#fictional character ask

[princesssarisa]

Character ask: The magic mirror (Snow White)

Favorite thing about them: I like its mystical truth-telling power. I also enjoy the fact that it's open to so many different interpretations in different adaptations of the tale. What it looks like, what it sounds like, how it speaks (from a face carved into the frame, a spirit that appears in the glass, the Queen's own reflection, etc.) just how sapient it is, whether it likes the Queen, dislikes her, or is neutral, and whether it's an entity itself or has an entity trapped inside it varies from version to version. This way, it never becomes boring.

In the Disney film specifically, I like its eerie, otherworldly appearance and voice, and the sense of emotionless moral neutrality it conveys.

Least favorite thing about them: Well, it serves the evil Queen and tells her where Snow White is.

Three things I have in common with them:

*I usually tell the truth.

*I think Snow White is beautiful.

*I've been inside a castle before. (In my case, a few crumbling old ones in Ireland.)

Three things I don't have in common with them:

*I'm not a mirror.

*I'm not omniscient.

*I don't speak in rhyme.

Favorite line: From the Grimms' tale:

You, my queen, are fair; it is true.

But Snow White, beyond the mountains

With the seven dwarfs

Is still a thousand times fairer than you.

From the Disney film:

Famed is thy beauty, Majesty.

But hold! A lovely maid I see.

Rags cannot hide her gentle grace.

Alas, she is more fair than thee!

and

Over the seven jeweled hills,

Beyond the seventh fall,

In the cottage of the seven dwarfs

Dwells Snow White, fairest one of all

brOTP: I suppose the Queen, in a way.

OTP: None. Except in the anime The Legend of Snow White, where the spirit imprisoned in the mirror, Speck, does have a love interest, a female spirit named Mylarka who's imprisoned elsewhere, but who reunites with him in the end.

nOTP: Any human.

Random headcanon: It was a gift to the Queen from whoever taught her the art of magic. Its creator meant her to use its omniscient power for good, to ask it questions about the needs of her people and use it to become a better ruler. But instead, of course, she only uses it to satisfy her vanity about her beauty, and to learn who her rivals are so she can eliminate them.

Unpopular opinion: I don't think it represents the king. Not inherently, anyway. This seems to be a popular reading of the tale among scholars: that the mirror is a stand-in for the absent figure of the Queen's husband and Snow White's father, and that the Queen's jealousy of Snow White's beauty merely represents the true source of conflict between stepmothers and stepdaughters, competition for the husband/father's love. That's a valid reading, of course, but I don't think it's inherent. I'd sooner argue that the mirror represents the male gaze in general than that it specifically represents the king. And I don't think it inherently represents the male gaze either, unless you think the only reason why women ever envy other women's beauty is because beauty equals male approval. Some adaptations have it speak with a woman's voice instead of a man's, after all. Or even with the Queen's own voice (since it is a mirror), making it seem less like a symbol of other people's feelings about the Queen and Snow White, and more of the Queen's own inner knowledge of Snow White's superior beauty.

Song I associate with them: Its instrumental theme from the Disney film's soundtrack.

Favorite picture of them:

From the Disney film:

Assorted fairy tale illustrations:

Hans Conried (a.k.a. the voice of Disney's Captain Hook) in the 1977 special Disney's Greatest Villains, which was later incorporated into A Disney Halloween.

The spectacular mirror puppet (voiced by Patrick Stewart) in Disneyland's 2004 stage show Snow White: An Enchanting Musical.

[ariel-seagull-wings]

FICTIONAL CHARACTER ASK: HANK MCCOY (THE BEAST)

ASKED BY @obufalo

@thealmightyemprex @themousefromfantasyland @the-blue-fairie @moonshinenum @shelleythesoft @amalthea9

@soviet-supersoldier @positivelybeastly @professorlehnsherr-almashy @maedelin @princesssarisa @rei-ismyname

Favorite thing about them: He is one of the earliest examples I saw in my childhood of a beastly character whose narrative arc was not about 'going back to a human form to signify becoming a better, more emotionally mature person after becoming a monster due a moral failing' but rather became a Beast due to a genetic factor he was born with, and whose story explored getting accomodated and adapt when one's body changes, whose appearance is really indendent from his morality, and who has to accept they will not come back to what they were once, instead needing to embrace his new self as genuinelly beautiful and good.

Least favorite thing about them: I'm not a fan of some Avengers and New Defenders stories presenting him as a fillandering womanizer who took his then girlfriend Vera Cantor for granted. Thank goodness at least she called him out for it and the two broke up amicably in universe.

Three things i have in common with them:

* I love Shakespeare;

* Ocasionally I enjoy a bad pun;

* Sometimes I would pretend not to care for what other people thought of me and being alright lonely, while inside I was burying insecurities and a need for friendship and validation;

Three things i don’t have in common with them:

* I never played american football;

* I don't have a doctorate in chemistry and genetics;

* I'm not born and raised in the United States;

Favorite line:

From X-Men Adventures

"Morph, what a brave final act you had, lad, we should all leave the scene so heroically."

"I'll remember you Morph -- as a true X-Man. There'll be a reckoning for this, my friend. The Beast swears it."

From X-Men: The Animated Series: Beauty and the Beast

"The progress of medical science, much like the construction of a great cathedral, is the work of many hands."

"Perhaps you self-appointed social engineers don't realize the crucial role mutation plays in species evolution."

"I'm sorry, gentlemen. Your anger at the inexorable alienation of late-20th-century life is sadly misdirected."

"It was so much easier when I was consumed with my work. I could pretend that what other people thought of me didn't matter."

"We have to face it. I am a mutant in a world that fears and despises my kind. I thought for a moment we could live in that world together, but I know now that we cannot. Someday, with work and hope, the world will change. Until then, if you care for me as much as I care for you, you'll understand why we must part. Carry my love with you always."

"This is a beginning."

From X-Men Evolution: The Beast of Bayville

"Thank you. But from here on in, I'm not just Mr. McCoy. You can call me Beast."

From X-Men Evolution: Retreat

"Out here, in this place... I'm enjoying the animal I've become."

"As a wise young girl once told me... we are who we're meant to be. So I guess the students aren't the only ones who learned something on this class trip."

brOTP: Bobby Drake (Iceman) and Warren Worthington III (Angel)

OTP: Carly Anne Crocker

nOTP: Trish Tilby

Random Headcanon: James Earl Jones is his favorite Shakespearean Actor.

Unpopular Opinion: So far, Hank always been in ensemble team books or duo books, with a couple short stories being focused only on him. I say is about time he received a staring solo comic book series!

Song i associate with them:

Just One Person

Favorite picture of them:

Pin Ups

Felipe Massafera cover Art

Boris Vallejo portrait

Miguel Mercado Cover Art

Dustin Nguyen Art

X-Men Evolution Hank McCoy, my first encarnation of the character

Wolverine and the X-Men encarnation

The Animated Series/97 Encarnation

[fandomsarefamily1966]

Character ask: Beth March (Little Women)

Tagged by @princesssarisa. Thank you so much for this, as I love her and have a lot of feelings about her that I want to share.

Favorite thing about them: She is the kindest character in the whole book, and this turns out to be her biggest strength. She may be so shy to the point that talking to people outside her family is extremely difficult, but she doesn't let that stop her from helping those who need it, whether it's helping the Hummels when the baby is sick with scarlet fever, or talking to Frank to try and cheer him up. And this has an enormous impact: everyone adores her, to the point that they all miss her when she first gets sick, and make sure to show her how much she means to them when she's on her deathbed. She may not have "achieved" anything like her sisters do, but she still matters, and that means so much to me.

Least favorite thing about them: When she tells Jo to take her place after she dies. Like... Beth, sweetheart, no. No one could ever replace you. And Jo doesn't need to be more like Beth to be worthy of love. The fact that Mr. Laurence says something similar after he returns from Europe with Amy and Laurie doesn't help, either.

Three things I have in common with them:

*I've always been really shy and awkward, and tend to mostly keep to myself.

*I love music.

*I always try to be kind and help people as best I can.

Three things I don't have in common with them:

*I do want to get married and leave the house someday.

*I'm not much of an animal person.

*I can't play the piano, but I would like to learn how.

Favorite line: Once again, there are many, but I'll try to keep it simple.

When she starts to overcome her fear of Mr. Laurence for the grand piano:

"I'm Beth. I love it dearly, and I'll come, if you are quite sure no one will hear me and be disturbed."

When she gently calls out Meg in the way that only she can:

"You said the other day that you'd be perfectly happy if you could only go to Annie Moffat's."

When she commends Amy for her behavior with the rich girls and once again shows that she's not an impossibly perfect saint:

"Yes, we all do, and love her for being so ready to forgive. It must have been dreadfully hard, after working so long, and setting your heart on selling your own pretty things. I don't believe I could have done it as kindly as you did."

And finally, her reaction to Jo's poem about her:

"Then I don't feel as if I'd wasted my life. I'm not so good as you make me, but I have tried to do right, and now, when it's too late to begin even to do better, it's such a comfort to know that someone loves me so much, and feels as if I'd helped them."

brOTP: Her sisters, especially Jo, as well as Mr. Laurence. (I also feel like in crossover land, Lucy and Frodo would absolutely adore her, and vice versa.)

OTP: None.

nOTP: Mr. Laurence, or any member of her family.

Random headcanon: She's either on the autism spectrum, has social anxiety, or both, and her angelic image is an attempt to not be a burden to her loved ones and to try and make up for the fact that she can't mask.

Unpopular opinion: If any of the March sisters are aromantic, it's Beth, not Jo. Beth never wants to get married or have children, and Jo does change her mind about that after a while, which I guess might rub some people the wrong way. This isn't to say that you can't have whatever headcanons you want, but this makes more sense to me. Also, I don't normally say stuff like this, but if you think that Beth "needs to die" just because she's not a normal girl, you're ableist, plain and simple.

Song I associate with them:

"Stuck Inside a Cloud" by George Harrison.

"April Come She Will" by Simon and Garfunkel.

