#anyway all this to say i have hopes for the new beyond canon

[nintendont2502]

I feel like the reason *I* enjoyed Homestuck^2 despite... everything, was because I never really saw it as a 'canon' continuation of the main comic? Like to me it was so separated from Homestuck proper to me that I could ignore the weirder shit and just pick the interesting parts that I personally like, which is definitely the superior post canon experience

Anyway I think the name change to 'Homestuck: Beyond Canon' is definitely a good step into getting the rest of the fandom to see it that way

[jonnywaistcoat]

Hi Jonny, if you don't mind I have a question about the TMA TTRPG! So I noticed that on the player's guide there's this guy, who my friends and I assumed is probably Jon. If it is him, is this a canon design, or more like some of the non-canon stuff that's in the merch?

So, I hope you don't mind if i use this ask to go a bit off on one. I'm not specifically dragging you (I'm actualy glad you asked, as I've thinking about posting on the topic), but all the discussion around the RPG art and how "official" or "canon" it might be is, to my mind, slightly silly.

First up, is it "official" art? I mean, yeah, its art for the officially licenced Magnus Archives RPG. This means Monte Cook Games have commissioned someone to do a beatiful illustration broadly based on some aspect, episode or character from the podcast and it goes in the book. But that's kinda all it means. "Official" is a legal distinction, not an artistic one. The fact that it's in an official product doesn't make it any less one artist's cool interpretation of a character that has only been vaguely described in audio.

Second, is it Jonathan Sims the Archivist? I mean, it's probably based on the idea of him, but it's certainly not set in stone. When we were first discussing art with MCG, we advised that character pictures be more vibes-based and not explicitly tied to specific people (ie. a portrait inspired by Tim wouldn't be captioned "This is Tim" and wouldn't be placed opposite a profile for Tim Stoker, archival assistant.) This was mainly because we wanted the artists to have plenty of freedom to interpret and not feel too tied down by the need to know everything about the podcast. But, to be frank, it was also because we know that there are a few fans out there that are kinda Not Chill about what they've personally decided these characters look like and can get a bit defensive over depictions that differ.

It strikes me as particularly strange to be having this discussion about art that's for a roleplying game book. Something that's explicitly and solely designed to give you the ability to play in your version of the Magnus universe. The idea that this is the thing where we'd for some reason try to immutably establish unchangable appearances for these characters would be pretty funny if some folks weren't taking it so seriously. Similarly ridiculous is the idea we could reasonably have said to MCG "We'd love for you to make a huge beautiful RPG book of our setting... Just make sure you don't depict any of the iconic characters or events from it!"

But... is it "canon"? Now, to my mind, this highlights a real weakness in a lot of fandom thinking around "canon", which is that it generally has no idea what to do with adaptations. All adaptation is interpretation, and relies on taking a work and letting new creatives (and sometimes the same ones) have a different take on it. Are the appearances of the Fellowship of the Ring in the LOTR movies "canon"? How much, if at all, does that matter? Neil Gaiman's book Neverwhere was originaly a 90s BBC series made with a budget of 50 pence; is anyone who makes fanart of Mr Croup that doesn't look like the actor Hywel Bennet breaking canon? What about the novel that describes the character differently? Or the officially licenced Neverwhere comic where he looks like neither of them? Which is his "canon appearance"?

Canon is an inherently messy concept, and while it is useful for a creative team trying to keep continuity and consistency within a creative work, for thinking about anything beyond that it tends to be more hinderance than help.

Anyway, all this is to say that the above picture and all the others in the RPG are exactly as canon as every other picture you've ever seen of the Archivist.

[thelastofhyde]

i. the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller is not a man who strives to be liked, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl on his face, until his world is flipped on its axis when the pretty young thing living under bill and frank's roof, with an irritatingly unwavering smile and the literal sun shinning out her ass, says those five damned words: i don't like you, joel.

warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, slow burn ( i have several oneshots planned for this couple ), unrequited love ( except you will never catch joel miller admitting he feels anything beyond grief, hunger and exhaustion ), pining, poor communication no communication, no seriously joel is down bad it's actually disgusting and highkey 🚩toxic🚩 but luckily red is your favourite colour, sunshine!reader, grumpy!joel aka canon joel, kinda perv!joel ( if you squint ), implied queer!tess, undefined age gap ( reader implied late-20s ), descriptions of canon-typical violence, smut ( oral- f receiving, fingering, degradation, panty stealing, hair pulling, dirty talk, dubcon due to intoxication, joel kinda gives her a wedgie at some point and honestly i don’t know what i was hoping to achieve with that, discussions of a lacklustre sex-life pre-apocalypse ). reader is a) hinted at being shorter than joel but it’s not central to the plot and b) described as lithe but the meaning intended is graceful, not thin!

