of Narcissus first appears in the Roman poet Ovid’s Metamorphoses. In essence, the myth runs thus: 

Narcissus, a very handsome man, rejects every person who falls in love with him and his dashing looks, which leads him to be cursed by the Gods. One day, coming by a body of water, he looks at his reflection, and falls in love with it/himself, fulfilling the Gods’ curse never to be able to have what he loves. He wastes away by the water until he turns into a Daffodil, also known as Narcissus.

A possible interpretation of this painting is that it is a Vanitas, a piece of art serving as a reminder of the briefness of life, the inevitability of death, and not to waste time on frivolous things — kind of like memento mori. Inherent to this is also the pointlessness of ambition, since everything done and wanted in life is ultimately meaningless and fated to wither away.

The light and dark colors used here in the typical baroque style have a dramatizing effect — Alex’s overall story grows more dramatic as it progresses from part four onward, although the elements of tension in his relationship with Gremlin were introduced well before that. 

Alex is one of the more dramatic characters in that it is somehow inherent to him as a person, as opposed to characters such as Xanthus, where the drama lies outside the character and focuses more on the exterior world or the circumstances they are in.

Alex is also very ambitious and aware of his talent. He knows what he wants and works hard to get it. His career goals and achieving something substantial with his art are crucial to him, which is why he is willing to leave behind Gremlin and their life together to advance his profession. 

He is willing to sacrifice everything for his work — his dream — and invests so much time and effort into it that it consumes him, erasing everything else around him. Alex knows that. He is aware of how his ambition guides him and how absorbed he is, so he tries to better himself to be more grounded in reality and live outside his hopes and dreams.

Ultimately, he gives up on that process — when he gives up on Gremlin, who is his tether to the world outside of work (“If it wasn’t for you these past couples of weeks, I would have gone mad,” part 4) — choosing instead to abandon the general life he is a part of to throw himself into photography, his career, and detach himself from everything else. 

Still, he is by no means overly selfish or unkind to others to further his ambition and get ahead in life. Alex tries his best to be considerate — despite the anxieties and passion clouding his mind. He is not nearly as arrogant and self-absorbed as Narcissus, but resembles him in his discontent of the present. Some similarities turn Alex very much into Narcissus, who — in the spirit of a Vanitas — values the ultimately meaningless and works towards the completion of a frivolous goal. 

In the end, Alex’s restlessness and always thinking ahead to things that could possibly advance his career keep him from being satisfied, especially now that he has no grounding presence around him anymore. He is unhappy in the present, which is the message and warning a Vanitas tries to convey — that time is short and every moment should be relished because this life won’t last forever.

Alex will never be content with himself as a person, where he is in life, his achievements, and the present as a whole — much like Narcissus felt himself above the present and the people around him, only to ultimately be trapped in his own vanity.

One last thing: the reflection Narcissus stares into is both ironic and very fitting for Alex as a photographer. Alex takes pictures of other people and does not like to be in front of a camera lens, which means he does not really see himself since he is too busy looking at others. The reflection in the water correlates to the artistic lens Alex views the world through. As a photographer, he tries to capture what is in front of him, but only in a superficial sense that shows the form of things, not the depth behind them.

Isaac — Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, Casper David Friedrich

German, Romanticism, painted 1818

German romanticism was, in a way, predated by the Sturm und Drang (Storm and Stress) movement, stretching across the fields of the arts, including literature. One of its most known works is perhaps Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther.

Romanticism focuses on the expression of emotion and subjective experiences, which is quite the opposite of the period of enlightenment that predated it, focusing instead on rationality and tangible knowledge, turning the human mind away from superstitions and faith to think rationally for itself and reason with the world around it. The appreciation of nature and its connection to humanity was a typical element of the German romantic movement. 

Wanderer above the Sea of Fog (German: Der Wanderer über dem Nebelmeer) is perhaps one of the better known pieces of art from this period. 

The vastness of the landscape beyond creates a striking contrast to the solid and narrow man in the middle. At first, it looks like he is the center, exploring and conquering, but with the haziness and mystery the fog creates, the landscape seems to stretch into infinity, much farther than the man can grasp and even fully comprehend. It shows that, in reality, humankind is infinitesimal in the grand scale of nature and the richness of existence.

The color choice — tones of green, blue, and white — as well as the texture and soft brushstrokes of the fog create an eariness and a sense of fleetingness. The lightness of the scenery is a reminder of the transitory of life and the briefness of existence.  

The central motif of this painting is solitude. The lonely wanderer, alone in nature, alone in facing the world and existence before him — very much similar to Isaac and his solitude, relying only on himself to get through life unscathed. He is isolated by his own design, having cut off all his relations due to the dangerous nature of his work, Pickle being the exception.

