#and become a recluse of some sort

[littlest-arsonist]

god. making a post about this because it’s still pissing me off but just. imagine making a silly little comic about your characters that are (apparently) commonly shipped despite literally just standing next to each other + being roommates/friends and how you didn’t mean for that interpretation

…and then getting thousand of notes full of asshat shippers (many of which are probably his own fucking fans) just being completely incapable of reading the room, making “and they were ✨roommates✨” jokes or missing the point entirely like “oh my god that’s so true 🥰🥰 characters who stand next to each other ARE dating” like. holy fucking shit. if you NEED be able to ship these specific characters and you’ll DIE if they don’t CARE about each other in the way that matters (meaning: dating or AT MINIMUM having sex) at least have the fucking decency not to do it on the creator’s post about them not being a couple. shippers be normal about platonic relationships for a goddamn second in their lives i am no longer asking

[pedgito]

𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 | Joel Miller x reader

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summary | Joel's pent up, you've got ideas.

author's note | just had the urge to do some free-use/cnc stuff with softer jackson!joel, huddled into my little writing cave and came up with this. also, happy birthday to the man who's brought me so many great friends within this fandom <3

content warning | 18+ MDNI, DEAD DOVE: CNC, FREE-USE, brief aftercare, established relationship, jackson!joel, pre-arranged dynamics, dom/sub elements, mentions of safewords, facefucking & forcefucking, eating out from the back, none of this is good for joel's knees, a short game of chase, claiming kink, degradation, slapping (consensual), unprotected piv, creampies. this fic contains dark elements, if it is not your thing, continue on.

word count — 4.7k

It grows like weeds in your brain.

Joel is notoriously tightly wound and rigid. Only in the comfort of his own home do you see the softer side of him, still subdued and quiet—most of his words transferred through touches and silent facial expressions.

You’ve grown on him, opened him up in a way that most would never be able to.

You weren’t ever on his radar nor was he on yours—there was a sort of stigma around Joel, off-limits completely of his own volition, a natural recluse. You only ever really saw him with Ellie and Tommy, otherwise he was busy with patrol or a complete ghost.

It wasn’t until you’re paired up with him on patrol that something changes.

It wasn’t instantaneous either, but just as persistent with the thought in your brain as you stare at him now, leaned against the bar with a sour expression, you grew on him.

You were well-versed; starting fires, skinning animals, and knowing how to field strip your pistol with your eyes closed.

Joel witnessed it once and he’s not sure he’s ever been more entranced by something in his entire life, the genuine confusion on his face as you finally glance up at him was enough to kickstart the beginning of…whatever this was.

There weren't any explicit labels given—but if Joel wasn’t in your bed at night, you were always in his. Things were just that; happening, existing. You were settled with the fact that labels and titles weren’t of immediate concern in the grim apocalypse.

Joel’s hair is grown out and you feel the constant need to tuck it behind his ear, doing so as he eyes you carefully, jaw tight and set in place, hand gripping tight around the glass in his hand.

“I think you need an outlet,” your voice is quiet, starkly opposite of the room around you.

You’ve got your own language, communicating through silence that is cataloged through expressions and subtle emotion. He’s clearly had a bad day, a bad week, coming back to you reeking of decay and musk, traversing through rain and hoards of infected for weeks just to take out a few groups that wander too close to Jackson, riddled with cuts and bruises that you tried to convince yourself a kiss would heal it quicker.

“Let’s go,” you suggest, finger trailing down his bicep until you can pry the glass from his hands.

Joel is more than willing to be dragged away into silence, never the most chipper individual at the community events that his brother and wife insisted on holding for morale.

–

It’s strange how diplomatic the suggestion becomes, a conversation over a shared cup of coffee—Joel was running low and inherently stingy.

“That side isn’t a mystery to me,” you tell him, watching how he stares at you wearily over the cup, “I’ve seen you kill men with your bare hands. Granted, they deserved it.”

“So, you think me hurtin’ you is a better alternative?”

You sigh, shoulders shrugging. You reach forward and claw your fingers into the front of his shirt and tug, pulling him toward you slightly, face falling flat and serious.

“I’m not so easily broken, Miller,” you retort, “Besides, with this, we can set rules.”

“Rules?” 

Suddenly, he’s an echo. 

You nod—in all seriousness, you wanted him to understand.

“We’ll have a safe word, something non-verbal in case we can’t talk. There’s a mutual understanding, trust—”

“No, I know…I know how this works,” Joel interjects, “Jus’ didn’t suspect this was something you were willin’ to try is all.”

“I like your gentle side,” you assure him with a subtle smile, fingers trailing up his neck and through the stubble of his graying beard, curling around the back of his head and into his soft curls, “but I like it just as much as the rest of you.”

Joel’s silent, pensive as usual, his hand curling around the back of your neck to mimic your own touch, and he nods, “We can try it, f’it is somethin’ we both want.”

“I’m all in,” you grin wider, carefully prying the mug from his grip and placing it on the counter at your hip, “are you?”

“Game on, sweetheart,” He breathes against your mouth before he captures you in a slow kiss; the kind that makes your heart flutter with need, a floating feeling as it grows.

–

He doesn’t give you any warning, but you wanted it that way.

There had always been an understanding that Joel could have you whenever he pleased, the same extended to you—as long as it was when you were both alone.

Espresso is the word you both settle on, a vested interest in the situation.

It was the element of surprise that made it all the more enticing, both of you running on empty most days, and with the usual gentleness that Joel provides on a daily basis, you sense it as you meet his doorstep on this particular night.

He wasn’t back yet, still on his route back with Tommy. But, you knew he’d slip in at some point that night, making yourself at home with the small remnants of your presence throughout his space. 

Shoes at his front door, jacked laid over the back of his couch, the key to your house on his kitchen counter beside his owl mug, a miniscule amount of cold, brown liquid pooling at the bottom.

You leave the lights off, scouring through his cabinets for a clean cup to pour yourself a glass of water, fetching the pitcher from his fridge and vigilant to the gentle creaks of the house, heat expanding and making it snap.

It’s subtle, but something shifts.

You ignore it outright, knowing that Joel wasn’t due home yet.

You replace the pitcher and sip gingerly at the glass of water, obviously to the lingering shadow that seems to move with you, closing your eyes as your head tilts to the side, feeling a pop in your shoulder with the movement, too tense to relax.

It has been like this for the past few days.

Shitty sleeping arrangements, long nights on watch, it was hell on the body.

You hum, eyes closer as your head rolls around and forward. You slide the cup onto the surface of the counter and pull your bottom lip between your teeth and groan softly, allowing everything else to fade away before the pressure comes, sudden and unexpected.

It sends the water in your mouth out, through the hand that’s clamped tight over it.

There’s a soft yelp on your behalf and a grunt of acknowledgement, another strong hand wound tight at your wrist as they were maneuvered so easily behind your back. 

Someone was back early.

“You sure you still want this, sweetheart?”

It was the final moment of grace before you both succumbed to the deep desire of escapism. 

You nod, barely, but Joel feels the movement.

You snap into the subservience naturally.

You fight against his restraint, hearing the soft click of his tongue as he yanks against your movement, “Doors are locked,” his voice is like fire; so hot it burns, “ain’t nowhere for you to run.”

You make a small noise and force the struggle, both desperate to get out of his grip in an effort for the game to begin, but because it did hurt, though the discomfort was nice.

Your breath is uneven, heartbeat hammering in your chest as Joel’s grip tightens. 

His calloused fingers dig into the flesh of your wrists, pinning them behind your back with an ease that makes you shudder, full body.

He’s unrelenting, pressing your body flush against his, the broad plane of his chest a solid, immovable force. He’s always felt intimidating, but you’ve never been on the receiving end like this, caught and cornered.

His breath ghosts over your ear, warm and slow, a sharp contrast to the way he wrenches your hands higher up your spine, dead center on your back while your hips dig into the edge of the counter. 

A low grunt rumbles from his chest as you writhe, the feigned struggle met with nothing but amusement from him. Joel’s always been playful, though often reserved, this was the perfect way to squeeze it out of him.

“Tryin’ awful hard to get away, babygirl,” he muses, voice laced with darkness.

You bite your lip, twisting again, testing. He can feel it under the press of his palm, squeezing tighter against your cheeks. His opposite grip tightens further. A warning. A reminder.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere.”

Your breath catches again as he shifts, pressing you firm and flat against the counter, chest parallel with the surface. The coolness seeps through the thin fabric of your shirt, a sharp contrast to the heat of him behind you, evident arousal against your ass.

 He leans in closer, his nose grazing the shell of your ear before he speaks again, “Say it,” he orders, voice just above a whisper, shirt bunched up in his hands where he has your hands held.

You swallow hard as he removes his palm for a brief moment, your fingers twitching uselessly in his grasp. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His chuckle is low, a rumble of satisfaction. “That’s right.”

His now free hand trails up your stomach, fingertips barely grazing over the fabric of your shirt before he hooks it beneath the hem and yanks it upward, manhandling you with the movement as he pulls it over your head and down your back.

You gasp, the sudden exposure sending a thrill racing through you.

Joel shifts, releasing your wrists only to catch them again a second later as he turns you to face him, this time capturing them at your stomach. He twists them together, holding them in one hand, the fabric of your shirt is ripped apart and knotted around your wrists, keeping you stuck but allowing him full mobility again.

“Color?” he asks, his tone softer, just for a moment.

You exhale shakily, the word coming easily. “Green.”

It was the first time in a few days you’re able to see him and he’s looking particularly wrecked, smelling like mulch and rain, but something so distinctly him.

His fingers tighten around your wrists as he hums in approval and tugs, “Good girl.”

The praise sinks into your skin, setting you alight in a way that has you pulling against him again, an involuntary reaction. 

His grip holds firm, an unspoken reminder of who’s in control.

Your pulse quickens, your body thrumming with anticipation as he steps back just enough to admire his work. Joel’s thumb strokes over the inside of your wrist, a fleeting moment of tenderness before his other hand grips your chin, tilting your head back so you’re forced to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but you know that look—you’ve seen it before, felt it in the quiet moments when he lets himself want.

“You remember the word too?” he asks.

You nod, pulse roaring in your ears. “Espresso.”

His lips curl into something between a smirk and a snarl.

–

The pout you form is instinctual, watching him examine you for a brief moment, admiring his work, the exquisite press of your tits where they’re trapped between your arms, wrists bound tight, the remnants of your sweats hanging low on your hips from the brief struggle.

He’s witnessed a lot of beauty in his life but nothing quite like you.

He takes a step forward which is met with you moving away, eyes wide with adrenaline and playful fear, so genuine that Joel believes it, like you’re finally seeing him for the monster he really is.

“Don’t run,” he warns, “it won’t end well for you.”

Eventually, your back hits the wall adjacent to the kitchen, beside his front door. It was locked and deadbolted—when the fuck had he managed that? You turn your head to glance but you’re met with his fingers gripping your chin, body closing in.

His hand curls around the expanse of your throat and squeezes.

The pressure is deliberate, a reminder of your helplessness as he forces you back against the wall, trapping you between the solid wood and the heat of his body. His other palm skims over your side, down your hip, a featherlight touch that has you sucking in a sharp breath.

“Breathe for me,” Joel murmurs, thumb tracing over the delicate skin just beneath your jaw.

 He watches you intently, eyes darkened from their normal caramel warmth to near black.

You exhale, slow and measured, eyes steady on him.

His hand drags lower, over your collarbone, down to your sternum, your stomach, before slipping beneath the fabric of your sweats. There’s no hesitation. His hand curls, firm and unforgiving over your cunt, fitted to the size of his girthy hand.

“You feel that?” he asks, his voice rough, and you nod jerkily, “That’s all me. You’re mine now.”

You whimper weakly as your lips part in a gasp, the claim stabbing something deep in your chest. 

He tilts his head, eyes flickering over you, taking in the ragged breath you exhale.

“Still think you can run?” he taunts, smirking, his free hand gripping your hip, squeezing hard enough to make you wince—you’re silent, defiant.

You shift, testing his hold—there was nowhere to go, really.

His smirk deepens, wicked and wildly possessive. “Go on, sweetheart. Try.”

There’s a slight pause to your movements, unsure of what was to come.

Joel nods his head to the side, urging the chase.

Without a thought, you bolt.

His footsteps don’t follow, though.

Where he stays, he strips.

Boots first, then his jacket.

He’s slow, methodical in his movements and calculated.

There’s a few rooms upstairs to choose from—the bathroom was small, confined. Naturally, your instincts lead you toward his room, knowing that inevitably he would find you, but it wouldn’t hurt to play his game.

Joel so easily slipped into whatever role you needed—or that he craved; this side of him that craved you for nothing more than your body, an animalistic need that both of you felt. You enjoyed putting up the fight, the resistance you knew he could snap with a look or a word.

“Shouldn’t be here this late,” you hear his voice carry from downstairs, “sneaking into my house at this hour, no clue what you’re walking into,” heavy footsteps despite his lack of boots, one door opening and another closing, “well—that’s just stupid.”

You bend down to your knees and attempt to crawl toward his bed, hands gripping on the underside to pull yourself out of view, but you were already too late.

There’s a rasp to his voice that you’ve never heard before, the faint jingling of his belt before the door whips open and his hands are wrapped tight around your ankles, pulling with a hefty strength he’s acquired through years of survival.

“Caught you,” he growls, dragging you by your ankles against the faded turquoise rug, “hidin’ from me ain’t gonna do you much good, darlin’.” 

You let out a breathy laugh that borders on a whimper, his presence towering over you before you feel the weight of him settle, pressing your body firmly against the hardwood. You writhe beneath him, not to escape but to incite his need further. He’s kneeling over you now, the sight of him mouthwatering but vaguely frightening, nearly unrecognizable.

Your hips shift against him, and he responds with a hand pressing your wrists above your head, pinning you like prey. The other hand roams down, curling around the band of your sweats before he’s tugging them down and out of the way, the lack of panties not even the least bit surprising for him, shaking his head in amusement.

He knows you’ve been eager for his approach, waiting, but the sight of you now and completely bare underneath him as he tossed the last remnants of your clothes away was enough to quiet the buzzing in his brain, focused intently on the heavy breathing racking your chest, hands still tightly bound, lips parted in anticipation as you watched him, still struggling against his hold.

“You can’t untie me,” you barter, “I’ll be good.”

He chuckles darkly, “Nice try—stop talkin’,”

Your mouth snaps shut at the instructions, face going expressionless as Joel hoists you upright, hands pulling at your elbows until you’re on your feet and you’re pressing against the edge of his bed, the cool sheets kissing your back.

He’s not gentle or rough, rather more firm. He flicks at your chin until you get the silent instruction to lean your head back against the edge of the bed, waiting obediently on your knees for his next move.

“If I let you go–you gonna stay put?” He asks, your eyes too focused on the hand that goes for his zipper, fingers curling around the thick denim band of his jeans, mouth pooling with saliva that begs to drip off the tongue that’s resting against your bottom lip.

The slap is sharp, surprising, but not unwelcome.

There’s a silent moment when you lock eyes that Joel fears that might’ve been a bit too much, but then your bottom lip is pulling between your teeth and you’re nodding to his question finally.

“Good—quiet, I like that,” he tells you and you can feel your body vibrating with the anticipation as he shifts his jeans down, hand dipping inside of his boxers to wrap around his cock, settling the fabric underneath balls, tightly drawn from his straining cock, angered and pulsing with a thick drop of precum at the head, chin gravitating to pull you forward almost on instinct.

Joel scowls, though, pushing you back roughly.

“Look at you, squirmin’ around all helpless and cock hungry. I didn’t tell you to fuckin’ move, did I?”

Your eyes flutter with the harsh movement as you shake your head.

“Open your mouth,” he tells you coarsely, “tongue out—yeah….yeah, there you go,” he rubs the head of his cock over your wet tongue and forcefully feeds it into your mouth, slow and mindful until it nudges against the back of your throat, keeping himself in place as your eyes search for his face.