word count. 12.9k

hyde’s input. half-way through, the regret of choosing to write this from joel's pov started to settle in but lmao i was too far in to not commit to the bit. don't come at me for the fact the timeline or events may not seem plausible with canon, i just wanna write this silly little depraved fic about joel in peace :( anyway, enjoy my first attempt at writing for tlou, forming a prayer circle rn in hopes that this doesn't flop because i will cry and you will hear about it

taglist. @kayleezra​​ @newavenger + add yourself to the taglist here !​

read on ao3 ! ( capitalization available )

distaste is not new in the life of joel miller.

in particular, one that is loaded, aimed and fired directly at him. he is not a likeable guy, often by choice and rarely by accident. the years of pain from a bleeding wound have now scarred over into nothing but an empty shell of the man that once was, from a world that no longer is, and he’s tried little to fill himself back up.

if anything, he’s made himself more empty.

rid himself of feelings, that which saves him the weakness of appearing sympathetic. discarded the need for luxuries, for which he’d scarcely cared for prior to his world ending. lay to rest what was left of the optimist inside him, leaving behind the danger of hope for it to rot with the rest of the infected.

an apocalyptic world brings out all sides of man that one would never dare to engage with in normal civilisation. joel learned swiftly that he was built to endure, quick to evolve and adapt to the new world order. the man who once worked his hardest to keep the peace among his neighbours, smiling that little bit wider on days he’d catch them scowling to themselves in hopes of brightening one part of their day for even a simple moment, would be at odds with the man who wears a heavy layer of enjoyment when met with the scowling glances and the hushed voices, all the watch out for that miller guys passed between cowardly members of fedra and the keep away from mr. miller's lawns spoken harshly from mother to child becoming music to his failing ears.

this plague of fear-driven dislike keeps him alone, how he likes to be, no one to lose and nothing to be taken. somewhere along the years the idea of safety in numbers has morphed into an illusion, something people say and never truly mean, to distract themselves from a reality more bitter than a snowstorm: in times of survival, people become dead-weight.

“so that’s all i am to ya, huh? dead-fucking-weight?” his brother’s voice still echoes in that damned space he calls a home, weeks or months or years since the day he’d departed for something else, somewhere else, leaving joel to do what joel does best: endure.

somehow, silence was easier than telling the man he’d taught to tie a shoelace, to shave his beard, to tune a guitar that he was the dead-weight, doomed to drag all those who remained too close down into his pit of despair.

she was an exception, his tess, buried 5-feet-under in her own swell of darkness, nothing but the tips of her fingers stretched out above her head to feel the sun upon her skin and keep her from going that last foot deeper. they’d made a home for themselves in one another, one where he keeps them fed, and she keeps them safe, and neither of them keeps the place clean.

she never asks for more, and he never offers it, both content to survive without the weight of affection smothering them. contrary to the belief of any misfortunate soul who’s encountered the pair within the quarantine zone, she is the one who holds the leash, tugging joel along close by her heel and keeping him from wandering off into the wild to surrender himself to a feral lifestyle.

which lands him here, sat at a table playing happy family, each time he dares to snark out a few words being met with the sharp kick of tess’ foot against his shin.

“... and then,” frank struggles over a cough, so excited in his story-telling that he fails to separate taking a breath from taking a sip of his wine. with a roll of eyes and a disapproving grunt, bill’s no more than two seconds away from clapping down on his back, urging the other man’s wind-pipes to unblock and welcome back airflow. “otis dragged his muddied self over the whole house. we were finding paw-prints for days!”

joel’s unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. as if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the german shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.

“which means i was cleaning paw-prints for days.” bill, the only one at the table besides himself who wears the looks of a cynic, grumbles out before shovelling what remains on his plate into his mouth.

frank is quick to shush him.

“i’m sorry, again, bill,” he doesn’t mean to break eye-contact from the mutt at his thigh, but the voice calls to him like a siren calls to a ship in the night, like a flame dances and seduces a moth into its brightly burning touch of death, a spotlight in the dark which promises- or threatens- more light to come. “i’d no clue there was a storm coming till we were already a good few miles away, and there was nowhere to take cover to wait it out.”

there you sit, parallel to him.

the sun rests lower in the sky as time carries you all into the late noon, its rays a beacon of light bursting out just behind your head, painting you in the glow of the golden hour and staining a mockery of a halo above you. it hurts his eyes, this brightness that you so easily bask in, forcing him to squint and deepen the frown on his face.

you catch him with his sights on you, at some point, and the smile you meet his scowl with has him cursing at the sun, and the moon, and every star that sits between.

the threat of a great war looms in the air as you rush to rise up and help clear the table of the remnants left behind- none of which joel can account for, mouth to keen and body too starved to skip out on enjoying the mundane luxury of a fresh, home-cooked meal. the battle ends swiftly as you surrender to bill’s hardened stare, and frank’s disapproving head-shakes, and tess’ own plan of action to simply force you down back into the seat you’d been sat in- the one you always sit in.