He worries excessively that the people he cares about will get hurt because of him and the enemies he has made through his work. Isaac has a deep urge to protect those around him. His tragic backstory and overall stoic demeanor makes him a Byronic Hero-esque figure, suiting the general impression of pride but ultimately soul-crushing loneliness of this painting.

His story focuses, at its core, on overcoming this solitude and daring to trust and love someone again after losing every person close to him. Before this healing process, he is much like a deserted man, wandering aimlessly from one case to the next, buried in work, trying to make sense of it all.

Isaac guards the secret of the supernatural and is in contact with it due to his work. He sees and knows that reality stretches further than is commonly known, which suits the grandeur of the depicted scenery the wanderer is gazing at.

Xanthus - The Drinker, Erich Plontke

German, Modern, painted 1910 or 1914

Modernism is more like a supercategory, incorporating more specific art movements and styles lasting from the late nineteenth to the end of the twentieth century. Due to this painting and the artist being less known, I could not specify the art movement, nor even find out reliably when it was painted. As just someone, meaning no credentials and comprehensive knowledge of art, as I’ve stated before, personally, I would count this painting as belonging to the subcategory of symbolism. A few reasons. 

Firstly, it was a popular movement in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, fitting the timeframe of Plontke’s life and the possible timeframe of when he painted The Drinker. More importantly, however, it is similar in style and nature to the painting of one of the leading artists of symbolism, Arnold Böcklin, and his famous self-portrait (I’ll get to him when discussing Asirel), therefore giving the impression that The Drinker can be seen as a part of it as well.

Symbolism, as an art movement, follows romanticism, which had begun losing its emotional and expressive natures according to some contemporary artists, therefore creating the need to establish a new art movement to escape reality and the realistic depiction of things in art (remember, art, especially in romanticism, was basically the counterbalance to the rationalization of the world brought on by the enlightenment — the subjective, as opposed to the predominant objective).

Interestingly enough — but also very fitting considering the renewed need to express the individual inner feelings — symbolism does not necessarily have a defined technique or some such thing that separates it cleanly from other art movements. It branches off and evolves into many others, such as expressionism and art nouveau, due to the focus on personal expression and subsequent disregard for a unified aesthetic or technique.

The drinker has a lot of dark tones, which create a heavy atmosphere, contrasting starkly with the apparent lightness of the man’s shared company with death. The room around them is chaotic; empty bottles, a sign of the man’s overindulgence, and wilted flowers, a symbol of death, are spread over the floor. The most striking thing about the depicted scene, however, is the nearly painfully intimate and familiar relationship between death and the man. They look entirely at ease in each other's company, and the heavy atmosphere surrounding them — evoked by the dark colors and chaos around them — is elevated slightly by the calmness exuded by them and their familiarity.

The central message of The Drinker appears to be that hedonism and overindulgence — be it in alcohol (as the title of the painting suggests) or other things — is a way of familiarizing oneself with death, as a way to an early grave. 

The disarray of the room reflects Xanthus’ inner being well. His life is very much in disarray, even though he keeps an iron grip on his impulses and maintains his control almost flawlessly throughout everything. From being turned in a war he did not want to fight in, to losing connection with his family and accidentally betraying his friends because of his arrogance, to chasing after Love — he evolves from a product of circumstance to actively taking charge of his life, and to an extent also those around him. 

The darker tones relate well to Xanthus’ dark past, his crushing regrets, his darker side, and his predominant bitterness about the world. Despite or perhaps because of having lived for so long, he has little hope and optimism. He is stoic most of the time, does not indulge freely, and prides himself on being, or appearing to be in control of any given situation, and himself, including his emotions and impulses. 

A rare occurrence when Xanthus entirely loses it, to put it mildly, is caused by the emotion of Love getting to him through the bond. Their feelings of panic and fear as Audric threatens them reach Xanthus, overwhelming him to the extent that he throws himself at the locked door relentlessly to escape and save the person he loves most. Technically, they are not his emotions.

One of the most fundamental principles of stoicism is to keep an organized mind and examine oneself. Only when we know ourselves can we truly understand the world around us. Stoics are not easily overwhelmed by their emotions, not because they suppress them, but because they know themselves and have examined their mind, knowing what, why, and how things affect them. Ideally, therefore, they can keep calm in any situation, because they can rely on themselves fully and their judgment is not clouded by emotion.

Another part of stoicism that is tremendously interesting with Xanthus, is the focus on things we can control. The stoic belief is that we should only concern ourselves with the things inside of our control — things that we can influence and change — as opposed to wasting our energy worrying about those we cannot change and have no control over.