"marjorie" by Taylor Swift.

Favorite picture of them:

These illustrations by Pablo Marcos Studio:

With Mr. Laurence:

As the postmistress:

When she gets scarlet fever:

The snow maiden:

With Jo, before she reveals her doom:

With Jo at the seashore during THAT scene:

The last time we see her in this version:

These illustrations by Michael Adams:

With Mr. Laurence (this version is more affectionate):

With Meg and Jo watching over her on her sickbed:

This black and white illustration of her with her cats on her (first) sickbed:

[justice-for-general-schmitz]

Character ask: Amelie Wilson

Not requested by anyone, but I did it for Klaudia, so it only seems fair to do one for my other favorite OC.

Favorite thing about her: She helped not only save Marley from a lonely life (and also from a tragic afterlife walking in chains, if my version of the story applies to the same mechanics as Dickens's), but also kinda helps to flesh out Marley as a character in general.

Least favorite thing about her: Probably the fact that since I created her as a love interest for Marley, I haven't thought much about her interactions with the other canon characters. I'll probably do so while developing the story a bit more.

Three things I have in common with them:

1. I think Marley deserves so much better (and I'll forever debunk the rumor of his death)!

2. I don't have too many friends.

3. I have long, wavy brown hair.

Three things I don't have in common with them:

1. I'm not in a relationship, much less engaged.

2. I don't live in England.

3. I don't plan on ever becoming a gardener or having a vegetable garden in my backyard.

Favorite line:

When she first meets Bob Cratchit: “I’m Amelie, his fiancée. And my fiancé is most certainly not dead!”

brOTP: The Cratchit family, Fred, and Scrooge after he redeems himself.

OTP: Marley, of course!

nOTP: Mrs. Dilber or Old Joe.

Random headcanon: Much like me, she enjoys watching Poppin Candy videos on Instagram, but unlike me, she hasn't ever bought anything from them (I bought a party platter from them once). She does enjoy creme-filled Oreo-type cookies, though.

Unpopular opinion: I'm sure a lot of Dickens purists think a lover for Marley doesn't need to exist, since that's not the way Dickens initially wrote the story. But I think he needs at least one person to truly love him. In the original book, Scrooge, after all, despite being his "sole friend and sole mourner", was “not so dreadfully cut up” by Marley’s death. (Amelie certainly would be.) In some adaptations, Marley also claims that Scrooge's chains will be longer and heavier than his own- so he would have had to have been a little better at least. So yes, she was a necessary addition to at least my version.

Song I associate with them:

Before she meets Marley: “Goodnight My Someone”, from The Music Man (here sung by Joanie Bartels).

After she meets Marley: “May I Have the Next Dream with You” and “Love Me Tender” (specifically these versions, also both sung by Joanie Bartels).

Favorite picture of them:

Why, this one, of course, of her with her two best female friends.

And this edit I made of her with Marley:

[wojakgallery]

can you post the chuddha

Title/Name: Chuddha Wojak Series:  Chudjak / Poljak (Variant). Image by: Unknown Main Tag: Chudjak Wojak

[questions-about-blorbos]

BLORBO ASKS GAME

reblog if you’d like people to send you asks about your Blorbo

who’s the Blorbo that you’ve never posted about on your blog?

who was your first ever Blorbo, who was your childhood Blorbo, and are they still your Blorbo?

was there any specific point / any specific moment that suddenly made this character your Blorbo, or did you slowly grow to love them more and more until they became a Blorbo to you?

what’s the thing you love the most about your Blorbo?

what’s the thing you dislike the most about your Blorbo?

if you could talk to your Blorbo, what would you say to them?

what’s the one thing the fandom gets wrong about your Blorbo?

is your Blorbo an introvert or extrovert?

describe your Blorbo in 3 words

if your Blorbo were real, would you trust them with your life?

have you ever written a fanfic about your Blorbo?

do you talk to your family or in-real-life friends about your Blorbo?

is there any crime, any wrongdoing your Blorbo could commit that would make you stop loving them and remove them from your hyperfixation entirely?

have you ever distanced yourself from your Blorbo / have you ever left a fandom because people in the fandom were being too toxic?

have you ever gotten involved in ship wars?

is your Blorbo canonically alive?

do you like seeing your Blorbo suffer?

do you ship your Blorbo with any character?

when it comes to Blorbos, do you have a type?

if you have more than one Blorbo, do you love them all equally?

if your Blorbo is from a live-action media, are you also a fan of the actor who plays them?

would you still love your Blorbo if they were real?

is your Blorbo a victim of badly written script / bad plot / character assassination in the hands of canon?

if you could change one canonical thing about your Blorbo, what would it be?

how did you first discover your Blorbo?

when you first discovered your Blorbo, did you realize from that moment that they would become your Blorbo?

do you gatekeep your Blorbo? / would you want more people to know about your Blorbo?

have you ever been attacked online just because you liked your Blorbo?

has a fanfic about your Blorbo ever made you cry?

do you think this character will still be your Blorbo three years from now on?

[ciearcab]

happy late birthday to this guy

[am3ya]

the issue with shipping aro/ace characters isn't putting them into relationships, it's the fact that no one adds how their sexuality impacts the relationship at large. And how it'll always be different from your average romantic relationship in some way.

[musingsofheaven]

Omg I’d die if you wrote something on Joel miller x younger bratty reader who he think sis a bad influence on Ellie!! Then they end up fucking really rough and angry but it’s so filthy and delicious?!?! Maybe he’s choking her to keep her quiet but she also wants to ride him and not give in!!! Like I love the switch up

RAISED WRONG.

summary: You’re younger, loud-mouthed, and definitely a bad influence on Ellie. Joel knows it. Won’t stop showing off, getting under his skin, acting like you’ve got nothing to lose. Then he drags you into the dark and finally does what he’s been dying to shuts you up with his hands and fucks you until you so deep.

pairings: joel miller x afab bratty!reader

warnings: 9k words. mature themes. unprotected p in v. age gap. rough sex. choking kink. manhandling. degradation kink. oral fixation. tit play / nipple play. breeding kink. smoking. read & consume responsibly.

note: first time writing joel hehe… i stayed up all night like a little vamp <3 like actually 2am to 8am. i don’t know what happened but it felt important. i’m really sleepy now and kind of stupid about it and now i’m so tired i could cry 🧍‍♀️ reblog or like if u did !! follow + send an ask if u want more (but i write so slow bc i have 1 braincell and it’s scared of me sorryyy) ok love u byeeee uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh 🫀 (As of 11 am on my time i noticed the fic was cut (the first half) so i edited it again and pasted it… i am sorry!)

They see you before you see them.

You’re half-crouched in a blown-out gas station, dragging one boot behind you as you sift through a collapsed aisle, rifling through broken shelves like you’re expecting a candy bar to fall into your hand. You’re just looking for something edible. Or shiny. Or stupid enough to add to your collection.

You don’t even clock the footsteps at first-maybe you do, but you’ve gotten good at ignoring shit. A click, a shuffle, the low weight of suspicion pressing into your spine. You only look up when a voice barks behind you, rough and already tired: “Turn around. Real slow.”

You sigh like someone just asked you to do something boring. Then you roll your eyes, glance back just enough for the smirk to rise.

“You lost or somethin’?”

The man doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t say anything either. Salt-and-pepper beard, jaw locked tight like he’s halfway to shooting. The kid next to him squints at you.

“She doesn’t look infected,” the girl says.

You raise your brows at that, scoffing as you turn, hands half-raised.

“Gee, thanks.”

“Where’s your group?” the man asks, voice sharp.

“Not here,” you reply, flat.

“That’s not an answer.”

You sigh again, this time more annoyed. “I came from that way,” you say, nodding vaguely over your shoulder. “It’s gone now. Fireflies, Fedra, raiders-take your fuckin’ pick.”

The woman beside him stiffens. “You see who did it?”

You snort. “Do I look like I stuck around to get names?”

The girl tugs on his arm. “Let her come. If she turns, I’ll stab her first.”

You laugh-sharp, surprised. “You’re fun.” She’s easy. You clock that immediately. Could probably talk her into anything.

“I’m right here,” the man mutters like it’s personal.

You take a slow step forward. He doesn’t flinch, but his jaw ticks hard.

“I’m not sick.” You lift your shirt just enough to show skin-clean, unbitten. “You can check. Or shoot me. Your call, old man.”

He glares.

The girl grins. “She could be useful.”

“She’s gonna be a pain in my ass.”

“Same thing,” you say, already walking like it’s settled.

You fall into step somewhere in the middle-not in front, not behind. Just out of reach. Feels like they’re circling you, but what can you do?

You walk for hours before the man-Joel, you overheard-finally says what’s clearly been stuck in his throat:

“You were with them?”

You glance sideways. “With whom?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

You smirk. “I’m not playing.”

He chews on the silence. Doesn’t push. Not yet.

Ellie-she never stops talking. She keeps throwing you glances, like she’s still figuring out what kind of weird you are. At one point, she asks if you’ve ever stayed in a hotel like the one you just passed.

“Does sleeping under one count?” you ask. “With a hole in the roof?”

She snorts. “You’re weird.”

“You’re loud.”

Joel clears his throat behind you. You grin.

That night, you crash in a half-flooded warehouse. Tess posts up by the doors. Joel plants himself between you and Ellie, arms crossed like a bouncer who never clocks out.

“You don’t trust me,” you say eventually.

“I don’t know you.”

Fair enough. You don’t trust him either. That’s just how it is out here-everyone’s a threat until they’re not.

“You could ask better questions.”

He doesn’t look at you. “You ever kill a man?”

You smile in the dark. “That’s the first thing you wanna know?”

Silence.

You shift slightly, one arm folded behind your head. “Do you think anyone out here hasn’t?”

Another pause. The air gets heavier.

“I didn’t shoot first,” you add. “Not the first time.”

He doesn’t respond. You can feel his eyes though-tracking, imagining, dissecting. The kind of man who chews on suspicion like it feeds him.

“Where’d you learn to shoot?” he asks, finally.

“Boyfriend,” you lie.

