#utter trash art

[utterhomestucktrash]

Ko-Fi Commission for the lovely @stardial of the beautiful Astra 💞✨🌌✨💞

Such a fun one to work on ! Especially the stars ! Let me know if u can recognize any of the constellations 🤩

Commissions here !!

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

NEVER BEEN THE BIGGEST SOCIAL D. FAN, BUT THIS POSTER DESIGN REMAINS A FAVORITE.

PIC INFO: Spotlight on a SOCIAL DISTORTION poster design, with the SWINGIN' UTTERS, supporting, performing live at Moore Theatre in Seattle, Washington, on 1/13/1997.

Source: www.dking-gallery.com/store/KOZ_SocDist_Moore.html.

[vegasporschetruther]

[nichknack]

It’s fucking ridiculous that AI artwork has completely flooded Google images.

I’m trying to look up fantasy artwork to use as a reference for a RP and it’s all ugly AI generated images. Its disgusting!

[slashersdaddy]

Hiii! How would slashers react if their usually soft s/o ask them to kill someone for whatever reason?

OOOOHH I LOVE this idea!! give me a sec to whip something up!! (Post production edit: I'm so sorry it took so long! I had a long spell of creative rut!)

VARIOUS SLASHERS WITH SOFT S/O ASKING THEIR PARTNER TO KILL SOMEONE FOR THEM!

Includes: Jason, Micheal, Vincent Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, bubba Sawyer, Thomas Hewitt, Charles Lee Ray, Freddy Krueger

AS ALWAYS MDNI! I AM AN 18+ PAGE! THANK YOU!

Jason Voorhees:

Jason was confused to say the least- you WANTED him to kill someone? What did that bastard do?

When you first come to Jason, your usually cheerful face set in grim determination, and almost resignation- he feared the worst, that you wanted to leave him.

But when you uttered the question, when you asked him to kill someone- his already dead heart felt like it may break again- what did they do? Why did you feel the need for him to kill them?

Does he need to make them suffer? How badly did they hurt you?

It may be overwhelming how many questions he asks (signs) you.

Of course in the end he will of course kill the person- if for nothing else than because he cares for you and your mental health.

He will set you up all cozy before he leaves to do the deed, leaving you with blankets and movies and hot cocoa.

Michael Myers:

No questions asked- he is out the door.

dont even expect to be able to explain WHY you want this guy/girl dead- he will already be grabbing his weapon and heading for the door.

Of course he will make it especially painful- they hurt his S/O after all.

But once its done, he'll slink home, wrapping his arms around you from behind and burying his face in your neck, still bloodied from the asshat who DARED make you upset.

And of course he would cuddle you close, silently holding you and stroking your tummy, low growls are expected if you try to get up at all.

he probably will keep you home for the next few weeks- for your 'protection'

and he does mean it!!!

he wants you safe!!

Even in his own fucked up way <3

Vincent Sinclair:

Vincent will pause- eyes scanning you- thinking perhaps it was a joke

you HAD to be joking right?

but when he realized you weren't his stomach turned-

what the hell had this bastard done? clearly he didn't DESERVE to be immortalized- so of course Vincent wouldn't use him at all in his art

rather making Lester 'dispose' of the body quietly

he would make it painful- violent; much more than usual

Once the deed is done he will coddle you, showing you little sculptures, or if you are interested in art- draw and paint with you, his watchful gaze never leaving you- you were his messiah, his god/dess you were his everything-

he would make sure you were safe.

even though he would usually leave this to his brother, it's personal now

Lester Sinclair

Now Lester, he's taken off gaurd by this request, you his sweet lil angel cakes are asking him to off someone?

But of course he won't tell you no.

He will make sure to get his Bowie knife all ready to 'take ojt the trash'

He will ask how painful it should to be

If your crying when you ask, even more reason for him to make that bastard suffer worse than they made you suffer.

Bo Sinclair

Bo doesn't ask anymore questions.

All he needs to know is when where and who.

Of course he will make it painful

And of course he will make the fucker suffer, maybe he will even remove a few fingers to torture them.

He wants his partner happy, so hearing you ask him to kill someone sent him off the fucking rails.

Bubba Sawyer

Bubba sees red

Why would you of all people want someone dead?

Unless they hurt you real bad.

That makes him really angry

He doesn't like the idea of you being hurt, let alone someone else hurting you so bad you don't want them alive anymore.

It will be painful

And slow

He knows how to kill fast, so it stands to reason if he doesn't hit vital points he can make them suffer longer

Thomas Hewitt

Tommy sees red, very similar to bubba

Except he will put on a full on manhunt for the fucker

Using more phycological methods first, stalking them like prey

Before snatching them up and ending them brutally

Charles Lee ray

An excuse to kill some sad mother fucker? Gladly.

But when he sees the tears in your eyes, the way you are shaking, it's personal.

It isn't any longer something to waste time.

This fucker hurt his partner.

This bastard dated touch what was his.

Honestly he will probably fillet the fucker

Freddy Krueger

He won't make it easy.

He will torment the bastard for weeks in their dreams before finally striking.

And of course he won't let you forget that you asked him to kill someone

Of course he is worried, he doesn't fully grasp what the sudden change was about, but he doesn't mind killing for you.

[prismkith]

Omg i just read your previous arcane request and i really liked it, would you do the same strange/weird reader but with the men of arcane (I love my frail Victorian man viktor) 🙏🥺

'Dont mistake me for the wind when she blows' pt 2

Arcane characters with a weird/otherworldly partner

Pairings: Viktor, Jayce, Ekko

Viktor:

This man would ADORE YOU!!!

He thinks you are the most fascinating person in the world. He could just watch you interact with the world for hours and never get bored. 

will let you hang out in his lab/office while he works, and he will often look over at you and catch you completely zoned out, staring into space wide-eyed. He’ll stare for a few minutes, wondering what could be going on in your mind that has you so blind to the world around you. Eventually, he’ll snap you out of it to call you over and show you his progress in his work. 

The way this man looks at you. Just stares at you with stars in his eyes while you ramble about something he lost track of a while ago. Watching you go on your little rant, absentmindedly wandering around the room and fidgeting with whatever catches your eyes. When you finish your ramble you pause and stare at him for a response. He just chuckles and says “You are truly a wonder”.

Jayce:

Definitely struggles to keep up with your faster rambles and odd speech patterns, and can find you a little overwhelming but you two still find plenty of ways to connect. 

When he found out you collected scrap metal, he totally geeked out. Now a regular date for you two consists of going out and finding pretty scrap metal and jewelry and anything you can get your hands on, and then spending the rest of the night welding together. Building little trinkets, inventions, or art pieces together. You have the creativity and vision, while he has the muscles and tools to execute it. 

Slowly as you start visiting his apartment, you find all your little projects together and slowly begin decorating his space, until it's practically a museum of your relationship. 

Ekko: 

Finds himself whispering “What the fuckkkk” every ten minutes when you guys hang out. 

Like for example, one time you two were hanging out in the firelights community, sitting on a bench some of the kids built and painted years ago. He looks down for literally one second, and when he looks back up you are twenty feet away, crouching on the ground and petting the raccoon he has beef with (said raccoon chases him every time he tries to take out the trash) and he just stared in utter disbelief as you treated his fuzzy rival like a house cat. 

You are 100% his muse. He has painted and sketched you more times than you can count. He has a tiny painting of you he keeps in a secret pocket of his jacket near his heart.

Instead of either of you ever verbally making things official or asking the other out, one day you just started painting an hourglass on your face to match his. Neither of you acknowledged it, but everyone knew that was when you two became inseparable.

_______________________

A/N: ask and you shall receive! these have been super fun to write lol, I was struggling to think of more habits and traits to give to the reader so I asked my friends for a list of any weird/odd habits I have or things I do for inspo, and oh boy was it humbling.

[slowd1ving]

IWAUSBTIDAWRIANWATSIARHNAFTFTWOADP ✦ . SUNDAY

I was an underpaid salaryman but then I died and was reincarnated into a new world as the strongest in a reverse-harem novel and forced to follow the whims of a deranged pope??? headcanon/drabble thing idk before I recommit to my baby pendulum art creds: noredemptionarc on x pairing: pope sunday + male reincarnator reader warnings: none, just some obsessiveness ig and violence wc: 4k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

✦ . Each person has their own unrealistic daydreams about things they want to experience: a day with unlimited money, exacting revenge on a particularly insufferable coworker, or perhaps the advent of superpowers. Paltry things, naturally, in response to the endless mundanity and strife present in a vast world.

✦ . Naturally, you’re no different: an overworked corporate pawn that fits uncomfortably in the statistical median. Each ambition of yours is imprisoned in a charcoal suit, and your only solace is escaping to other worlds to forget this one. That’s your daydream, wrapped neatly in a bound volume of novels and the cracked screen of your phone.

✦ . Apocalypse, martial arts, romance—you devour each and every genre. Horridly predictable clichés, trash storylines and badly written characters: they pile up, catalogued in your reading history with carefully curated reviews. There are gems that you wouldn’t mind ending up in; with those, you plan cautiously your ascent to a comfortable, entertaining life—an office worker versus the pixels on your phone. 