Xanthus, of course, has a lot of power, both because of his long lifespan and subsequent advantages, and his special abilities as a vampire. Everything he sets his mind to is somehow within his control because most of the time, he has the power and ability to influence it.

This, coupled with the bitterness he carries, results in a very ruthless side, which also comes due to his long life and the familiarity with death and decay it has brought him. 

Xanthus is no longer fazed by the people around him dying. He has grown used to it over the centuries, and he has been the cause of it, too. It does not have any effect on him anymore. In a way, he sits in the company of death as an equal to it, which makes him very dangerous because as opposed to the natural and passive process of dying, he has a will and is actively able to kill. Xanthus is aware of his power, and views himself as dangerous, as a threat. 

He is god-like, a force of nature almost, due to what he is, what he can do, and the high level of control he keeps of himself, not daring to indulge or lower his guard, lest he should lower himself to what is beneath him. He believes in shaping the world around him and has grown comfortable with the ever-present, familiar companion of death throughout the changing centuries. It is much like him, after all, near-eternal and inevitable.

Asirel - Self-Portrait with Fiddling Death, Arnold Böcklin

Swiss, Symbolism, painted 1872

Typical for symbolism is the recurring image of skeletons as a reminder of death and mortality — which is also the primary connecting element between this self-portrait and The Drinker. Thematically, the paintings as well as the characters fit well together or resemble each other in some way. 

Xanthus and Asirel are perhaps two sides of the same coin. Both are closely connected with the supernatural, Xanthus because he is a vampire, and Asirel due to the nature of his work. They are both connected with “darker” themes, which are the driving factor of their stories, as opposed to characters such as Isaac, where these elements are merely an added factor to a story more focused on character development. 

Böcklin is one of the leading artists of symbolism, depicting the inevitability of death through the classical image of a skeleton. In that way, the painting serves as a reminder of the fragility of human life — perhaps like a vanitas — and alludes to the briefness of life.

Mortality is specifically expressed by death looming over Böcklin’s shoulder and playing a single-string violin while laughing almost menacingly at him. It shows the shortness of life and death as the inevitable victor over all. 

Despite the stark reminder of his mortality by death literally playing the tune of the end of his life beside him, it is not exactly fear in Böcklin’s eyes but a mixture of awe, realization, and dread. His eyes stay fixed on his work — his painting — which shows his unwavering concentration and devotion to his profession despite death being inches away from him.

An added detail that I believe is interesting but which could be purely coincidental or for which my lack of comprehension of painting and colors is to blame is the color on the artist’s brush. It is a deep bluish green which does not appear anywhere else in the picture, suggesting that the real-life artist Böcklin painted himself in his self-portrait, who in turn is painting a different picture, perhaps a happier one since the color is lighter and less dramatic and bleak than those used in the self-portrait. 

Asirel works towards creating a better world as well since he has the power and influence to make his plans come true for the most part. He is ambitious in that he perfects what he does and never fails to meet his duties and responsibilities due to being unwaveringly focused on his work, unrelenting even when his life is threatened. Instead of succumbing to fear, Asirel circumnavigates the issue by seeking additional protection and continuing his work, holding fast to his ideals and plans for the future. He is much like Böcklin, who continues painting despite death looming over him. 

Due to the nature of his work and the many enemies he has made, Asirel is always close to death and danger, from which he tries to shield himself by hiring Pet and somewhat securing his safety through a strong ally. Despite his mortality, he is not outright terrified of dying and the constant threat on his life; Asirel is more concerned about it since dying at the hands of his enemies is a fate he would much rather avoid.

Andrew - The Unequal Marriage, Vasili Pukirev

Russian, Realism, painted 1863

The central point of realism is the depiction of things as they are — the ugly parts of everyday life and the societal structure of the mid-19th century — and its darker parts, stepping away from the creation of glorifying images and expressions of mostly grand scenes or events as well as the more traditional idea of beauty. 

The subject matter here, and the ugly reality of society in the 19th century depicted, is an arranged marriage between a young woman and an older man, much to her discontent and evidently against her will, as the title would suggest.

She is downcast, her red-rimmed eyes averted. The bride’s expression is one of sorrow and regret. Her evident unhappiness with the marriage taking place contrasts greatly with the beauty of her appearance. The veil on her head looks almost like a crown. Her hair is nicely arranged in locks, and the golden jewelry she wears speaks of her higher standing in society. 

The marriage the bride is being forced into parallels the academic career thrust on Andrew by his parents. He excelled at it and ultimately found peace with the prestigious position it led him towards, but it was not his decision. He felt like he did not have control of his life, despite ultimately enjoying where he ended up. 