He smirks down at you, teeth gritting with the strain, watching you struggle to take more of him as you gag around his thick girth, tears pooling in your eyes. He’s got that familiar musk of a day's work, somehow more intoxicating than his normal, sweet scent from your shared body wash.

Joel knows it’s too much. He can feel it in the way your mouth is tightening around him, nostrils flaring to hold on for just a few seconds longer, but he doesn’t care—he wants to see you like this, needs it.

When he finally jerks his hips back and pulls out, a string of saliva connects your mouth to his cock, gurgling against the tip with your chin drenched in spit, drooling shamelessly down your neck as you gasp for a breath of air.

Joel groans through clenched teeth before he’s pushing himself back into your mouth, a low and constant moan rumbling from his chest as he fucks his way into your mouth, hand curled around the top of your skull, the other gripping tight into his sheets as he leveraged the surface for tighter thrusts.

It’s dizzying, bordering on too painful as your eyes flutter shut.

“Fu—fuck,” he stutters, his thrusts faltering, “filthy fuckin’ girl, aren’t you?”

Your response is a soft hum and the gentlest shake of your head you can manage.

Defiance, clear as day.

His hand grips into the hair at the base of your scalp and tugs, holding you tight as he suddenly pulls his hips back, “Open your fuckin’ mouth,” he instructs with a raspy tone, hastily prying your mouth open with his fingers as he slides his cock over your tongue, his brow furrowed at he tugged at his cock with a harsh rhythm, white knuckling the way he’s gripped himself before he’s spilling his warm spend over your tongue, opaque liquid filling your mouth and spurting over your lips, his strangled groan caught in his throat as he comes.

“That’s right,” he seethes, his hand pressing under your chin to shut your mouth, cheeks squished together as he kneels to your level, eyes following his movements with measured anticipation, “greedy girl. Swallow it.”

At this angle it was painful, blinking rapidly as you swallowed, his hands unrelenting in their pressure until he’s satisfied, letting you go carelessly as you slump forward, bound hands pressing into the floor to catch yourself. His thumb presses against the skin of your cheek and smoothes the mess he’s left there, dragging his spit-slicked fingers over your jaw, a lazy smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Look at this,” he murmurs, voice still rough with lust as he leans closer, “you’re a fuckin’ mess.”

You give him a lazy glare from beneath your lashes, dazed but still sharp enough to form a coherent thought, “You’re such an asshole,” Your voice is hoarse and barely audible through the evident strain of your throat, but you manage to get it out in spite of yourself.

A jab, empty with meaning, but it makes Joel smile.

“Well, I ain’t done with ‘ya,” Joel antagonizing, “think you can just make yourself at home when I’m gone, I think that deserves some punishment,”

The element of surprises is what does you in, a sudden tug forward.

There’s a tightness at your wrists as he finally reaches for the knot binding them together, rough and calloused hands skimming over your skin and sending pinpricks up your arms. The fabric loosens with his handiwork, blood rushing back into numb fingers as he bunches the makeshift binding into his hand and uses his freehand to grip your bicep, tugging you until you’re falling against the floor, gasping at the impact.

Joel seems to hesitate at that, his touch suddenly softer. You can’t see his face, but the reassurance you give him is instant.

“Green, green,” you rush out to ground him back in the present.

It does the trick, it seems.

You’re on your stomach and you can feel the press of denim at the back of your thighs as he corrals you in, arms dragging down to your elbows until he can push them up and around the leg of his bed, watching with wide eyes as he binds your wrists again, though looser, around the wood.

“Can’t have you runnin’ away before I get a taste,” Joel says from behind, hearing the faint ruffle of fabric before his shirt hits the bed, his hands curling around your hips to pull you up, ass propped up for him to feast.

And he does, hands squeezing into your cheeks as he spreads you open, moaning out lewdly as his tongue licks greedily between your folds. He works you open this way, laps of his tongue reaching inside of you as he groans against your wet heat. Your fingers dig into your palm, biting at the flesh as you suppress a shaky cry, feeling the curl of desperation low in your belly and already threatening to unravel.

It’s sickening how easily he can bring you to this point of pliancy, even when you were so eagerly trying to resists, “Please,” you cry, “I can’t—please,”

“Say it,” he encourages once, reminding you that there was always control, but without the indication, he wasn’t going to let up.

You shake your head in defiance, “Fuck you,” you spit.

It doesn’t take long, either. 

Joel chuckles because he knows you well enough to read the rhythm of your breathing, the shallow way your stomach shudders when you’re getting close. You feel every inch of him, skin and warmth and breath until it’s building and—

“Fuck!” A choked off cry as your head falls forward, body vibrating against the wood.

“Oh I know you got more than that in ya,” he taunts from between your thighs, the heat of his words sending another shock through you, more ruffling of fabric before his cock is heavy against the back of your thigh, hands kneading into supple flesh as he rubs the head through your folds before spearing inside of you with one sharp movement, and he sighs, “there she is.”

You let out a weak gasp, your body stretching around the thickness of him, searing heat and pressure making your mind go deliciously blank. You can barely catch your breath; he knocks it out of you with every forceful thrust, drowns you in the sound of skin slapping against skin.

The filthy wet noises that fill the space between gasping moans.

It’s relentless, primal. 

He's everywhere, all at once, until there's nothing left but—

Joel. Joel. Joel.

“You’d let me do damn near anything to ‘ya,” he taunts, “helpless little girl without me, ain’t that right? Go on, tell me to stop.”

You whimper as his hand strikes your ass, demanding an answer.

He practically growls with insatiable hunger, the sound rumbling from his chest as he thrusts into you without restraint, “Speak when you’re spoken, too,” he bites, “open that fuckin’ mouth.”

“No—no," you sob, barely coherent.

“See?” he grunts as his hand slides around you to grip the base of your throat, tilting your head up and holding you against him while his cock hits devastating inside of you, silently undoing the bindings as he pulls you back against his chest, “Knew you could do it.”

It’s too much, the striking, brutal pleasure threatening to suffocate you. 

You feel so immeasurably full of him and still—he’s not letting up.

Joel’s breath is ragged in your ear, sweat-slicked chest against your back. He presses against that spot inside of you with his cock and your vision goes white-hot. The sound that rips out of you is undeniable, pure pleasure.

“Shit,” he curses, “this all you needed? Huh? Me fuckin’ you like I own you?”

His fingers are still around your neck, tightening, and you can only sob in agreement as everything unwinds inside of you. His grip drives you against him, faster, harder, each push a little more desperate as he chases you into the crest of your second orgasm with his fingers drifting over your clit, the touch enough to end you on the spot.

“Gonna make me come again,” he warns roughly, unable to hide the strain in his voice.

Your whole body clenches around him at the promise and he lets out a weak grunt.

“Fuck,” he snarls, “come on, babygirl—do it. Do it for me.”

You’re too far gone to do anything but comply.

The pleasure explodes in your core as his thumb works like magic against you. He feels impossibly deep, and you cry out one last time as everything snaps and sends you over the edge.

Inside of you, Joel lets out a vicious growl as your body milks him for all he has to offer, his hips driving into you with punishing force while he spills hot into your cunt.

Eventually, his pace slows.

His grip on your throat gentles and he pulls out before collapsing next to you, breathless and heaving. He doesn't even bother making it to the bad, arm tucking under his head as you slump against his chest.

“Goddamn,” Joel mutters, the facade fading immediately, heaving through ragged gasps, dragging you into him, “c’mere, baby.”

Your smile is obvious, giddy—Joel can’t help but chuckle at the sight.

“I think you enjoyed that a little too much,” Joel tells you, “s’good—we okay?”

“Peachy,” you reply without hesitation, taking note of his insistent touch, much gentler than a few minutes ago, “are you okay?”

“A little worried,” he admits, “didn’t know if I was bein’ too rough with you.”

“I would have told you,” you tell him honestly, pressing a kiss to his stomach from where you rest, before you playfully add, “and if we’re being honest—next time, don’t go so easy on me."

The look Joel gives you is hot—red hot; like a fire.

Joel nods dutifully, beckoning you upwards, “Ain’t nobody gonna touch you but me,” he promises, drawing your face up to his, “and I’m gonna make damn sure you won’t ever want ‘em to.”

As if there was anyone comparable to Joel.

Your soft grin told him all he needed to know.

There wasn’t.

[cripplecharacters]

Does Your Scarred Character Have to Hate Themself?

[large text: Does Your Scarred Character Have to Hate Themself?]

(TLDR: No.)

A frequent topic that shows up around facial differences is the self-hatred, self-disgust, self-insert-negative-emotion that we must surely experience. I want to ask* writers without FDs - why? Why do you feel about us in such a way that that's the most common way of depicting us?

*- rhetorical question. I promise I know the answer, but I'm not sure if writers do.

It's frankly worrying to me. Is it really that common to assume that disabled people have this internal, never-ending hatred for themselves? The overwhelming majority of us don't. We hate inaccessibility, when people stare, or some symptoms when they get in the way, or how expensive being disabled is, but I find the concept of us being so completely disturbed by our own disabilities extremely strange. It’s “tragedy porn” intersecting “most basic ableism”.

“But trauma!”

[large text: “But trauma!”]

Trauma of what! People with facial differences don't have some sort of default trauma that we come with like it’s a factory setting. We are a group of people with tens of thousands of stories and experiences.

“Trauma of experiencing ableism/disfiguremisia” - that's better, at least this means something. If you're writing a story about this, please get a sensitivity reader with a facial difference. You can assume how we feel all you want, but in my experience these assumptions are often bizarre and unrealistic. Or just end up writing the same “disability so sad” sob story that everyone has seen a billion times. If you want to write about disfiguremisia, you need to understand the nuance and have more than just the basic level knowledge (which 99% of people don’t have either). If you can’t do that, don’t write about it. Simple as that.

“Trauma of the accident” - thankfully, the accident is an event and a facial difference is a disability. If you want to connect these two like they're one and the same, you're almost surely going to demonize disability. People with traumatic spinal cord injuries, acquired amputees, people with TBI, people with acquired facial differences - we participate in our communities, we have hobbies, we date, we play with our dogs. Disability isn't a death sentence. Media who make it feel like it is certainly don't help people who do suddenly become disabled, don't you think?

Here's a post by @blindbeta about blind characters becoming blind through trauma that’s better made than anything I could hope to write here. I heavily recommend giving it a read.

And, I can't stress this enough - most of us didn't have “the accident”, most of us are born like this. "Traumatic scars" isn't the only facial difference that exists, far from it, it's only one of thousands. It's 99% of our representation and "representation". If you want to make a character with FD - please consider that we aren't a monolith. Just like not all physical disabilities are "wheelchair user with paralysis and somehow no other symptoms", not all facial differences are "traumatic scar with somehow no nerve damage".

The overrepresentation of it is incredibly telling, and sometimes - or very frequently - feels like the writer doesn’t actually even want to deal with us. They want to use our disability as a way to cheap drama, moral metaphors, tragic backstories. Not to represent us as living people who are much more similar to you than you apparently think.

Now, I do have enough awareness to know that that's a big part of the appeal. “Horrific Thing #2456 happens” and boom, instant drama. Of course, it's a reasonable response that they would hide their disability for years, avoid talking about it in any way, and magically change their personality to be mean and reclusive, or at least be constantly soooo sad about how much it sucks to be disabled, right?

Do I really need to say that having your character becoming disabled be the worst thing ever is ableism 101? We have been talking about this for so long at this point. Writing about the process of adapting to a specific disability is better left to people who have actual experience in it.

To give an example that will hopefully resonate more with Tumblr users, I will use the fact that I'm also gay. It's not perfect by any means but probably much more familiar territory.

Imagine, let's say, a character. He's gay. The story he's in is supposedly progressive, certainly not trying to be homophobic. The character has experienced an incident, maybe an act of aggression or a hate crime, that happened because he’s gay, which was traumatic. Happens IRL, sure. So of course the character starts hating being gay. He talks about how gross and disgusting it is, he never lets anyone know that he could be “one of them”, certainly not take a stance against homophobia. You can't mention him without mentioning the accident, they're seemingly fused together. No gay love, joy, even basic happiness, he would actually choose to be straight in a heartbeat if given the option to and complains that he can't. This is shown as a neutral, obvious thing that a gay man would do, no one comments on it. He stays like this the whole time, unless there’s a plot twist in the last 10 pages where the world is now magically perfect ("we fixed discrimination, yay!"). This is the only LGBT character in the story.

Keep in mind that there are people similar to this in real life, living with extreme internalized homophobia.

Reading comprehension quiz time: Is this, in your opinion, realistic and thoughtful representation? How does it feel when written by a cishet writer, versus a gay writer who is recalling his experiences? Do you think that it's reasonable for the majority of media representation to be like this, or very close to it? How would it affect younger gay people who might already be uncomfortable with being queer? Are gay men the target audience, or are they not even considered as a group of people who read books? Is this helping or damaging the general public's idea of how it is to be gay? Why or why not?

The Masterpiece

[large text: The Masterpiece]

From 13 to 19 of May, we are celebrating Face Equality week (what a coincidence!). It’s important to me in general - and I wish it was more important to abled people, but I digress - especially its theme for this year.

“My Face is a Masterpiece”

Great statement, it represents the community well, I do enjoy how bold it is. Very cool stuff, I love the work our advocates are doing.

But why do I bring this up?

Well, to very non-subtly show that we aren’t a self-hating group of people. We are a community, a community saying “our faces are beautiful, look!”, we are saying “treat us equally, and do it now!”. Our activism isn’t about self-disgust. It’s about fighting your-disgust. 

Why can’t writers keep up? Why are you still stuck decades behind?

Is this the only reason I bring it up?

The Call to Celebration

[large text: The Call to Celebration]

FEI, the org behind organizing it, asks a very simple question (emphasis mine):

“Why do we so often see stories about facial difference as a ‘tragedy’, when they should be about triumph?” “Calling all artists, allies, creatives, galleries.  You can rewrite the story to bring about #FaceEquality and celebrate the unique artistry found in every face. Your participation this #FaceEqualityWeek will help to tell the real story, that there is a masterpiece in every face.”

Here. We are calling for you to stop. Directly from the biggest international advocacy alliance group that's out there. If you create, this is for you.

The last argument to not have your character with a facial difference hate themselves? Because we don’t want this. We are tired and frustrated. For me personally, I’m also offended by this kind of assumption. We aren’t tragedies or cheap entertainment for abled people to pity or be horrified by. We are people, and if you can’t internalize that, you have no reason to write about us.

For once, celebrate us. Happy Face Equality Week!

mod Sasza

[batexon]

Petty high school love

normal highschool au with batfam as your childhood family-friends and dick grayson as your “secret” crush growing up

pairing: dick grayson x reader? jason todd x reader?

You were born in a relatively good family. a loving mom and dad, and a typical younger, annoying brother.

Life was peaceful, predictable, in that childhood sort of way.

But one day, your family moved to a new place, and it was next to a rich neighbourhood.

You were 8 when you first met the Waynes.

Specifically, Richard “Dick” Grayson (8) and his younger brother Jason Todd (7). Two boys adopted by the reclusive but famous billionaire, Bruce Wayne.

And you seemed to click with them seamlessy.

It was so natural. So easy. Like you were meant to meet them.

Soon enough, you met their other siblings: Cassandra Cain (6), the quiet girl who seemed to take a liking to you. Tim Drake (4), who always had a passion for photography for as long as you could remember, and Damian Wayne (1)—he was the kid of Bruce Wayne and his ex wife Talia Al Ghul—daughter of the infamous politician Ra’s Al Ghul.

Since you’d become friends with the Waynes’ kids, your childhood wasn’t exactly normal.

With the Waynes came the chaos, the media buzz, the constant whispers about their family and money and tragedies.

With how popular they were for their background and good looks, of course people will flock to them.

And despite that, the Waynes made sure that you never drifted too far.

Somehow, they always made time for you.

Made sure you weren’t just another face in the crowd, just another neighbor they once knew.

You were their precious friend after all.

Which brings you to where you are now.

In your last year in highschool.

Still walking the halls with Gotham’s golden boy.