“you, sit. no one should have to clean up the food they made.”

they get no fight out of him when they insist he’d done enough catching the so-called food.

silence casts its shadow over the table, dampening the light and painting you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun hind a large cloud that causes such a thing.

being alone, with you, is something joel’s never mastered. the affliction of your presence is so much greater when there’s no one else to balance out your natural shine- the kind that has his head spinning and his cock aching-, no one but him.

were he not a sick bastard, he’d try harder to not make you sad.

something bumps his hands, ripping him out of his moral self-condemnation. the dog meets his gaze, eyes a widened mess of puppy-dog pleading that punctuates its existence with an impatient whine.

just like your owner, he finds himself thinking and not saying- never saying-, yet to find your bark.

the ball’s a sticky mess of slobber and dirt, and joel touches it all the same, throwing it up in the air once, then twice, before tossing it across the yard. he’s slumped back in his chair by the time he registers the dog’s departure, a ball of dark fluff bouncing its way across the garden, and all the man can think is fuck, he’ll be feeling the effect of that throw on his shoulder come the morning.

the pain is not enough to stop him from tossing the ball again, and once more, and then yet again, sending the dog in a never ending loop of chase, grab, retrieve- a parallel to his life of wake, survive, sleep.

“he likes you,” you never leave things the way he wishes them to be, bursting his bubble with the vocal reminder of your presence.

as if on queue, prompted by your addressing of it, the dog drops its interest in joel, and the ball, and the chasing, tail wagging uncontrollably by the time it reaches your side. standing on its hind legs, it collapses the front of itself into your waiting lap, and joel watches how you wrap your arms so easily around something that could cause you harm.

to envy a creature that licks it own shit off its ass is a new low for joel.

“thinkin’ he might like ya more, sol.” the nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, the safer option than uttering your name, a vice and virtue he’s only permitted himself in idealistic fantasies that play out in his own troubled thoughts.

“most people do,” whether you mean to make it seem like you’re degrading his very existence or not, he’s unsure, but it rouses a chuckle out of him.

he takes note of how you don’t protest the name he’s branded you with, not like how you’d fought tooth and nail against it every other visit he and tess have made.

“you’ve got a whole load in common, you know? i think that’s got something to do with his fascination-”

“how the hell’s a man like me got somethin’ in common with a four-legged mutt?” there he goes again, making that smile slip down your cheeks with a simple use of his voice. it helps as much as it hurts, frown loosening up and eyes no longer strained beneath the bright shine of your visceral optimism.

“well, you’re both... hairy,” he restrains himself from reacting, washing down a laugh with the help of the dregs of wine that lay collecting at the bottom of his glass. he’s let his appearance grow more rugged over the past few months and your noticing of this brings an unwanted warmth to his aching bones. “and have the most kickass women in your lives to stop you from dying.”

he’s interested to know what life would be like under your protection.

discovering the answer brings the threat of pain, and loss, and an openness to vulnerability he can not afford himself, so he takes the safer option: “‘s easy stayin’ safe when you live in this fantasy land. doubt your mutt’d last any longer than a day out in reality.”

with you as its protector.

he doesn’t say it and, still, it somehow hovers in the space between you both, a heavy, syrupy implication that slips down your throats and threatens to suffocate you. he watches you choke on it, coughing on his cruelty and feigning it to be a simple clearing of your throat. your eyes glue themselves on the dog, delicate fingers smoothing over the well-groomed hairs down its back.

survival has turned him into a man who knows when to seize an opportunity, and this is one he takes with both hands, basking in the simplicity of staring, watching, observing you without the crime of being caught.

but i could keep you safe.

he toys with the danger of uttering such a thing aloud. it’s not the first time he’s thought it. truthfully, he’s unsure when it first nestled its way into his mind.

his memory, which ails him more than it aids him these past years, would have him believe it was way before the dog had even appeared, back when it was just bill, frank and you. a few whiskeys in and a campfire lit for you all to gather for warmth around- why you’d all chosen to sit out in the gardens on a winter’s night joel remains unsure of to this day-, it was frank who’d prompted the question. “where were you all when... this started?” tess went first, braver than most people he knows, sharing stories of a version of herself he’ll never meet. 