✦ . Alas, you wind up in a cliché of your own: entering an eternal slumber from overwork and reincarnating as a side character in the shitty b-rated romance novel your coworker recommended. Scratch that—not even a side character but an extra. It’s a karmic jab at the scathing vitriol you left buried in the comments, engaging with the work only to argue with people beneath each chapter about the god-awful plot devices and utter vapidity behind the character choices. Like, come on, a harem based on how ‘interesting’ the female lead is? Seriously? 

✦ . Except, the situation is very serious now. Shoved into the body of one of the male leads? You could’ve dealt with that hand. Reborn as the villain responsible for the situations that inevitably ended with each male lead getting closer to the heroine? Sure, you’ve read enough of those that you have a comprehensive, cited manual on how to turn around your fate. But… being born as a commoner in a fantasy setting, a good twenty years before the story actually starts, in a village that would likely be stricken by the plague or wiped off the map as a plot device? You’re screwed. 

✦ . Or that’s what you might’ve thought, if the plot wasn’t so predictable. 

✦ . You’ll set yourself up for life if you play your cards right—following each cliché like a trail of breadcrumbs to find each magical artifact or whatever, unlocking a magical core probably along the way, finding every obvious foreshadowing Chekhov’s gun style. Training to be the underdog knight who ends up as a second male lead? Pshh—that’s amateur stuff. You’ll make a name for yourself, journeying through the lands of Argo to steal the main characters’ glory. 

✦ . It’s simple. You wait for an inevitable war with demonic hordes that probably contributed to a tragic backstory in the main cast, and do your best to get recruited by the grizzled veteran who conveniently spots you training with a stick in one of the fields. Either you die and leave this stupid world, or you get lucky and rise up in the ranks—a win-win situation, really.

✦ . It hurts. The magic sword that you found located suspiciously in the forest looks into your soul and determines you are not in fact pure of heart and will wallop you until you are, thus the golden-haired Southern Duke’s heir Gepard Landau misses his opportunity to acquire the legendary Harpe, and you get to be beaten up in his stead. You don’t complain though—this is all part of the convoluted process that is mentioned once (never in detail) that creates a stupidly overpowered character. 

✦ . It hurts. The veteran who noticed your far-too-enthusiastic movements knows his stuff—in true cliché fashion—and you are molded into the perfect little soldier, bruised within an inch of your life. You learn various footwork techniques and the basics that shape your swordwork into something to be feared, that cuts down demons like wheat under a sickle. 

✦ . It hurts. Magic circles brand the tender walls of your heart when you’re thinking about the physics degree you started but never managed to complete, and you pass out a few times as they stabilise—but it’s fine. Pain is temporary; those sweet gains will be your plot armour. 

✦ . Guilt might have wracked your heart if you were one of those irritating protagonists that firmly believed they should stick to the plotline no matter what, but you aren’t. If it’s truly a fictional world you are in, then your actions won’t matter; and if it’s a real world, then your actions merely represent a parallel divergence in this universe, and the world actually doesn’t revolve around the main cast. 

✦ . You are the first to find the demonic stone that is meant to be absorbed by the Duke of the North, Yingxing—one of the more disturbing male leads—and consume it to catalyse the formation of additional magic circles around your body. He’s just some guy whose demonic heritage and extensive training created a ridiculously strong and edgy lead who is fixed or whatever by the sunny protagonist. 

✦ . It is when you accidentally-on-purpose stumble across the statue of an old goddess Idrila that your ripples culminate into a tidal wave of change. Within the subtle planes of the stone, a mythical being slumbers—meant to be the driving force behind the knight-turned-second-lead Argenti’s actions, yet will now be used to your full advantage as you drip your blood into the offering plate. No, she doesn’t grant wishes, but she does give him a pretty neat technique that creates a water-tight defense.

✦ . You may have gone too far. The paltry details you’ve robbed from the story—mere plot devices that only accelerate the male leads’ growth—have forged you into a war hero, practically capable of standing toe-to-toe with the Demon Queen herself. Well, not really. You won’t push your luck, even as you’re being awarded a medal of honour and a title for turning the tides. It’s a viscounty—far more than you expected, but you’ll take it, even with the whispers in high society about you. A commoner turned noble. Oh, the scandal—the horror. Truly, you could not care less as you return to the battlefield to find even more spoils—except, you almost crash into a herald on your way and stare incredulously as he delivers the king’s edict. 

✦ . Guard His Holiness. 

✦ . You were fine dealing with the murderous stare garnered from the Northern Duke as you politely bowed to the protagonist, fine with interacting with the two more rational male leads (though it was a controversial case when it came to Sir Argenti, if you were totally being honest), but His Holiness? Now, this wasn’t a plotline you could have predicted. If memory serves you correctly, mad dogs of the battlefield are, you know, kept in the battlefield slaughtering demons—not, you know, on guard duty. Is the king being for real?

✦ . He is, in fact, being for real. Part of you wants to take the rolled up parchment from the herald and bash it over your head, but another part of you appreciates the unexpected nature of the request. Or perhaps it’s expected, as the natural enemy of demons is the Church of Order, and they will likely be targeted by the hordes next. Except, you’re not quite sure why the most dangerous of the male leads, Sunday, needs protection. Of the unfortunate quartet, he is the most obsessive—the papal figure of Ena the Order, with his deluded faith coming only second to his absolute devotion to the heroine. 

✦ . Though, on second thoughts, heading to the church might be the only plausible course of action—you know, consult with whatever god is running this place, get some answers to the questions that have really been bugging you, like the logistics of this world, and perhaps why this feels far too like an easy mode on a video game with all the clues laid in front of you. You want a real head scratcher, now that everything’s fallen neatly into place: your wealth, title, and sick powers. 

✦ . Except, as you’re kneeling before a statue of Ena and fervently wishing for some explanations and perhaps an answer for why things continue to be easy mode, a sickening chill spreads over your body—almost as if THEY are laughing at you. Easy mode? THEY seem to scoff, before the feeling fades away and you stand up, feeling dread pool in your stomach. 

✦ . You’re just some guy. You took this job and didn’t run away to the neighbouring kingdom, purely for the reason that your soul is about as clean as pond water—much like all the other people who frequent the temple—and Sunday views these ordinary people, these sinners, with a benevolent sort of sympathy. Nobles and commoners alike are lumped in together as the ‘lambs’ who require salvation—including you, of course. The pure-hearted main character is a general exception to this rule—somebody who in his eyes, absolutely embodies light. She’s far purer than he is, which ironically serves as the sun to his wax-adhered wings—catalysing his imminent destruction and advent as someone who’d do anything for her. The Sunday you’d read about with mild fascination will inevitably grow distant to the plight of people—which is perfect for you, either way, as you will be reduced to white noise, befitting of a mere guard. 

✦ . Well, it’s not like he needs a guard, regardless. If you had to pick one positive of that novel, it would be evenly distributing the power levels of each male lead—meaning that Sunday was comparable to the other three in his own right (or he might even be slightly stronger, considering your hijacking of key level-up materials of the other three). And in true novel fashion, he’d likely just dismiss you as soon as you announced yourself. 

✦ . Which he does. He’s not necessarily a tall man, but the way he dresses pristinely and talks in that clipped manner makes him exude a certain type of presence that makes you wary of numerous facets of his character: the almost-too-angelic image he presents himself with, the dark expression he wears when nobody can see him, and finally, the uncanny way he spots lies within someone’s words. Of course, you’re not necessarily important enough to exchange words with, therefore it’s not like he can glean lies from your brief greetings when you come to fulfill your duties each day and are promptly dismissed from your post. 

✦ . You’d be pretty annoyed about this blatant waste of time if it weren’t for the fact that it gives you access to the theological works located in the library—ample time to research the exact cliché that led you here. Though you’d wished for such a reincarnation to take you from Earth, it feels artificial almost, when you’re pre-cognisant of what will happen based on the tried and true arcs of each repetitive novel you’ve read. 

✦ . There’s no way of telling what point of the story you’re in. With how many things you’ve screwed over, it could be over for all you know—or there could be a parallel story culminating from all the butterfly effects you’ve unleashed. Ah, whatever. You’re strolling through the well-maintained courtyard with a divine treatise in one hand and the constant droning of Harpe in one ear, attempting to find a nice little shady nook to lurk and read in, when you see it—the protagonist, presumably meeting the papal figure of the Order for the first time. The slight flutter of the wings by his face that denote him as part of an angelic race confirms it, and you turn on your heel abruptly, leaving them to talk. 

✦ . Except, the protagonist is far too friendly for her own good—and hasn’t in fact forgotten about a commoner-turned-viscount who met her properly like once. She waves at you cheerfully, calling out your name, and you turn around slowly—like you’re in some horror movie, which you probably are. 

✦ . “I didn’t know you got transferred here!” Each time you see her, you’re reminded of the interns at your company—friendly, not yet crushed by the depressing reality of corporate life. It makes you feel bad for her, but then you’re reminded of who exactly stands next to her when you politely take her hand and bow your head over it in a perfunctory greeting. 

✦ . “Yes, as per His Majesty’s orders.” You’re laconic in your usual state, which seems to cut you some slack with Sunday, who observes each miniscule shift of your emotions like some damn psychologist—the general apathy you feel to the both of them, the yearning to go somewhere else (anywhere but here). You can feel the intrusion, and it’s a double-edged sword. If you succeed with this, you can successfully convince him you’re not a threat. 