“Dead now?”

You grin up at the ceiling. “Aren’t they all?”

He doesn’t say anything else. And you fall asleep with that little echo in your head-you want people to think you’re dangerous. Not a warning. A memory.

The days start blurring after that. Joel watches you like you’re a bomb no one bothered to defuse. Like you might sprout claws or snap someone’s neck just to prove a point. Ellie’s warmer-she shares a busted pack of crackers with you that Joel clearly gave her, even if she pretends it was her idea. You blow a gum bubble in her face and she nearly chokes laughing. Joel glares.

You sneak into a warehouse on a dare and come back with rusted junk and a chain of dog tags you tuck into your shirt like they matter. Ellie finds fuckass nail polish in a med kit and paints your nails at camp. Joel mutters something under his breath about softness and being a bad influence.

“You’re just pissed ‘cause you forgot how to have fun.”

He storms off. You don’t know if it hit a nerve. You hope it did.

The next day, you teach Ellie how to flip her knife. How to spot tripwires. How to curse in a language she doesn’t know. She says it to Joel and he looks like he aged ten years in one second.

That night, you sneak her a cigarette. Okay. Maybe that one’s on you. She gags, calls it gross, then takes another drag just to prove she’s cool. You tell her she’s not. She flips you off.

Then Joel comes stomping back from patrol-and freezes the second he sees smoke curling from her lips. “You wanna tell me what the fuck this is?”

Ellie drops the cigarette like it’s radioactive.

You don’t even blink. Blow the last of the smoke toward the trees. “It was one drag.”

“She’s a teen.”

“And? You think the apocalypse waits for birthdays?”

He steps toward you, slow and sharp. Each step feels like a warning.

“You’re a bad fuckin’ influence.”

You smile. All teeth. Like you’re proud of it.

“Guess it’s a good thing you’re around to balance me out.”

He finds you ten minutes later, footsteps heavy, pissed off. Doesn’t say a word at first-just stares at you, jaw tight, like he still hasn’t decided whether to drag you back inside or leave you there to rot.

“Y’know,” he mutters finally, voice low like gravel, “you act like you wanna get left.”

You don’t look at him. Just tap the ash off your cigarette and watch it drift. “And you act like you still wear a badge.”

He scoffs. Doesn’t move. Just leans against the opposite wall with that arms-crossed stance like he’s about to book you for resisting arrest.

“You keep pushin’ her like that, she’s gonna get cocky. Gonna get hurt.”

“She’s smart,” you snap back, too fast, too sharp. “She’s not gonna break just ‘cause I taught her how to hold a knife.”

“She’s a kid.”

“She’s surviving.”

He glares. “You think you’re funny.”

You drag slowly. Blow smoke right past him into the dark. “No,” you say. “I think you’re scared.”

That shuts him up.

For a second, it’s just the buzz of bugs and the soft hiss of your cigarette burning down. You catch it, though-the way his jaw ticks. Like you hit something that shouldn’t be touched. Like fear’s the only thing he hasn’t figured out how to bury.

“Finish your smoke,” he says finally. “You’re takin’ second watch.”

Then he turns and disappears through the window again like you’re not worth the rest of the argument.

You wait until the cherry burns too close to your fingers. Let it sear, just a little. Something to bite down on.

When you crawl back inside, Ellie’s curled up against Tess, dead asleep. Joel’s posted by the door, arms folded, head tilted like maybe he’s dozing. He’s not.

You sit by the window. Pretend to keep watch. Try not to count the seconds.

Then you get bored.

His bag’s right there, half-zipped, practically asking for it. Sloppy.

You inch closer. Quiet as a shadow. Fingers ghost over the zipper, slow and deliberate. You feel it first-canvas, frayed at the edges. A roll of gauze. A folded-up map. Then something else. Thin. Glossy. Familiar weight. A photo. You start to pull.

And then, too fast, his hand clamps around your wrist like a trap snapping shut.

Your breath catches. Not from the pain, but from the heat of him suddenly there-his body close, his voice like a cut.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

You don’t answer. Don’t move.

“Get up.”

Still frozen.

“Now.”

He doesn’t yank you or shout. He doesn’t have to. He knows he can't-not when people are sleeping and he doesn’t want to waste any energy on it. He just moves you, dragging you by the arm through the far doorway into the next room-what used to be an office, maybe, or a supply closet. But it looks fucked up now. The door creaks closed behind you. He presses you back against it, not rough, but firm. Angry. His jaw locked so tight it looks like it hurts. “You goin’ through my shit now?” he mutters. “You that fuckin’ stupid?”

Your lips part, words half-formed, but he leans in close before you can say a thing. It's making you feel claustrophobic, a little, because he's so close you can smell the smoke still clinging to your shirt, the sweat on his collar.

“You don’t touch my things,” he started. “You don’t go near that bag. You don’t-fuckin’... poke around like you're some kind of thief or a fucking spy.”

You stare up at him, eyes sharp despite the dark. You almost melt by his voice but you're more stubborn than him so you reason out. “You were asleep.”

“No, I wasn’t.” He’s still holding your wrist. His thumb presses into the bone just enough to remind you who’s stronger. Like he's trying to make a fucking point.

Too bad you're younger and more smug and have that false confidence in you. You smile, breathless. “Little jumpy for someone with nothing to hide.”

He lets go of you like it burns. Then steps back. Runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s biting back every word he wants to scream. Like he wants to throw shit. When he turns back, the look in his eyes is wildfire barely leashed.

“You try that shit again,” he mutters, voice low and trembling with restraint, “and I swear to god, I’ll leave you behind.”

You just look at him. Head tilted to the side. That same bored, half-lidded stare that’s been pissing him off since the day he met you. And it’s not that you don’t take it seriously. It’s that he can’t tell if you do or not. If you’re bluffing. If you’re always bluffing. You don’t respond like he’s the one wasting time.

Joel steps closer. His boots scrape against broken tile and dirt and something in him snaps. Not loudly-nothing about this is loud. He looks at you in the eye. It’s something small, tight, and final. He's like trying to see something through it. A pressure point breaking. “You’re like a fuckin’ splinter,” he says, slow and seething. “Can’t pull you out. Can’t ignore you. Just-there. Every goddamn second. Buried so deep it’s driving me insane.”

You raise your brows, you hum like you acknowledge it but fear not, you are mocking the shit out of him. Still no smile, not this time. “So yank me out, old man. Or stop whining.”

Swear to god, he almost did something just because of that filthy mouth of yours. There’s something wild in his eyes now, something unspoken and filthy and so close to the edge it hums in the silence. One wrong move and he’s either going to drag you outside and leave you in the dirt or maybe finally pull the trigger.

But he slams his hand against the wall beside your head instead. Just once. Flat-palmed. Not like he's planning to punch it or you. Looks like he's trying to ground himself. It makes the drywall crack and rain dust down your shoulder, but you don’t flinch.

His face is close. His voice is rougher now, lower, cracked and hushed but absolutely fucking furious. “You think you’re tough. Think you’re smart. You don’t even know what you’re playing at.”

You lean in just slightly. Mouth near his ear. You almost want to lick it up just to push him more but you didn't, instead you say, “You’re the one playing.”

His hand closes around your throat. Not hard. Not fully. Not in the way he's going to kill you. Just there-pressing. Cautionary. Not enough to choke, but enough to warn. And fuck if your breath doesn’t hitch anyway. Not out of fear. Something hotter. Lower. He sees it. Feels it. That pulse kicking under his palm.

And you-so smug, so sick in the head, so you-you grin. Just a little. Like a fucking sick fuck. Like you are enjoying it. Just to piss him off more. Or maybe you really like it. Maybe.

Joel swears under his breath. It’s not anger anymore-it’s wrecked. Like he knows better but he’s already lost. “You wanna push me?” he asks. “Wanna see how far?”

You nod once. Calculated but teasing him. “Been trying. Is it working?”

His grip tightens. Your head hits the wall behind you-lightly, but it jolts. You smile again like you are just rage baiting him because you know he will it up. And then his mouth is right there, hovering, like he could bite or kiss or breathe fire. You don’t move. You don’t blink.

And then-nothing. He yanks his hand away. It almost makes you protest and whine. He turns. Paces once, twice, jaw clenched so hard it looks painful. His back’s to you now, like he can’t even look at you without-“Get some rest,” he says through his teeth. “Before I do something fucking stupid.”

You don’t move. Don’t speak. Just stare at the tight set of his shoulders, the twitch in his jaw, the way his fists flex like he’s picturing your throat in his palms. And then softly, you mutter, “You already do.”

That lands. His head tilts-not enough to look at you, just enough to make you feel it. The crack in his control. The split is right down the middle. But he's curious what you’re going to say.

“Taking me with you? Stupid,” you go on, voice lazy, thick with sleep and smoke. “Letting me stay? Again, stupid. Letting me close? Real fuckin’ stupid.” You take a step forward, slow as anything. “But you haven’t stopped me, have you? Haven’t thrown me out. Haven’t told me to go.”

He doesn’t move.

“Almost like you want me here,” you say, mouth twitching. You lick your lips and chuckle.

That’s when he turns. And it’s slow, heavy, deliberate. Like every inch of movement is a loaded threat. His eyes meet yours, hot and blazing. He doesn’t look tired anymore-he looks starving. “I should knock your teeth in,” he says.

You grin. “You’d miss ‘em.”

His hand fists your collar and yanks you forward so hard your back slams the wall, breath catching in your throat. You feel it made you out of character for a second. His thigh wedges between yours, keeping you pinned like he wants to hurt you with it. “Say another word,” he growls, “and I’ll make you swallow it.”

You exhale like a moan, all wide-eyed and wicked. Like the little brat you are, you say, “Please.”

His mouth crashes into yours, rough and clumsy and furious. You kiss him back like you’re trying to win. Hopefully him, but you already know that you already won him. He groans. You drag your nails down his side. You made sure your nails go dug and make him feel those little moon shapes. He hisses and bites your lip. He palms the back of your neck, presses his forehead to yours like he wants to drive you through the wall. You rock your hips against him, just enough to test the waters and he grabs your jaw so hard it aches.