Still best friends with Mr. Popular himself—Dick Grayson.

It was embarrassing to say, but over the years, you’ve grown to have a crush on him.

You told yourself it was just hormones or proximity or the fact that he once lent you his hoodie during a chilly autumn morning when you were eleven.

He had smiled and said, “Can’t let you freeze to death, right?” like it was nothing.

Safe to say that your ears were flushed red after that interaction. and it wasn’t because of the cold.

You thought it was some stupid, small crush, that would go away after a while.

You kept waiting for it to go away. It never did.

If anything, it got worse.

Your heart still jumps into your throat every time he shows up at your doorstep to walk you to school, hoodie slung lazily over his shoulder, Jason grumbling and yawning behind him, and Cass quietly tossing you an apple she probably (definitely) stole from Alfred’s kitchen.

Dick always greets you with that same easy grin—the one that somehow makes your stomach do flips and your brain forget how to function.

Your face still heats up whenever Dick walks a little too close, his arm brushing yours, or when your fingers accidentally graze while you’re reaching for the same snack in the convenience store.

Or when he reaches over your shoulder to grab something in your locker, his voice low and casual in your ear.

You can’t even look him in the eye after moments like that.

And god forbid he ever leaned down to whisper a joke during class—your brain would go static for a full minute afterward.

And don’t even get started on the time he ruffled your hair after you nailed your chem test—the test that he helped you prepare for—like that wasn’t the emotional equivalent of a fireworks show in your chest.

You’re sure no one notices. Or at least, you hope no one does.

Because being best friends with Dick Grayson while also being hopelessly, quietly, pathetically in love with him?

Yeah. That’s your very specific brand of teenage tragedy.

It didn’t help that he was always so effortlessly him.

Like when he’d slide into the cafeteria seat across from you and steal a fry without asking, then wink like it was some shared secret.

Or when he’d toss his jacket over your shoulders after gym because “you always forget yours.”

You definitely didn’t spend the rest of the day trying not to bury your face in it like a weirdo.

Even the little things made your heart betray you.

Like how he’d ruffle your hair whenever you looked too stressed, or call you childish names in that teasing tone of his.

Or how he’d remember the tiniest details—your favorite candy, the name of that book you said you wanted to read, the exact kind of coffee you liked and how you took it.

Or the way he texts you late at night with dumb memes or random thoughts just because “you’d get it.”

It wasn’t fair. He made it so easy to fall for him and impossible to stop.

You told yourself not to read too much into it.

That he was like this with everyone.

That it didn’t mean anything when he stayed behind after school just to help you clean up when it was your turn.

Or when he casually slung an arm around your shoulders during movie night with the Waynes like it was no big deal.

Like it was second nature, like that didn’t crumble your carefully built walls

This is just who Dick Grayson is. Warm. Friendly. Impossible not to love.

But each time, your heart just refused to listen.

Because no matter how hard you tried to keep it together, whenever Dick Grayson looks at you—really looks at you, with that soft, half-lidded gaze—you couldn’t help but hope.

Even if you knew better.

You’ve had moments to tell him.

Plenty, actually.

Times where the words were right there, sitting on your tongue, begging to be let out. But you always chickened out.

Or got interrupted. Or convinced yourself it wasn’t worth the risk.

Because if you confessed, and he didn’t feel the same… then what?

Ten years of friendship down the drain, all because you couldn’t keep your stupid, selfish feelings in check.

So you stayed quiet.

Pushed your feelings down, and played your part as Dick’s best friend.

That is, until she arrived.

The new girl.

The one who transferred in the middle of the semester with a sunny smile and eyes that practically glowed.

She was beautiful in that effortless, otherworldly way.

Confident. Kind. And when Dick saw her for the first time, he actually stopped in his tracks.

That was the first time you’ve seen him look so… in awe.

Kori Anders. That was what her name was.

The girl who had somehow made Dick Grayson do a double take.

The girl who Dick Grayson was currently… interested in.

Of course you weren’t stupid.

You could see it in his eyes—the way he looked at her, the way he tried so hard to get to know her.

You’ve never seen him look at someone like that before.

You’ve never seen him try so hard to get to know someone.

You’ve seen him smile. You’ve seen him flirt. You’ve seen him charmed and intrigued and amused.

But this? The way his gaze lingered. The way he lit up just talking to her. It wasn’t hard to figure out what was happening.

For the first time, Dick Grayson was smitten. And you’d be a fool to not see it.

You didn’t blame her. Of course not.

You couldn’t blame her.

She was radiant—beautiful in that effortless, almost ethereal way.

The kind of girl who made everyone feel seen.

But knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.

You were heartbroken. For days.

You skipped out on hangouts, made up excuses.

You cried into your pillow more times than you’d ever admit. Ugly, raw sobbing that left your chest hollow and your eyes swollen.

You were miserable.

And you hated yourself for it.

Because it was pathetic.

Crying over unrequited love like some dramatic teenager in a soap opera.

You should have been over it years ago.

You’d always known he would never see you that way.

He was Dick Grayson.

And you? You were just… you.

His friend. His little shadow. The one who never stood a chance..

You should’ve let go a long time ago. Should’ve walked away, or at the very least, built up thicker walls.

But you hadn’t.

You couldn’t.

You had refused to come out of your room—that is, until Jason personally came to drag you out.

Apparently, your younger brother had ratted you out. Said something about how his sister was “throwing a tantrum and acting like a brat.” And Jason, being Jason, had taken it upon himself to show up.

Because of course he did.

He didn’t knock gently or text you first or wait politely for an invitation. No. He marched in like a damn hurricane, pulled open your curtains, and dropped a bag of takeout on your desk with a raised eyebrow like “You’re really gonna sit here and rot, huh?”

You tried to hide under the blanket. Pretend you were asleep. You weren’t. He knew.

“Come on, quit hiding.” Jason had said, not unkindly.

“And unless you’ve suddenly taken a vow of silence, you’re gonna tell me what the hell’s going on before I have to drag your dramatic ass out of bed.”

You didn’t answer. Just buried your face deeper into the sheets.

Jason didn’t push—not really. He sat on the edge of your bed and waited. Quiet, patient.

Eventually, you cracked. Because you always did with him.

You cried.

Hard.

Snot, tears, hiccuping breath. You buried your face into his shoulder and let it all out—every pathetic, tangled emotion you’d been trying to stuff down for weeks.

You were embarrassed. Crying over an unrequited love you had for years. You should just try and get over these feelings. you know that. But you just can’t.

And Jason didn’t say a word.

He didn’t make you feel stupid. Didn’t tell you to move on or suck it up.

He just let you cry.

Let you vent. Let you admit, between choking sobs, how hopeless it all felt. How humiliated you were. How pathetic it was to still love someone who never even saw you.

You called yourself every name in the book. Desperate. Embarrassing. Ridiculous.

Jason just listened.

And by the time your tears dried, his hoodie was ruined—stained with tears and god knows how much snot.

You should’ve been mortified.

But you weren’t. Not even a little.

Because this was Jason.

Jason, who had always seen the ugliest parts of you and never once flinched.

Jason, who knew exactly when to call you out and when to simply sit and be there.

Jason, who never asked for anything in return.

He was your friend. Just as much—if not more—than Dick was.

After that day, things changed.

Not all at once.

It wasn’t some magical, movie-moment transformation.

But you stopped crying yourself to sleep.

You started showing up again—quietly, cautiously. You laughed when your friends cracked jokes, even if it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You started doing things that made you feel like you again, even if only for a little while.

And through it all, you kept your distance from Dick.

You didn’t mean to.

You weren’t trying to punish him.

But being around him hurt in a way you couldn’t put into words.

So you pulled back. Bit by bit.

He noticed.

You saw it in his furrowed brows, in the way he lingered when saying goodbye, in the texts that grew a little more frequent, a little more worried.

But you didn’t have the strength to explain yourself.

Not yet.

Instead, you threw yourself into distractions.

Hobbies. Schoolwork. Books.

Anything to keep your mind from wandering back to that familiar ache.

But what’s this?

Why does it seem like Jason is frequently by your side now?

Why does he sit with you during lunch, and nudge your tray with his elbow, pretending he just happened to end up next to you?

Why does he wait for your classes to end to walk you home after school?

Why does he hand you your favourite drinks or snacks with a nonchalant, “You looked like you needed a pick-me-up.” before you head off for your tuition classes?

You told yourself it was just Jason being Jason.

That he was just trying to comfort you from your heartbreak in his own way.

But then he started showing up everywhere.

Always by your side, like he was trying to be your shadow now.

Like he was quietly stitching himself into the parts of your life that used to belong to someone else.

And maybe—just maybe—you let him.

Because now… now you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

You caught yourself scanning the halls for him between classes.

Smiling at your phone whenever notifications from him popped up.

You remembered the shape of his hands as he grabbed yours in his.

The sound of his laugh whenever you said something stupid.

The way his jacket smelled when he pulled it over your shoulders without asking.

He was there. So consistently, so unshakably there.

And you started to wonder.

Why is he always around?

Why is he suddenly acting like you matter more than anyone else?

Why does it feel like Jason’s the one holding the pieces of you together?

Why can’t you get him out of your head?

You don’t know when it happened. Maybe it was slow. Maybe it was all at once.

But somewhere between heartbreak and healing…

Jason Todd somehow found his way into your heart.

masterlist

[stillmonsterz]

GAM3 BO1

pairing: heeseung x reader

genre: smut

summary: reclusive gamer heeseung offers you the chance to live in a decent place in exchange for your companionship.

warnings: unprotected sex, swearing, voyeurism, dubcon, somnophilia, jerking off, exhibitionism, coercion, humiliation, anal sex

word count: 3.7k

--

The man you’re looking at in this coffee shop does not look like he could pay rent anywhere, let alone cover most of yours. He looks like he should be scrolling imageboards in his mother’s basement as he dines on high-fructose corn syrup. His eyes have bags, his skin is pale and sallow, his overgrown bangs reach below his eyebrows, and he’s so thin that the sleeves of his button-up hang from his arms. He peeks at you under his eyelashes, smiling shyly.

“You seem like a good fit,” he says quietly, fiddling with the handle of his mug of coffee. “And like I said, all you would have to do is clean up, do the laundry…make sure the place isn’t a complete pigsty.” He laughs softly. “God knows I’m awful at that.”

“Well, I can do that,” you say slowly, leaning back in your chair. “I still don’t understand why you’re being so generous. I mean, you could just get a maid. It’d cost you less money, too.” You don’t mention that the apartment is ridiculously nice for the pittance he would let you pay for it, and it’s in a choice location in the city. When you saw the ad for it on the roommate app you had downloaded, you had thought it was a scam. But then, you were so desperate that you were willing to fall for a scam. As it turns out, the apartment is real – he had sent you a video of it at your behest – and the owner was definitely real.

Heeseung – Heeseung Lee, a single computer programmer that had come into an undisclosed yet presumably exorbitant amount of wealth following his parents’ passing – laughs again, a self-conscious chuckle that quickly dies in his throat. “Well, to be honest with you…I just get lonely. I mean, my work is all online, and I don’t have many, uh, friends. I sort of just stay at home and play…” Heeseung’s voice becomes hushed. “play video games. It’s sort of pathetic.”

“Nothing pathetic about that,” you say quickly. He’s so earnest, it tugs at your heartstrings. “I think this could be a great arrangement.”

Heeseung looks up at you, and his eyes are shining. He smiles at you, tilting his head. “Really?”

“Yeah.” You smile as well. “And I’m a pretty good companion, if I do say so myself.”

Heeseung’s eyes flicker down, lingering below your collar for a full five seconds before he looks back up at you. “You know, I think you’ll be a great companion for me.”

--

Your first week living in his apartment is relatively peaceful. Relatively is the operative word. Your room is comfortable, stocked with plain furniture. Heeseung gives you carte blanche to decorate it as you wish, which is nice. Cleaning up after him is a simple affair, too. He deposits his dirty dishes and takeout containers outside of his door at regular intervals – 6 pm, when he wakes up and orders something, 8 pm, when he remembers to eat something, and 2 am, when he needs a snack to keep him going. You got home from work at 5, so it wasn’t hard to accommodate him. He exclusively eats Doordash, which saddens you a bit. When you made pasta for yourself one day, you decided to knock on his door and offer him a bowl of it. His eyes had widened, like you had offered him  a plate of solid gold.

“Really?” he’d said, receiving the bowl.

“Yeah, of course.” You had smiled at him sympathetically; it was really so easy to please him.

Heeseung had grinned at you. “Thank you, thank you.” He had taken a large bite of it and closed his eyes, nodding and pointing at the bowl. “You’re so good at cooking, wow. Wow, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“No really…you’re an angel. Like a domestic goddess.” Heeseung had looked you up and down. “You’re like a cute little maid.”

You laughed and walked away.

 His eating habits were one thing, but some things he does mystify you. He refuses to let you inside of his room, blocking your view of the door. You can catch a whiff of stale air whenever the door is cracked even slightly, which piques your interest. “It’s just really messy in here,” he’d tell you nervously. Heeseung only really comes out of his room to play Overwatch on the Smart TV in the living room. Other than that, he asks you periodically to bring him things when you get home from work.

There’s also one other issue: you swear your panties are going missing. Your favourite pair of panties has vanished, as well as a pair you generally wear when you’re on your period. You take care of all the laundry (including Heeseung’s own filthy boxers), so it’s impossible that you could have misplaced them. You don’t push anything, though.

Today is weird, though. When you get home, there’s a medium-sized package outside of the door. It has Heeseung’s name on it, so you bring it to his door and knock. “Heeseung, there’s something for you.”

Heeseung cracks the door open, his hair having grown even longer in the week you had been here. “Oh, no,” he says, pointing with a bony finger, “that’s for you.”

“Aw, Heeseung,” you say with a wide smile. “You got me something?”

Heeseung grins at you and shrugs. “It’s the least I can do. You do so much for me…I hope you like it.”

You excitedly open the package, but your smile drops when you see its contents: a cheaply-made maid outfit with spaghetti straps, white lace trim, and a skirt that would cover your panties and little else. “You…want me to wear this?”

“Yes,” Heeseung says, reaching out to touch your shoulder. “Come on, it’s just a dress. No one else will see.”

You sigh. He practically lets you live here for free, so you might as well play along. “What, you want me to wear it right now?”

Heeseung nods so vigorously you’re surprised his head doesn’t roll off his skinny little neck. You turn away to head to your room to change, but Heeseung’s grip on your shoulder tightens. “No. Change here.”

You whip your head to face him. “What?”

His gaze is steely now, his previous shyness having seemingly dissipated. “Change in front of me.” Then, as though he had been momentarily possessed, his softness returns. “Please? I don’t ask you for a lot, right?”

You swallow your pride and put the maid outfit on the ground. First, you remove your hoodie, revealing your tank top. As you fold up your hoodie, you can see Heeseung’s hand furiously moving in his boxers, which causes you to freeze.

“Keep going,” he says hoarsely, leaning his head back. Dread pools inside of your gut as you continue to strip. Soft, strained moans spill from Heeseung’s lips as he watches you strip down to your underwear. When you put on the maid costume, he carefully adjusts the straps of your dress with his slick hands. “Very nice,” Heeseung says. “Turn around for me?”

You turn, and you can feel the cool air of the apartment hitting your ass- the dress is that short. “So good,” Heeseung whispers. “You can take it off now.”

Your hands fumble with the hem of your dress, but Heeseung laughs. “Not here,” he says, removing his hands from your shoulder. “In your room, silly. And after you’re done, bring the dress to me, okay?”

You’re too dazed to question his instructions, and you’re all but too happy to get out of the dress. After you’re done changing, you hand the maid outfit to him. He smiles and takes it without a word.

Things go by relatively smoothly after that, and you almost wonder if you made that incident up. The only thing that has changed about his behavior is that he comes to see you more. Not for long, only a few minutes per day. If you make cookies, he’ll ask if he can try some of the dough or try a cookie. If you’re doing the laundry, he’ll ask you about your day as you fold.