✦ . “What are you reading?” She spotted the book you’re half-heartedly keeping tucked by your side, and you can feel the intensity of Sunday’s stare increase. Shit. 

✦ . “Some of the interpretations made by the Prophets.” You mutter truthfully, feeling as though you’re being interrogated. You hesitantly show the worn cover—wanting to be anywhere but here, under the Pope’s intense scrutiny of his guard.

✦ . “Oh, really? That’s—”  “The manuscripts in the library aren’t meant to be taken out of the building.” Sunday’s cool voice interrupts her, and you practically wither. 

✦ . “My apologies, sir. I was unaware of that.” It’s best to smooth things over instantly: pathetically bowing your head to the Pope. “It’s Your Holiness, viscount. And it’s unseemly for a guard of mine to be unaware of two such crucial pieces of knowledge.” As expected, he’s meticulous about everything pertaining to his image—so unbelievably fastidious that it might’ve irritated you had you not had so many years of working under irritating superiors. 

✦ . “Yes, Your Holiness. Then, I’ll excuse myself to return the treatise.” There’s not a trace of annoyance in you—rather, a profound relief at him providing the convenient excuse for you to exit. It was probably on purpose that he did so, hoping you’d take the hint and leave, but it works very well for you. 

✦ . “Wait— is that the ancient language of ◼◼◼◼◼?” There’s a brief pause, before you stare at the book again, prompted by her curious words. It’s not in the fictional language of this place, but the ancient tongue had always been denoted in the novel as square brackets around the original English of the text for convenience, which indirectly manifested it as English when you reincarnated here. 

✦ . “I suppose,” you mutter. It’s rare to find clergy who can both read and speak it well, and even rarer for a regular layperson to do so. It’s far too time-consuming to learn with the current alphabet of this place, and the pronunciation isn’t intuitive at all based on how the words are constructed, considering the language here. It makes you wonder at the sloppy linguistic developments of this world, further supporting the hypothesis that you’re still in a fictional world. 

✦ . [You’re fluent and not just loitering about to waste time?] Sunday speaks, maintaining his even tone and crisp cadence—though they’re tinged with some Argonian ways of speaking. The protagonist’s head swivels between the two of you, and you sigh internally at the prolonged disruption.

✦ . [Yes, Your Holiness. If I wanted to waste time, I’d beat up your knights templar. But as it stands, it’s not like you’re letting me perform my job regardless, therefore I am in a state of loitering perpetually.] You bow your head once more, feeling a strange sense of vindication. [Now, if you’ll excuse me.] Then, you leave—particularly refreshed after the little spat. 

✦ . That is your first mistake. 

✦ . The second comes from having befriended the Saint, Robin. Though formally, she’s meant to be in isolation—guarded in her tower save for days where she descends to the realm of mortals—you’ve felt sorry for the faceless girl and her quiet complaints, so you’ve taken to spiriting away sweet foods from the outside and leaving them on her windowsill—using the special footwork arts you’ve trained in for such paltry purposes. As it turns out, Templar knights are more than willing to leave guard duty to a war hero, which means you become more or less a constant in her terribly lonely life. You feel horrible. Her voice has been blessed by the gods, and thus she’s been reduced to a songbird—shackled to a birdcage by the corrupted elders of the church. 

✦ . Yet, she can’t even escape, for the hold they have over her brother makes her unable to leave. 

✦ . You only realise what a horrible mistake it is when the two of you end up bonding over literature—on one side of the table, a veiled Saint eats some of the strawberry cheesecake that you baked after sneaking into the Temple kitchens at night, while on the other, you sit with a cup of hard coffee to knock some energy back into you. Well—it’s not exactly then that you realise you fucked up. After all, you’re enjoying a pleasant conversation on the most mundane of things: the birds that fly past her window and occasionally stop by to bring her flowers, the weird sort of stiffness that the priests move with outside, and the unique taste of the cakes the pâtissier in the village makes. 

✦ . You don’t bring up your past, nor her situation. It’s the only respite she gets from her solitude, and it’s the only respite you get from your own—two misfits within a strict hierarchy. 

✦ . Yet…

✦ . “Explain exactly what you are doing here.” Cold fury vibrates through Sunday’s voice as he stands in the stone doorway leading into the Saint room. You freeze under his yellow-eyed, boreal glare; every second stretches into an infinity, and the cake on your fork wobbles in tandem with your hand. 

✦ . Shit, isn’t this breaking some kind of taboo? The veiled Saint pauses, then places down her fork too—yet, she’s not shaking in her boots like you are. 

✦ . “Don’t yell at him.” You’re staring at her incredulously, and your fork clatters against your plate as you drop it. Sunday’s gaze swivels to her, and his brows furrow. 

✦ . “And you—what have I told you about being careful?” It’s not exasperation in his voice, but something else that you can’t quite put your finger on. Concern? Nah—can’t be. 

✦ . “She’s not at fault,” you argue. But upon reflection… “Neither am I, actually. I’m fulfilling guard duty whilst being her friend.”

✦ . Friend. You can tell her eyes are fixed upon you from beneath her veil—though you can’t tell they’re brimming with some emotion. Sunday only scoffs at your words—his unmoved mask wavers in the face of the Saint, it seems. “Guard duty? You’re flagrantly disobeying protocol, again, while being a bad influence on the Saint. What are you doing here in the first place?” 

✦ . “Stop it, Brother!” Her words send a shocked shiver down your spine—and she’s pulling off her veil, showing you a face and wings that are practically a carbon copy of her brother’s. All angry and red and yelling, and you’re left staring at two siblings squabbling over you. “He’s one of the only things that have been keeping me sane in this misery. I’m old enough to distinguish who I can trust and befriend—” 

✦ . “Robin…” he murmurs, wings agitated and flattened against his face. His lips part and close once more, before his eyes swivel to yours in a renewed glare. “And you—”

✦ . [Follow me.] His icy tone clearly translates into the tongue he switches to, and you’re essentially marched out by the ear. You haplessly look back at Robin, but all she mouths is ‘I’ll see you later’. It’s barely an assurance that you’ll survive the encounter, but at this point, you’ll take any assurance you can get. 

✦ . You get your answer when he practically slams you down into a chair in his office, wiping his dove-grey gloves off as if you’re dirt reincarnate, and you scowl. 

✦ . “Answer me honestly,” he demands, and you nod with a swallow. You can feel the familiar intrusion rooting around in your mind, drinking in every change in emotion. “Are you seeking to harm Robin?”

✦ . “No, I’m not.” You hold his gaze. There are two sides to his personality—the apathy he feels towards everyone, and the care that he bequeaths onto those close to him. It’s been like that in the novel throughout the duration of his arc—this new, irritated side to him is one you’ve never seen.

✦ . “I would’ve thought a war hero would have a spine, but you’re far more pathetic than I thought.” It’s a cutting remark, but honestly, you’re marvelling at the change. 

✦ . “All due respect, Your Holiness, but you’re my employer and this is a feudal system,” you reply neutrally, gazing at the floor as if it’s captivating you. The glare focused on you intensifies. 

✦ . “I changed my mind. Report to me each morning—I’ll put you to work.”

✦ . He lives up to his words. Rather than guarding him, you’re entrusted with translating manuscripts into this world’s tongue—a task that had previously been split between him and two other cardinals, yet has now been unceremoniously delegated to you. You’re paid, naturally, yet not for the damn job that you were meant to do. 

✦ . “Pour me some tea.” It’s another flippant side to him that you only ever witness when you’re alone with him. If anyone walked in, all they’d see after politely knocking would be a paragon of hard work—Sunday—and his aide. That’s what you’ve been reduced to from a mad dog of the battlefield. 

✦ . “What am I, a maid?” you mutter under your breath, and his yellow eyes hone in on you in the precise glare that makes your spine prickle. 

✦ . He only softens when he sees his sister—inviting himself to the designated ‘tea times’ the Saint has set for you, and merely staring at you whenever you speak, never deigning to reply to you but only Robin when she speaks to him directly. 

✦ . “I think you’re the closest to a friend that he’s ever had,” she tells you one time, when he’s busy with the inevitable duties that come with being the pope. You don’t say anything, laughing off her words internally. You? A friend? To Sunday? The maniac obsessed with divinity, the Order, and the protagonist? It’s ridiculous. He challenges you to a duel that very night—and you think it’s over. He’s never shown his hand like this in the novel; those who witness him fight might as well be dead.

✦ . His divine power manifests itself as thorns—looping and weaving in dangerous ways you barely manage to block with Harpe and Idrila’s defense, crashing into the secluded ground of the Templar knights’ training hall. 

✦ . “What’s wrong?” he taunts. “Didn’t you say you could beat templar knights? And here you are, struggling before a mere member of the clergy?”

✦ . You don’t fall for his provocations. No, actually, you do. A magic circle activates. Another halo appears around his head.

✦ . It’s a narrow victory, you think, but he’d claim it as his—two bodies lie heaving in the sand, surrounded by the rubble of a training hall. 

✦ . “You know magic. Fix it,” he pants, looking down at his sweaty body in mild disgust. To be in such a state—you read his thoughts amongst the affronted flutter of his wings.