Andrew was continuously crushed under the expectations of his parents, under the title of the ‘Golden Child’ they bestowed upon him while brushing the brother he so loved aside. He feels he missed out on life because he followed a predestined path. He was never able to make decisions on his own because he already knew what his parents expected him to do. His life was lived in service to their ideals for him.

The groom stands stiffly next to the bride, eyeing her with a sideways glance. He seems unbothered by her evident unhappiness, his mouth twisted into something resembling a self-satisfied smirk.

Before them both stands the pastor, officiating the marriage. He is bent forward, holding perhaps the bride’s ring — the symbol of her marriage and the cause of her discontent — in one hand and an open Bible in the other.

Andrew’s difficult relationship with religion is noteworthy here. He grew up evangelist catholic, witnessing his parents twisting their faith to justify their abusive behavior towards his brother and their prejudices against him. The unhappiness he ultimately feels — both at feeling like his life is not his own and being strangely isolated in life — stems from his religious upbringing, in essence. It was his parents’ faith — however twisted it was — that drove his brother away, it was their belief and opinion of him being gifted that made them watch him like a hawk, obsessed with having him live up to the expectations they had for him, and ultimately robbing him of his agency. 

In the background, a few guests are visible attending the ceremony. The feeling the painting evokes is one of suffocation. The bride is being forced into a life she does not want, and the dark colors of the background create a tightness in viewing the scene that fits the theme perfectly. Viewing the painting, it feels almost claustrophobic. 

Among the guests are two women, both looking intently at the groom. One stands between the groom and the pastor, and the other is hardly visible, only her head poking over the shoulder of the pastor at the edge of the painting. They are both seemingly dressed in wedding clothes, the flowers on both their heads similar to those worn by the bride, creating the impression that they could both be former wives of the groom, continuing to show how much life he has already lived as opposed to his young wife. 

The women in the crowd are against the wedding judging by their glares directed at the groom. With him being the object of their scorn, it is more likely that they are blaming him for the marriage and opposing him taking her as a wife — perhaps criticizing the evident age gap between them — as opposed to glaring at her, which would have been more likely if the motive for their action would have been jealousy. Thus, the women are concerned for the bride, seemingly trying to protect her and silently calling for the groom to leave her be.

Andrew did not have that kind of support against his parents' predestined path for him, nor when he eventually tore himself away from them and their expectations. Eventually, he did meet people who cared for and supported him — such as Isaac, Darling, Luca, and Claire — out of which only Darling truly helped him when he abandoned his position as a professor and started on his own career path, free from the expectations of his parents and their judging eyes. 

Behind the bride, to the right, stands a gentleman with crossed arms who also glares at the groom. His head is inclined forward, and he looks almost protective of the bride and ready to fight the groom over her like a lover would. 

Before their relationship irreparably fell apart, Andrew and his brother were inseparable. Andrew still talks of him fondly, wishing more than anything to be able to mend the rift his parents had torn between them because it had never been jealousy that alienated the twins from one another, but their parents' unfair treatment of his brother while pushing Andrew onto a pedestal so high, they no longer cared for his twin. He is the discarded child, forgotten and out of sight. 

Ultimately, Andrew’s upbringing left him isolated in life much like the bride. They are alone in a room full of people, lost despite their possible future success after elevating their status — with marriage or a flourishing career — because they walk a path they did not choose for themselves.

There is silent support for both of them in the shadows, and while it is evident that some people disapprove of the groom’s or his parent’s actions, that is still not enough to tear either of them from the path they were predestined to follow.

Zaros - The Storming of the Winter Palace, Sokolov-Skalya

Soviet, Realism, painted 1939

The story of The Noble Trials is political at its core. In essence, it is the want for reform, whose most reverent supporter is Zaros, against the continuity of a ‘working’ system, as incorporated by the Earis. 

The relation between Zaros and this particular painting is less about what is outright shown and more about its implications.

The storming of the Winter Palace was an event that took place during the October Revolution in Russia in 1917. Close to the end of what was the initial turmoil of the communist uprising — and what would later become a Civil War between Tsarists and Communists (rather Bolsheviks) after Lenin was de-facto in power — the ministers of the provisional government of the old regime had barricaded themselves in the Winter Palace in Petrograd, which is St. Petersburg today, and served as the capital of Tsarist Russia from 1712. The Bolsheviks moved the capital of Soviet Russia to Moscow in 1918. 

What would be portrayed as an epic scene, glorifying the October Revolution and mystifying it with grandeur and splendor in soviet propaganda — judging by the date of its publication much like this painting, which was retroactively made to do just that — the historical happenings were a bit less spectacular.

The tsarist ministers held out in the Winter Palace for a while, debating what to do against their slipping power, before they eventually surrendered in the face of the Bolshevik’s much greater military force and logistic superiority. The revolutionaries arrested them, ending the constitutional monarchy with a victory for communism.