You’re currently on your hands and knees scrubbing a particularly obstinate white stain on his couch when you hear Heeseung’s voice behind you. “You know, you should wear leggings more often,” he says.

You don’t turn to look at him. “Yeah, why?”

“They make your ass look perfect,” he says with a laugh. “Of course, it looks best naked.”

You’re about to ask him how he would know how your ass looks naked before he’s already wandered off. About two minutes later, you can hear him in his room playing a low-grade pornography, his own moans mixing in with the fake screams of pleasure from the women. You put your headphones on and try to drown the sound out- even the sound of Heeseung calling your own name.

This goes on for a while, and it only gets worse. Now he leaves his door open so the sound of him jerking off echoes through the apartment. When you’re trying to sleep, you can hear the severely un-titillating sounds of the brother-con hentai he watches.

One day, you’re rummaging through your underwear drawer trying to find your comfortable, plain bra. You realize that it’s missing, and your anger reaches a boiling point. You stomp over to his room and knock on the door. “Heeseung,” you growl.

Heeseung opens the door nonchalantly and smiles. “Hi,” he says innocently, “could you clean my room for me?”

“Could I what? Heeseung, did you steal m-,”

“And could you wear this while you do it?” As if he had been expecting you, Heeseung walks over to his bed and hands you the maid outfit, your missing bra, and that pair of your favorite panties. All of them were coated in globs of cum in various stages of hardening, especially your panties.

“Heeseung!” You take a step back from him. “I’m not doing that, for fuck’s sake.”

Heeseung just smiles at you. “I think you should.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Either you wear this, or make you pay your share of the rent.” Heeseung leans towards you, and you can smell his fruity, sickly breath. “The choice is yours, of course.”

“You’re insane,” you say, leaning away from him.

“Whatever. Now get in the maid outfit.”

Tears well in your eyes as you head to your room to don the most humiliating outfit you’ve ever seen. When you put the bra and panties on, his cum oozes out of them and drips onto the floor.  The maid outfit is sticky all over, and you shiver. You don’t even look yourself in the mirror before leaving your room to see Heeseung again. His hand is already wrapped around his dick by the time you walk out, his boxers resting around his ankles.

“Wait, wait,” Heeseung says, holding up his free hand. “Don’t walk to me. Crawl to me.”

The humiliation forces your head down as you sink to your hands and knees and crawl towards Heeseung. When he sees you at his feet, Heeseung smiles, still stroking his cock. “Such a cute little maid,” he says. “Now get up on your knees, come on. Be good.”

You prop yourself up on your knees, so that you’re level with his crotch. “Now,” he says softly, “open wide.”

You close your eyes, open your mouth, and Heeseung slides his cock into your mouth. When he does, he moans loudly, and he grabs at your hair. Heeseung fucks your mouth like it’s a pussy, and the musty state of his cock makes you gag the entire time. His balls slap against your face, and he keeps whimpering pathetically. His other hand reaches down and squeezes one tit after the other, and within no time he’s pulling his cock out of your mouth, tugging it hurriedly, and finishing all over your face. He tugs his boxers up to his waist again and sighs. “That was great,” he says, affectionately ruffling your hair. “Whenever you’re ready, you can come inside my room and tidy it up. I know it bothers you that I’m so messy…”

Your jaw is too sore to speak, and for a moment you just lie there on the floor in the hallway. None of it seems real, none of it makes sense to you. The worst part of it all is that you can feel wetness pooling in between your thighs, which makes you groan softly.

A little while later, Heeseung emerges from his room. He crouches down and strokes your hair. “You want me to get you something?” he asks soothingly. “Some water, juice?”

“Water would be nice.” You cough a few times. Heeseung gets up and comes back shortly with a bottle of water that he opens for you. You pull yourself up so that you’re sitting, legs crossed, and you drink the water while Heeseung pats your hair comfortingly. Once you calm down, you and Heeseung head inside of his room.

It’s disgusting, which is an understatement. The bed is unmade and piled with stained pillows, the floor is spattered with cum, his bookshelf is a horrid mishmash of coding textbooks and manga, his closet is filled with clothes, of which only half are on hangers. His desk area is relatively clean, but one of his three monitors is playing some filthy pornography. The other has Discord open, and the third has some weird game you don’t recognize open. Worst of all is the pocket pussy resting on his gaming chair.

You sigh. Seems like you have a lot of work to do.

--

Over the next few months, you start to realize that Heeseung is treating you like a pseudo-girlfriend. He changes your contract so that he pays for virtually all of the rent, as well as the groceries. He even gives you a hefty monthly allowance, enough that you can start building up your savings.

Of course, you doubt that a regular boyfriend would treat you the way Heeseung does. For one, ever since you cleaned his room the first time, he expects you to clean it every day while donning a humiliating outfit of his choosing. He likes to have you walk around in the apartment wearing striped microkinis, plaid skirts with black G-strings, nurse costumes, maid outfits, and an elaborate swimsuit cosplay of his favorite League of Legends character. He’ll watch you as you clean his room clad in whatever skimpy outfit he’s gifted you, commenting on your body. Other times, he’ll come up behind you as you’re in the kitchen or living room and grope your ass or tits before wandering back to his cave. That’s what he does on a regular basis.

Lately, he’s been fucking you. It started when you were eating a bowl of cereal before heading off to work. You had heard his room door creak open, then his dragging, lumbering footsteps.

“Good morning,” he had whispered, placing his hands on your shoulders. “You’ve got a little something…”

Before you could say anything, Heeseung had licked the tip of his finger and swiped up the bit of milk lingering by the corner of your mouth. He stuck his finger into his mouth, still hovering over you. Every time you took a bite of cereal, trying to finish up as quickly as you could, he would wipe your face and then suck the milk off of his fingers. His other hand rested on your shoulder, rubbing it slightly, until it slid down lower and lower. As he ran his thumb against the corner of your mouth, he slowly began groping your breasts. Heeseung pressed his lips against yours, both of his hands fondling you.

You had pulled your lips away. “Stop. I just ironed this shirt…”

“Sorry,” he had said, buttoning your shirt from behind. As soon as it was sufficiently open, he groped your tits directly, his lips on yours. He had a greedy, selfish way of kissing you; his tongue would slither down your throat, gagging you. Heeseung had unbuttoned the rest of your shirt, then he pushed your cereal to the side. He pushed you down onto the dining table, your chest pressing against the wood. You could feel his hands tugging your damp panties to the side.

“Such a nice pussy,” he had murmured. You heard him spit, then you felt cool fingers pumping themselves in and out of you. You bit your lip so you couldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing you moan. Heeseung only prepped you just enough to get you wet, then he stuffed himself inside of you, inch by inch.

Your hands curled, desperately trying to find any purchase. It had been a long time since you had anything inside of you, and you welcomed the pleasure. But you couldn’t let Heeseung know that.

His gnarled fingernails dug into your soft flesh as he pounded away at you. He wasn’t particularly vocal, only making soft moans of pleasure. Sometimes, he would drag himself out of you, then slam back inside. He smacked your ass. “Just look at that shit jiggle,” he said breathlessly. “I want to try that out next…”

With that, he had slid his fingers into your tight hole, and you couldn’t hold back a gasp. Heeseung pumped his fingers in and out of the band of muscle, widening it. You had never taken anything up your ass before, and your toes curled in fear and anticipation.

You felt him slip out of your pussy, and the painful stretch of his cock opening your asshole replaced the pleasure you had previously felt. Heeseung groaned as he fucked your ass raw, only the precum that had dribbled from his cock for lube. Fortunately, he didn’t last, pumping your ass full with hot cum before pulling out of you. “Your pussy is definitely better,” he had muttered before walking away. While you rested against the table, trying to recollect yourself, you heard him booting up another game of League of Legends. With a palpable sense of shame, you finished yourself off right there as your cheek pressed against the table, your fingers wildly swirling against your engorged clit. You came with a shudder, then you darted into the bathroom to clean yourself up and go to work.

He never fucked your ass again, but your pussy and mouth were fair game for him. Whenever he sees you now, wearing the outfits he picks for you, he shoves his fingers down your throat. Once your throat is pliant and his fingers are coated in your spit, he either make you blow him or he fingers you wherever you are, his other hand stroking all over your body. Then he goes back into his room while you’re there, dripping wet. Heeseung likes having you wet all the time, so he can fuck you at his convenience.

Like right now, he was playing another game of Overwatch, hunched over his controller and eyes laser-focused on the screen. You were on your hands and knees, pushing yourself back and forth on his dick. This time, he had made you wear a cow-print bikini, complete with a bell; every time you fucked yourself on his cock, it would jingle.

“Fuck,” Heeseung says, voice ragged, “my team’s Tracer is so shit at kiting. It’s such a basic concept.”

“That really sucks,” you say through gritted teeth.

Heeseung reaches his hand out and touches your cheek, rubbing his thumb along your lips. “You’re such a good listener,” he coos, lazily thrusting as he removes his hand and continues playing his game. He soon stops moving, and you have to pick up his slack, rocking yourself as fast as you can so he can cum and be done with it. “Ah, stop going so fast,” Heeseung says, lightly slapping your ass. “I want to sync my nut up for when I use my ultimate.”

As you heed his instructions, you squeeze your eyes shut and tell yourself that homelessness is a far worse prospect than this, homelessness is bad, you wouldn’t like a homeless shelter.

It wasn’t like he didn’t jerk off anymore, either. He did, maybe even more than before he started using you. Heeseung liked to spread his legs, milk his cock right in front of you, then lick up the cum off of the couch while he told you to play with yourself. Whenever you got close to cumming, he would tell you to stop and do some task for him. Then, when you were scrubbing the dishes or wiping down his desk, he would plunge his cock into you and fuck you until you were twitching and crying out. Other times, he would make you sit in his room with him. He would sit you on his lap while he watched some degenerate hentai, and he would make you jerk him off while he fondled your tits and rubbed your clit.

Once, you went to bed early because you had a hard day at work. Your dream is odd; you’re running from a ghost in a dilapidated mansion. You can’t see it, but you can feel its presence. Then you feel it catch you, its hands wrapping around your waist, your tits. The ghost rubs your body slowly, almost tenderly, and you can feel its hardness pressing against your ass as you’re suspended in the air.

When you open your eyes, you realize that it wasn’t a dream, not quite. There is a hand that has slipped under your shirt, caressing your chest, and another hand on your waist. And someone is humping you, whimpering as he does. Quite belatedly, you realize that your pajama pants have been pulled down.

“Heeseung?” you whisper sleepily.

“Shh,” he says, “just go back to sleep, okay? I’ll be done soon.”

You’re too tired from everything to fight it, so your eyes flutter shut. Heeseung slowly thrusts into you, almost like he doesn’t want to wake you, and you smile slightly at the sentiment. He fucks you lazily and slowly, and only speeds up when he’s about to cum. He cums inside of you and uses his fingers to push his seed back up.

“Thanks for letting me do that,” he whispers before leaving you alone.

As you’re drifting to sleep again, you can hear him telling someone to, “Fucking stop camping.”

This is still better than being homeless.

[callsign-swan]

Imagine a one shot with Rhett Abbott x reader where reader goes to New York to become a dancer but breaks their leg so bad that they have to go home to Wyoming. Their dancing dreams are ruined but Rhett comforts them and helps nurse them back to health <3

never leave me alone with things to write (i went so far off the rails and i love it)

navi

Wabang hadn't changed. In all of the years she had been gone, moved across the country, Wabang hadn't changed. Five years had gone by. Five years and the Tillersons were still fighting with the Abbott family, Rhett Abbott was still riding bulls. The Gambler was still the 'hot spot' (or the closest thing they had), and that same movie was still playing at the theatre.

It didn't feel right, being back here. Nothing had brought her back. Not home sickness, not some desperate call. The urge to return to Wabang hadn't manifested when she was laid up in hospital, her fellow dancers surrounding her with flowers and get well cards.

The urge to return to Wabang hadn't manifested when her dream had been crushed.

The only reason she was back was money. Living in New York was expensive. Living in New York with no job and medical bills was impossible.

Her mother welcomed her back with open arms. The rest of the town didn't. They stared. Openly stared at her as she walked around the grocery store, picking up the things on her mothers neatly scribbled list.

She was a stranger in her home town.

(It escaped her knowledge that Maria Olivares had returned to Wabang to a much warmer recception)

It was easier to become a recluse, hiding away in her room, staring at the pointe shoes on her shelf. Wishing she were anywhere back here, twirling and leaping across a stage.

It was easier to become a recluse, but her mother wouldn't let her. Unlike her teenaged years, her mother pushed her to go out. Drove her to The Handsome Gambler, promised to pick her up once she made some friends.

She had friends in Wabang. Friends that wanted nothing to do with her since she disappeared to New York, never to speak to any of them again.

As soon as she stepped into The Gambler, eyes were on her. Either because they didn't want her in town, or they were staring at her slight limp. She didn't know. She didn't care.

One drink and she would leave, hike her way home if she had to.

Sitting at the bar, she placed her purse down in front of her. Not a second later, before she had her drink in front of her, somebody was sitting beside him.

God, he'd owned that cap since before she left. The logo had faded considerably, but she would recognise that cap anywhere.

The way he looked at her hadn't changed either. Like there was something he so desperately wanted to say, something he wouldn't let himself say. Something she had so desperately want to know since they were teenagers.

"Didn't think I'd see you back here," Rhett mumbled, lifting his bottle of beer to his lips.

She glanced at him as her drink was placed in front of him. The same as his, but simply because she didn't know what else to order. "Neither did I," she answered honestly.

"Didn't think you'd come back from New York," he said, his bottle hitting the table.

"Neither did I."

Rhett glanced at her. But he focused his blue gaze forward, at the mirror behind the bar. "Why did you come back?"

She shook her head, looking down at the wet ring her bottle left behind on the bar top.

He tried again, tried something new. He swallowed his mouthful of beer and turned to her. Still not looking at her, though. "What was New York like?"

The question was like a punch to the gut. She resisted the urge to say 'ow', wrapping her fingers around the neck of her beer bottle. "You wouldn't like it," she muttered. But, then again, nobody in Wabang would like New York. "No bulls to ride, no Trevor to fight. You'd get bored, Rhett."

He laughed a chuckling sort of laugh, the slight laugh she recognised from years before. "I woulda seen you dance, though," he mumbled.

The smile dropped from her face. "Yeah," she whispered. "Well, there's a reason I'm home," she said, staring into her beer bottle. The dark glass and lack of light in The Gambler left nothing to see.

"'shame," Rhett said, standing from his seat. "Woulda liked to have seen that."

He walked away, leaving her to finish her beer in peace.

[stealingpotatoes]

in your period drama au, who has the highest royal status?

(also just out of curiosity is ahsoka human)

due to the fact i can't draw anything without making an extensive plot for it in my head, my fun little au is actually about luke and leia befriending each other in some bridgerton-style debutante season completely unaware they're the children of the reclusive queen amidala and her secret knight lover (princess at the time of the relationship) <3 but they find this out thru mystery-ing and some secondary plot yay

but yeah to answer your question more directly padme is the queen, satine is a duchess obvs, leia's some sort of lady or ladyling, and luke is upper class non-nobility of some sort idk (until he becomes prince and leia princess), and the jedi are all knights

speaking of jedi uh. i never thought about ahsoka in this but i'll draw more period drama au and get back to you <3

[leyavo]

| Dum spiro, spero | 1

- “while I breathe, I hope”

Summary: You can’t quite seem to adapt to life after a failed op and being tortured. Demoted sergeant to archives assistant, you're slowly becoming a recluse, but years later Ghost offers you a way out.

| Beta!reader x Beta!Ghost | Hurt/angst/comfort/mentions of torture. Featuring Alpha!Price 2115words [Masterlist]

Fate, you hated the word. Every fibre of your being ripped to shreds in the name of the moon. Divinely guided by some goddess watching over you. You’d long stopped talking to the night sky and in general.

You’re lucky to be breathing. The same words thrown your way, without a single thought. The more you heard it, the more it sounded like a threat. No wonder you were always snapping.