✦ . “Isn’t divine power better for repairing things?” you comment sardonically. “I think I’m all spent.”

✦ . “Should I report you to the king for lapsing in your duty?” he glares, sitting up. 

✦ . “You could,” you settle your hands beneath your neck contentedly. “If anything, I’d simply be fired and sent back to the battlefield. I’ve got armies to command, don’t I?”

✦ . There’s a crack, before a pillar (that had been precariously canted at an angle) comes crashing down against the billowing grime of the hall. You startle, and whip your head to gaze at Sunday, who merely looks at you placidly. 

✦ . “Is that so?” he murmurs. There’s something buried deep in his eyes—something implacable, as though he was the one that caused the pillar to snap in a fit of anger. Anger over your impudent words, most likely, and nothing else—right? Right?

[esstrellaa123]

Saw a fic of crybaby!reader, and was like? My two sense????

Don’t ask how many words :>

Thinking of reader right, all silent for like… a week. Caught up in their head with God knows what, and boom. Sweet Simon finally cracks that fragile barrier you’ve put between the two of you

Because Lord knows Simon hates silence, especially from you. Talk to him, won’t you?

“You’ve yet to speak.” He says blankly, prompting you as he watches you intently like he might be able to see into your very soul. He’s done it before, but now you’re just being difficult >:(

“I’m coloring.” You say just as blank, devoid of the emotion he usually enjoyed. The sun to his world was going dark and he’d do anything to clear those clouds away. Anything. Even if it burned him.

“I like it when you talk.” He tries, arms crossed. Defensive, and unamused by your lack of enthusiasm.

“Not in the mood to.” You all but snap, getting annoyed with him. You let out a harsh huff, coloring a little too hard. Now your drawing was ruined because the pressure changed the color. Everything was fucked. Fuck this.

You tear the page out unceremoniously, tossing it carelessly to the trash before getting overwhelmed with having to start another complex piece. You couldn’t do anything about it now, your old piece was in the trash and-

“Why’re you touching me?” You snap again, jerking away from his hands.

“Alright. What the fuck?” He finally says. Maybe he was more upset at your reaction towards him than you. Either way, he’s getting to the bottom of what he thought was complete and utter bullshit.

“What do you mean ‘what the fuck?’ I don’t want you touching me.” You say, face to face. More like chest to face, but who’s counting the inches? (YES IM AMERICAN)

Okay, ouch. “I’m trynna help here!” He grumbles back down at you.

“I don’t want your stupid help.” You say back, abandoning your art and going to the room. The bang of the door reaches his ears louder than he liked.

“Fucking bullshit. Fucking women.” He grumbles, going out to the porch to smoke.

He’s unhappy. Very exasperated and wanting to break some shit. But he’s better. He got better for you.

He finishes his smoke, somewhat calmed. Maybe you were hungry. Had you had water?

“I don’t want-” you start up but he’s having none of it. Not when his patience is spread thin and he’d really like to spread you open. So be cooperative.

“Nah, shut- shut up.” He cuts you off, setting the tray of food down on the bed. Fruits, peanut butter, chocolate, and some water. “Eat.” He says, sliding under you.

“‘M not hungry.” You say, crossing your arms.

…..

You sit in his lap, being hand fed as you watch your Law and Order. “Water.” He instructs, watching you take a sip before opening your mouth for another strawberry. He delivers.

You’re more responsive now. He’s appreciative of that. But food wasn’t the root of this problem. Neither was water. Something else was bothering you.

“Feel better?” He asks, letting you curl up on his side, using him for all his warmth and comfort.

You nod into the crook of his neck, finding comfort in his tone and smell. “Feel better.” You confirm.

“Wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?” He finally questions.

“Nothin’s goin’ on.” You huff.

“Don’t huff at me.” He says, flicking your forehead. He let you get away with that shit this morning. There would not be a repeat.

“Just wanna relax.” You breathe, turning over.

“You’ll relax when you get it off your chest.” He turns over, curling around you like heat does a fire. Like it’s natural to be enveloped by a certified heater, it’s second nature.

You can’t help but lean in, scooting back, pulling his arms closer. “Just tired.”

“Tired of what?” He pushes.

“Life.” You mumble, the tears welling. You didn’t like thinking like this, but it plagues you. Sneaks and floods into your day. Your smile dropping too quickly for your own liking. You just wanted to curl up, sleep, and stay in your dreams.

He only hugs you closer. He doesn’t move as you shift, your face pressed firmly into his chest as the tears finally fall.

“I got ya. Si’s got ya.” He mumbles lovingly, rubbing your back, pulling you impossibly closer as you cling to his back. “Tell me what you need, hm?” He suggests, letting you nuzzle into his warmth even more.

“You.” You reply simply. There’s nothing you want or love more than lying in bed with him. You’d stay there, keep him there, even if you had to tie him down, but ultimately knew you wouldn’t, because he’d stay if you asked.

He hummed, low. You almost missed it, and he just holds you, keeping you close.

He’d be there in the morning, letting you cry on his shoulder again if you needed. He’d kiss all your tears away, kiss your tension away. It eased his, made him feel better, let him relax. He’d be your safe space if you promised to be his….

[calliopes-constellations]

"ENSANGUINED" ★ WARNING: SEVERE MENTAL ILLNESS TOPICS AHEAD

✰ FANDOM ★ Challengers (2024)

★ SUMMARY ✰ Patrick self-harms while sharing the hotel room with Art, who has no idea what to do.

✰ PAIRING ★ Art & Patrick

★ ERA ✰ 2006 / pre-war...

✰ WORD COUNT ★ 2.8k

★ AGE RATING ✰ Teen

✰ CONTENT WARNING ★ Profanity / self-harm by cutting / depression / panic attacks / sexual jokes / nonsexual nudity (not described, but acknowledged) / brief mentions of institutionalization / slight gore / passive suicidal ideation and mentions of it / angst

★ A / N ✰ don't be a ghost reader !! love that my first post was just like "aww yay failing marriage" and now we're going straight to severe mental illness. don't read this if you are not in a good enough mental state !!! health before homos <3 okay update it's the next day, i just finished it, holy shit it's 2am fuck

✰ POV ★ Patrick (first person)

I ambled into the suspiciously clean hotel bathroom, my fingers wrapped around the fabric handle of the toiletry bag I threw together last minute. Unlike Art, who decided he needed multiple kinds of hair spray, my bag was light enough for me to forget it was there. I flicked on the lights, sliding my bag onto the counter as light swelled in the room, illuminating my figure in the mirror. The pristine tiles shone offendingly blinding light up into my unadjusted eyes. Grumbling under my breath, I traipsed over to the shower and put it to the coldest setting. Water began to splatter to the shower floor like a river of blood.

Wasteful? Yes. Did I care? Absolutely not.

I flung the smoky grey towel, previously draped over a hook, onto the counter in the space beside the sink. I stripped down to nothing but my bare, tingling, ice-cold skin and vaulted myself up onto the counter, sitting on the towel with my back up against the wall. The uneven paint pressed asymmetrically into the skin on my back, nipping at my already cold skin with its gelid concrete glanced over toward the door.

Still locked.

I tugged the zipper of my bag, digging my hand in and fishing around for the razor through my sea of half-empty bottles. Once my fingers met the handle, I pulled it out.

Look. It's not like I'm messy about it. It's the one thing I can keep under control. I clean the razor, I clean my skin, I clean the cuts, and then I bandage them. No infections. Nowhere veins stick out. Shame on a guy for just needing something to give him some semblance of control, it seems. At least according to Art.

I exhaled sharply, the familiar caress of utter numbness cascading over me. The rest of the room dimmed its stark hues, the edges of my sight fuzzing. I place the razor beside me, its handle clinking against the marble counter. I rubbed the skin of my thighs clean with the alcohol wipes, just as any other perfectly sane man would do to avoid an infection. 

Doctors would dictate me insane, though I knew I was anything but. They would see a man shoveling through his skin like he’s searching desperately for a missing part of himself, ending up ensanguined. While I could drown my sins in antiseptic and compunction I wasn’t sure if I was fabricating or not, an infection would send me to a doctor.

Who wouldn’t see that I just needed something to fill this everlasting silence.

Who would think I just wanted to off myself.

The acrid smell of the wipes clawed at the back of my throat already, sliding into my stomach. I tossed the wipes into the trash can right next to my feet.

I poised the razor in my hand, sweeping the scarred skin of my thighs with my vision. Lines tracing vertically, horizontally, diagonal, tearing my skin into shreds. Some still pink and raised, others faded into grey. But I took care of them as a father would to his child (after all, they are simply a part of me), just as any other perfectly sane man would do. They never gave me any trouble, besides stares in locker rooms, concerned glances from Art, or stinging as the fabric of my clothes chafed them. But the latter was the least of those issues.

Art knew to some extent. He knew about the illnesses and the scars. He tried to understand, pouring over articles he found, scouring the surface of the earth for ways to help me. But he only egged it on with his wide ice blue eyes, glassy with temperamental apprehension, like a band stretched taut. Like my broken brain and broken skin broke him secondhand. 

I locked eyes with myself in the mirror as if he were any other guy caught in my same position. It was like looking into the eyes of a stranger as this apathy seized control. 

And so the stinging began.