“Keep quiet,” he mutters. “Or I’ll shut you up myself.”

You giggle. “Try me.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t move for a second, either. Just there and holding you. Just stares at you like he’s trying to see past your skin, past the grin curling your mouth, past every smartass thing you’ve said since the moment he met you. And then he does something worse than yelling. Something quieter.

He presses more, but it’s all weight and intention, jaw set tight, hands flexing like he’s deciding whether to grab you or walk away again. His hands are back on your throat before you can blink. Not tight, just like a moment ago. Not yet. Just resting there, rough palm to your pulse point, like he's about to tweak. “Still feel like giggling?” he says low, thumb brushing your jaw.

You grin wider. Because, of course, you do. You just have to keep running your mouth. “Yeah,” you whisper. “You gonna do something about it, or just keep standing there like you’re scared of me?”

He exhales through his nose. Frustrated. Starving. Like he hates that you’re getting to him again. Like he's been trying to control himself since the moment he saw you. Then his grip tightens- just enough to shut you up like he promised, just enough to feel the way your breath skips under his fingers.

His other hand catches your hip, walks you back from the wall close to the door till your ass hits the edge of the half-collapsed table behind you. It creaks under your weight, but he doesn’t let go.

You’re both quiet now. Breathing hard. Heat knotting thick between your bodies like it’s been waiting. Like it's boiling and ready to put in a coffee.

“You always this much of a pain in the ass?” he growls. His hand drops from your throat only to catch the flannel tied loose around your waist, yanking it like it personally offended him. Like he hates this little flannel always covering your waist or arms, depending on your mood. “What is this, huh?” he mutters, twisting the fabric in his fist like it’s just another excuse to keep you close. “Somethin’ to hide behind? Or you just like dressing like trouble?”

You smirk, lips swollen, eyes heavy. “Maybe I just like being grabbed.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like it hurts coming out of him. And then he pulls- hard enough to undo the knot and let the shirt fall open. He stared for a moment to see your body. The shape. His hands remain skimming your hips where your shorts ride up high, rough fingers brushing the waistband like he’s debating how far he’s willing to go. Spoiler: too far. Way too fucking far.

“You don’t listen,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, like he’s trying to justify the way his mouth finds your neck again, his hand already sliding low. Jesus, you can see the way he tried to control himself. To don't do shit, but you just keep pushing him.

You gasp, grip curling in the fabric of his shirt as your back hits the table harder this time. “You want me to stop?” you whisper, teeth grazing his ear, giving it a peck.

He chuckles darkly, low and bitter and close. Before his hand slips beneath your shirt slowly, unforgiving. Rough palm skimming over your ribs like he’s checking for something- damage, weakness, regret- but all he finds is heat.

You arch into it, just a little, just enough to be obvious, and the growl he lets out sounds like it got dragged out of his chest by force. So you tilt your head, mouth brushing his jaw. “What’s the matter?” you murmur, syrup-sweet and smug. “Been a long time, old man?” You almost laugh when you say that because you feel like it's accurate.

His hand freezes. Just for a second. Then he laughs- cold and low and not nice at all. “You got a death wish,” he says, dragging his fingers higher, over your bare stomach, up under your bra. Just staying there for a moment to see your reaction. “Or you think this is how you stay useful.”

You hum. “Is it working?”

He answers by biting the side of your neck. Hard. Just shy of bruising. He doesn't even care if it will mark. If people will see. If it will have an implication or a blunt message.

Your jacket’s still on, bunched around your shoulders, half-pinned beneath you. His other hand shoves it up roughly, exposing the top that’s clinging damp to your skin. You see him staring, especially at your chest, and smirking.

You make a soft, teasing noise- half moan, half mockery. “You gonna say thank you after?” you whisper, breath hitching as his thumb grazes your nipple through the fabric which made you hold your breath. “Or you just gonna grunt and roll off?” But he doesn’t answer. He just pushes your thighs apart like he’s done talking. You laugh, breathless. “No, please? No foreplay?”

His hands grip your hips like he’s about to rip you down the middle. “You want me to beg?” As if he's seriously going to consider it, going to beg for you.

You open your mouth- don’t even get the smartass comeback out before he lifts you. Hands under your thighs, dragging you up from the table. You gasp, startled. Arms clinging to his shoulders, legs locking around his waist on instinct. Like it's on the default settings.

And then he drops- not hard, not rough, just fast. He carries you down to the floor like he’s wrestled with the idea for too long and finally gave in. Like you weigh nothing. Like he doesn’t give a shit who hears anymore. Like he doesn't even give a shit if this will bring you to death. But he just settles between your legs, knees pressed into cold tile, your body open for him and still so fucking clothed.

Your jacket’s still on. Shirt too. So he shoves it up- not gently. Rucks the fabric under your arms, hand dragging up your stomach before he slips his fingers under the bra and pops it loose. You both know you can't not really hot naked in this fucked up building. The cups of your bra fall forward. Your nipples catch the cold air, already reacting and sensitive.

He groans. Low. Gutted. Like he’s actually mad it looks that good. Like it's the best feature on you. Like he's so fucking turned on. (He is, you can feel his hard on through his pants because he's so close to you.) Then his mouth is on you- hot and punishing. He sucks hard, open-mouthed and desperate, tongue dragging over one nipple, tongue swirling to it while his thumb teases the other. His stubble burns. You arch into it, gasping, and that only makes him rougher.

His hand moves to your shorts. Not yanked- unfastened. Careful, but still not slow. He undoes the button, lowers the zipper slowly like he wants to hear every inch of it give. Then he grabs both the denim and your panties and pulls, drags them in one go, halfway down your thighs with one bruising tug that knocks the breath out of you.

You feel the air hit between your legs. Feel him pause. He pulls back just long enough to look. Still can't get off from the way your chest look, eyes locked to yours- like he wants to see the second you realize how fucked you are. Then his hand is on his belt. Unbuckling fast. Jeans shoved down just enough to free himself, nothing more. Just his cock standing tall and proud.

He doesn’t even take them off. He just gets his hand under your thigh again, pushes your knee up, and presses into you. Guiding himself where he wants it. It's slow, thick, and unrelenting when he's testing it outside of your hole. He doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t speak. Just shoves in one sharp, angry thrust that knocks the wind out of you when he finds the right moment to do so.

Your back arches clean off the floor. Almost freezes when you take him whole. Your body is adjusting to him. Your jacket twisted beneath you, thighs spread wide under the weight of him. You cry out before you can stop it, your hand flying up to grab at his shirt, and your hand holds it tightly.

He can't really blame you for reacting that way. He knows people aren't really active in doing this kind of activity considering what's happening around the world. He can even feel it. You're tight. God. “Shh,” he growls, already driving into you again, harder this time. “You wanna wake ‘em up?”

You bite your lip. Shakes your head. Try not to scream. He’s not giving you time, not giving you anything but the full, merciless length of him, over and over like he wants it to hurt. And it does. You feel it everywhere. Your spine, your ribs, and your jaw are from clenching so hard. “F-fuck,” you gasp. “This you bein’ careful? D-damn you.”

He slams deeper. Doesn’t answer. Making you feel more of him.

Your nails scrape down his stomach- just under his shirt, not gently- and he snaps. You just need to feel him. One hand flies to your throat, not choking hard, just enough to still you. Just enough to own you. “You keep runnin’ that fuckin’ mouth,” he mutters, “I’ll shut it for you.”

You giggle- wrecked and breathless, because even now you want to push him. You don't even know why it made you giggle, maybe it's the fact that he's hot? God. Maybe because you're just sick and enjoying it.

So he does squeeze a little harder. Makes your head spin just enough. Keeps fucking you through it, rough and fast and filthy like he’s mad he likes it this much. Like every thrust is another reason he should’ve left you behind. And god, you love it. You’re still half-dressed, your bra pushed up, shirt bunched at your collarbones, jacket riding your arms. You look like a fucking slut at this moment, the kind the looking for a quick fuck. While he got his jeans shoved down just enough and he doesn’t care about the rest- just fists the fabric of your shirt and keeps going, fucking you into the cold floor like it owes him something.

“You- fuck- you’re not gonna last,” you rasp, choking on your own grin. “Been too long for you, huh?” You tease him. You know that it's been too long. For you too. That's why it's making things better. You're tighter. He's eager. What a good combo. Surely it will be more enjoyable for him.

He growls- low in his chest, animal and mean- and suddenly his mouth is on you again, teeth dragging along the underside of your breast like it pisses him off how good you taste. He doesn’t ease up either- still thrusting, still punishing, grinding into you like it’s the last fuck he’ll ever get and he wants it etched into your bones.

His tongue flicks over your nipple, wet and hot, then he sucks hard- mouth working like he’s angry about it. Like he's getting something that's not there. Like he wants to ruin the way it makes you gasp. One hand braces beside your head again, the other gripping your hip, dragging you back into every brutal thrust. “You’re so fuckin’ stubborn,” he mutters against your skin. “Drives me goddamn insane.”

You laugh, breath hitching when he bites- hard enough to leave the shape of his teeth. “Yeah? Then shoot me, old man.”

He lifts his head, stares down at you, jaw clenched and eyes wild. The sweat on his brow is starting to drip. You’re both half-undressed, panting like animals, his hand tightening on your hip hard enough to bruise. “You think I won’t?” he grits out. “You make me wanna do all kinds of stupid shit.” Then he fucks into you even rougher. Like punishment. Like proof.

You moan- loud this time- and he slaps his palm over your mouth without thinking, silencing you with a glare. “Keep quiet,” he said. But you’re smiling under it. Smiling like you won. And he knows it. So he keeps going. Fucks you through the smile. Through the hand over your mouth. Through the anger in both your bodies like it’s all either of you has left.

Your teeth sink into his palm- hard. Not enough to break skin, but close. He jerks like he’s been shot, hips stuttering just enough to loosen his grip. You take your chance. Wrists snap up. Knees shift. And then with a grunt and a twist of your hips, you push him off, flipping him onto his back so fast it knocks the breath out of both of you. You have the strength to do it after all those survival skills you have.