Eight years had passed since that failed op. Since you’d lost all sense of self. No you’d come back in someone else’s flesh. Might as well have had another person’s fur. And the years to follow made you feel like a human. You just didn’t expect your pack to treat you like one either.

Most of your days were spent in the dingy archival basement, sorting through paper files for other task forces missions and putting them back on the shelf. In the darkest depths of the archives, keeping you away from everyone else. You liked it that way.

You smelt him before you heard the weight of his steps. The one thing that remained strong, your sense of smell and you relied on it more than you liked. The last scrap of your wolf holding on, you’d been stripped of everything else by your Alpha. No shifting, claws ripped out and left to mirror a human’s hand. You tried to grow your nails, but they were never quite sharp enough. No you mourned the claws, how they used to slice through flesh like a blade and screech against the floor.

This scent, however did not overpower and cloud your senses. No, these were subtle. Hints of tobacco, a musk you couldn’t identify as if he had a signature aroma or a blend with another. Not a lone wolf, but one that had pack.

Definitely alpha though, you could feel the blood writhing beneath your flesh. That little voice in your mind whispering for you to obey, the pressure making you bow your head as he rounded the corner. It didn’t matter how much you tried to fight it, alpha’s got what they wanted in the end.

Your gaze trails after the worn brown boots, kicking the rolling dust along the linoleum flooring as he walked closer.

“Nona.” - your call-sign, the ninth beta to join your task force. Most new recruits were given a number and earned their next one. You were never given another.

You don’t remember much of your life before enlisting in the military, the name you were born with felt more foreign than the number they gave you in the task force. Memory worse since the torture, flickers of the traumatic experience the only thing that wandered back into your mind.

“Would you prefer I call you something else?” His voice soft, you barely register the low tone that rumbles from his chest. Of course, he can smell the pungent bitterness burning the back of your throat.

You blink, vision sharp and clear as you rake your eyes up his thick thighs, gun strapped to his left hip and tactical vest covering his chest. Like he’s just walked here from an op, his fingers are curled around the vest in front of his broad shoulders. A well trimmed beard lines his jaw, moustache framing his lips and chin.

Captain John Price, Alpha of the 141. He doesn’t need to introduce to himself. Each of his team just as legendary as he himself. No one turned down an offer from him. You'd be lying if you said you hadn't noticed them around base. They were hard to miss, commanding any room they entered.

“Nona’s fine, Alpha,” you say, voice gravelly and strained as you try the swallow the lump at the back of your throat. Your fingers twitch by your side, but you fight the urge to rub the heat spreading across your neck. That’s like revealing a weakness to a predator.

His gaze flits to your hand though. Nothing gets past him, no he see's right through you.

“You used to work with frequencies,” he pauses, as if waiting for you to reply, so you nod. “Rare for our kind, recon you could help my task force as a technician?”

Another thing that you were ridiculed for growing up, your lack of hearing. Well for a werewolf, it wasn’t great…human some would say. So you could handle the frequencies used against your own kind. Sometimes you’d even crank it up in the armoury to piss off your team mates when they pushed you too far. Just a little for it to give them a headache, but not enough for them to realise it was a frequency by the sound.

“Join my pack, bond with one of my beta’s and you might just get to see the sun.”

Bond, not mate. You didn’t miss the way he phrased it. You wonder if he's read your file, even the redacted parts.

Part of you wasn't sure if you were ready to face the light, used to blending into the darkness and merging with the silence. Today was the first time in weeks you'd spoken out loud, you didn't even speak to your own alpha. Something he preferred.

“I’ll be back in the morning, so think it over.”

⫘⫘⫘-⫘⫘⫘

The morning couldn’t come quick enough, Ghost had spent the whole night dragging his desk and other items out of his office into his connected bedroom. Perks of being a lieutenant, a decent sized room, en-suite and an office.

He had to remind himself he wouldn’t be mating, but bonding with you. A whole different kind of relationship. There’s no way he’d make you share a room with him, let alone a bed. So he made the small office into a separate room for you.

A single bed pushed up against the wall and a compact chest of drawers squeezed beside it. Not much space, but least it’d be your own. He didn’t bother with sheets or pillows, knowing that you’d bring your own to keep the comforting scent.

Ghost was yet to meet you, heard about you though. Seen your teeth marks in your alpha’s neck. He didn’t pay much attention to the murmurs surrounding your throat or the scars carved into your flesh.

No, he couldn’t help but stare as you walked into his bedroom. The puckered skin lining the column of your neck, the most vulnerable part of a wolf. A curved line marred your right cheek and disappeared behind your right, torn earlobe.

You held his stare though, lifting your chin as if showing him the full extent of your scars. Not that it was anything to be ashamed of.

He’s read your medical reports, knows your vocal cords were damaged beyond repair. How it hurts to speak above a whisper that you don’t bother most of the time. Read the reoccurring dream analysis of you choking on your own blood, Ghost notes to check on you later.

Tucked under your arm is a lumpy pillow, your fingers grasping the fabric as if it’d going to slip through them. Your thin blanket balled up and secured between your upper arm and side of your ribs.

Price hands your duffle to Ghost, small canvas bag covered in mismatched patches. The same one they give you in the training centre, his didn’t last this long. You’re a few years younger than him, thirty three. He’s a head taller than you, but you don’t shrink in his shadow. No you straighten your back and keep his levelled gaze.

Your belongings are plucked from you, Price setting them on the desk now in Ghost’s room. He bids you goodbye, not looking back as he closes the door behind him.

Beta to beta bonds weren’t encouraged, they were seen as unprofessional and lacking discipline or true leadership. The fight to see who would be more dominate, a ninety eight percent fail most of the time. A reason why packs were more efficient.

Could Ghost and you be that two percent? “I like me chances,” he says thinking out loud, you frown at his words.

Ghost grasps your chin in his gloved hand, your lip curling and teeth baring. His gaze lingers on your shaved canines, some sort of punishment for biting your previous Alpha. No bite, a way to weaken you and strip you of a basic need or instinct. Defenceless to those above you.

Still he wonders if your teeth would sink into his neck.

He leans down, his nose trailing your collar bone. Pausing as you hold your breath, waiting for you exhale before he nudges your mating gland. Or the lack of it…the jagged scar making it both difficult to find and scent it. No warmth or reassurance could be transferred to help regulate your emotions. Nothing Ghost could do to help you during your heat.

There’s a subtle hint of jasmine, the kind that blooms at night. He wonders if it’s stronger in the evening.

Ghost doesn’t miss the quiver of your throat as he pulls back, only natural for you to seek out another wolf even if you’re trying to suppress that need. You know that you have to self soothe, no other capable of doing so since your torture.

“I ain’t going to bite ya’. I’m a wolf not an animal.” Again he’s read your folder, seen the experiments your alpha put you through, trying to force a mating connection. How many others bit the scar covering your mating gland?

Bonding, not mating.

None could quite sink their teeth deep enough to mate with you. So they hid you away and neglected you.

“Can’t promise the same,” you whisper, tongue tracing your shaved canine. He knows it’s a thinly veiled threat and not a flirtatious line, but his stomach flips.

Ghost knows it’s his turn to let you scent him, to get acquainted to him and his natural musk. He sits on the edge of his bed, angling his head to the side to show more skin. To allow you more space to shove your face into the crook of his neck.

You don’t move though, blinking down at him. Have you not scented anyone before? Ah, he forgot, your previous pack doesn’t let their females scent the males. Old tradition where the female gives up their own and take on the males, so they smell the same. A good way to deter unmated wolves too.

He tugs you onto his lap, one arm wrapping around your waist, his fingers digging into the muscle of your hip. His other hand snaking up your back and grasping the nape of your neck, like a pup.

A low guttural whine slips from your parted lips, palms resting on his chest as you tried to stop him pushing your face to his collarbone. Your cold nose bumping against the heated spot, muscle flexing at your touch.

“Need to do it, Nona. Otherwise you’re going to go mad,” he says, his thumb brushing the scar covering your mating gland. It won’t soothe you, distract you maybe though.

You grunt, body slumping against his as you lean into the scent. Ghost’s hand fell from your neck, fingers gliding up and down your spine, chasing the tension away.

If he didn’t do this now, you’d be overwhelmed by his presence. That wouldn’t be fair to you or him. He wanted you to be comfortable, free to move around his space as if it were your own because it was now.

Ghost doesn’t know how long your nose had been buried into his neck, but he ain’t complaining. The tingles surging through his shoulder melts away the ache of his sore muscle. Your touch like magic, without even knowing it. He wonders if he’s a grounding anchor for you too.

Scenting normally took at least three hours, sometimes more but that meant staying close and doing tasks together for most of the day. Not holding each other for as long as you have.

He doesn’t know how you pushed him to lay back on the bed, your nose still nudging his neck. Your eyes closed, one arm under his neck and other arm draped over his chest. His legs tangled with yours, he doesn’t complain about the weight your body on his.

Ghost remembers the first time he scented with someone else, knows from experience how touch starved you are. Something as simple as a scent and the warmth of his skin making you stay.

And when he hears the change in your breathing, he waits a couple hours till he knows you’re in a deep sleep before carrying you to your bed.

⫘⫘⫘-⫘⫘⫘

Something's that been in my draft for ages. Might be some errors/mistakes as I am dyslexic. I do check my work multiple times, but still miss things - Leya

[cavegirlpoems]

On Blorbability

I think one of the strengths of modern D&D is the ability to efficiently describe the blorbos you make with it using understandable components. Like the template of Alignment + Species + Background + Class lets you put together a quite evocative picture of who a character is quite efficiently, just by swapping in and out those components like those mix-and-match monster flipbooks.

Like, to take a character I played, when I say:

Lawful-Evil Drow Monk with the Inquisitor background.

you can immediately picture that character, right?

You can do this indefinitely. "Chaotic-Good Halfling Bard Criminal" or "Chaotic-Neutral Human Barbarian Outlander" or "Lawful-neutral Elf Wizard Accademic". It clicks.

There's a sweet spot of having the right amount of slots you pick from, 3-4. Less than that and the blorbo comes out flat, more and its too granular. An OSR character is probably one template (class), two if you're doing race+class AD&D style, and thats not quite enough detail to go full Blorb. Same with most PbtA games where you just pick a playbook. A gurps character is pretty darn granular, and is also not a particularly legible blorbo even if you can be very expressive with it.

The actual *stats* don't matter, what your attributes and spells and gear are don't matter much, the point is that you're madlibsing archetypes together in a legible way.

Like take vampire the masquerade as another good example of an extremely blorbable game. Here, the actual weight of your character is carried by attributes/skills/disciplines/backgrounds/merits, right? But you can still describe them with that same combination of archetypes. Here's a character I'm playing right now:

Ancilla Noiad Anarch on the Path of Harmony.

Age + Clan + Sect + Path. Simple. Four tags and you get a good picture of who this character is. And like, I bet you could take a good guess at what she's like mechanically, right? From that description, I bet you're picturing somebody with Survival and Stealth and decent combat and probably leaning hard into Protean, and that's accurate!

Here's some more VtM characters. "Camarilla Ventrue Elder on Humanity", "Camarilla Ventrue Elder on Honorable Accord", "Sabbat Tzimisce Elder on Path of Ecstasy", "Independent Giovanni Neonate on Humanity". If you're familiar with VtM, you can picture the shape of these characters.

+ + +

So I'm taking this idea and applying it to my Magical Girl project. You have two playbooks that slot together - one magical and one mundane - and then you pick whether you're heroic or villainous. And on top of that, in the late game you might become Something Else like a Spectre or a Princess. So that's 3-4 mix-and-match slots. A player character can be expressed as:

Villainous Ruffian Blaster

and you can picture who she is. The combinations work. "Heroic Recluse Spy", "Villainous Fangirl Summoner", "Heroic Weirdo Cheat becoming a Princess", these are legible just from the options picked.

Which I think is a good sign, it means its easy to picture and communicate the sorts of characters you can have in the game.

[calypsocolada]

ONE MONTH | g. tomioka

synopsis: your sent to train with the ever ellusive and quiet water hashira... request: "the people yearn for a story from you that’s1. giyu x afab reader2. fluff3. something along the lines of giyu is a hashira and you’re a young swordsmen working you way up the ranks and giyu becomes fixated on you. the first reason he’ll fall for you is because you’re the first person to talk to him like you actually wanna “hear” what he has to say and doesn’t just brush him off because of how recluse he is..."author's note: helloooo is it clear that I'm a bit obsessed with giyu right now? this one goes out to you anonymous! hope I made you proud :) cw: blood, gore, fluff, fem reader wc: 5.2k

click here for my masterlist

---------------------------------------------------

Giyu read over the letter again, folding it up as he stood near the train station, wind picking up as the oncoming train approached. He pocketed the letter and pushed off the pillar he was leaned against and waited for the train to pull to a stop. Ms. Kanroji was sending her new tsuguko to train with him for a month as well as accompany him on a mission the last week of the month. The love hashira claimed in her letter to see great promise in this slayer and wanted her to train with each hashira for a bit before settling on a breathing style. 

Giyu wasn’t one for partnering up, let alone training people but he owed Ms. Kanroji a favor and although she wouldn’t hold him to it he still decided to let it happen. After all, what's the worst that could happen? 

“I heard the water hashira hates people.” A girl whispered to your left as the train pulled closer to the station. You turned to her with a gentle smile.

“If he hated people he wouldn’t be a Hashira.” You implored softly. 

You’d been on a bit of a roundtrip meeting of each hashira for about four months now. So far you’d met the mist breathing hashira who let you braid his hair out of his face during training. The sound hashira who’d asked if you wanted to be his fourth wife, tempting but you had your mind set on other things in the present moment. The wind hashira who instead of verbally assaulting you like he did with all the other slayers had sighed and told you you were something promising. The serpent hashira was very kind to you. Definitely because you were Mitsuri’s tsuguko though. But still you made a good impression on him and he said in some moments you reminded him of Mitsuri. 

And now here you are, at your fifth hashira. The water hashira, Giyu Tomioka. You’d never met him in person before this training started but a boy you met at the butterfly mansion with hanafuda earrings told you he cherished Giyu as a friend.

“I knew a slayer that said she tried hard getting along with him and he wouldn’t even talk to her.” She returns with wide eyes.

“Maybe he was having an off day, you never really know what someone’s going through.” You say and the girl besides you sighs softly. You two had met at Mr. Shinazugawa’s training and she was sort of a pessimistic person. 

“You’re too optimistic.” She pouted just as the train came to a complete stop. You grabbed your things and smiled down at her.

“That’s not always a bad thing.” You give her a wave and reluctantly she waves back as you weave your way off the train. You step off, the sun low in the sky as a gentle wind pushes your hair back out of your face. 

It was easy to spot Giyu once he pushed through the crowd towards you. He was tall and lean, black coal hair and the darkest blue eyes you’d ever seen. It was like glimpsing into the ocean at midnight. You swallowed and smiled brightly, pushing the little gossip your friend had told you on the train to the back of your mind. 

“Mr. Tomioka, I’m Y/n, Ms. Kanroji’s tsuguko. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” You smiled, holding your hand out to the taller man. His eyes met yours for a moment, then looked down at your hand in the space between you. It hung there for an awkward second and just as you went to lower it he met you hand in a gentle and firm shake. You quietly sighed in relief, glad he saved you from last minute embarrassment.

“You may call me Giyu.” He says softly. Your eyes meet his as you nod your head in affirmation. You stopped yourself from saying ‘yes, sir’ thankfully as he reached a hand out for your bags. You smiled brightly as he helped you carry them.

“Thank you very much.” You beamed but he didn’t return your smile, he just turned and led the way towards his house, which you quietly took as a que to follow.

It was a short walk to the house and Giyu’s place sort of reflected him in a way. It was calm with earthy tones. Though as he showed you to your room you thought maybe a few window’s needed to be opened because you found yourself almost tripping in the darkness several times. He pulled the door open to your room and placed your bags down. 

“Make yourself at home. I’ll prepare something to eat.”

“Oh! That’s very kind… would you like my help?” You asked, setting your own bags down and turning just as he shook his head ‘no’. 