I focused on the sound of the shower and the piercingly frigid water droplets pelting the tile floor. It tore away the burn and ache as the fresher scars pulsed beneath my skin. I let the noise around me devour me until I felt as if my soul had been carved out and displayed to me in the form of my own blood.

Blood had begun to trace from the cuts, smearing as the blade continued to slice. Despite it all, I remained unflinching. I would not call it catharsis, but I was relieved to know that I was still human, just as any other perfectly sane man would be.

As time wore on, I felt my emotional paralysis begin to waver. The stinging began to bite at my skin like dozens of claws ripping at me. I straightened up again, color beginning to stream back into my vision. Specifically crimson. Oozing down the patterns of my jagged skin. It’s enough. So I rinsed the blade and placed it back in my bag.

Immediately, the pain ebbed. Never faded completely, but dimmed. All because I put away the blade on my own volition, without anything forcing me or prohibiting it. Because I was in control. I began to rummage through my bag again when I was torn from my trance by a knock on the door.

“Patrick, you still in the shower?” Art's voice came from the other side.

“Yeah, why?” I replied, my heart leaping into my throat as I realized that Art could and would pick locks. I knew he would rarely resort to it, as he liked to consider himself much too polite for that. But if Art was fretting over his best friend hurting himself on the other side of this door, very few things would stop him.

“I need to piss. Let me in.”

Oh. 

Nevermind, then.

“Dude, I'm ass naked. There's no curtain or anything," I lied, punctuated by a dry chuckle. Black began to yank at the edges of my vision, clinging vehemently to the corners no matter how hard I blinked. I pressed my foot up against the door from where I sat on the counter, my lips tightening into a grimace as my sight started to pulse.

“Don't care. You never used to be weird about that, by the way. I've been meaning to ask you. Why have you been weird about that?” Art queried, his voice coming hollow through the door. My breath began to stutter.

“This all is sounding like an elaborate excuse to see my dick," I choked out through my clenched throat, laced with a contrived laugh. I hastily began to rub antiseptic into my fresh cuts, the burning ripping me away from the conversation with Art. Blood continued to discharge from the open wounds, slipping into my fingertips and beneath my nails. 

“Believe me, if I wanted to see your dick, this is not how I'd be asking. Let me in.”

“What if Tashi comes back and thinks we're both touching tips in here or something?” I threw the antiseptic back into my bag, sliding down from the counter and back into my boxers. Where bandages would usually be concealing, air whistled right through the fresh nicks in my skin.

“What if Tashi comes back and I still need to piss?”

Checkmate.

I rushed back up to the counter, shaking my head back and forth to attempt to get some color back into my pallid complexion. My heart continued firing like a gunshot, sweat beginning to drip from my hairline. Ebony continued to spill into my vision, causing me to stumble and grip the counter. I fled towards the shower, pulling the handle down and watching as the stream of water ceased.

“Patrick? You okay?” Art's voice floated under the gap through the door again, this time more achingly clear than it had been before.

I couldn't help but wonder, for a single harrowing moment, what would have happened if Art had walked in only minutes earlier. Me sitting up on the counter, blood gushing from my skin, my hands coated in crimson. A blade captured between my fingers. How, then, could I have made it seem even remotely accidental? My throat began to constrict, blood rushing in my ears.

“Patrick?” Art repeated, his voice sharper this time.

“Oh, yeah, sorry, I- uh, I zoned out a bit. My bad.” I shook myself out of it, pressing a hand to my chest only to feel my heartbeat tripping over itself beneath the prison of my ribcage. I would have given nearly anything to have it spring out of my body and cease its torturous pulsing while covering the floor in garnet.

“Are you sure you're alright?”

“Yeah, I'm fine."

“I'm worried about you, man, open the door.” Art pleaded. I switched my gaze to the mirror.

To my dismay, blood had begun to pool on the front of my boxers. I stiffened. The fabric clung to my thighs, its color dissolving once tinged by the red spilling relentlessly from my skin. Too high on my own panic, I numbed the burning with the violent throbbing of my heart.

Art's going to know what this is. He's going to know. This is it. He's going to think you're insane. He's going to think you've finally lost it. He's going to call a hotline, they're going to take you to a mental hospital. 

The taste of antiseptic lingered on my tongue, and I could almost feel myself there. Standing in hospital scrubs in a room full of drug addicts and chronic depressives. People who didn't care about me and whom I didn't care about at all. Ripped away from Art, from Tashi, from tennis. Everything I have.

I can't breathe. Holy fuck, I can't breathe. Shit. This is it.

“Hey, Patrick? I'm gonna come in, okay?” Art began to twist the lock.

I sank down to my knees, heart throbbing so frantically that my vision pulsated and spun. More ragged breaths tore from my lungs as the lock continued to twist, sealing my fate as, just maybe, not any other perfectly sane man.

Art pulled the door open, and crisp air from our room flooded in, licking at my exposed legs and torso. The stifling mist surrounding me like a shield dissipated, leaving the room uncomfortably empty. We fell into silence. Silence so tranquil and sweet that I wished I could linger there forever, just beneath the surface, and drown in its intoxicating serenity.

Art darted towards me, falling to his knees beside me on the floor with a soft thud. He gently lifted the hands that I pressed into my thighs, right where the blood stained my shorts. A stifled gasp tore from Art's lips. 

“What… what happened?” He asked breathlessly, putting an arm around me, rubbing small circles into my shoulder. “Why?”

I glanced up at him, his eyes wide and glossy, fixated on the blood coating the fabric of my boxers despite his soft voice. His eyes reflected my own almost accusationally. No matter which way I turned and whom I confided in, I am only met with the harrowing clutch of my reality. I shook my head vigorously, dread still gripping my lungs. Tears had begun to leak into my eyes like blood.

“I… I'm so sorry,” He finally met my eyes, lips parted slightly as he perused my face with his vision as if he could find some reason in the creases of my skin. 

“Don't be,” I managed, my frenzied breathing beginning to slow. “It's- it's not your fault.”

“But I should have done something.”

“You didn't know.”

“I should have.”

“I didn't tell you.”

“I could have figured it out.”

“I did everything I could to make sure that didn't happen.”

We locked eyes once again, his face drained of all color. His gaze flitted back down to the blood on my legs, lips twisting in a helpless grimace.

“Can I at least help you clean it?” He suggested, offering me his hand.

I nodded, slipping my hand into his. I could feel his racing heartbeat through his fingertips. He kicked down the toilet seat and led me over to it before turning over to my bag.

“Do you have anything to clean it with?”

I nodded again, my eyes beginning to sting again at the heat rising in my face.

“Okay, good,” he replied. I sat down, the fabric continuing to pull at the raw skin of my thighs. 

Art lifted the blade. My frail lungs tightened again.

“I'm going to take this, okay? I'm going to throw it out somewhere tomorrow," He explained, and I could've sworn that I saw tears in his eyes for a split second. 

If I fight him on this, he’s going to think I’ve lost it. He’s going to think he has to turn me in to someone. There’s nothing wrong with me. There’s nothing wrong with me, I swear.

He pulled out the antiseptic I had stashed away, skimming over the label I had plastered onto it.

He traversed back over to me, pouring a small amount onto a cotton pad as I stepped out of my boxers.

At the sight of my bare thighs, his eyes widened slightly. Any lingering color drained from his face, lips parting slightly. His throat bobbed as he stifled a gasp.

“Jesus, Patrick… I didn't know it was this bad.”

“Congratulations?” I croaked. 

“Sorry,” We both chorused, although for separate reasons, the silence following filled with an awkward chuckle from me as Art began to dissolve the blood with the cool sting of the disinfectant.

“Imagine Tashi walks in here now. We'd probably scare her off for good,” I joked dryly, grimacing as Art reached for the band-aids. “Sorry-"

“Don't apologize. None of this is your fault. It's just… your stupid brain. You know?”

“Wow, thanks. I'm honored," I remarked sardonically.

“No, no, that's not what I meant. I mean like - this isn't really up to you, is it? I mean, obviously I don't understand, and I'm not pretending to. But I've got a pretty stupid brain too. I know what that's like. I'm not blaming you for this, I'm really not. But there are other ways you can deal with this, right?” He began to plaster the band-aids over the freshest wounds. “You can always talk to me. You can maybe go back to that psychiatrist and get on meds like the ones you took a few years ago. But not something like this. This could kill you. You don't want that, do you?”

“Not really,” I responded after a moment of hesitation, just as any other perfectly sane man would. “I just… I need it.”

“You needed it. Not anymore, okay? Talk to me,” Art begged. I cringed slightly at the aching in my throat, jerking my head up in a singular nod. A sorrowful smile graced his lips for a fragment of a second as he started to wash his hands, scrubbing my blood away from his skin. 

“I'm just going to fuck up again,” I winced, tugging my boxers back up.

“Everyone does.” He met my eyes. “But I'll help you, I promise.” Art swore, pocketing the razor. 

Fuck.

Silence stretched between us again, as if we had managed to become worlds apart again all in a matter of seconds. I stumbled up to my feet, staggering over to the mirror. My hair clung to my forehead, coated in my sweat. The color had been sucked from my face minus the fuschia flush in my cheeks.

“Hey. Can I hug you?” Art broke the silence. He nudged me lightly with his arm, gazing up at me through his weary wide eyes. I nodded.