The events were later adapted into a scripted ‘play.’ I say ‘play,’ because it was a reenactment inspired by the events. Of course, being Soviet Russia in 1920, it was not an authentic and historically accurate depiction, but rather a communist fantasy about the glory and grandeur of the days of the October Revolution. The Storming of the Winter Palace — by that I mean these words in that order — refers to the propaganda reenactment, less to the historical events. 

History lesson aside, I see similarities between the Communist Revolution overthrowing the Tsarist Empire and Zaros’ political ideas for the future of Serulla. There are a few reasons, not limited to the obvious reformative spirit he has in common with the revolutionaries, the idea of focusing on the benefit of the people rather than the ruling elite — nobles or bourgeoisie — and the utter chaos it plunged the empire into.

The idealistic version of communism, and by extension the October Revolution the Bolsheviks used to implement their interpretation of it, basically followed the simple principle of putting the people, that is the workers (or proletariat), first in their politics. 

The central idea of Communism is to end the ‘class struggle’ between the proletariat and bourgeoisie — that is, between workers and their employers, or the general public and the upper classes in society. Especially in the 18th to 19th century during the boom of the Industrial Revolution, worker’s rights were practically nonexistent. The broad public was suffering, toiling away while a few select people owning the means of production (that is, the machines with which the people worked to create a finished product) were amplifying their wealth on the backs of their workers.

This injustice, or the struggle between bourgeoisie and proletariat, is something communism professes to fix by creating a classless society, in which the proletariat owns the means of producing and the finished product — the country morphing into a worker’s state, so to speak.

Of course, all this is theory, and the reality of Soviet Russia and later the Soviet Union as a whole was different. The general quality of living was worse than in the West — and the state used oppression, secrecy, and propaganda to mask the fact that despite professing to be for the people — the workers, the general public, the proletariat — in truth, the proletariat of capitalist countries generally had it much better.

The central link between Zaros Atha’lin and the October Revolution — and the reason this painting is so fitting for him — is the absolute chaos it plunged the country into. What followed the October Revolution was a bloody Civil War with monarchists opposing the revolutionaries with tremendous violence on both sides in a conflict that lasted until 1922, the year the Soviet Union was founded, and brought its own set of problems and system of oppression that I won’t get into in detail. 

Zaros as a character is calm and collected most of the time. He appears at least somewhat in charge of the situation — as opposed to the Earis, who is quick to be pulled around by their emotions, specifically their frustration and anger. The problem with Zaros is less about his character, as it is with his circumstances and plans — both ultimately bound to destabilize the kingdom should he ascend to the throne alone and try to make them a reality. 

His politics for the people — the general public, so to speak — stem from his sense of injustice in the organization of society. The central problem here is that he cannot rule with their backing (he cannot rule for them) because the people have a very strenuous relationship with him. They do not like him. They do not support him as they support the popular Earis — or the Ilves family — despite the queen’s politics not meant for them. 

It is a difficult thing to change the politics of a country or kingdom so drastically top-down as Zaros suggests. His theory is nice, incorporating all the right reasons for giving the people more power and dismantling the unjust superiority of the noble families in the kingdom and their influence over politics. But Zaros — certainly a persona non grata in the eyes of basically every one of these nobles — is bound to fail in establishing his rule and keep himself on the throne. The nobles will sabotage him and undermine his authority every chance they get because they do not like him, they do not respect him, and his politics would strip power away from them while reforming the whole societal system they profit from greatly. 

He has no support or friends in high places. Wanting to implement his ideas on his own, with no backup from the ruling elite — the ‘government’ he should run — and especially lacking support from the masses who by any means should be his greatest backers and the very people he wants to do these things for, will end in disaster. The golden ideals that ultimately bring nothing but chaos and pain when implemented in reality are befitting the image of the October Revolution, the sentiment similar to the early days of Soviet Russia.

Kayson - The Kiss, Klimt

Austrian, Art Nouveau, painted 1907-1908

The focus of this composition lies in the center, on the for Klimt characteristically two-dimensional drawing of the embracing couple before a shimmering golden background. 

They are both on a flower field, the woman kneeling with bare feet and bright flowers in her hair. The man leans over her, enveloping her in a tight embrace, partly hidden by the golden robe draped over his shoulder, an ivy crown on his head.

The man’s face is obscured, hidden against the skin of the woman as he cradles her face, kissing her cheek softly as her eyes are closed in blissful contentment, one arm resting on his neck, pulling him closer to her and furthering the raw feeling of intimacy between them.

The vivid colors of the geometrical shapes add to the overarching feeling of softness. The warm gold gives the painting a certain sensuality — vulnerability shown in the love the two people share and the women’s bare feet.