“I’ll come get you when it’s ready.” He says, leaving you in your room alone. You swallowed. So maybe the gossip about him wasn’t too far off but only time could tell. You had a habit of somehow breaking through to rough around the edges types. You thought for sure you’d never even scratch the surface of Mr. Shinazugawa but he showed you kindness near the end. And the same went for Mr. Obanai. You were the type of person that saw the good in all people, and you’d find the good in Mr. Tomioka. 

Once you finished settling in you turned just as Giyu gently knocked on your door. You opened it with a smile.

“Settled?” He asked as you nodded your head. “Dinner ready. You can eat at the table.” He says and walks the opposite way to the kitchen. You stepped out of your room.

“You’re not eating?” You asked as he paused. 

“Hmm? I ate already. Figured you’d want to eat alone.”

“Oh,” You say, turning towards the kitchen. “I wouldn’t have minded eating dinner with you. It’s quite lonely eating alone.” You say and Giyu blinks at you for a moment. As if stunned by your words. He parts his lips and seemingly searches for the right words. He clears his throat.

“I apologize,” He starts. “It’s… been a while since I’ve had anyone here.”

“It’s alright.” You beam. “Next time.” You turn and walk towards the kitchen, sitting to eat dinner. So Giyu really thought you wouldn’t even want to eat with him? Did he really think his presence was that much of a hassle? As you ate, you wondered just how long he’d been cooped up here all alone. It was quite dark in his place, nothing on the walls, no memories with his family hung up on the walls. No books well loved in a nook. No plants or anything to signify this place was even lived in. It was a sterile type of clean. If you’d walked in here unknowing of Giyu, you would’ve thought this place was vacant. You poked at your food as your mind swirled you in circles. Each of the previous Hashira’s hadn’t spoken too highly of Giyu. 

Tokito had referred to him as a decorative object, which you took to mean they didn’t speak much. Tengen outright said he was depressing to be around, that he was gloomy. Which Obanai had seconded, saying his gloomy attitude pissed him off. Sanemi thought Giyu was stuck up, that he thought he was better than anyone else. 

But you didn’t get any of that. Sure you’d only spoken to him briefly and you were here for one reason, to train. But you decided to befriend him because he didn’t seem stuck up or gloomy. He just seemed lonely. And you knew how to deal with loneliness.

In the morning Giyu woke you up before the sun even got the chance to rise. He taught you the basics of water breathing and had you run through a few trials. Giyu only spoke when he needed to. He carefully adjusted your stances, asking permission to touch you first every time. His hand would slide down your arm just under your elbow and raise it up just slightly, his hands falling down to your hips to turn them.

“Spread your feet,” He intoned and you followed instructions. He walked around the front, he’d test your swings a few times, nodding his head. “Kanroji was right about you.” He said as you two finished up for the day. You raised your brow as he handed you a cup of water.

“What’d she say?” You asked, wiping the sweat from your brow and taking a drink of your water. 

“You’re talented.” He said and when you looked at him with a smile he looked away, red faced. 

Giyu made dinner and this time you ate with him. He cooked as you washed up and you helped set the table once you were out.

“This is delicious.” You smiled. Giyu didn’t look up from his plate as he nodded his head. “Do you cook often?”

“Every night.” He answers shortly. You bite your lip, hoping you weren’t annoying him. You were just a curious person. It was silent for a moment and then Giyu surprised you. “Do you… cook?” He asks, almost a little awkwardly. You look up and he still doesn’t meet your eyes.

“I’ve learned to. I wanted to be useful for Ms. Kanroji since she’s teaching me so much so I learned to cook her favorite things.” You explain as Giyu nods.

“What about you?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s your favorite things to cook?” You smile at his question.

“I like sweet things. My mom used to make this taro bread and… I wish I could figure out her recipe but… haven’t gotten it quite yet.”

“You can’t ask her?”

“We don’t,” You clear your throat somewhat awkwardly. You didn’t want to bring down the mood so you just forced a smile. “I’ll ask next time I see her.” You looked back down at your plate and felt Giyu’s eyes on you. You could tell he saw through your lie but he didn’t ask about it. 

After almost a month of training you and Giyu set off on a mission together. You boarded the train in the morning and disembarked closer to nightfall. From what Giyu told you a demon had been rumored to have been feasting off of a small town in the mountains. It was quite the trek to the town and as you got closer you saw the dim lights. You walked a bit faster to keep stride with Giyu and cleared your throat, speaking softly. 

“It’s quiet.” 

“It’s a small town, a lot of older people reside here.” He answers as you nod your head, eyes scanning around for any sort of movement. Giyu must’ve heard something because his arm instantly extends infront to stop you. You pause your movements immediately as he moves in front of you protectively, his hand on the hilt of his katana. It was deathly quiet where you two stood. Even the trees seemed to have paused their swaying, the wind slowing. You watch Giyu take a few steps, he glanced back at you, holding out a hand. His way to tell you to stay directly behind him. You nod once and keep close to him. You hadn’t heard a thing, but the hairs on your arms stood. The air felt heavy as you slowly placed your hand on your sword, ready to yank it out when needed. The town came closer into view as you two stepped quietly on the road. It was nearing 7 p.m. and not a single soul walked around the streets. They were practically deserted. Giyu backed up and leaned close to you, his breath tickling the side of your face as he spoke. 

“Something is watching. From the trees.” He warned as your eyes immediately shot to the trees around. Still you didn’t see a thing. But you didn’t question Giyu, you knew he had better instincts than you. Something learned over the years. Something you didn’t possess quite yet. “Stay close.” Giyu commanded and again you nodded your head as he led the way into the village. Sure enough all the lights were off, some street lamps lit your way but the houses and businesses were practically dead. Something dark caught your eye, a dark spot on the steps leading up to a small house. You walked towards it but made it two steps before you felt a hand shot out, gently catching your wrist. You realized you hadn’t even alerted Giyu, just naively starting walking towards something probably dangerous. He gave you a sharp look and you returned a guilty one.

“Sorry,” You pointed towards the spot and his eyes followed. He walked first towards the spot, bending over. The closer you got you realized what it was. Blood. A dark red puddle of blood that led up the house, the door to the house precariously open. You both, on instinct, pulled out your swords in one quick motion. He gave you a look that told you to stay close as he walked up the stairs of the house. The house was even more deathly quiet if that was even possible. The walls were covered in blood, the smell of metal so strong it almost made you gag. You held tighter to your sword, eyes darting left and right as Giyu leaned and inspected a print left in the blood. 

“It’s fresh.” He says up to you just as something from upstairs rumbles. Giyu stands quickly, he notices the fear in your eyes and you feel the gentlest of touches to your chin, his way of asking you to look up at him. You two shared a meaningful look. He didn’t have to say a thing in the dark house. You just understood. He’d keep you safe and you’d do your best to be helpful and watch his back.

You two made your way upstairs, checking room by room and just as Giyu pushed the last one open something stopped in the moonlight. Over Giyu’s shoulder all you saw was red eyes before it attacked. Giyu was quick to step into the room, overwhelming the demon with a quick succession of slashes before it could even think of getting close to you. 

Something ticked to your right and before you could even turn your eyes to the noise a demon slammed into you, taking you crashing down the stairs with it. It’s claws digging into you as your sword clatters out of your hands. A silly and deadly naive move on your part as the demon recovered before you did. 

You scrambled from the floor towards your sword, feeling hot blood coat the sides of your shirt from the slashes it dealt on you moments ago. A clawed paw wrapped around your ankle just as you were a fingertips length away from your blade as it yanked you back towards the dark. You kicked at the thing, finding purchase as your heel met the thing's throat. It coughed and sputtered as you recovered quickly, rolling towards your sword, yanking it up just as the demon pounced back towards you. You slashed out in a wide arc, your aim true as you lopped the creature's head right from its shoulders. It burst into flames and dusted away just as Giyu ran down the stairs. You blew out a shaky breath as he pulled you from the ground with surprising strength, checking you over.

“You’re hurt,” He sees the blood on your sides from the claws.

“It’s nothing really,” You answer, barely lifting the side of your shirt. The slashes are deeper than you thought when you finally see them.

“That’s not nothing,” He guides you carefully to a chair and bends to his knee. “May I?” He asks as you nod your head. He reaches and gently pulls your shirt up, He looks it over for a moment before carefully wiping up the blood and gently wrapping it. He ties off the bandage and pulls your shirt back down. He meets your eyes. “You did well defending yourself.” He says and you can’t help but blush and smile. 

“I’ve had good teachers.” You remark and swear Giyu’s cheeks are just as red as yours as he stands back up.

“It’s not over just yet, alright. I’d like for you to stay here while I check out the rest of the village.” He says, not meeting your eyes as he walks back towards the front door.

“Mr. Tomioka! I can’t just leave you on your own. We’re partners.” You say, pushing to your feet. Your side screams in pain but you don’t show it on your face as you follow him. He turns and shakes his head, meeting your eyes.

“No. Stay here and rest up. It won’t take me long.”

“No,” You argued, clearing your throat. “I’m fine. I swear.” You implore, not wanting to split from him for even a moment. Giyu walked back towards you, leveling his eyes with yours. 

“You’ve done enough. That wound is deep. You need to take a rest.”

“I promise… I’m alright.” You give your best soft smile and watch Giyu smile, his eyes dipping to your lips before he looks away quickly, clearing his throat.

“You stay plastered to my side and let me deal with any demons. Promise me.” He says, an intense look in his eyes. You nod your head.

“I promise.”

Giyu didn’t let you out of his sight even for a moment, he’d glance back at you regularly as you made your way through the rest of the village. He was very attentive, so attentive that it was making you blush. Two weeks spent together and he seemed to really care for you as a friend. All those long hours spent training, eating together, you really felt as though you’d conjured up another friendship. 

Something rustled near the edge of the village as you both turned at the sound, Giyu was quick to step between you and the sound. There was a distant cry and a deep growl as you pulled out your sword. Giyu narrowed his eyes just as another demon crashed out of the forest towards you two, you blinked, its head toppled off its body, Giyu’s blade glinting in the dim light. He killed it in mere seconds. You hadn’t even had time to think before it was lighting on fire and dusting into nothing. Your eyes widened as a smile fit your face. He was impressive and you couldn’t help but admire his skill. Giyu was back at your side in seconds checking you over as if you even got a chance to move.

“I’m okay, Giyu.” You insisted as he nodded his head, blowing out what seemed to be a breath of relief.

Giyu rented a room at a nearby inn and as you two settled inside he insisted on checking your wound over again before bed. He sat you down and unwrapped the bandaging to clean up the wound and wrap it up again with clean bandages. 

“You think it’ll scar?” You ask as Giyu shakes his head,

“I don’t think so.”

“It’d be kind of cool, though. Like a memento of our time together.” You smile as Giyu’s eyes snap to yours. In this light he blushes, actually blushes at your words. You almost can’t believe your eyes. He looks away, embarrassed as he speaks.

“It’ll heal up just fine.” He says and pushes back to his feet. You clear your throat. 

“Giyu?” You ask as he pulls back the cover on his cot, yours a few feet from his. 

“Hm?”

“You’re incredible, you took out that demon in… seconds.” 

“It was a weak one.”

“Still. It’s been an honor to train with you.” You say as Giyu turns away from you. “May I ask you something?”

“Hmm?”

“What made you want to be a hashira?” It’s silent for a moment and you wonder if somehow either he fell asleep or didn’t hear you, that is until he turns over, eyes meeting yours.

“What made you want to be a slayer?” He countered. You smiled. You two had broached this topic on your second night together but you had brushed it off then. But now… now you felt compelled to tell him. 

“My mother was turned into one. It was late, I usually waited up for her with my siblings till she got home from work. But… it wasn’t her that walked through the door… it… well you know. Demons don’t think much other than to kill. My mother tried to attack my younger siblings and I-- I had to kill her.” You recount, clearing your throat as tears well up into your eyes. Giyu watched you with an unreadable expression. He then pushed off his cot and sat beside you, just as you turned Giyu pulled you into a gentle hug. You instantly hugged back, smiling against his shoulder as he held you. You missed your family and you came to terms with things a long time ago, you did what you had to do. You saved your siblings from something that wasn’t your mother anymore. After that night you vowed to try and do that for others so they wouldn’t have to go through the pain you went through that night. To try and prevent it. When he pulled back he looked sad for you, you smiled at him. “Thank you…”

“That must’ve been hard.” He says as you nod your head.

“I miss her. I do… but I don’t regret it. I had to save my family.” You say.

“You’re the incredible one.” He says and now you're the one blushing shamelessly. His eyes soften and for the first time you feel your heart speed just at the sight. You look away for a second before clearing your throat.

“You dodged my question early.” You say as Giyu slightly cocks his head. “Why did you become a hashira?”

“You don’t want to hear that.” He says as you nod your head.

“I do. I really do.” You implore. He looks at you. Really really looks at you.

“I… shouldn’t be.” He starts as you furrow your brow. “My friend… he should be where I am now.”

“Giyu…” You shake your head. He tells you his story, about his friend Sabito, who sacrificed his life to save everyone during the entrance exam. You could hear the hurt in his voice as he told it. The way he thought he really didn’t deserve to be a hashira. You couldn’t just sit there and listen, not when you felt so strongly. You turned and looked him straight in the eyes. “You deserve to be where you are, Giyu. You worked incredibly hard and… watching you fight… It was so inspiring so… amazing. It baffles me that you really think you’re on a lower level than everyone else.” You start, you gently grab his hand. “Spending this past month with you has been an honor. You deserve everything good that comes your way, Giyu.” You give his hand a little squeeze. His lips part wordlessly, you hope your words meant something to him. You watch him swallow and blush once again. 

“We… we should get some sleep.” He says and you can’t help the hurt that flashes across your face as he gently pulls his hand away from yours. You bite your lip. Nodding your head, you turn over in your cot, forcing your eyes closed as the light is extinguished from the room. You laid there in the dark, feeling foolish.

You stepped off the train into the blinding light, bags in your hand as you heard your name being called out. You shield the sun from your eyes just as Mitsuri practically tackled you in a hug. You giggled as you hugged her back.

“I missed you so much!” Mitsuri beamed as she picked you up and spun you around as you giggled. 

“I miss you too.” You laughed. She set you down, pinching your cheeks as she inspected you. 

“You’re taller! And look at these muscles.” She pokes at your arms as you push her hand away giggling. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry, let’s eat while you catch me up, huh?” She asks, locking her arm with yours as she pulls you towards the closest restaurant. 

Once you two are settled with lots of food on the table you recount to her things you’ve learned and moments from your travels. 

“And how was meeting the water hashira? You spent more time with him than probably any of us!” She says as she gobbles down some ramen. A soft smile fits to your lips as you push your hair from your face.

“I learned a lot from him.” You said as her eyes flew up to yours, she looked over your face and suddenly grinned like she knew a secret. 

“You talked a lot about all the other hashira’s with a neutral expression but only say a few words about Giyu and smile like that,” She points to your face and her grin widens. You blush instantly. 

“What? T-this is my normal smile.” You implore as she shakes her head. 

“I don’t think so. Spill it.”

“What?”

“You have a crush.”

“I most certainly do not.” You gasp, looking around as if Giyu was sitting somewhere in this restaurant.

“You do! You do! If only you could see your face right now, you're a blushing mess!” She laughs heartily, reaching for another dumpling. You narrow your eyes, shaking your head but… but you couldn’t hide the smile.

“You’re insatiable.” You admonished Mitsuri who gave you a bright smile.

“I knew you two would get along, and get along you did, right?” She wiggles her brows as you blush even more.

“Stop that!” You laughed, embarrassed.

“You have to share with your master.”

“This is not how a master should act.” You tease as she smirks.”Fine. Yes. I had a good time. Mr. Tomioka-”

“You even say his name in a dreamy way.”

“Hush.” You laugh. “Mr. Tomioka was very accommodating. He was very attentive during our mission and that-”

“Made your heart flutter?”

“You are the worst!” You giggle as Mitsuri gives you a cheeky smile. 