He lightly wrapped his arms around me, pressing his head into the crook of my neck, his fingers gripping my back as if nothing could pull him away. I could feel his heart beating against mine through the fabric of his shirt. My breath caught and stuttered, but he held me in his arms. I absentmindedly ran my fingers through his knotted hair just to feel beyond his skin that he was real. That someone cared enough to get their hands defaced with my blood.

“I love you, you know that?” Art began to relinquish his grip, slowly pulling away. His eyes met mine once again. “You don’t have to say it back. I just… wanted to make sure you knew. You tired?”

“Mhm,” I mumbled, finding myself intoxicated by the sheer shock of my heart stirring in something other than muddled anxiety. Art nodded, beckoning me out of the bathroom and back into our shared room.

He flickered out the lights, darkness peacefully encasing us in a world of our own, along with the thick blanket of silence. We both crawled into the bed, the sheets crinkling as we shuffled around. My arm met his, and the warmth of our bodies side by side melted together.

“Goodnight, Patrick,” Art murmured.

“Night, Art.”

I hardly recognized myself when I caught a glimpse in his mirror, but my image in his eyes was real.

[genericpuff]

So I watched ChattyMia's Lore Olympus video which was great and everyone should watch it. It seems most people who do series reviews of the Lore Olympus don't like the comic for obvious reasons. Then I was reminded by the end that the comic is expecting a TV series which is in development hell. It made me think that Rachel might be better off not having a Lore Olympus TV show. Most praise for the series died awhile ago as the story became an utter mess. If it did get a TV show, people will see the early red flags like the age gap, the treatment of Minthe, trying to excuse cheating, Hades horrible behavior to workers, nymphs being discriminated with no pushback, etc. If some of them read the comic for spoilers they would later see the other big red flags of the series. Excusing slave labor, Persephone threatening the lower class, Hera getting with Echo a 'trash nypmh' as she once called Minthe, Apollo gets community service, the continued mistreatment of Demeter etc. Which I feel will cause everyone to go 'wtf is this series? 50 Shades of Grey mixed with Keeping Up with the Kardashians?'. Then you have to wonder if some of them will do a deep dive and find the stuff about Rachel's tie to Lolita. It would be especially bad if a bigger content creator talked about it. And we already know Rachel doesn't handle criticism the best (i.e. the struggle street tweet, the Minthe cosplay situation or even the merch). So I could only imagine how much worse it would be for her if Lore Olympus got a TV show and more eyes got drawn to it and her. It would no longer be just confided to the web comics fanbase but the much larger TV one. Unless Rachel seriously considered rewriting the TV script (or rekindling it lol) I don't see how a TV adaptation of her show would be good press for her.

Yess I've seen that video, it's great! She did a great job summarizing a lot of the biggest core issues with LO's story and art without getting too lost in the sauce (though god knows the rabbithole of LO's issues runs INCREDIBLY deep in an equally fascinating and "oh god what the fuck did I just read' kind of way), her video editing was very entertaining and her Persephone cosplay was a great touch 😎

That said, regarding the thought of "most people who do series reviews of LO don't like the comic", there is an amount of bias we have to acknowledge there - there's often a lot more to say in the negative rather than the positive. By extension, people who simply enjoy LO and don't participate much in the online discussion surrounding it or the discourse concerning it are less likely to make 2 hour videos analyzing it. So while the popular opinion of LO has shifted more towards a negative point of view, that doesn't mean that fans of the comic don't exist - it's just that most of those fans are blissfully enjoying the comic and can only sum it up as "it's very pretty and the plot is great", whereas many people who didn't enjoy it are more likely to voice their opinions as to why in far more explicit detail (though on the flipside of that, it also goes to show that there's a lot more to analyze in LO's flaws than its strengths - it's ironic that the fans often don't have much to say beyond "it's cute" or "I relate to Persephone" and anything further than that is relegated to pure headcanon pieced together by assumption and best guesses to make up for Rachel's lack of writing).

All that aside though, regarding the TV adaption, at this point it's less a matter of reception and more a matter of relevancy. The perfect time to release or at least show us proof of the LO TV show was years ago, when the comic was at its peak between 2020-2021. The second best time was at last year's NYCC when Rachel was a headlining guest. The fact they still had nothing to show for it at this year's NYCC, with Rachel nowhere to be seen and instead focusing more on the Freaking Romance adaption with Snailords filling the role as their featured guest (an equally if not even more problematic creator), is astounding, but unsurprising.

To me, LO feels like a real life case of "Tortoise and the Hare". Back at the start of it all, in 2017-2018, it was doing what no other comic on the platform was doing, presenting us a retelling of the Hades and Persephone story - which was very popular on Tumblr at the time - through a modern setting and with art that was incredibly unique for the platform. That, paired with WT's aggressive marketing, propelled it far ahead every other comic on the platform, creating a gap so massive that even the comics in second place on the trending tabs still weren't even close to LO's lead in terms of stats and money.

But then it got complacent. Quality of the comic's writing and art dropped, it was becoming increasingly obvious that LO had become no more than a marketing grift akin to the likes of Harry Potter - easily turned into books, t-shirts, socks, coloring books, figures, etc. - and that gave way to an increase of criticism towards it, criticism that had always somewhat existed even as far back as its days on Tumblr, but was now amplified by the existing ongoing proof that LO was never all it was cracked up to be.

Now, at best they shill $200+ figurine pre-orders, but the show is nowhere to be seen and, with the comic now finished and locked behind Daily Pass, its relevancy is dying out. "Rachel Smythe Presents" still has nothing to show for itself, Rachel's IG and Twitter seem to be purely for merch-pushing by the Inklore team, and Rachel has, at best, two new series that she suddenly announced but, in her words, don't even have anything written or planned for them yet beyond the taglines that were thrown together for her socials.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Greek myth retelling industry is in a renaissance. Hades is still a massively popular game, with its sequel now in early access; Epic: The Musical has been making waves on Spotify and TikTok far exceeding that of LO's in terms of audience reach, and even has more to show for itself in the way of official animations than LO ever has; and now Kaos has recently launched its first season after being in production since 2018 - yes, you read that right, it got commissioned around the exact same time LO became an Originals series which suggests the idea for it was already floating around and being pitched prior to LO - and, frankly, has beaten LO at its own game by achieving everything LO set out to do - weaving a Greek epic-style story in a modern setting, balancing romance with prophecies and world-ending stakes. It took a while, but Kaos made it past the finishing line, while LO has been dragging itself behind it, still making empty promises that a TV show is "still in the works" and "coming soon", with not a single thing to show for itself.

LO may have gotten a head start in being the "sleek, modern, sexy Greek myth retelling" by the virtue of being a weekly webtoon, but slow and steady wins the race - the productions that have taken their time cooking in the oven are now coming out as beautiful and delicious as we, the guests at the table, were told would be, while LO is simply the short-term gratification junk food that bombards us with gimmicks but sits like a rock in our stomachs and leaves us unfulfilled and wishing for a better meal.

Those better meals are here now and they were absolutely worth the wait.

[utterhomestucktrash]

Commissions are now open !! Can u believe it !!

Check them out here or on my linktree !! :)

[lovecoree]

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 — 𝐊𝐓𝐇

pairing: painter!tae x black fem!reader

synopsis 🎱: taehyung doesn’t tolerate your attitude, especially when he’s not in his right mind for his next painting. punishing you is the only way for you to know he’s serious about that.

warning: SMUT ! mdni , oral ( m receiving ) , filming ( with consent ofc ) , huge d!ck tae ( yes this is a warning ) , reader is black coded , dom!tae , brat!reader , brat taming , let me know if there’s more !

a/n: this was an anonymous request, also my first time writing smut so it’s probably trash, but hope you enjoy

Taehyung was an amazing artist, the art ideas he had in mind came easily to him, wrist moving swiftly as he painted on a blank canvas, but today was a bad day for Taehyung. He couldn’t seem to stay focus nor come up with ideas that seemed new and interesting. Everything looked the same leaving him more angry and destroying countless of canvases— left ripped or thrown all across the room.

Taehyung was busy mixing up paints in a container with aggression, grey sleeves pushed up and veins protruding on his hands and arms, and glasses on the tip of his nose. He was pouring his anger out on mixing that he didn’t hear your footsteps nearing the door, not until your voice stopped all his movements.

“You’re still going at it” Your voice came out in a sarcastic tone as you took in the sight of the messy room and your boyfriend standing in the middle. Your voice got stuck in your throat when taehyung only turned his head and not his full body, eyes boring into yours as his expression was blank. “What do you want.” His cold tone was nothing new to you, you knew Taehyung can be cold towards you— or anyone when he’s angry about his work not coming out the way he wants it to be, but that doesn’t stop you from letting your true sarcastic comments slip out from time to time.

Your feet thud against the marble floor on purpose as you moved closer towards Taehyung, slightly kicking the half used canvases out of your way. Taehyung hated when you thud your feet, always telling you to pick your feet up when walking. He eyed your movements before slowly looking up at you with an intense look— a warning look that you did not take seriously. First mistake.

Folding your arms over your chest, wearing nothing but Taehyung’s grey shirt that’s oversized on you. “You’ve been in here for five hours, you promised me you’ll only be in here for two hours tae.” Which he did promise, the sincere promise he made right after giving you a kiss. Taehyung sighed as he fully turned his body around to face you. Small container and paint brush still in his hand tightly.