he never imagined her working in a bank.

bill, with reluctance, took the next step, keeping his account factual and to the point. “was shit-faced drunk and getting my stomach pumped.” he’d been quick to skim over the story of the young nurse who’d guided him to safety out the hospital, losing her own life in exchange for his survival. she was barely out of school. “i knew her dad, bit of an asshole, but boy, was he proud of his baby for graduating.” frank couldn’t let him swim too deep in his thoughts, afraid a current of guilt would trap him and drown him in the depths of it, and so he raised his own voice and began his tale.

joel had always been a good listener. being a single parent to a teenage girl required him to be, or so... she would have had him believe, nights at the table set for two spent listening to the playground he-said-she-said gossip. years later and he at last prefers things this way, a rare gem of safety found in the act of saying nothing and hearing everything- that his hearing will allow. all this to say, he’d tried his best to pay attention to frank’s impassioned retelling of his heroic misadventures that had lead him to the unintentional arms of bill.

but you weren’t smiling.

he watched you, you watched the dancing flames, face stoic and drained of that natural shine his eyes had only just started to be able to gaze upon without the threat of being blinded by such light.

the desire crept up on him like a tiger to it’s prey, hiding in the far off bushes until the opportunity to strike presented itself and the feeling lunged for joel’s back, gripping him in its claws and piercing his ribcage with its gnashing teeth. with each bite, it plagued him with the delusions of a wandering mind, imagination left free to run laps around his head with visions of you from another life, another time, another set of people gathered round a dining table. he’d wanted to hear about the ones you’d lost, and comfort you with all the things he hated hearing (“you’ll keep ‘em alive, in spirit and memory!” “those we remember never truly die!”). he’d needed to bend a knee and swear a vow to be the one to stand between you and death, to fight for your survival on your behalf. ‘could keep you safe. there, then, the thought did cross his mind.

he’d washed it down with a swig of lukewarm, flat beer.

“-could fix it, you know. i’m good with my hands.”

he almost chokes on his own breath.

i'm good with my hands, it swims in circles round his mind, replaying and echoing off the walls of his skull. and he knows- oh, how he knows- that he’ll be replaying it in those moments of solitude for the next few nights, weeks, months- however long it may take till he forgets the way such thought-provoking words sound on your lips.

“what?” the question leaves him harsher than he intends, drawing an enemy line between you both with the foul sound of it. in the corner of his eye, he swears he sees you flinch backwards, physically recoiling from the disdain-filled bullet he fires in your direction.

the mutt in your lap retreats, hackles rising as it turns to face joel once more.

he sees it, in the dog’s brutal protectiveness over you, this similarity you claim exists.

“your watch, it’s broken.”

“hadn’t noticed,” he’s retreating into his own space now, mentally and physically, scraping the legs of his chair against the ground as his mind works to strengthen those walls that threaten to crumble so often in your presence. “don’t need ya to fix it.”

you pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. confusion.

“don’t you want to know the time?” you ask, as if time could ever be relevant in a rotten world where down is up, and up is down, and joel miller is not the overprotective father to the most delicate creature the god he’d stopped believing in had gifted him, just to force him to watch as life snatched her away.

“i don’t keep it for the time.”

you smile, and this one’s a killer, piercing straight through the cages of his ribs to carve itself into his withered heart.

the german shepherd relaxes with the rebrightening of your aura, shaking out the tension from its body before sauntering its way back over to joel, ball in mouth and tail wagging excitedly, as if it hadn’t just contemplated having its first taste of human flesh.

he’s throwing the toy in a matter of minutes, enjoying the repeated run and retrieve game, and the renewed silence that comes along with it. nature sings its tune with rustling leaves, cawing crows, and pounding paws. it’s almost so easy to leave your offer, your words, his broken watch in the rearview mirror of this otherwise pleasant afterno-

“ooh, so there’s a story to tell!” you’re blinding him with your excitement, lithe limbs leaning forward in your own chair in an attempt to reach closer, table between you be damned. “i’ve never heard any of the joel miller backstory, this should be-”

“i get that likin’ everyone is your thing, but would’ya give it a rest?”

nature falls silent.

skies grow dull.

you juggle sadness.

there’s a crash that comes from within the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of tess’ sailor mouth, cursing whichever delicate dish she’s broken into smithereens with the help of her accident prone hands. the dog’s lain itself down upon the grass, ball between it’s paws as it begins to bite, and chew, and break it under the pressure of its canines.

joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

“sure,” then, with the return of your voice, all sounds resume, harmony upon planet earth once more. only, the gates have been shut in his face and joel finds himself forced to watch as everything unfolds from the outside, an unwelcome visitor forced out into exile with the fungal freaks and the inhumane. “but you’re wrong. i don’t like everyone.”