“I’m sorry, dear, it’s just… that way you talk about him and… and say his name it just reminds me of Obanai and I.” You really blush at that. “I… received a letter from Mr. Tomioka halfway through the month and the way he spoke about you… it made me wonder what really happened in that time you two spent together.”

“He wrote?” You ask as Mitsuri smiles.

“He did. He talked very adamantly to me that you were very impressive in battle and training and that he expected you to be a hashira in no time. The reason I sensed something was because most of the time he writes to me it's only a sentence or two but… he spoke of you so fondly he almost filled the whole page.” Mitsuri smiles as you can’t help but smile back. 

“I… I was sure I messed things up.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I thought… I thought we’d gotten closer, that he’d warmed up to me but… by the last day he shut back down. He barely spoke to me and even when I boarded the train he only just said goodbye.” You recount his cold treatment as Mitsuri reaches across the table, gently taking your hand. 

“Obanai was the same way. Sometimes people shut down when something good is dangled right in front of them. Don’t be disheartened.” She says with a comforting smile. You give her a smile back. 

“It’s alright, really, I was just happy to learn from him. I couldn’t ask for more than that.” You say and Mitsuri leans back, she gazes at you for a moment, pouting. 

“Did you at least thank him?” She asks as your eyes fly up to hers.

“I… I didn’t… I can’t believe I forgot…”

“It’s alright, dear, when we get back you can write him a letter, hmm?” She asks as you nod your head. 

Once back Mitsuri lends you her writing kit as you make your way to the wisteria garden near the back of her mansion. You picked a nice tree to sit under and laid out your supplies. 

-

Dear Mr. Tomioka, 

I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted to write to you and thank you for your time. I apologize for not saying this to you face to face, it seemed to just slip my mind. I also wanted to apologize if I crossed a line. You showed me kindness and I wanted to give you some in return. It was none of my business and

-

“Y/n?” Your hand pauses as your eyes drift up and meet Giyu’s. You sit up straight, knocking over your ink well as you scramble to save your letter but it covers the page. 

“Mr. Tomioka!” You gasp, wiping off your hands.

“Did I startle you?” He asks as you shake your head. The wind picked up, blowing wisteria around behind Giyu. You're struck then by just how much you’d grown to like him. How utterly important it was to see him in front of you once again, how much you longed for this in such a short time. 

“I… was just writing to you. And then… here you are.”

“Ms. Kanroji said I could find you here… you were writing to me?” He asks as you nod your head.

“I… didn’t get to thank you. For your time. Training and taking care of me.”

“I would… do that for you… anytime.” Giyu says and you instantly blush, hiding a smile behind your hand. “I should apologize to you.”

“Apologize? For what?”

“I treated you coldly. You showed me kindness and I… shut down.” “You don’t have to apologize.” You smile with a shake of your head. Giyu steps a few feet closer.

“I do. I am… not well versed in opening up to people and I haven’t really wanted to.”

“That’s okay-”

“Until you.” He interrupts as your eyes fly up to his. He’s looking at you intently. “You’re… incredible in ways that are far past your fighting abilities and I find myself… wanting to be near you at every turn.” Your lips part in surprise at his confession. “When you left… I knew I had to find you. You… don’t have to say anything back, I just… wanted you to know.” Giyu says, the wind brushing his hair back out of his face. You couldn’t help the smile that formed on your lips as you took a step towards him, you reached for his hand, gently pulling his knuckles to your lips as you brushed a kiss against them.

“Now I know.” You smile up at him as the distance between you two diminished and he pulled you against him, lowering his lips to yours.

[the-crooked-library]

Creative Lineage - Dracula, Orlok, and the others

Here's the thing: the relationship between Nosferatu and Dracula is incredibly interesting - especially considering that Nosferatu (1922) was based on Dracula the book (1897), and most subsequent visual adaptations of Dracula for some reason used aspects of that film as inspiration, instead of adapting the original novel directly. As a result, there have always been endless comparisons between the two; but, in light of our most recent Nosferatu (2024), I must expand on what I personally think is their most significant (in regards to both plot development and analysis) difference.

TL;DR: it's characters. The main source of divergences between Dracula and Nosferatu is that these stories consist of vastly dissimilar characters, stuck in relatively similar situations.

I could go into heavy detail, and I will - under the cut, for the sake of all our dashboards.

At first glance, the stories of Dracula and Nosferatu are almost identical. The beginning sections follow the same essential plot beats - a young, newlywed solicitor travels to a creepy castle in Eastern Europe to assist a reclusive Count in his immigration to the West. This Count is, in fact, a vampire (otherwise known as a nosferatu), and terrorizes the young man for weeks, before departing and leaving him imprisoned; the solicitor escapes, is rescued from the wilderness by a nunnery, and returns home - where the Count has already begun his murderous process of settling in.

Here, in my opinion, is where the similarities end.

The key to understanding Nosferatu is remembering that Orlok is not Dracula; Thomas is not Jonathan; Ellen is not Mina, and so forth; and despite the mutual inspirations that affect each film adaptation of either story, the characters never react to the plot as a viewer would expect, if their precursory experience has been limited to only one or the other version.

Naturally, there are reasons for the continued addition of Nosferatu elements to Dracula adaptations. The most prominent of them is that, quite simply, audiences enjoy a fated, dangerous, inadvisable monster romance. By and large, we are titillated by the taboo; and - without adapting Le Fanu's Carmilla (1872), or adding a vampiric element to an adaptation of Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera (1910), or expanding on the queer elements of Jonathan Harker's sojourn in Transylvania - the easiest piece of classic media to sample for this sort of theme is Nosferatu (1922).

The 1922 film was, in a sense, an adaptation of Bram Stoker's Dracula (at least, enough to get the creators sued by his estate). In its efforts to circumvent copyright laws, it plays fast and loose with Stoker's lore and characters, renaming the Harkers, the Count, and everyone else - and, crucially, adding an element of erotic fixation that the vampire develops upon seeing a portrait of his solicitor's young wife. While still overseas, he builds a psychic connection with the melancholy and sensitive Ellen; it is both horrifying and sensual, and ultimately what she uses to destroy him - sacrificing her own blood and life to keep him out of his coffin until cock-crow. Ellen dies, but the sunlight annihilates Count Orlok, and the ending is a bittersweet new dawn.

This fixated, possessive, murderous eroticism (first displayed in its currently recognizable form by Carmilla) has become a cornerstone of the vampire genre. Elements of it are recognizable even in relatively modern media like Interview with the Vampire, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Twilight, as well as numerous Dracula adaptations (of which the 1992 Coppola film might be the most well-known); it is even present in other, indirect offshoots like NBC's Hannibal TV series. It is, therefore, essential to note that these overtones did not exist in the same way in Dracula the novel; and the reason for that is, specifically, a difference in character.

Count Dracula, while dangerous, vampiric, and psychic, does not possess that same singular fascination with any given character in Stoker's book (save perhaps for Jonathan Harker, temporarily). He does drain Lucy night after night, and his method of killing, like with all vampires of his type, is allegorically sexual; but it isn't personal. She keeps receiving blood transfusions - effectively, refills!.. Other than her blood, he has little interest in her. He has companionship enough already - after all, he lives with three female vampires, who may be courtesans or wives, but are colloquially referred to as Vampire Brides; and, additionally, he maintains ongoing communication with some of the people and animals that live on his land. As such, when he does bite Jonathan's wife Mina, it is a practical decision - made in order to establish a potential spy in a group of people who appear to be intent on hunting him down.

Similarly, Mina herself - despite the usual characterization of her film portrayals, which are in many ways epitomized by Coppola's 1992 version - was not originally a vulnerable maiden. She is confident and educated, she has worked for a living as an educator prior to her marriage, and she knows how to use a typewriter as well as shorthand. She has no emotional connection to Dracula whatsoever beyond pure incandescent hatred; and, frankly, forcing her into any sort of romance with him is deeply inaccurate to her character - because Mina Harker is endlessly in love with her husband Jonathan.

They may be on the lower end of middle-class, but relatively stable and planning a life together - not only as husband and wife, but as solicitor and secretary, as well. It's as close to a power couple as a novel from the 1890s will approach.

This is not the case for Ellen Hutter, largely because her social circumstances are far more precarious.

Unlike Mina, she has been forcibly isolated for the majority of her life. In that, she is yet another in the line of tragic madwomen of the gothic genre - mostly due to her eccentricities and her psychic gift, which (as the Eggers version specifies) manifested early in her childhood and became socially inexcusable during her teenage years, much like any real-world form of neurodivergence. It is implied that she has been institutionalized at some point as a result; and even prior to that, her father kept her confined indoors and away from other people in efforts to control her.

This isolation is what originally leads to her connection with Orlok - who was woken from his centuries-long deathlike sleep when he heard her reaching out into the ether, begging for a friend. Then, later in her life, the same circumstances unfortunately have a direct effect on her relationship with her husband Thomas, too; while she is attached to him, she cannot ignore that she is also utterly dependent on him as her ticket to a stable life, as well as out from under her father's thumb. Again, unlike Mina, she has no marketable skills or opportunities outside of this marriage; and while Thomas never shames her for her past, he still pressures her to ignore and repress it. The manifestations of her psychic ability concern, then unsettle, then frighten him - and, ultimately, there is a transactional aspect to their union. Thomas expects himself to move ahead in the world, like his friend Friedrich; and Ellen is expected to eventually become normal. She is expected to become a happy, pretty wife and mother like Anna Harding - because, while Thomas cares for her and fully intends to provide for her, he refuses to actually understand her.

Furthermore, it must be noted that leaving her father's estate for her husband's house did not entirely save Ellen from her isolation. Unlike Mina, she has no real friends of her own. Her only friend in the 2024 film is Anna, her husband's best friend's wife; and in the 1922 original, even that tentative affection is unclear. As such, Orlok remains the only character that truly knows and accepts her as she is - which inevitably complicates their dynamic.

While Orlok is, by his own admission, incapable of a human love, he is overwhelmingly and exclusively obsessed with Ellen. Unlike Dracula, who even in death keeps the company of his women and his people, Orlok exists in utter solitude. Prior to his death, he was also heavily avoided due to his being in "covenant with the devil." The 2024 film especially makes it clear that Ellen's call, which woke him from his slumber, is exceptional; their connection is intensely personal, and it is as close to love as he can ever feel.

This aspect of the vampire's characterization fundamentally alters the context of his behaviour throughout the film. While Dracula moved to England in search of new hunting grounds and little else, Orlok goes to Germany specifically to find Ellen. By marrying Thomas Hutter, she broke the covenant she made with Orlok in her youth; thus, knowing that his claim has been infringed upon, the Count makes contact with Hutter's real estate law firm, summons him to the Carpathians, crosses the sea, and arrives to Wisborg as a physical manifestation of every dark urge and ability she has been attempting to repress. He torments her husband, tricks him into signing a marriage annulment, plagues the city, and murders the Hardings - all of it for her. She is his unique and all-consuming motivation. Again and again, he insists upon their covenant, reminding her that she has never truly belonged to the human world, and he is not incorrect in his assessment. Ellen's surrounding society infantilizes and binds her, often literally. She has nothing to lose by leaving it, except for her own sense of morality; and that is why Orlok, who represents her own abnormality, remains a beautiful, nightmarish temptation.

The other characters diverge from Stoker's just as much.

Thomas Hutter has little in common with Jonathan Harker beyond his choice in career and his time at a vampire's castle. Despite his careful attachment to his wife, he does not actually take her opinions into consideration when he plans their life - he prioritizes his social and financial advancements, which are of no interest to her, and which he sees as his duties to her and to himself; and, when she exhibits any of her unusual or melancholic traits, he does his best to try and move past them as quickly as possible. He does not experience the same attraction to the horror that she does; he cannot bring himself to understand it; and both in 1922 and in 2024, he is also largely oblivious to her eccentricities, gifting her flowers despite the fact that she does not like to see them picked and dying in a vase. That is a far cry from Jonathan - who knows his wife's love of train schedules, who is practicing shorthand with her, and who is willing to join her in cursed, godforsaken undeath when faced with the possibility of her turning. Ultimately, Thomas exists too firmly within the same societal constraints that Ellen abhors, and their relationship has none of the foundation that is unshakably shared by Jonathan and Mina.

At the same time, while the Anna is a parallel to Lucy, and her husband is a corresponding Arthur, the Hardings (once again) have no particular commonality with them. Their characterization remains undeveloped in the original 1922 film - and while Eggers does grant them some definition, it is still in no way similar to Stoker's.

Stoker's Lucy is a charming, cheerful, flirty, and a little coquettish young girl; she exists on the cusp of womanhood and marriage, and her pre-vampire arc revolves around her choice between three almost-equally delightful suitors. She adores and idolizes Mina, she is childishly excited about her future; and in these things, she is very different from Anna, who is already married, a mother of two with one on the way - and who does care for Ellen, but in a motherly, rather than girlish, fashion.

Her husband, too, is quite different from Arthur Holmwood.

In 2024, Friedrich Harding is - above all else - the film's personification of the trap that is patriarchy. He is the epitome of what a man is expected to be: a successful business owner with a pretty blonde wife and 2.5 kids (I thought Anna's pregnancy was very much on the nose. Quite literally, 2.5 kids!). He is generous, he cares for his family, and he is firmly Rational. On the surface, Harding appears to be an ideal made flesh; and as the film progresses, it becomes evident that this ideal is designed to crumble.

Much of Harding's rationality is heavily hypocritical. While he claims to be making all his decisions based on pure logic, Ellen's - an outsider's - perspective exposes the truth behind his motivations. He ignores her warnings because he does not like her and considers her impudent; he kicks his own sick best friend out of his house with only his similarly sick wife to care for him, because he is annoyed and unsettled by their references to the supernatural; he refuses to listen to Von Franz and ignores the danger his family is in, because he is frightened of losing them to something he cannot comprehend, rather than a mundane, potentially treatable illness. All of these decisions are emotional, rooted in his misogyny and closed-mindedness - and so, Harding loses his daughters, his wife, his unborn son, as well as the unflappable, rational facade he had been so carefully maintaining. He ends the film a wreckage of himself, having committed necrophilia with the corpse of his wife because he was emotionally, irrationally unable to let go of her even in death; he dies of the plague that came to Wisborg through his own ship yard, holding her in his arms. Even under the guise of benevolence, his patriarchal worldview undermines and fails him entirely. It is a terrible thrill to watch him fall apart, and the ruin that is left in his place is one of the most obvious illustrations of the story's principal themes.

The other characterizations follow a similar sort of pattern. Sievers, unlike Seward, has no romantic rivalry with Harding; and beyond a professional connection, they are not really friends. Von Franz is far less knowledgeable about vampires than Van Helsing - for the majority of the film, he is stumbling in the dark with the rest of the cast, only finding a way of destroying Orlok in Herr Knock's codex. Knock, too, is far less noble than Renfield - even though he is just as insane as his counterpart, he sees Ellen as an object to be traded for money and power, rather than a kind soul that he would die to protect.

(Quincey Morris, unfortunately, does not exist in Nosferatu. Murnau hadn't found a place for a cowboy in his production; consequently, Eggers could not, either.)

The point is, really, that while Dracula and Nosferatu share a common premise, a comparison between them cannot be made without acknowledging the glaring differences between their characters. For instance, even though Orlok's relationship with Ellen is toxic in the usual vampiric way - part sex, part horror, part possession, part liberation - Thomas is by no means a perfect partner for her, either, because he is not Jonathan Harker, and Ellen is not Mina. Similarly, Von Franz, Sievers, and Harding are not a brave vampire hunting team - they are all blind, each in their own specific way (Von Franz, lacking straightforward knowledge; Sievers, trusting Von Franz without question; Harding, unable to think outside of societal rules). Expecting them to react to their situation the same way as the cast of Dracula is an exercise in futility.

As such, if you do get the chance to see the film again, or if it merely plays in the darkness of your skull when you close your eyes - instead of fixating on the few surface-level similarities between two different vampires and the people they haunt, allow the story of Nosferatu to seduce you on its own terms. Whether it is 1922 or 2024, we, as viewers, deserve its living blood - rather than the shadow of its predecessor.