He grunts as his spine hits the cracked floorboards, hands already catching your hips out of instinct- just as his cock slips free, thick and wet and twitching between you. “Jesus Christ,” he snarls, already half-rising like he’s gonna pin you again.

But you’re faster. You straddle him before he can do shit, jacket still on, tits out, sweat slick between your ribs. You drop your weight down just enough to let your slick cunt press against his length- not taking him in, not yet. Just grinding your slit to him slow, lazy, torturous, your ruined shorts halfway down your thighs. “Aw, what’s wrong?” you murmur, mocking sweetness. “Thought you said I was gonna make you do something stupid.”

He grabs your waist like he’s going to break it. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t buck up. Just breathes- harsh and heavy, nostrils flaring, eyes locked on yours like he’s never hated anyone more in his life. Or wanted them this much. “You like bein’ a brat, huh?” he growls.

You rock your hips once. Just enough to drag your slick over his tip. Enough to feel him twitching. A whimper escapes him before he can swallow it. “Not a brat,” you whisper, grinning now. “Just figured you needed help finishing the job, old man.”

That does it. In one breathless move, he raises your hips before lining himself to you and he yanks you down, sheathing himself deep again- all the way, no warning, no grace. You gasp, head thrown back, spine bowing as he fills you. “Shut the fuck up,” he hisses, hands bruising on your hips. “And ride me.”

You brace your hands on his chest- hot and hard and heaving- and start moving. Slow. Torturous. Rolling your hips like it’s a fucking lap dance, like you’re not even really doing it for him. Just chasing your orgasm, dragging your wet cunt along his cock until he’s twitching inside you again, jaw clenched so tight it could crack.

He doesn’t speak. Not at first. Just watches you with that blown-out, murderous glare like he wants to kill you for making it feel this good. And that’s when you really start to talk. “Y’know,” you murmur, voice syrup-sweet, “I think you were full of shit. Back there. When you said you’d leave me behind.”

His hands tighten. Fingers digging into the soft of your waist like he’s warning you. But you just ride slower, deeper, grinding your clit against the base of him until your lashes flutter. He's so deep, you might think he's kissing your inside with his tip.

“I think you like the trouble,” you whisper, grinning now. “You like the mouth. The attitude. The fact I don’t listen.” You lean in, press your palms to the floor beside his head, and fuck down just right- his head thumps the wall behind him.

“I think you wake up pissed every morning ‘cause I’m still around. But you don’t send me away.” Your breath ghosts over his cheek. “You let me talk to her. You let me sit at your fire. You watch me all the fucking time.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just pants, breath flaring hot against your throat as his hands start to move again- one trailing up your side, the other gripping your ass hard enough to bruise.

“And now you’re letting me fuck you,” you laugh, breath catching as you rock your hips a little faster. “Face it, Joel. You’re gone. You’re fucking- ”

His hand clamps over your mouth again. Not rough this time. Just firm. Possessive. His other hand snakes into your hair, pulling your head back so you have to look him in the eyes. “Don’t say another word,” he growls. “Or I swear- ”

Your teeth graze his palm again. Not biting this time- just testing. You're licking it like you're making out with him while you're grinding and looking at his eyes.

He shudders. Then thrusts up into you hard enough to split you open again, growling through his teeth like he hates you for every word you’ve ever said.

Your tongue darts out, slow, shameless, as you lick a stripe across the center of his palm.

His whole body jerks. So you do it again. Sloppier this time, your eyes locked on his like you know exactly what you’re doing. You press few pecks before licking again. Like you want to see how much filth he can take before it breaks him. You drag your tongue up to the base of his fingers, then you move your hand from his palm and close your lips around two of them and suck. Like you're showing him how you'll suck him off. You licks the tip of his fingers before circling your tongue on it.

He groans- low and guttural, almost like pain- and drives up into you harder, faster, both hands flying to your hips now like he’s done letting you have any control at all.

“Jesus- fuckin’- Christ,” he grits, his thrusts turning brutal. “You’re- fuckin’- insane.”

You laugh, or try to, but it gets knocked right out of you with the next thrust. He’s fucking you now like it’s punishment, like it’s the only way to shut you up, to get even for every time you ran your mouth or disobeyed or looked him in the eye like he wasn’t the one holding the goddamn gun.

“Can’t stand you,” he snarls, but it’s hoarse, ruined. His eyes flick to your tits bouncing with every snap of his hips, to your mouth slick with spit and spitfire, to the soft bite-marks he left on your throat. “Goddamn- you feel like this?”

You moan into his shoulder, teeth sinking into the fabric of his shirt, barely able to breathe with the way he’s slamming up into you now, fucking through the grind of your hips until all you can do is take it. And you do. You take it like a fucking champ.

He palms your ass, pulls you down as he thrusts up, deeper than before, cruel and so fucking good it aches. “You think you can mouth off like that and still get away with it?” he growls into your neck. “Still ride me like you own it?”

Your voice is a whimper now, breaking under the rhythm. “M-maybe.” You whimpers and blush like his words make you feel shy.

“Yeah?” he spits, grabbing your throat- not choking, just holding. Just enough to make your eyes widen. “Then let’s see how long you last.” His hips don’t stop- not even for a second. He keeps fucking up into you from below, relentless, brutal, like he’s trying to mark you from the inside out. Maybe you like it. Maybe you feel something you shouldn't. Belonging. Claim. Butterflies. But his hand- his other hand- slides between your bodies, palm dragging up your belly until it finds your chest.

You gasp.

He grins. Mean. Doesn’t break pace. Just squeezes- rough, greedy- thumb swiping over your nipple like he wants to feel how raw it gets. You’re still in your shirt, still in your bra, both shoved up and out of the way, and he palms your tit like it’s something he earned. Like he’s entitled to it now. “Fuckin’ knew you’d feel good,” he mutters, voice dark and ragged. “Knew you’d break like this.”

You shudder, hips twitching from the overstimulation, but he grabs you- keeps you flush against his chest, keeps you there. He rolls your nipple between his fingers just as he thrusts up again, and the sound you make is more than a moan- it’s wrecked, wrecking, the kind of noise that feels dangerous to let slip. He likes that.

You can feel it in the way his mouth drags hot and heavy over your jaw, his teeth grazing your skin like he might bite again if you don’t behave. But he doesn’t stop touching you, doesn’t stop fucking into you, chest to chest like he wants to melt you down into him. You feel it first in his hands- tightening on your hips like he’s about to do something reckless. And he does.

He stops. Just for a second. Just long enough to let you feel it- his cock twitching inside you, your muscles clenching down in anticipation. He lets you sit there, suspended in heat and want, then thrusts up once- deep and sharp. Another, harder. And one more, just to watch your mouth fall open, your body jolt helplessly against him. “You think you’re in charge?” he breathes, smirking now. “Cute.”

And then he moves. Fast, brutal, smooth- his grip shifts, his weight rolls, and suddenly you’re on your back. Your shoulders hit the floor, thighs still wrapped around him, and he doesn’t waste a second. Slides right back into you, rough and steady, fucking you like he’s reclaiming something that was never yours to take. “Thought you had me, didn’t you?” he mutters, panting against your throat. “Fuckin’ brat.”

And then he’s pressing into you, hand splayed on your stomach like he wants to feel how deep he is. On the other hand, curling under your knee, pushing it higher to fold you open for him- give him more room to ruin you with every relentless, punishing thrust. He’s pounding into you now, no rhythm- just force. Like he’s trying to fuck the attitude out of you, like it’s the only language he knows. Like every thrust is another shut the fuck up he didn’t say out loud.

You whimper. Moan. Claw at his back like you’re trying to hold yourself together. And still- your mouth runs. “F-fuck- this is why you’re so uptight?” you gasp, voice cracking as he grinds in deeper, your words hitching on every thrust. “Could’ve just- ngh- jerked off like a normal person, Joel- ”

He grabs your thigh and slams into you hard enough to knock the breath out of you. “That's what you want?” he snarls, voice hot and fraying against your cheek. “Want me to shut you up with something down your throat next time?”

You shudder. Cry out. Legs jerking around his waist, holding him in without thinking. But you’re still grinning. Lip split. Teeth glinting. All nerve. “Y-you say that like- fuck- like there’s gonna be a next time.” That gets him. He groans, low and guttural, almost helpless, because you’re squeezing around him now- tight and soaked and fucking taunting him.

You’re breathless. Back arching off the floor. Body bouncing with every thrust- and still, somehow, your mouth won’t quit. “Y-you like this, huh?” you pant, half-laughing, half-moaning. “All that talk and you still can’t stop fucking me- ” Joel growls- deep and vicious- and his hand flies to your throat. Not choking. Just holding, just enough to pin you there, make you look at him.

“You don’t know when to stop,” he mutters, breath ragged. “Goddamn mouth on you…”

His hips grind in deeper, harder, meaner because he's most likely talking about himself when he said you don't know how fo stop. His other hand cups your chest, thumb dragging roughly over your nipple, and you gasp, arching up into it like you can’t help it.

But then you laugh again- wrecked and gleeful and cruel. “This is why you’re mad all the time?” you whisper. “Cause no one lets you fuck the fight outta them?”

That nearly breaks him. His jaw clenches. His thrusts stutter- hips grinding deep, punishing. And when you tilt your chin up like a dare, voice trembling but still sharp, he snaps. “God, you’re a fucking brat,” he growls.

Then he grabs your tits- both, rough and greedy, thumbs flicking over your nipples until your back bows clean off the floor. He pinches- hard- and watches your mouth drop open on a sound you try to swallow. “Uh-uh,” he mutters, dragging one palm up to your throat again, not squeezing, just holding- steady pressure that makes everything tighter, makes you throb. “No shutting up now. You wanted to talk? Talk.”