“‘s that so.” his eyes roll. the hole he’s dug for himself sinks deeper, casting you higher up on the pedestal joel will always be wiling to place you on.

“yeah,” you’ve risen out your chair, gifting him the view of how the fabric of your dress dances above your knee, a final twist of the knife in his heart that he lets you pierce his flesh with each time he surrenders himself to your existence. “i don’t like you, joel.”

the hours come and go, but your words linger like a bad tattoo, shamefully engraved into his skin and banning him to a life of noticing the horrendous thing each time he passes by his own reflection.

we’re staying, for tonight. tess had called the shots, and he’s been learning not to argue when she gives him one of her stern looks, biting down on the comments he’d wanted to make of the dangers of being out of the qz for too long, which would likely earn him nothing but a shrug and the reminder that they both were off duty the following day

the nights are beginning to grow darker as winter grows nearer, leading bill and frank- mostly frank- to excuse themselves to bed, bidding the two visitors with a final reminder to make themselves comfortable in whichever room they can find. if only joel could remember which door leads to yours.

the two women in his life remain awakened, passing a bottle of wine between each other as you both converse back and forth, catching each other up on one another’s life, satiating that craving for mundane gossip.

tess recounts the scandal of the poor boy who’d been caught sleeping with a fedra agent’s wife, you whisper that frank and bill had been fighting again recently. the memory of being ambushed by raiders- now dead raiders- comes to life once more with the help of tess’ voice, while the promise to uncover what exactly bill and frank were hiding from you as of late is sealed in your words.

at some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. at another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.

-n’t tell me you’re a virgin.

the words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.

a protest rings true in his head and his ears.

was gonna say. knew you were young, but not that young.

it’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.

“god, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. it was alright, i guess. i just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”

he’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. a groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.

neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

“not much to miss?! sweet christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” he’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken tess. each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. there’s no need to bother opening his eyes, joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “i’d give up a hand for some head!”

you must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of tess’ renewed shock fills the room. he wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.

late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.

“you’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“it bores me!”

“it bores you!?”

the couch beneath joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp tess gives. the last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.

the crueler part of his mind replays your voice, i don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.

you like tess. love her, even. it’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out finally someone with a pair of boobs, i’m bored of the sight of my own. joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.

maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.

“must not have been doin’ ya right,” the bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. you’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. it’s oddly endearing, you think no one has noticed. “this fella of yours.”

joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.

he does so, regardless.

“well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “we were each others firsts.”

“that’s no excuse! trust i left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time i went down.” tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. no discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.

you scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “what, are you offering your services?”

this he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which tess had raised you to heaven while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.

“‘as sure as i am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you i like my women a little older than you.”

he knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the qz. it should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. but he can’t, and he won’t.

and you’re the one to blame.

you, with the glow of a thousand suns. you, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. you, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.

his own self being the first he’d need fight.

joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.

the next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.

he’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. some small, meaningless little things, that ripple joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. others, tsunamis. big, angry, all imposing. they’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.

amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. but the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. they catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. in the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.

the currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

this evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. he reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. the gentle, barely-there croon of a sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. across from him is tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. snoring comes from below him, where joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.

you take up no space of this room.

neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.

there are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.

he should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. a good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.

he could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure frank wouldn’t mind. bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the qz.

he would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. he imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.

i don’t like you, joel.

those words stop him from trying.

he tells himself it’s for the best.

with a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. he swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. the door’s already half-opened, and joel nearly thanks christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. the darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.

the refrigerator.

it’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. a subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.

keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.

she never lived long enough to get either.

he catches something move beneath the artificial light. cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.

“why aren’t ya sleepin’?” the words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.

beneath the light, you shrug, “could ask you the same thing, texas.”

he curses tess for teaching you such a nickname.

he curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.

you’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, joel remains unaware.

he grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. the door behind him closes over and give the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.

“i asked first.” you laugh, at him. full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. the corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. he hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you, bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘s so funny, huh?”

“nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “just never heard the joel miller say something so childish. you’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”

you make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. a fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. uncouth and unbothered, joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.

“you know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” you call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. the thirst does not budge. he hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.

by the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.