“Y/N sometimes promises are meant to be broken, you’ll be fine. I’m busy.” His blunt comment made you mad as you rolled your eyes. He didn’t tend to be harsh with his choice of words, but the lack of creativity and your sarcastic tone was making him annoyed. “Then why the fuck did you make the promise in the first place tae?” Taehyung jaw clenched as he looked at you with a hard glare. The bratty behavior and talk back is something Taehyung never liked, especially when you cuss. “What I say about cussing?” Taehyung stepped closer to you, towering over your body, but you wouldn’t waver. Second mistake.

“Boy I don’t care what you said, it’s my mouth. Now like I said fuck you make—” The gasp you let out as Taehyung finally broke his calmness, throwing the container of paint and paint brush on the floor— thank god it was washable paint. He gripped your neck pulling your body closer to his as you looked up at him. “Baby I told you I don’t tolerate disrespect or you cussing me out, apologize and I’ll let it slide.” Taehyung’s tone was deep, deep to the point you felt your panties start to dampen.

The look he gave you was telling you to utter something slick again, so what you do? Utter something slick again. “I’m not apologizing for shit.” Third mistake.

“That’s it take it all.” Taehyung groaned deeply glancing down at you as he gripped the back of your neck holding you still as he fucked your mouth. Loud gaging noises was music to his ears. “You look so pretty with my cock down your throat.” He smirked loving the sight of your tears pooling down to your puffy cheeks, spit and precum glistening on your chin and down on the floor, balls slapping on your chin repeatedly from Taehyung’s hard thrust.

“can’t bitch now, can you?” Tilting his head back, gripping the wooden table from behind him tightly as he bucked his hips. You looked up at him as you tried your best to breath out your nose, griping his thick thighs to slow his movements. “Nah, be the brat you wanted to be and take it.”

Taehyung’s girth had your mouth stretching painfully, but you enjoyed it. His tip hit the back of your throat repeatedly as you moaned around his length sending vibrations to taehyung’s cock causing him to moan. “Fuck baby, just like that.” He loved seeing your eyes filled with tears, made him weak in the knees. “S-Shit baby let me record you being good for me, hmm?” You nod your head yes as Taehyung stopped his thrust.

You could finally catch your breath as Taehyung slipped out your sore mouth. Cock drooping low from being to heavy to stand on its own. You hear him unlock his phone and pressing the record button. Gripping the base of his cock you stick out your tongue to let him slap his fat red tip on it. Pretty wet eyelashes blinking up at him as he slide back in, going back to his brutal thrusting.

Taehyung gripped the phone tight as he looked at the camera catching the pornographic scene. Biting his lip trying hard to suppress the smirk seeing you gag around him as he held you in place, nose hitting his freshly shaved pubic bone as he stuffed his cock down your throat. What felt like minutes he finally let go of your head causing you to pull back completely. Taking a huge gasp of air as spit connected from his swollen tip to your now puffy lips.

“You look a mess pretty.” You whimpered looking up at him breathing hard. He wanted to ruin you completely as punishment. Normally he would edge you on, but since you ran your mouth so much he decided to put it to good use. “Cock drunk already?” He slightly tapped your face with his free hand before gripping your jaw to look up at the camera.

“Apologies for being a brat baby and maybe I’ll go gentle.” Your hands rubbed up on his thighs as you looked up at him so pretty. “I-Im sorry for being a brat, it won’t happen a-again tae.” Voice practically raspy from the stretch, Taehyung smiled. “Good girl, finish me off.” He moved his hand from your jaw, allowing you to finally take control. His cock felt heavy in your hands as you jerked him off placing him back in your mouth, bobbing your head back and forth.

“Oh my— fuck you’re amazing.” To be honest this is exactly what Taehyung needed, from all the pent up stress he had today, fucking your throat was the only option in his mind to release it. “Fuck baby I’m close.” Taehyung’s moans turns into whimpers as you pulled away to jerk him off faster sticking out your tongue.

“shitshitshitshit.” Taehyung’s jaw dropped as his eyes rolled back, stomach caving in as thick ropes of his cum splattered all on your tongue, lips and cheeks. You looked pretty to him.

Taehyung turned the recording off, placing his phone on the table behind him. He watched as you scooped the remaining cum off your cheeks and lick your fingers clean.

“You are truly amazing baby.” Helping you up off the floor Taehyung kissed you passionately, tasting his own bittersweet cum. The kiss was sloppy yet loving. “No more distractions, ok?” Placing a harsh slap on your ass you smiled. “Ok.” You giggled as he picked you up bridal style carrying you to y’all shared bedroom.

[st-just]

as someone who mostly doesn’t read any fiction by sociology majors or queer people who like to construct things, I want to know more of what you think about Cobra Kai. It’s interesting to see someone with a more “academic” relationship to fiction watch and talk about silly pulp stuff that I like.

I admit it’s utterly corny and “non-prestigious” for lack of a better word, but it does somehow speak to me in it’s shameless ‘80s-ness, and I want to know about what this says about me.

(I do like more intelligent fiction as well, but mostly artsy movies. Prestige tv or literary fiction has historically been too much of a time commitment to stay philosophically focused the whole time. I was a voracious reader as a kid, and I’m trying to read Anna Karenina, but the internet has rotted my attention span. I can do a 100 minute art movie, but reading a book chunks at a time is somehow hard to stay engaged with.)

Sorry this has taken so long to answer - was waiting to finish season five and then just forgot

I mean mostly I think it's entertaining trash with some enjoyably scenery-chewing performances and surprisingly good fight choreography? I also respect the utter commitment to the bit, in this world where 'karate' is a pan-Asian marital art that does legitimately give low-level superpowers and also guns don't really seem to exist. The shameless '80s nostalgia bait clashing with the modern setting is also done with enough effort and self-awareness to mostly be really fun. But it's honestly more background noise than anything I'm actually watching with analytical intent.

That said the show's conception of and preoccupation with masculinity is just fascinating for how deeply held and also unselfaware it seems to be?

Like Johny is clearly a comic, pathetic figure, right? Especially in season one, he's a failure of what mature masculinity is supposed to be (deadbeat dad, shitty insecury housing, no steady work or marketable skills, embarrassing piece of shit car, neither a long term relationship nor success when he tries for something casual). His fetishistic attachment to the outward signifiers of '80s machismo is presented as something to laugh at, both because of how outdated they are and because he can't live up to them. But! The show also presents him as having a kind of Quixote-esque nobility about him, and the next five seasons of tv are a long sequence of him basically achieving all the things he was pathetic for lacking in the premier.

More broadly, the show has a very, very clear thesis that the vital core of being a Good Man is a) being able to deploy incredibly violence through personal strength and skill b) but choosing not to do so as a demonstration of restraint and virtue c) unless it's for a just cause or someone is really asking for it. Like, literally every male character with an arc is good at karate! Even the MIT-bound dweeb who was introduced to get shoved into lockers and the annoying brat Ipad baby younger son! The show simply does not care to waste screentime on a guy who can't punch you into a coma.

(There's something almost like, chivalric about the plot beat in season 5 where Daniel has dutifully chosen to give up his vendetta against Silver because protecting his wife and children is more important than abstract principle or glory, and then his wife needs to cajole and convince him to get back in the fight with her blessing. Warrior-aristocrat-ass gender role enactment

(Because it's the 2020s, a select number of women can be warriors too. As long as they're incredibly conventionally attractive, and also never defeat/emasculate any of the really important men. I did actually laugh when the only non-supermodel-hot major female character was written off between seasons with like a single line of explanation))

Besides all that - I mean it's kind of hilarious how the show is so studiously colorblind is filling its supporting cast and has a few relatively prominent asian characters whose race is just literally never important in any way, and then also portrays The Orient like it's 1980 and the closest anyone involved has ever come to Asia is watching a couple horribly dubbed wire-fu movies.

[nikethestatue]

I remember when I started reading SJM, which was ACOTAR, and how simple things were.

I fell in love with Rhys and with Feyre. I loved reading her story. I loved the slightly malicious vibe from Rhys, who was intriguing and dark and delicious.

I loved reading ACOMAF and being taken on their journey and watch them fall in love. I adored all the twists and turns, and not being a fantasy reader, I was genuinely shocked by the 'mate' revelation, which blew me away and then the ending was truly incredible.

I liked ACOWAR and the complexity of all the stories, and how all the characters worked together. The High Lords' meeting was fascinating and frankly, the entire chapter of the Hybern rescue was incredible (and I read it not as an Elriel, but just as a reader).

I fell in love with ACOFAS and its softness, the build up to all the couples, the lore, the intricacies of all of these people's relationships. It remains by second favorite SJM book.

I was intrigued by ACOSF and Nesta's story, especially because I loved (and still love) Cassian. I was happy to see all my faves again, and get a different perspective. It wasn't the strongest book, but when I read it, I still enjoyed it. And hell, it made me exercise! LOL

And now, 4.5 years later, I look at this fandom, and it's just a trash pile of utter garbage ideas and opinions.