Kayson is a natural caregiver. He cares so much for the people around him, always trying to help them or get them to laugh with such fond affection that the softness in this painting — the obvious care depicted between the two lovers — fits perfectly with his essence. He is warm. His actions speak of kindness and love while he works his absolute hardest to give as much of his heart to the people around him. The comfort he exudes and the affection he so openly shows work well with the overall warmth and trust expressed here.

Further, this is a little silly observation, but with the cloak draped around the man’s shoulder and the woman kneeling on the ground, allowing him to shower her in love, it looks like they are trapped under the cloak together.

Niall - Mona Lisa, Leonardo da Vinci

Italian, Renaissance, painted 1503-1506

Perhaps the most famous painting in the world, the Mona Lisa is the portrait of a woman. She is sitting comfortably upright, her arms folded, with a small smile on her lips. The background is of a twisting scenery with mountains and a body of water. The predominant color is brown, but despite the dark tones on the canvas, the painting holds no threatening or dark atmosphere. The image is calm, the color of her clothes blending into the scenery, but making her look refined rather than gloomy. 

Niall is a serene character that matches the calm energy of the Mona Lisa. They are both quietly content and peaceful in their lives — Niall especially now that he resolved issues from his past that weighed heavily on his mind. 

The dark background of the scenery, while not threatening per se, still casts a darkness over the painting that matches the circumstances of Niall’s past life. His years in school, where he was subjected to bullying, and the long stretch of lonely years in university until he eventually moved back to his mother, practically putting a standstill on his life as he was caught in echoes of the past. 

The new relationship with SB helped him break out of it, mending the scars left by the past, and although it shaped his character permanently, now he set out on a new road of healing until the rekindled relationship and renewed trust between them led Niall to his presently content self, comfortable with his life and happy where he is — even if that happiness is still sometimes tainted by the memories of his past traumatic experiences and can never be as carefree and light as he perhaps would have wished. 

The dark colors of this painting corroborate this, making the Mona Lisa appear majestic and grave. Working against her smile and her evident contentment is an underlying seriousness that suits Niall’s character, evidence of the dark stretches of his life he walked through alone.

Dontis - Café Terrace at Night, Van Gogh

Dutch, post-impressionism, painted 1888

The subject matter of this post-impressionist painting is, as the title suggests, the café terrace on the center-left side, lit in a bright yellow light by the gas lamp above. Its numerous tables, chairs, and people give the place a bustling atmosphere. It seems brimming with life, while the cobblestone street outside, especially in the front, is empty. A few figures wander around in the background, perhaps walking towards the focal point of the painting — walking towards the light. 

Moving away from the cafe, the scenery becomes dark. The deep blues and greens on the night create a nearly mystical air while the stars twinkle above — noticeably the same yellow color used for the light of the gas lamp in their center.

The feeling of familiarity the cafe evokes, as well as the intimacy and homeliness of the bright, warm yellow contrast with the dark blue of the cobblestone street and the bleak night beyond it, empty with a crushing loneliness accompanying it that not even the gentle glimmer of the stars above can soothe. 

Dontis’ character needs a connection with people. He actively seeks them out, naturally drawn to places bustling with life to relish the connection with humanity. He needs closeness to be well, seeking out company and offering an ear to listen to their troubles and feelings without judgment. He wants to take care of his chance encounters, if only for a short while — a cafe being a perfect symbol for this brief but intimate connection.

The darkness beyond reflects his heavy past and the pain he endured, the stars shining above a reminder of the kindness he retained throughout. Dontis does not fare well alone — it is not in his nature — he seeks out people to interact with, no matter how much they might hurt him, and he still offers them all the care in his heart despite it. He needs the connection to live, just like the café, which only retains its essence of loose intimacy by various people coming and going.

It is a fast-paced environment despite its apparent homeliness, much like Dontis, who can never bind himself to one single person for long.

Jonah - Nighthawks, Hopper

American, Genre art, painted 1942

The eerie stillness and the quietness of night depicted here might seem too bleak and lonely for a character (and story) as bright and loving as Jonah. It is less about this oppressing feeling of isolation — the loneliness of being alone in a room full of people or alone in a big city — which carries a sense of particular tragedy given the fact the painting stems from a time when the Second World War raged, amplifying the heaviness of the desolate scene. 

The focus here is on a diner on what appears to be a street corner. It is painted from the perspective of a spectator on the outside, looking in, regarding the four people calmly lost in their thoughts. There is no sign of life other than those four under the bright fluorescent light of the diner, the only source of light in the entire painting. It illuminates the street outside dimly.