“i’m making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “make sure you take some with you when you leave. tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”

would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. he’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.

i don’t like you, joel.

of course you would do the same. not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. all words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. they violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over joel’s entire persona.

he straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. the sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. his hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, and the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of tess, and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what joel hears.

i don’t like you, joel.

i don’t like you, joel.

i don’t like you, joel.

i don’t like you, joel.

over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. you’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.

and, suddenly, joel’s angry. at you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. the fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.

only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.

a hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise joel gifts you.

you may leave your marks emotionally, but joel’s will always be physical.

“why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “don’t ya like me?”

if not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “why do you care?” 

he scoffs, “i don’t.”

“hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody tess was playing in the living room. “sure sounds like you do.”

“yeah, well, i don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.

joel knows he cares. it’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to bill and frank’s. 

what joel doesn’t know is why he cares. there’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. he’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.

maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.

instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.

not one bit.

joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. his feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. his chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.

he inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.

“for the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘s like how i sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. no part of him should ever be compared to you. “i don’t like ya either.”

he’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.

the knife never ceases its movement. back and forth, back and forth. chop, chop, chop. blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. it’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.

the hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.

“that’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point. 

it’s his turn to respond with a hum.

“you only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. his wandering touch halts. “a little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what i think.”

this strikes a nerve. fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. the realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “d’ya know what i think?”

even upside down, your beauty is striking.

“no, unlike you i don’t care what you think about-” joel tugs on your hair once more.

“i think you’re a brat. a silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” you could. he’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.

 “you’re hurting me,” you whine, joel growls.

animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. his gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.

your dress- red, a colour joel miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.

“you like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.

“no, i don’-” dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “joel.”

he retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. whoever joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.

“heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and tess. the blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ talkin’ bout your past.”

he doesn’t specify.

he doesn’t need to.

you give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.

“tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. his hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “i wouldn’t.”

you say nothing. joel pulls harder.

“too bad i’m-” you cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. with a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, joel watches you like a hawk. the twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. the want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “too bad i’m not offering you the chance.”

joel miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. with notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.

“who said anything about an offer?”

the descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.

a part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.

the other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. you’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.

smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs longer than any tree in the amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the himalayas. arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.

your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, joel knows how to read people. and, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.

joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.

you breathe in, you breathe out.

one knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. he revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.

inhale, exhale.

your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.

“hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. all he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. with the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “don’t move.”

where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. one flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. a wet patch, your wetness. the stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.

curiosity gets the better of him- one day, joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers curling themselves in the waistband of your panties and the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.

in and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

the lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. a heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. he makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.

delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. there’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. he wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. he thinks it must hurt.

his fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

“ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in joel’s peripheral vision.

“shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “people are tryin’ to sleep.”

you scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”

“‘s that an invitation to see how loud i can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. this, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “or a challenge?”

“it’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.

as coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. so he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. he awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.

it’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.

“you’re drippin’” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. the view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘s actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. is it cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”

he can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.

but first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.

cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.

rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.

it happens so sudden, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of tess. he wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.

so he does the same.

working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. he breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.

two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.

“so now you shut up. ‘s the matter, huh?” he’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “am i too borin’ for ya?”

“you’re the most infuriating man i’ve ever- oh!”

a tongue meets skin.

the knife clatters onto the counter.

you lurch forward.

his hand pulls you back.

“tess was right, ya know?” he can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. he pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “that boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”

the common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better, if you’d just let him.

‘could keep ya satisfied.

that’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. he’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.

“is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? what ya need is a man, a man like me!” the softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension, god it’s never sounded sweet, and joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.

“well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. he imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “but if ya insist.”

diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. the tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.

licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure. 

he’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by only experience that comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. you’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.

he’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.

what a perfect excuse you are, for joel to remaster the arts of lust.

it’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. it’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. it’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever days he shall possess on his knees before you.

and all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass. 

his only saving grace is that he can’t see you.

hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.

burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. it does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.

“n- ah,” you can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “no, don’t, not there.”

next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.

sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. the sound of whatever record tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.

and, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.

his eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within bill and frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. there’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time tess tells him they’re due a visit.

except, the oven door is made of glass.

glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. you, with hands gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.

 and then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.

the image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.

“d’ya touch yourself, sol?” you don’t answer him, but that’s okay. in a sweet change of pace, joel miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “yeah, bet ya do. late at night, right? once you’re all alone in bed. ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”

you back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.

fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “let me do the honours this time though.”

you don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. he imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.

he’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.

you’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. your expression, he can’t quite read. not sad, not happy, not mad.

your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.

the discomfort of trekking back to the qz will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.

“joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.

he swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. he’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“that,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. he pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “shouldn’t have happened.”

joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.

people once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. as sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. not today, however, and joel miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.

it chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. there’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.

that dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.

he cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “no, not again. my back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the german shepherd’s head. it whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. a scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “not so bad, are ya? huh?” never in a million years did joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and tess had set out for their routinely visit to the bill and frank’s. never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.

he hears you before he sees you.

“you planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, texas?”

he tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.

the world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.

so instead, it sends you.

peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than uv ray could ever be. he’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. a few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. at the very least, he considers, i’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.

the smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. when he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. he does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.

“thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. you’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”

a queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. he’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “no problem, thanks... for feeding tess and i.”

“no worries!” you’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. he can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “oh, actually, that’s why i came out here, i was looking for tess-” of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “hold on!”

you shoot off back inside so quickly that otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. with an idle pet to his head as you pass by, joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. in your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.

“i wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. he can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “i know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”

“why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.

pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.

you show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him, “there should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”

it’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.

so he tries again, louder.

“why don’t ya like me?”

“and i’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”

he grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "answer me." like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.

"for someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. you don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “you sure do talk about my opinion a lot."

"answer the damn question, girl.”

“or, what?” you’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “you gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”

had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.

instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.

joel says nothing.

“how about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and bill make.” inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “you get me something, i’ll tell you what you want to know.”

he grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “what d’ya want? ‘cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. i ain’t messing with none of bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”

“a dress.”

“a dress?” the statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.

“yes, and don’t look at me like that!” it’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “i need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”

unaware he’d even began to lean closer, joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time. 

“joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.

neither of you dare to break eye contact. again, his name is yelled. this time, he manages to identify tess as the owner of the voice. habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of tess or you. 

his feet remain glued to the ground.

tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “think you might be needed inside, macho man. your missus is calling.”

“she ain’t my-”

“you two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.

only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. in her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. you approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms. 

“i should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. he decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “go check on the food, before it burns.”

you’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.

tess and him hit the road by noon. earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. the bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun heating the world with its rays. he walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from tess and racking his brain for answers.

answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the qz. answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven bill’s created. answers to why you don’t like him.

i don’t like you, joel.

it motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. if he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.

till then, he needs to find a dress.​

[cat3ch1sm]

you've made a lot of fics about killua, but never a general relationship headcanon? 🌸 could I request that?

By the way, I love the way you write the characters, it always feels pretty Canon and I enjoy reading your works a whole lot <33

🌱~ messages like this always make my day💚 than you so much!! im so happy you enjoy my works <33 more are on the way! ilysm 🫶🏾🫶🏾

these are way longer than i thought they were gonna be wow😭😭 turn out i have a whole bunch of killua relationship hcs in my brain and you seem to have broken the dam😭 i hope you like them lmaoo

𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬!

°˖ ⊹ ꒰🌱꒱ ♡ definitely don’t expect killua to be the sappy, super overly affectionate type. he will either call you a dumbass or stupid or some other insult. but when you protest he’ll just be like “whatt? i meant it in a nice way.”

killua is not a pda guy. the most he’ll do in public is hold your hand and even that’s a coin toss. he isn’t that fond of things like that anyway, but mostly he’s just worried that if an enemy of his sees you with him that they’ll target you in order to hurt killua. he’ll never admit that, though.

in private it is a different story. he lets you play with his hair and likes to lay with his head in your lap. once he fell asleep like that and woke up so embarrassed even though you told him over and over that it was fine and you thought it was cute, which just made it worse. it’s rare he’s the one initiating physical affection, but it does happen. it’s slightly awkward when you first start dating though, since obviously that’s a new concept to killua. i can definitely imagine him doing that yawn and stretch move when you’re watching a movie or something, but when you reciprocate his affection killua gets all flustered.

killua has legitimately no idea what to do in a romantic relationship. hell, he doesn’t know what a good family relationship should even look like, and he never made a friend until he was like 12, so healthy relationships are a foreign concept. he will be absolutely flabbergasted when you buy him gifts every once in a while just to make him happy, and he’s shocked when you buy him chocolate robots for Valentine’s Day, and he is beyond confused when you give him compliments or tell him that you love him.

killua always admonishes you when you buy him stuff. whenever you bring him something he’ll just stare at it and scoff. “why do you even bother buying me stuff? i’m rich enough to buy your whole family and more, so why do you even bother getting me stuff like this?”