You whimper. One of those high, broken ones you didn’t mean to let out. He rolls your nipple between two fingers and fucks up into you again- slow this time, deep, cock dragging right over that spot that makes your thighs twitch. You gasp like it’s your first breath in minutes. “Thought so,” he says, low and mean and fucked-out. “All that mouth and now you can’t even finish a sentence.”

You’re blinking up at him, wrecked and twitching, your hands scrabbling uselessly at his wrists, not to stop him- just to touch something. His hands are everywhere- tits, throat, waist, like he can’t pick which part of you he needs to ruin more.

He leans in. Breath hot against your ear. “Look at you,” he mutters. “Fucked dumb already and I’m not even close.”

Then he thrusts, hard- one palm sliding back down to your chest, thumb circling one swollen nipple again just to watch your face twist. You bite your lip. You try so hard to be quiet. But it slips out anyway. The broken, breathy, please- like your body said it before your brain could.

And Joel just grins. Dark and awful and proud. You don’t even realize you’re shaking until his thumb brushes over your nipple again- slow this time, like he’s testing you, watching the way your hips buck just from that. “Sensitive, huh?” he mutters, dragging the pad of his finger over it again. “Figures. Got a mouth like yours, gotta be soft somewhere.”

Your lip trembles. You shake your head, try to glare- but it’s ruined by the way your breath hitches when he pinches.

He watches your reaction, eyes flicking down to your chest like he can’t help it, like it’s the only thing in the room worth looking at. His cock still deep inside you, barely moving, like he’s savoring the way you pulse around him every time he tweaks one of those pretty nipples.

“God, look at ‘em,” he breathes, thumb dragging across again. “Bouncing every time I move. Can’t even touch you without you fuckin’ whimpering.” You grit your teeth. Bite your lip. Anything not to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg. So he pulls back. Slams in again. You sob. Just a little. “Yeah,” he grits. “Thought so. Not so smart now, huh?” He leans down- licks a stripe up your chest, then bites one nipple, hard enough to make you cry out, back arching straight into his mouth.

Your hands fly to his hair- grabbing, tugging, anything to ground yourself.

Your legs are trembling now, wrapped tight around his hips, your body working against you. You’re close. You can feel it.

And he knows. “Fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, mouth still wet against your skin. “These tits… Christ. Could spend all night right here- just keep you pinned and pretty like this.”

You moan. Loud. Desperate. “Joel- ”

His mouth is still on you- sloppy, greedy, obsessed. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your tits with his tongue, dragging it in circles around your nipple until you’re twitching beneath him. His teeth graze again. Bite. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make you feel it. “Fuck,” he mutters, low and guttural, more to himself than you. “Soft little thing. Gonna ruin me.”

You whimper when he licks a stripe back up your breast, mouth settling over your nipple again like he can’t stop. His hand squeezes the other one, big palm rough over your skin, like he wants to know how heavy it feels, how full. “Gonna get even bigger, ain’t they?” he grits, voice hot against your chest. “One day. Round and heavy. Shit- dripping.”

Your whole body jolts. “W-what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps sucking, deeper this time- harder- like he’s trying to coax something from you that’s not even there. Like it’s the end of the world and you’re his only vice left. “Bet you’d be so fuckin’ full,” he breathes, half-mad. “God, just the thought- ”

You whine. Head lolling back. Your thighs twitch, clenching around him without meaning to. “You like that?” he growls, rolling your nipple between two fingers while his cock grinds in deep. “Bet you’d keep me fed, huh? Tits all swollen, dripping warm down my fuckin’ throat…”

Your stomach flips. Heat rolls through your gut like molten honey. “Joel- shit- ”

“Yeah,” he rasps, finally dragging his mouth off your chest just to look at you- really look. “Wanna see you like that. All used up. Full for me. My girl.” You shiver. Clench down on him so tight his jaw locks.

And then he’s slamming back into you like he wants to fuck that whole idea into existence. Anchoring himself, as if he lets go, you’ll disappear. And he can’t have that. Not now. Not when you’re beneath him like this, fucked open and whimpering, tits flushed from his mouth, body made to take him. “Shit- gonna fill you up,” he rasps, voice shredded with heat. “Fuckin’- gonna take it, huh? Gonna keep it?”

You choke on your moan. He doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t even give you time to think. Just keeps rutting into you, filthy and deep, his hips snapping like it’s instinct.

“You don’t even fuckin’ know,” he mutters- half-laugh, half-growl- as he presses you down harder into the floor. “You mouth off and push and act like you don’t need anyone, but this-this is what you’re made for.”

You whimper- legs twitching, heels digging into his back. He grabs your thigh again, pins it open, and spreads you wider.

“Bet you’d be perfect with my kid in you,” he grits. “Fuckin’ perfect. Swollen and sore and full- mine.” Your mouth falls open. No sound comes out just air, broken and helpless, because you feel it now. His weight of him. The size. The claim.

“You feel that?” he pants, grinding in deep, hips flush with yours. “That’s what you get for runnin’ your mouth. You want me this bad? You take it. You fuckin’ take all of it.”

You’re close. So close it aches. But he doesn’t let you tip over. Not yet.

His mouth returns to your chest, tongue dragging across your nipple like he owns it. He groans like a man half-feral. “Gonna watch ‘em get big. Heavy. Gonna fuck you slow when you’re full. Keep you wet all the time so it’s easy to slip in again.”

“Joel- p-please- ”

“Yeah, baby.” His voice is a growl, all pride and possession. “Gonna breed you right. Gonna fill you ‘til it sticks.” And then he fucks up hard, deep enough to bruise, and you break- eyes rolling back, body pulsing around him like your cunt knows exactly what he’s giving it.

He grits out a breath, baring his teeth like he’s proud of what he’s done to you. Like this is what he’s been waiting for. You twitch under him, clinging, whining, and he just smirks. “Yeah,” he mutters against your jaw, voice shredded and dark, “this is how you like it, huh? Can’t even fuck you unless everyone’s asleep- unless it’s fuckin’ nighttime and no one’s watching.”

You whimper, half-gone, still gasping as he grinds in slow, brutal, mean. He chuckles- mean. “Guess that’s when you’re the most behaved, huh? Quiet and needy. All that mouth, but only when the sun’s out.”

You bite your lip. He presses deeper. “Gonna start fuckin’ you every night. Every fuckin’ night I get to watch. When they’re sleepin’. When you’re already soft and tired and so fuckin’ wet for me you can’t talk back.” He drags his palm down your stomach- grips your thigh again, fingers bruising. “Bet you’ll start begging for it. Pretend like you hate it, but you’ll be waiting. Stayin’ up late just to get ruined.”

You’re shaking. Boneless. Fucked half-dumb. But your voice still works- barely. “Y-you always this chatty… after rawdogging someone into the floor?”

Joel just growls- laughs sharp through his teeth- and fucks into you again like punishment. He fucks into you harder- mean now, chest heaving, voice cracked open with heat. “Fuckin’ made for this,” he hisses. “Smart mouth, dumb fuckin’ body.”

You try to answer but can’t- you’re too full, too fucked out, just clinging to his shoulders while your back scrapes against the dirty floor. And he loves that. Loves that you’re quiet now. “So much attitude,” he pants, thrusts getting shorter, sharper, messier. “And for what? Huh? You talk all that shit, and here you are- takin’ me so deep I could fuckin’ mark your stomach.”

He palms it, broad hand splayed low over your belly, like he’s imagining it- imagining leaving something in you. “Bet you’d like that. Keepin’ it in all night. Walkin’ around full of it like it means somethin’.” You whimper. He grunts. “I’ll do it,” he breathes. “Next fuckin’ time. Not pullin’ out. Gonna leave it in make you sleep with it.”

Your body jerks under his, legs locking around his hips, and that does it- he snarls, pulls out fast, and fists himself hard, just once, twice, until he’s spilling across your stomach in hot, messy streaks.

He pants above you, jaw clenched, chest rising like he could still keep going if he wanted to. His cum drips down your skin, sticky and hot, glinting in the low light. And still- still- his voice doesn’t soften. “Next time,” he mutters darkly, thumb dragging through the mess on your belly, smearing it slowly. “You’re gonna keep it.”

You’re still panting when he touches your stomach- fingers dragging through the mess he left there like it means something. Like it should’ve gone deeper. He stares at it for a beat, jaw tight. Then wraps his hand around his cock again, still half-hard and twitching, and starts stroking- slow, rough pulls, using his own cum as slick.

You can feel him watching you. Watching the way you’re still shaking, legs parted, flushed and ruined, and not even trying to hide how much you want more. “Would’ve bred you if I fuckin’ could,” he mutters, voice low and bitter. “Would’ve filled you up for real.”

He sounds angry about it. Not at you- at himself. Like it kills him that he can’t. That's all he can do is make it look like it. And then he’s pushing back in. One filthy, forceful thrust- shoving all that comes back inside you like he’s trying to fake what he can’t have. Like he needs it to look real. Feel real.

You gasp, eyes going wide, body jolting under him. He groans into your neck, hips grinding with each deep, punishing thrust. “You feel that?” he breathes. “Messy and full- like you should’ve been. Like I should’ve done it.”

You whimper. Moan. Your whole body pulses like it believes him. But he just fucks you through it- slower now, meaner, desperate in a different way. Like he’s chasing the illusion of something permanent. Something that might’ve belonged to him, in another life.

You’re both still catching your breath. His cock’s still half-hard inside you, your thighs still trembling, your shirt pushed up and bra hanging off one arm like a war trophy. There’s sweat on your stomach, spit on your tits, and his come smeared in a messy stripe just under your navel like a goddamn signature.

And yet somehow- your brain resurfaces just enough to deliver one extremely cursed, extremely rational thought. “…We should probably find condoms,” you mumble.

Joel lifts his head- barely. Just enough to narrow his eyes at you like you’re the crazy one in this scenario, not the man who just rage-fucked you raw in a building full of sleeping people.

“I mean it,” you say, breath hitching when he shifts slightly, cock twitching inside you. “Like- I don’t think I’m trying to be someone’s mom in the apocalypse.”

He blinks at you. Still panting. Still buried inside. You keep going, because you’re annoying. Because you’re you.