A noteworthy aspect of the painting is what appears to be a couple sitting by the wooden countertop. They seem to be touching, but upon closer inspection, their hands are a short distance away from each other. It makes them look close but worlds apart all the same while they reflect, perhaps lost in their thoughts. 

It is this quiet company that is reminiscent of Jonah. The couple’s intimacy while occupied by other things outside of their love for one another parallels him and Babe. Both of them are so clearly living their own lives — with Babe working at the bar and Jonah occupied by gaming — but remain close despite it, seeking each other out and making space for each other in their life. 

An example highlighting this is when Jonah visits Babe at the end of their shift, picking them up from work and walking home together, a small act of affection that speaks of their deep connection and love. So is Babe keeping him company when he games, knowing they would fall asleep after an exhausting shift but choosing to keep him company anyway simply to show that they are there. 

It is this depiction of closeness while being worlds apart — in mind or body — that suits Jonah’s character, and this feeling of being close but far away at the same time, which this painting conveys in volumes — like being isolated in a city brimming with people, alone despite the sheer intensity of life around oneself. 

Matias - The Water Lily Pond, Monet

French, Impressionism, painted 1899

Monet created numerous pieces depicting water lilies. Some paintings feature simply the surface of the water, others include the bridge shown here, from different perspectives. Here, its edges are hardly visible. The bridge overarches the edges of the painting, showing only its central part, gently twisting upwards in a slight arch. 

In true impressionist fashion — where the world is stylistically depicted with disregard to symmetry and placement of forms — the highest part of the bridge is not aligned with the center of the canvas. Instead, it can be found slightly to the right, throwing off the symmetry and giving the perspective of looking at the bridge slightly from the left. 

The river flowing beneath it is littered with water lilies, nearly covering its entire surface. The predominant colors are soft pastel greens and blues, occasionally accompanied by red, pink, or purple. 

Its overall atmosphere is peaceful. The scenery looks inviting and bright — due to the method of painting outside (en plein aire) to capture the natural light. There is a softness in the gentle reflection of the trees above in the water, the blooming lilies accompanying this gentleness, but there is a depth there as well, under the beautiful image and beneath the water’s surface. 

It is not a mindless painting of pretty scenery. The shift of perspective — the tilt to the left, the asymmetry of it — gives it more depth. It makes it look interesting beyond the beauty at its surface. The painting is engaging, and the softness adds to this feeling of intrigue.  

Matias, beyond his gentle demeanor and comforting softness, has this twist. He is intriguing. His bright soul is captivating because its depth is apparent, perhaps in the polar opposite way of a Tortured Artist. The darkness on the surface of this archetype gives way to pain and beauty and a shimmer of hope in its depth. The softness, gentleness, and brightness of Matias, immediately apparent in his character, actions, and thoughts, parts in its depths to something more serious. Not dark, exactly, nor pained or hurting as would be the case with the Tortured Artist, but instead genuine and clear in a way water in the depths of the ocean might be. 

Perhaps adding onto this analogy with water, the water lilies blooming calmly on its reflective surface could very well symbolize the beauty of the things he creates —an artist pouring his soul into his art, baring his heart to the world with it;or more specifically, a writer following the ideas in his head and bringing them to life on a page.

Luca - The Great Wave off Kanagawa, Hokusai

Japanese, Edo (Japanese art period from 1603 to 1867), painted 1831

This painting is a bit of an enigma. The beige and white colors of the background at the breaking waves make it appear soft, the deep blue of the waves nearly comforting in their beauty. In contrast to this softness and seemingly peacefulness is the actual depiction of the waves, rising high with sharp, claw-like edges over the boats on the water, mere moments before they crash over them. It looks very much like a snapshot image before a tragedy, highlighting the majestic strength of the ocean while simultaneously praising its beauty. 

The wave rising above Mount Fuji is further placed cleverly, not only highlighting the ruthlessness of the ocean with how threateningly high it reaches — making up nearly a third of the painting — but ingeniously showing its soft beauty as well in making the white droplets of water falling from the edge of the wave appear to be snow, drifting gently down on Mount Fuji in the distant background.

Luca, as soft and innocent of a character he might appear to be on the surface, has a quiet depth about him and a more serious side that becomes apparent when he shows his vulnerability. He has insecurities, and he can be decisive and brave despite how innocent he seems to be most of the time. 

In a way, the painting is Luca in reverse. The ruthlessness of the water is the central point here, whereas the gentle beauty of it is secondary. With Luca, the first thing to notice is the soft heart he wears on his sleeve, while his more somber depths merely peek through on occasion.

Elias - The Creation of Adam, Michelangelo

Italian, Renaissance, painted 1508-1512

Again, this is less about the actual religious image of putting a verse of the bible into art and more about the deeper meaning of it outside of religion. 