Azriel is an incel! He wants to use an Archeron sister for sex! Rhys is a war criminal who should be executed! Poor Illyrians (nevermind that they've been happily cutting the wings of their women for centuries! Until the 'war criminal' Rhysand stepped in)! Cassian should die because he is a bad mate and doesn't deserve Nesta! Tamlin is the hero of the series! Everything is unjust when it comes to him and he's never done anything wrong ever! Lucien deserves his mate! Pliant bones! Changed pelvises! Gwyn is Starborn! Her name starts with Gwy and so is Gwydion, so obviously...I don't even know what's obvious, but something is. Nesta' should basically raise armies against the IC! She should align with Eris! She should align with Tamlin! Elain is Tamlin's mate because she likes flowers and doesn't deserve Lucien. In fact, Elain doesn't deserve Lucien, or Azriel, or even Graysen. Elain x Koschei! Koschlain! Beron is sexy! Mate bond rejection is between LOA and Helion????

and on and on and on it goes.

Harassing artists, harassing Bloomsbury, harassing other readers, stealing art, doxxing, releasing personal information, personal DMs, pretending to be someone they aren't to invade spaces, months of abusive anons, ridicule, aggression, calling people 'vermin', wishing people death, threatening to contact their places of work and schools. Making lists with people's handles and warning 'we are watching you'. What?

And I wonder--what happened?

What happened to my innocent and ardent love for these characters and the story, and how did it all come to this?

I truly am at a loss when I look at the dumpster fire that this fandom has become. Literally the only two reasonable fractions who actually understand what SJM intended with her storytelling and who appreciate the characters as they are meant to be appreciated are the OG Feysands and Elriels.

The rest...I don't know. I don't know what happened. But it's scary and unsettling.

[goldenlionprince]

brotherly love and fancy invitations

Well, last time in The Bodyguard AU Sirius told us he can get them an invitation to the fancy auction. Let's see if he's right about that.

Check out Sirius' insane work out which is one of his coping mechanisms for the aftermath of his prison time. If you look for something a little bit softer, have some naked cuddle time, and if you want to know what James means my "the real thing", have a look at this one here 😏

you can find previous parts in my AO3 collection and all the awesome art in @sorenphelps Bodyguard AU tag tagging @neverenoughmarauders @lovelymasks @0o-r-anon-o0

.

Grimmauld Place looks a little different from how Sirius remembers it. That's mostly because of the trash that litters the street, glitter and party poppers and empty bottles. It's because most of the other houses here are used now as fancy Airbnb rentals, rented out for bachelor parties and big birthday bashes that last whole weekends.

His father would have hated it.

It puts a smile on Sirius' lips as he takes the steps up to the front door. The snake shaped knocker is still the same. Of course Regulus would have kept that.

It doesn't take long for the door to open after his knock. The butler already has a greeting on his lips, but it dies there when he sees Sirius on the doorstep, his eyes widening along with Sirius's smile.

Then he tries to slam the door back shut.

It doesn't work. Sirius' steel toed boot blocks the way effectively.

“Hello Kreacher,” Sirius says, the grin still wide on his lips as he takes in the butler's horror. He pushes the door open, making Kreacher stumble back a few steps, and saunters into the house. “Long time no see. Is Regulus in?”

“Master Regulus is very busy at the moment,” Kreacher says firmly, clinging to the doorknob like that will make Sirius go back out again. “Shall I deliver a message instead?”

“Busy, hmm?” Sirius says, turning towards the staircase that leads to the upper floors from the foyer. “So he's in the study, I gather.”

He doesn't wait for an answer from the butler and just makes his way upstairs, his boots heavy on the polished wood and fancy carpet. He knows where his father's study is after all.

“Insufferable brat,” Kreacher mumbles behind him. Sirius can hear him hurriedly close the front door and follow him up the stairs.

“Now is really not a good time,” Kreacher says, sounding a little out of breath already as he hurries to catch up with Sirius' long strides. “Maybe you could come back another time?” Kreacher takes a big gulp of air as they reach the landing. “Never would be good,” he grumbles, just loud enough for Sirius to hear. Sirius ignores him.

He pushes the door to the study open instead.

Regulus looks up from where he sits behind the big oakwood desk, startled at seeing Sirius standing in his door. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello to you too, brother,” Sirius says and flings himself into the visitor's chair opposite of Regulus on the other side of his table, popping his boots up onto the polished oak wood of the desk. Regulus looks at them in utter disgust.

“I'm very sorry, Master Regulus,” Kreacher pants as he finally makes it into the room, bowing low to Regulus. “I was unable to stop him from intruding.”

“It's fine, Kreacher,” Regulus says with a small sigh. “I know how he is.”

Sirius just smiles brightly at them both. “I'll take a whiskey, Kreacher. On ice. Thank you.”

Kreacher pretends he hasn't heard and doesn't move.

Regulus reaches over the desk and shoves Sirius' boots off of the shiny surface. “I'll ask again. What do you want?”

“I've heard you're giving out invitations for a fancy party,” Sirius says, crossing his legs at the ankles as he leans back to lounge in the chair. “I want one.”

Regulus blinks at him. “You want what?”

“An invitation to your auction.”

“But why?” Regulus asks, staring at him in disbelief.

Sirius only shrugs. “I like dusty things.”

“We both know the dusty things you like tend to be a little bit older in origin than the things I prefer,” Regulus says, his eyes narrowing. “So what do you really want there?”

“There is someone going to be at your auction that I want to talk to.”

Regulus leans back in his chair. “And you can't just talk to them anywhere else?”

Sirius just waves his hand in the air. “You know, the magic of casually running into someone is that they should not know that it's not that casual and unplanned.”

“Do I even want to know how you know that person will be at the auction?” Regulus asks.

Sirius ignores the question. He leans forward in his seat and rests his elbows on his thighs. “Look, there is someone I have to talk to where it doesn't look like I'm interrogating them. It might help clear my name completely, which by default clears the family name. That should be in your interest too, then.”

Regulus sits up straight in his chair, pulling at the lapels of his suit jacket. “I can just keep pretending I'm not related to you.”

Sirius looks him up and down. “And people believe that?”

Regulus deflates a little. “It usually stops further questions, at least.”

“Look,” Sirius says and leans a little closer to Regulus. Regulus instinctually leans further back. Sirius just grins at him. “You can give me an invite. Or I can just show up at the front door of your venue and tell people about your little spoon incident.”

Regulus grows a little pale. “You wouldn't dare.”

“Try me,” Sirius shrugs. “Your choice.”

There is a long pause where the brothers just look at each other. Finally Regulus sighs and picks up one of the cream coloured envelopes on his desk. He opens it and takes out the invitation inside, adding Sirius' name on the line in his ornate handwriting. “This is an event of some quality, so I expect you to dress accordingly. Bring a plus one. Make sure it's a woman in an evening dress.”

He puts the invitation back into the envelope and finishes it all off with his official seal. Then he hands the envelope over to Sirius, holding onto it just for a moment longer like he already wants to snatch it back. “And I don't want you to cause any trouble, are we clear?”

****

Sirius drops into the driver's seat and holds out the invitation to James. “Told you I can get one.”

James takes the fancy envelope from him, the paper weighty in his hands. It has a wax seal and everything. A whole fancy seal.

James blinks at it a good few times as Sirius starts the car. “I mean, you have told me your family are fancy fuckers but... is it possible you've forgotten to mention a tiny little detail?”

“Like what?” Sirius asks, getting them out into London traffic.

“Sirius,” James says, looking up from the fancy invitation. “Your brother is a Marquess.”

“And?” Sirius asks, looking over at James.

“He's younger than you,” James says carefully. “Doesn't that mean...?”

“That he only got the fancy title because I got disowned? Yeah.” Sirius looks back onto the street. “He should thank me for that but of course the annoying little prick never will. He much rather makes sure that everyone knows he's a Marquess while I'm just an Earl. Pretentious fucker.”

James stares at him. “YOU'RE A WHAT???”

[inkstaindusk]

5, 12, and 28 for og nice?

character ask game!

5. What's the first song that comes to mind when you think about them?

Paragon is the obvious answer to this but other than that... Kill The Lights by Set It Off. Because I was listening to it earlier today and the very first line is "you reside in grand disguises" and the chorus starts "kill the lights / kill the actor"

12. What's a headcanon you have for this character?

He forgot about Wreck. He loved Wreck but he forgot about the person, his best friend who wanted to fight with him and who wanted him to be happy, and lumped him in with the rest of the crowd that just wanted Nice to shine and be perfect.

Also he used to like going to art museums.

28. If you could have this character meet another in another media, who would you have them meet?

Oh man it would have to be someone who is either also dead from the start or who is an absolute utter disaster. Or both. [steeples fingers] Original Cale Henituse from Trash of the Count's Family. For context, he is the said trash of the count's family and he would act like an alcoholic spoiled brat throwing tantrums and also actual objects at people (with the intention of making his reputation so bad that no one could find fault in his stepsiblings, particularly his brother who doesn't have any noble blood) (and also because he's just kind of an asshole). And he's a huge mama's boy, which is important to me. Anyway I don't know if OG Nice meeting OG Cale would be a benefit or an absolute utter disaster, I just want to see what would happen if the Perfect Hero met a guy who spent his formative years pretending to be drunk even though he has a high alcohol tolerance and pulling aggro from every single person he's ever been in a room with.