“Couldn’t even get prenatal vitamins. Just a can of expired shits.”

“I’m serious,” you whisper, brushing your fingers through the come on your belly like you’re testing the viscosity of regret. “Next run- we’re raiding the pharmacy.”

Joel drags a hand down his face, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

You tilt your head. “What? You don’t wanna be a daddy again?”

His only response is a grunt- and then he pulls out with a groan, wiping his hand roughly down your stomach like he’s trying to erase the evidence, except all it does is smear it worse. You sigh.

You both lie there for a second. Staring at the ceiling. Panting. Degrading in silence.

Then, finally, Joel mutters: “…We’ll look for condoms.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[my-castles-crumbling]

Fanfiction: where you can take a break from being sad about the world by being sad about fictional things instead.

[princesssarisa]

Character ask: Fiyero and Boq (Wicked)

I'm not really a die-hard Wicked fan, but here goes. This is for the musical only, since I haven't read the novel.

Warning: spoilers below.

Fiyero

Favorite thing about them: That despite seeming like a silly playboy at first, he proves to be a kindred sprit to Elphaba, who loves and respects her as she is, who tries to help and defend her when no one else in Oz is willing to do so, and who ultimately sacrifices everything for her, even (nearly) his life.

Least favorite thing about them: That he leads Glinda on by not breaking up with her even as he starts to fall for Elphaba, and then goes along with their engagement even though he doesn't want to marry her. He should have ended things between them long before it reached that point.

Three things I have in common with them:

*I can be snarky.

*I dislike fakeness and selling out.

*I can seem like just a fun-lover, but really I think and feel deeply.

Three things I don't have in common with them:

*I'm female.

*I'm not royalty.

*I was never a partying troublemaker in college.

Favorite line: His joke when Elphaba tells him she realizes he's not as shallow and self-absorbed as he seems:

"Excuse me, there's no pretense here: I happen to be genuinely self-absorbed and deeply shallow."

And these lines from his dialogue with Glinda at the beginning of Act II, where he calls her out on her tragic flaw of choosing fame and popularity over everything else:

"You can't leave because you can't resist this. And that is the truth."

And when she objects that no one could resist it: "You know who could. Who has."

brOTP: His horse Feldspur in the movie, and probably Boq, especially if we keep the Scarecrow and Tin Man's friendship in mind. Not to mention Dorothy, even though their interactions are kept offstage.

OTP: Elphaba.

nOTP: Glinda.

Random headcanon: Hmmm... In the movie, he really did eat grass as a child. He's not just joking when he says he did.

Unpopular opinion: I like him better than Glinda as a romantic partner for Elphaba. Of course I understand that Elphaba and Glinda's bond is more central and more fleshed out, I see the appeal of Gelphie as a ship, and I know how much Gelphie means to countless fans. But personally? Without denying Glinda's importance to Elphaba, I prefer Fiyero as her love interest. He embraces her values and comes through for her in a way that Glinda only does at the very end, and no attempts I've read by Gelphie shippers to dismiss that fact ring true for me. As a couple, Fiyeraba reminds me in many ways of Esmeralda and Phoebus in Disney's Hunchback of Notre Dame (these Stephen Schwartz musicals have recurring themes!), and I don't see many fans putting down that pairing, even though they're a bit underdeveloped too, and even though Esmeralda's friendship with Quasimodo is more central to the plot. On the contrary, the fans hold up their love as the main example of healthy love in that story! Besides, if we don't think Elphaba really loves Fiyero, then "No Good Deed" loses its power. If he's just "comphet" to her, why should his apparent death break her so much that she resolves to really be wicked and kidnaps Dorothy? And the reveal that he's still alive is what snaps her out of her breakdown and lets her reconcile with Glinda in the end. I have nothing against shipping Gelphie, but I can't dismiss Fiyeraba as just "boring comphet" the way most of the fandom seems to do.

Song I associate with them: "Dancing Through Life"

"As Long as You're Mine"

Favorite picture of them:

Norbert Leo Butz

Aaron Tveit

Andy Karl

Derrick Williams with Stephanie J. Block (more actors of color should play the role)

Adam Garcia with Idina Menzel

Jonathan Bailey in the movie

Boq

Favorite thing about them: Well, when we first meet him at least, he's a sweet, adorkable character, and if the Tin Man we know from The Wizard of Oz is a mostly accurate portrait of how he behaves on his journey with Dorothy, he never really loses those qualities.

Least favorite thing about them: First that he leads Nessarose on (a recurring flaw among the young men in this story, it seems) and lies about why he asked her out, even if his reason is to avoid hurting her. And later, of course, that he becomes such a bloodthirsty witch hunter, out to kill Elphaba for turning him into tin even though she saved his life by doing so.

Three things I have in common with them:

*I can be socially awkward.

*I'm not always good at standing up for myself.

*Sometimes I want to blame people for doing things that made me uncomfortable, when really those things were good for me.

Three things I don't have in common with them:

*I'm female.

*I've never had any romantic entanglements with witches.

*I've never been turned into tin.

Favorite line: His verse in "March of the Witch Hunters," even though it's his darkest moment:

And this is more than just a service to the Wizard I have a personal score to settle with El... With The Witch!

It's due to her I'm made of tin Her spell made this occur So for once, I'm glad I'm heartless I'll be heartless killing her!

And the Lion also has a grievance to repay If she'd let him fight his own battles When he was young He wouldn't be a coward, today!

brOTP: In the Shiz days before things go bad, Fiyero, Nessarose, Elphaba and Glinda (especially in the deleted scene from the movie that shows them all hanging out together). And after he becomes the Tin Man, Dorothy.

OTP: None.

nOTP: Nessarose or Glinda.

Random headcanon: When he sees Elphaba "melt," he'll be unexpectedly horrified; he'll find himself remembering their days at Shiz and the girl she once was, and realize that seeing her die horribly doesn't feel as good as he thought it would. (I'm basing this on the Tin Man's close-to-tears face after the Witch melts in the 1939 Wizard of Oz: we'll see if Wicked: For Good has Ethan Slater react in a similar way or not.)

Unpopular opinion: Even though he's far from blameless, nothing justifies Nessarose stripping him and all the other Munchkins of their rights and forcing him to stay with her, then trying to magically brainwash him into loving her. He may deserve some karma for lying about his feelings for her, but he doesn't deserve all that.

Song I associate with them:

His part in "Dancing Through Life"

"March of the Witch Hunters"

Favorite picture of them:

Christopher Fitzgerald

Riley Costello

Ethan Slater in the movie

[ariel-seagull-wings]

FICTIONAL CHARACTER ASK: BABA YAGA

@professorlehnsherr-almashy @amalthea9 @princesssarisa @tamisdava2 @thealmightyemprex @angelixgutz @adarkrainbow @grimoireoffolkloreandfairytales @softlytowardthesun

Favorite Thing About Them: How much a neutral force she is, that can either ruin your life or guide you help you with any truble that could be ailing you. It all depends on her motives and demeanor. If she feels like helping you, she will. If she feels wicked, you're as good as destined to be her next meal...

Least Favorite Thing About Them: I wish she wasn't so obfuscated by the historical figure of Rasputin the Mad Monk when western media searched for Mystical Russian Antagonists. Like... Baba Yaga is right here, a fictional character you can write whatever way you want. You don't need to go out of your way to fictionalize the real events that led to the Russian Revolution!

Three Things I Have In Common With Them:

*Like in some portrayals, I enjoy drinking tea;

I can either help you or ignore you depending on my motives and demeanor;

I have a vengeful side;

Three Things I Don't Have In Common With Then:

I'm not a centuries old woman;

I'm not russian;

I don't live in walking house with chicken legs;

Favorite Line: From a tale called The Water of Life, where she first asks:

"Hail, brave young man, do you search for adventures or runs from misadventures?"

Then warns three princes about the dangers of the Three Boatman and the Boats:

"In the first, they shall cut your right arm

In the second, the left leg

And in the third, they shall make your head roll away."

brOTP: The Gingerbread House Witch from Hansel and Gretel.

OTP: She may have a crush on Koschei the Deathless.

nOTP: Any child characters who interacts with her.

Random Headcanon: Her favorite ingredient to make food and potions are mushrooms she forages in the woods.

Unpopular Opinion: There needs to be more movies and shows exposing her, she is a very underrated character.

Song I Associate With Them:

Baba Yaga from Mussorgsky's Pictures from An Exhibition

Intro from Bartok the Magnificent

Favorite Picture of Them:

This illustration by Ivan Bilibin

Illustrations for Babushka Baba Yaga by Patricia Polacco

Her portrayal in the direct-to-video animated movie Bartok the Magnificent, which was my introduction to the character:

[fandomsarefamily1966]

Character ask: Samwise Gamgee

😊 I'm surprised most of these are LOTR related, but I'm not complaining

Character ask: Samwise Gamgee (The Lord of the Rings)

Favorite thing about them: His undying loyalty towards Frodo. While everyone else gets separated from him through no fault of their own, Sam is with him the whole way through, and will not leave his side no matter what happens, which plays a major part in the quest's completion.

Least favorite thing about them: His temper. It doesn't really flare up all that often- mainly whenever it looks like someone's insulting or about to hurt Frodo- but it does keep him from playing nice when it would be a smart idea, like with Faramir.

Three things I have in common with them:

*I love plants.

*I'm very loyal to and would do anything to keep my loved ones safe.

*Once I set my mind to something, I'll try my best to see it though.

Three things I don't have in common with them:

*I'm female.

*I'm not a hobbit.

*I'm not as good a cook as he is.

Favorite line: Again, there are many, but I'll try to keep it simple.

When he talks to Frodo about his conversation with the elves:

"Leave him! I never mean to. I am going with him, if he climbs to the Moon, and if any of these Black Riders try to stop him, they'll have Sam Gamgee to reckon with."

His response to Frodo's prediction that he'll be either a great wizard or a warrior:

"I hope not. I don't want to be neither!"

When Frodo can't go any further, so he carries him the rest of the way:

"Then let us be rid of it, once and for all! I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you! Come on!"