The fresco depicts God to the right, reaching his hand out towards Adam, lounging on a field of grass on the left. Adam, in turn, reaches out to God, their index fingers nearly touching. There is a laden tension between them, anticipation whilethe figures are forever frozen in suspension just an instant before God gives Adam the spark of life and creates mankind. 

Elias is a complex character who is ultimately motivated by his need to be part of something bigger than himself. It begins with his desire to be taken seriously by his father and the other gang members, trying to prove himself worthy of the role he is expected to fill despite not being certain about wanting that position. It is not about being head of the Wraiths but being fully part of the group of people for which he had suffered the enormous loss of his mother. The gang is important to him, and he is trying to elevate himself, shaping himself into someone worthy of it — reaching out to give his life the spark he feels has been missing since Tara died.

This search for something grand outside himself can also be seen in his fascination with the stars, figuratively reaching out to understand ‘God’s creation’ (to speak with this painting in mind) and feeling distantly connected with something far outside his reach — just like God and Adam, nearly touching but forever just shy of connecting.

Cevyk - The Course of Empire Destruction, Thomas Cole

American, Hudson River School , painted 1836

The Course of Empire is a series of five paintings, depicting the rise and fall of an imaginary city. Destruction is the fourth painting of this series, the title aptly fitting the desolate scene of the city being ransacked by enemy forces. At the same time, a tempest rages in the distance, foretelling the fall of the empire. 

The scene is as dramatic as it is chaotic. There is a bridge mere moments before collapsing in the center of the painting, although the focal point is slightly to the right, to the now headless statue of what could be supposed to be the empire’s greatest hero. Thick clouds of smoke rise from the empirical palace by the river, flames reaching up into the sky with a faint red that does not immediately attract attention, but rather subtly plays into the raging chaos depicted. 

The hazy background with its dark gray storm clouds adds an atmosphere to the picture that somehow makes it less about what is directly shown — a burning palace, a collapsing bridge, countless dead, raging war — but about the general desolation it evokes. It is not the ransacking of a city, which superficially appears to be what is directly painted onto the canvas, but the destruction of an empire. 

Cevyk is a difficult character to understand, simply because there is still much mystery surrounding him. Being a literal demon from hell, he creates an atmosphere of volatile chaos. The fall of an empire — or better yet the destruction of one — is inherent to a tremendous amount of chaos and suffering. Both are aspects Cevyk embodies, not only because he causes them, but as overarching themes of his story. 

This is only speculation, given we know little about Iqsus and even less about the (political) state of hell and the demonic houses. But Cevyk seems to be a character biding his time, following a more complex plan about breaking the status quo and kindling a reorganization, perhaps plunging hell into a Destruction-like frenzy.

Rowan — The Swing, Fragonard

French, Rococo, painted 1767

Here, we have the women on the swing as a subject matter. She is depicted in a forward motion, one foot stretched out in front of her while she flings away her slipper, aiming it at what appears to be a statue of Cupid, the Roman God of love. 

In front of her, a young gentleman lies in the bushes, perhaps having fallen over. He looks up at her, catching a glimpse under her dress in the process because of her outstretched leg. 

Behind the woman, in the background to her right, an older man is sitting in the shadows on a bench, watching her swing and holding the rope attached to her seat. He is possibly unaware of the younger man eyeing up her dress. 

It is speculated that this older man would be her husband, while the younger one is her lover. The symbolism and the general subjects of infidelity and sexual desire seem to be expressed by the man glimpsing up her dress and her flinging her shoe at Cupid while also addressing the inhibition of her marriage by the ropes attached to her swing, in essence holding her back.

The most striking aspect of the painting — despite all of its quiet genius depicting such a dramatic scene so subtly and with such airiness — is the woman’s levity. She swings unbothered by it all, letting go as she is weightless, suspended in the air with happiness, and playful as she slips off her shoe. She does not behave according to societal norms; she is not ashamed of it either. She simply enjoys herself and life outside of the expectations placed upon her, this lightness further corroborated by the hazy, gentle background of the natural scenery around her.

Rowan — as short-lived of a character as he was and as difficult it is to understand his inner workings from the limited resources available — incorporates this levity. That is not to say he is not serious — because his love and affection for Honey run deep, and he tries his best to help them while taking their worries very seriously — nor are the negative aspects of infidelity and inhibition applicable to him.  It is simply about the core element of the painting: the woman’s weightlessness, her contentment on the swing, and the generally positive outlook on life she has despite the circumstances around her.

With Rowan, it is the letting go of expectations and societal obligations that work, since it seems to be exactly what he wishes Honey to do: follow their heart and dreams while slowly weathering away the pressure their family has put on their shoulders.