[takusan-no-ai]

Dating

PAIRING: Citlali/Faruzan/Yanfei x Male Reader (Romantic) (Separate)

SUMMARY: (Y/N) becomes their boyfriend.

Citlali wasn’t always closed off, having made friends in the past. But with her long lifespan those relationships just became painful memories that she’d live on with. It was because of those memories that she didn’t want any relationship, romantic or platonic. Ororon was her one exception; and she didn’t even plan on getting so attached to him.

That all changed when she met you, a young man with a heart of gold and the patience of an elder. She never expected to have any relations with you. But against her mind, her heart was unbearably lonely, and she clung to your earnest personality like a lifeline.

After finally giving into her feelings and accepting you as her boyfriend, Citlali became much more outspoken around you. No “Granny Itztli” when it was just the two of you. She read her light novels, drank her alcohol, and relaxed like a true hermit with almost no shame.

Though she felt more like herself than ever before, Citlali still can’t quite handle physical affection from you. Kisses, hugs, and cuddles make her so emotional that she’ll start over analyzing every action you make. You’re slightly leaning in? “Oh my gosh he’s going for the kiss!” Safe to say it’ll be a while before she becomes used to your love. Being a recluse can do that.

Faruzan’s life became quite the hot topic after her reappearance in Sumeru. Researchers were eager to figure out how she lived for so long. However Faruzan was more concerned with what her beloved academy had become. Knowledge wasn’t a tool but now a mere status. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t find a student that valued knowledge like her besides Collei.

Until she ran into you; a young man visiting Sumeru that wanted to learn anything and everything about ancient mechanics. You believed that knowledge was a valuable source of power for the betterment of society, and that it should be not only accessible but used by all. Stars glowed in her eyes. Finally she found herself a student. What Faruzan didn’t calculate was the possibility of falling in love with you.

She was aware of tales of men and women in close quarters developing relations, but still. This was a professional relationship! A student and teacher one! Yeah you’re both adults but…she was doing everything in her mental power to come up with excuses. Inevitably though she had to admit to herself; you made her heart skip way too many beats.

The adventurers you did together in search of machines, the quiet moments when you’d both enjoy each other’s presence in silence, and the loud times when the whole gang would get together but your eyes would naturally drift and hold onto one another. And it’s through dating you that she realizes how much of a blessing it was to meet you, even if it came with its own heartbreaks.

Yanfei was always busy, wether it was sorting out a legal dispute or training new legal advisors, she always had to be on her feet. Of course she didn’t mind, in fact she loved it. Solving problems through contracts and helping others get what their owed was one of her happiest moments. There was simply nothing like making the world a better and more honest place.

During one of her clients bemoaning over a fraudulent transaction she bumped in you, her future problem. You were the second best legal advisor from Fontaine, having traveled to Liyue for some extra money and reputation. Your client was the one Yanfei’s had accused of making a deceptive trade.

It was pretty fun for her, going against someone with the knowledge, confidence, and experience like her in the legal field. That doesn’t change the fact you were a pain. Never had she met a man a determined as you. However it was through that determination that you both discovered something: both of your clients were guilty!

After going through the necessary legal process, Yanfei decided to invite you out for dinner. She always found Fontaine law to be more difficult and wanted to learn some more from one of the very best. And that time spent together developed into something more. Where romance blossomed and a dangerous legal duo took Teyvat by storm.

- Fin

[888-fr]

apologies if this is clearly indicated somewhere! but i poked around a bit and didn't see anything--do you have any pearl cerdae? and if so what is Their Deal?

I haven't had proper pearl cerdae since my brightmyth account! but I've been thinking about them a lot since the cirrus release. I'm going to be revamping the two cerdae siblings my friend gave me and giving each of them an ancient counterpart :)

kosmet ('forest king') is an extremely large, extremely reclusive ancient cerdae deep in the labyrinth whose intents are uncertain. salbaa ('death bloom') has had her bones and musculature almost entirely replaced by vegetation. she's got massive holes all over her body you can see flowers blooming through. she's the result of a undergoing a near-death experience after becoming a cerdae. under too much stress, the plant overcompensated and replaced much of her body.

(read about pearl cerdae here)

kosmet is the one I drew earlier today. he's going to be involved with a researcher of some sort. salbaa is possibly worshipped as a semi-deity by a few remote Gladebough villages

[lvlovesstories]

MoonWater Regulus raised as an Addams (Fic Idea)

As with my previous one you may use this idea for a fic just please give proper credit & send it to me so I can read your wonderful work of art 😍

Walburga goes too far one day and 6yo Regulus, afraid for his life, pulls on his magic to protect him killing Walburga & Orion by accident. Arcturus decides he only has enough energy to raise one child and chooses to take in Sirius and raise him as a proper heir. Regulus on the other hand is sent to live with his recluse of a cousin Cassiopeia.

What Arcturus doesn’t know at the time is that Cassi recently moved to America to get married and renamed herself Morticia Addams. Morticia and Gomez are overjoyed to be given Regulus as their first child and immediately begin teaching him the ways of the Addams Family as they’re already 6 years behind schedule.

Fast forward to Hogwarts. Sirius is still a Gryffindor and in the marauders, he has Arcturus’ support even if the old man doesn’t agree with his views. Andromeda was never disowned bc of this but she does not exactly get on well with the rest of the family.

At the beginning of Sirius’ 7th year Arcturus receives a letter from Morticia stating Regulus was expelled from his 9th magical school- Beauxbaton -on his second day back to school and now is being sent to Hogwarts in the hopes that being near family will allow him to make it one year without getting expelled.

Because she was known as such a recluse everyone kind of forgot about Cassiopeia and by extension Regulus. So no one has seen Regulus for 10 years and now their first meeting will be after Regulus gets sorted.

No one is sure what to expect from this new student especially because he was a Black. What they for sure don’t expect though is for the hottest man on earth to be walking in looking as androgynous as possible.

Regulus Black is a fucking enigma. He’s flirty, sassy, confident and is bat shit crazy. Ofc everything that makes a perfect Addams. He’s constantly cutting the buds off flowers and putting the stems in his hair as decoration, he puts a bit of poison in his morning tea and constantly offers it to others, he’s excitable about the most benign things and often wonders very loudly what things would look like dead. But despite all this people are drawn to him like a moth to a flame. (I imagine him being the biggest culture shock of the century)

He is also really excited to get to know Sirius and Sirius’ friends and despite being sorted into Slytherin is more often then not found in Gryffindor classes and their tower. I imagine him following Sirius around like a very excitable puppy and Sirius has no clue how to handle him because Regulus ideas of bonding are so bizarre and always a little bit mortifying (I’m talking shooting arrows at apples on top of the marauders heads, seeing how many volts they can take on the electric chair, Acromantula hunting in the forbidden forest, Dead animal scavenger hunt, etc. Etc.). And any prank ideas are very quickly shot down.

Sirius, James and Peter are all a little terrified of Regulus by the end of their first week with him and actively try avoiding him. Remus while also a bit scared can see Regulus trying so hard to get along with his brother and has some pity for him so he’s often used as the distraction so the other 3 can make their escape.

Over the next few weeks they get closer and Remus begins building a bit of an immunity to Regulus’ oddities. It doesn’t take long for Regulus to figure out Remus is a werewolf and Regulus gets so excited. The Addams Family have always adored werewolves and have a bunch of books on how to best accommodate a werewolves needs including potions for lycanthropic specific pain.

Regulus immediately sets out to becoming an animagus with Remus’ help. In exchange Regulus starts teaching Remus sword fighting because it’s absolutely scandalous that Hogwarts doesn’t teach a second method of self protection. They spend a lot of time together and Remus can’t help but fall for the Regulus who is kind to all creatures, who is full of stories of harry cousins, bald uncles, crazier younger siblings and parents so in love they put the word itself to shame.

I imagine that with Regulus being and oblivious and flirty as he is, Remus snaps one day and just pulls him in and kisses the shit out of him. Regulus is totally on board and tells Remus the next time he decides to do it he better draw blood.

Regulus becomes a wolf Animagus.

OFC more should definitely be added after they get together, they gotta tell Sirius, they need to meet the family, Regulus needs to start influencing Remus’s fashion, Remus needs to beat Gomez in a sword duel for Regulus’ hand in marriage, and more but this is all I have now. I might write little scenarios I have for this but we’ll see. For now it’s yours to do what you want with it :)

[i-chrystophylux]

AU Rambling - Shattered Soul-Jams AU

In this AU, all of the ancients have been successfully taken down. However, they were intercepted before the beasts could do anything to them.

Dark Cacao is sick with the Withering Flour Sickness Hollyberry Cookie is in a permanent state of 'Rest' (Nearly Comatose) Pure Vanilla is stuck somewhere between Truthless Recluse as he can speak- but he's like a puppet without the strings as he can't move. Golden Cheese Cookie is becoming ill, due to all the bodily damage she sustained. Struggling to adjust to not being able to fly. White Lily is scared and stuck in a state of constant paranoia. Always trying to tend to her friends- just to end up breaking down from guilt. It practically renders her useless for everything because of emotional turmoil. - - - - - This AU takes place around the arrival of Silent Salt Cookie, if not a little before. - - - - - AU Trivia

-> Almost all of the cookies who could be helpful are too apprehensive to do anything because more powerful cookies don't have the ability to connect and reach out to each other for help. (Legendries)

-> The Legendary Cookies could make a move and potentially make progress- but the apprehension of losing one of their own- and potentially having them fall under the influence of the Beasts is too great.

-> Most adult cookies who reside in kingdoms are manning the kingdoms. Keeping the kingdoms from falling. If the kingdoms go down- there will be nothing for anyone to come back to.

-> All of the Ancients (minus White Lily Cookie) have had their Soul-Jams Shattered into 5 pieces. Whilst the ancients still have 2 pieces of their soul-jams, the beasts possess the other 2 and 1 is still missing.

-> All the 'missing pieces' of the soul-jams was a magical reaction to them being shattered. The soul-jams did this in an attempt to keep the magic from being obtainable. It's sort of like a self preservation tactic.

-> If the 3rd piece of any soul jam rejoins with 1&2 or 4&5, it will sway the power of the soul-jams in the favor of whoever possesses the bigger half.

-> GingerBrave, Strawberry Cookie and Wizard Cookie set on on a quest to get these soul jams (without the adults knowing. So in technical terms, they ran away)

-> Chili Pepper Cookie and Custard Cookie were left behind. Custard was deemed too young to even dare bringing anywhere near the fight. Chili Pepper was situational, because she was tasked to watch Custard Cookie III

-> Chili Pepper Cookie knew it was bound to happen... so she snuck some extra supplies into the Main Trio's travelling bags.

-> In the hunt for the Soul-Jams it becomes clear that the main trio can actually use them. However, it's only if the soul-jam deems them worthy of use.

-> Pure Vanilla's Soul-Jam; Hasn't Chosen anyone yet.

-> Golden Cheese's Soul-Jam; Hasn't Chosen anyone yet.

-> Dark Cacao's Soul-Jam: Has Chosen Wizard Cookie

-> Hollyberry's Soul-Jam: Has Chosen Strawberry Cookie

-> White Lily's Soul-Jam: N/A as its still in 1 Piece

I'm not even going to hide it. Because I may or may not continue this AU based on traction and general interest.

-> This AU is a darker AU. The GingerGang are stuck resorting to darker methods to succeed. This will affect them in the long run. Trust.

[grimm-writings]

Hiiii, I would like some Dungeon Meshi headcanons please! Reader is the oldest human in the main group and they're really motherly towards them. Like they're always fretting over their well beings and acting like a doting parent. And if you want, could you also add that Chilchuck's kinda into that so he falls for them?

That's all thank you!

…ft! chilchuck x gn! reader, platonic touden party & reader

…tags! fluff, some crack, headcanon format, mild manga spoilers, reader is referred to as ‘mom’ once

…wc! 847

…notes! the way i nearly screeched in delight when i got this ask. chilfuckers i’m one of you let me in. you used they/them for the reader so i’m gonna assume this is a maternal gn reader! i hope it is for your liking ty for being my first request 🥺

Having a more wise, of age individual in the party is always a plus when you need some advice.

And when most people in the party are absolute lunatics.

You have your hands full trying to stop Laios acting recklessly in action, or doting on Marcille when her emotions get the best of her.  Goodness, even Senshi has your hair going grey from how he gets sometimes!

Laios just sort of… lets your doting happen.

He can get slightly grumbly if you get too mad at him.  Still, it’s not the worst thing a parental figure could do.  Go easy on him!

Marcille takes psychic damage upon learning your age.  She’s staring at you, at the age in your face, and taking the years into account.

It’s simply not computing.  You… You should be, like, a pre-teen or something!  Human ageing baffles her once again.

Still… she is incredibly receptive to you doting on her.  She’s more of a carer on instinct but she finds herself falling into you whenever her spoons are low.

Senshi just sort of hits you with the “why tho” when you try fretting.  It’s actually slightly frustrating.  Still, you can recognise his wisdom and take a step back.  He can take care of himself… most of the time.

Izutsumi… oh the dear girl.

You must have recognised the signs immediately.  Her lack of table manners, her reclusive nature… she’s so young.

The girlcat was a bit prickly to any doting at first.  You would probably remind her a bit too much of Maizuru for her liking.

With time, perhaps sometime after he run-in with her succubus, Izutsumi would be a bit more welcoming of how you treat her.  It’s… It makes her feel nice, or whatever.

She accidentally calls you Mom once.  She was mortified as Marcille squeals in delight and Laios laughs to himself.  You couldn’t even ask if she thinks of you as a mother figure before she’s already stomping away to hide in a corner somewhere.

Then there’s Chilchuck.  Oh, what to say about him.

You probably thought he was a young human at first too.  He’s taller than other half-foots after all.  Still, as soon as you even try to act maternal around him, he yells at you and tells you he isn’t a kid.

Keep your distance for a bit, and he’ll warm up to you again.

Watching you do your thing with the other party members will have him commenting that he has no idea how you can just keep up with everyone like this, and he’s the one with three kids here.

You just smile gently and reply that it helps you keep stability knowing everyone in the party is doing alright.  At that, Chilchuck will give you a glance, and internalise your words.

Upon Izutsumi’s arrival into the party, Chilchuck’s perspective on you begins to alter slightly.

Initially, he respected you a fair bit.  You were more like the two older co-workers constantly giving each other looks at the younger ones’ antics.

But he sees you with this child he also has to admit he’s grown attached to.  You really were a natural maternal figure to Izutsumi.  He watches you tend to her sometimes, a smile slowly curling on his lips.

Then he catches himself, and his blood runs cold.

…Ohhh, shit. 

Chilchuck is level headed most of the time, but when he’s panicking he can’t keep his cool to save his life.

Around you, he becomes more… frantic, in a way.  Lecturing others to give you a break, even if he can just have a small talk with you.  If asked what’s up he’d raise his voice defensively and say it doesn’t matter.

One time, Izutsumi decided she can’t choose between her two favourite human heaters, and practically forced you and Chilchuck to sleep on either side of her.  Even with the girl slotted in between you two, Chilchuck was internally losing his mind at the closeness.

He even lets you dote on him a bit more again.  Not too much, though.  He’ll accept the occasional checking in and headpat but that’s it!

You can very easily pick up on his feelings for you.  It’s not hard to notice the shift in his attitude.

Well… It’s not like you can complain.  You may offer to help him out with his future shop once you’re out of here, giving him a slight wink.

Cherish how red his face gets.  He won’t let anyone else embarrass him so easily.  Maybe pinch his cheeks if you’re feeling brave, but he may swat you away depending on his mood.

At the end of the day, he’ll give you a small smile, and wonder aloud where the Hell all the party would be if it weren’t for you.

(Bonus!  I think Falin would also super appreciate your presence.  She’s the kind to simply take her own parents’ treatment of her and shrug it off in a ‘it is what it is’ sort of way.  Your doting attitude would leave her slightly discombobulated, but she’s very welcome to it.)