The very last line of the series, after he sees Frodo off for the very last time:

"Well, I'm back."

brOTP: The other hobbits, especially Frodo.

OTP: Rosie.

nOTP: Sauron or Gollum.

Random headcanon: He's just as traumatized from the quest as Frodo is, it just manifests differently, and in a much less obvious way- his need for things to go back to normal as quickly as possible, as he does get married and has no less than THIRTEEN children rather quickly.

Unpopular opinion: His and Frodo's friendship is amazing, but I wish people would focus on his relationships outside of Frodo more. I also feel the same way about him that I do with Jo: I love both of them very much, and they deserve all the love they get, but they're also a bit overhyped, especially at the expense of my beloveds Frodo and Beth.

Song I associate with them:

"Candle On the Water" from the movie Pete's Dragon.

Favorite picture of them:

Sean Astin in the early 2000s films:

[justice-for-general-schmitz]

Raj Koothrappali from The Big Bang Theory for the character ask?

Sure!

Favorite thing about them: He's so relatable, all the way down to him being the quietest out of them all and often not knowing what to say in social situations.

Least favorite thing about them: The fact that he still has some "stereotypical Indian" qualities to him despite being an otherwise well-rounded character.

Three things I have in common with them:

I'm socially awkward.

I love karaoke and video games.

I have issues with my parents sometimes.

Three things I don't have in common with them:

I'm not of Indian descent.

I'm not a physicist with a PhD.

I don't live in my own apartment.

Favorite line:

From The Precious Fragmentation, after he and his friends chant the "One ring to rule them all" rhyme: "Holy crap, are we nerdy!"

From The Adhesive Duck Deficiency: "If I could speak the language of rabbits, they would be amazed, and I would be their king." And later on: "I would be kind to my rabbit subjects. At first."

From The Clean Room Infiltration: "Amy, good luck getting these guys excited about a dinner with a theme. I gave up when no one cared about my Tom Hanks-Giving."

brOTP: Everyone in his social group, as well as his dog Cinnamon.

OTP: The girl I believe he meets in the audience after the end of the last episode (more on that later).

nOTP: Any of his exes, his family, or his dog.

Random headcanon: After the show ends, he gets closer with a girl he meets in the audience at Sheldon's speech, and eventually starts dating her and then marries her. He deserves love, too.

Unpopular opinion: He deserved to get a love interest first, not Howard.

Song I associate with them:

"My Heart, My Universe", from The Thespian Catalyst:

"Thor and Dr. Jones", from The 2003 Approximation:

Favorite picture of them:

His expression in this one is contagious.

With his dog Cinnamon. She's so cute- and I love his purple jacket in this one too.

Again, he looks great in purple.

With the hat that he, for some reason, only wore in the pilot episode.

[ariel-seagull-wings]

@themousefromfantasyland @the-blue-fairie

Fictional Character Ask: Esmeralda

TAGGED BY: @princesssarisa​

Favorite thing about them: Esmeralda is a energetic and free spirited bohemian, who loves singing and dancing in the streets illuminated by the sun and can teach calculus and writing to his pet goat Djali. She also shows compassion to Gringoire and Quasímodo, marrying the first to save him from hanging and giving water to the second after he has been whiped for trying to kidnapp her under Frollo’s orders. And speaking of Frollo, the fact that she constanly  stands up to this villain every time that he tries to assault her is simply badass.

Least favorite thing about them: Oh my god, she has so much potential, and yet she wastes all of it in her belief that Phoebus loves her. That asshole Captain of the Guard gives all the signs that he doesn’t care for Esmeralda at all, and yet she mistreats Quasímodo because Phoebus isn’t with him, and when her mother Gudule tries to hide her, she ruins their chance to escape by screaming Phoebus name, calling the atention of the guards who them kill her mother and take her to hanging. Esme, dear, you apeared so much more inteligent in the beggining of the book, but them you disapointed me with your stuborness and lack of self-preservation for the love of a guy who doesn’t deserve it.

Also, the fact that in the book she is not actually romani, but instead a white girl who was stolen by the romani as a baby, is just racist bullshit.

Favorite line: In the book Esmeralda sings two songs, one in spanish and other in french.

In Chapter III: Kisses for Blows, she sings a spanish song about a founded treasure:

Un cofre de gran riqueza 

Hallaron dentro un pilar, 

Dentro del, nuevas banderas

Con figuras de espantar.

Alarabes de cavallo 

Sin poderse menear, 

Con espadas, y los cuellos, 

Ballestas de buen echar,

And in Chapter VII: A Bridal Night, she sings a french song saying that her parents are birds, a metaphour to the fact that she doesn’t know where she was born and who are her parents:

Mon père est oiseau, 

Ma mère est oiselle. 

Je passe l’eau sans nacelle, 

Je passe l’eau sans bateau, 

Ma mère est oiselle, 

Mon père est oiseau.

Also, from Chapter VII: A Bridal Night, her definitions of friendship and love (that would appear in the 1939 movie adaptation) are very beautifull: 

It is to be brother and sister; two souls which touch without mingling, two fingers on one hand.  

Oh love! That is to be two and to be but one. A man and a woman mingled into one angel. It is heaven.  

brOTP: With her pet coat Djali, Clopin Trouillefou and Pierre Gringoire.

OTP: In the book, the 1956 film adaptation, the Parīzes Dievmātes Katedrāle latvian opera and the Notre Dame de Paris french rock-opera: With health and safety and with Quasimodo.

In the 1939, 1982 and 1997 film adaptations: With Pierre Gringoire.

In the 1923 Silent Movie, the 1996 Disney Animated Movie and its subsequent Theater Musical Adaptation: With Phoebus.

nOTP: With Frollo.

Random headcanon:  In the 1997 Parīzes Dievmātes Katedrāle latvian opera, we see the scene in wich Quasimodo’s mom gives birth to him and she says is afrayed of being rejected by her husband, to whom she simply refers as “my duke”, for giving birth to a deformed son. So her friends decide to exchange baby Quasimodo for the already newborn Esmeralda (them called Agnes by her birth mother Gudule). In novel and the 1956 Movie Adaptation, inside the comunity of Court of Miracles, the character who uses the title of “duke of Egypt and Bohemia” is Mathias Hungadi Spicali, the leader of the romani. So my headcanon is that Esmeralda was raised by Mathias Hungadi Spicali and his late wife as their adoptive daughter. While her adoptive mother was very close to her, Mathias was more distant due to frustration for having a daughter instead of a sun. But when Clopin leads the attack against the chatedral to save Esmeralda from being tacking out and hanged, Mathias participated in it with determination, because deep down he loved his daughter despite not showing it very often.

Unpopular Opinion:  I like Esmeralda better in movie and theater adaptations, where she usually is a bit less naive and evolves to get over her passion for Phoebus and her fear of Quasimodo’s apearance, and the subplot that says she was secretly a white girl is cut off entirely. In the book, i feel frustratred and annoyed with her.

Song I associate with them: 

The medieval spanish songs Si la Noche Haze Escura, Allá se me ponga el Sol and Dime Ramo Verde,  that i usually imagine as songs that she would sing while sad in prison:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RNVqPJO_Ekw

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JFkFeR8g2wE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0G3jA0uLdDU

From the 1996 Disney Animated Movie and its subsequent Theater Musical Adaptation:

Rhythm of the Tambourine:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jIES75RJtqg

God Help the Outcasts (just an iconic classic):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JE5MahcaYow

Esmeralda:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JpLYvyzFY2E

Someday:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BhVxgMV6dNo

From the Parīzes Dievmātes Katedrāle latvian opera:

 Kvazimodo dziedājums, an Aria in wich Quasimodo gives Esmeralda’s name to one of the chatedrals bells after she gaved him water:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hFvA_oU_wtw

From the Notre Dame de Paris french rock-opera: 

Bohémienne/Zingara:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dNCylkiJoZ8&list=OLAK5uy_mzJLYtPM7Gu8Bm9p0zZ7MSDW3ANmciaHA&index=6&t=0s

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6fjQjVtRJEY&list=PLvnRgeTgxudUXdY9SNzLLHXDdGHsR3NVd&index=5&t=0s

Esmeralda tu sais/Esmeralda lo sai:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1LK86FAwheQ&list=OLAK5uy_mzJLYtPM7Gu8Bm9p0zZ7MSDW3ANmciaHA&index=6

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2JfAifVXsm4&list=PLvnRgeTgxudUXdY9SNzLLHXDdGHsR3NVd&index=5

Belle/Bella:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5TfBCI8Y1F4&list=OLAK5uy_mzJLYtPM7Gu8Bm9p0zZ7MSDW3ANmciaHA&index=20

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H6qSxPrNMj8&list=PLvnRgeTgxudUXdY9SNzLLHXDdGHsR3NVd&index=18

Ave Maria paien/Ave Maria pagana:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yRZ5bTIWm-k&list=OLAK5uy_mzJLYtPM7Gu8Bm9p0zZ7MSDW3ANmciaHA&index=22

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CNj2BRRW3-M&list=PLvnRgeTgxudUXdY9SNzLLHXDdGHsR3NVd&index=20

Favorite picture of them:

These two book covers of the Mahiette editions:

These two Rowland Wheelwright illustrations, portrayng when she dances during the 06th of January festivities and when she gives water to a wounded Quasimodo:

This awesomely beautifull fanart by alicexz portraying the God Help the Outcasts scene from the 1996 Disney Animated Movie:

Salma Hayek with a lofty look in the 1997 Movie Adaptation:

Dita Kalnina in the 1997 Parīzes Dievmātes Katedrāle latvian opera (composed by Zigmars Liepiņš), depicted singing alongside Djali:

Diana Savelyeva from a russian production of the Notre Dame de Paris french rock-opera, to this day the only actual romani actress to be cast as Esmeralda:

Argentinian born italian singer and actress Lola Ponce from the original cast of italian production for the Notre Dame de Paris french rock-opera, singing the Pagan Ave Maria number:

[anli-rambles]

My contribution to this very important day