he always takes it anyway so don’t even mind him. killua has a specific place where he keeps your gifts. when he’s away from home he keeps them on him in a knapsack or wherever he’s staying at the time, but when he’s at the zoldyck mansion, killua locks everything away in a box safely hidden and always keeps the key on him so his family can’t get to it.

speaking of his family. you are definitely out of your mind if you think killua is willingly taking you to meet them. absolutely not in a million years. if ever killua does need to go back to his home for something, usually to check on alluka, you are staying wherever you are until he gets back. he will also ask gon to keep an eye on you if gon happens to be traveling with you. killua would rather his family just not know about you at all lest the zoldycks do the same to you as they sometimes do with alluka- capture you, and then hold you over killua’s head and threaten you whenever they want him to do something.

okay enough with the angsty stuff and back to how literally clueless killua is about dating. when gon who is the rizz god for some fucking reason informs him that he needs to take you out on dates, killua is blindsided. at first he just takes you places he likes to go, like the skate park or heavens arena to watch fights, but gon pulls him aside again at some point and says that he needs to take you places that you enjoy. which is something that killua is kind of stubborn about at first, but he does actually want to make you happy, so he obliges.

there’s this post on like twitter or something where this guy is talking about how since spending time with his gf she has him watching stupid shit he would never watch like twilight or grey’s anatomy. that is basically what happens with killua. he’s doing stuff with you that he never thought he would do in a million years and enjoying it for whatever reason. don’t tell anyone though because he gets so embarrassed

one of the things he found out that he likes is wearing eyeliner. you made sone offhanded comment about it and that his eyes look like a cat’s and suddenly you were doing eyeliner for him. it took a lot of convincing, but when killua sees how good it looks on him, he’s asking you to do it for him every day. eventually you teach him how to do it himself as well

killua winds up going to gon a lot for relationship advice. what does he do when you’re sad? go to gon. what should he do for your birthday? ask gon! should he get you new shoes or a new jacket? what do you think, gon?

killua rarely lets you pay for stuff. he’s rich so he doesn’t see why he should

whenever you’re on your phone or reading a book or something, killua will randomly appear behind you and put his head on your shoulder and just watch what you’re doing in silence. but if he sees you’re doing something like online shopping, just scrolling through items, killua will tap the screen whenever he sees something he likes for you. he especially likes to pick out your clothes, and he’s actually good at it. unlike the going out on dates thing, he picks out what he thinks you will like and what looks good on you. honestly killua was the only character who actually changed clothes every day in the show so he’s good with fashion lmao. most of the time he’ll buy the item for you too

killua also doesn’t mind too much if you steal his clothes, like his hoodies or hats. he might not let you take the newer stuff, but he doesn’t mind letting you parade around in his clothes. on the flip side he will also steal some of yours.

killua is very much that bf who claims “im not hungry” but then proceeds to steal half your food. so you’ve learned that whenever he says that to order twice the food

around people he knows, mainly people he doesn’t like, killua likes to show you off- but in a subtler way. like he might casually hold your hand just to show everyone “yeah, i have a partner. no big deal haha”

you literally never have to worry about killua cheating on you. he is fiercely loyal. he’s not one of those bfs that, when approached by another girl or guy, is like “oh, im sorry, but i have a partner.” nah he’s sprinting full speed in the opposite direction of whoever’s trying to approach him. either that or he’s just super rude to anyone who asks for his number or is romantically interested in him.

*cue random mf who wants him* “hi! i thought you seemed really cool and i wanted to know if-“

“nah i got a partner”

“well i just was wondering-“

“fuck out my face im dating someone”

“just-“

“hell nah”

in addition to that, killua is very much the jealous type. if you haven’t watched the phantom rouge movie go watch it rn and tell me killua isn’t jealous. anyone else who makes you smile or laugh or makes the mistake of touching you, killua instantly hates. he always makes sure to be there whenever you’re around that person. situations like that are an exception to his PDA rule- he’ll throw an arm around your shoulder or waist if he’s feeling really protective, or hold your hand. he doesn’t get jealous about gon, though- all three of you are friends and he knows for sure gon wouldn’t try anything on you in a million years.

killua may or may not go a little overboard with his jealousy at times, though. he might mistake a simple interaction for someone trying to get with you

“yo, y/n- why was that guy talking to you?”

“*long sigh* killua. how else was he going to take my order?”

killua is on the protective side and doesn’t really like for you to be out without him or gon. if you aren’t back within a certain timeframe he’ll start spamming your phone with texts and calls to make sure you’re okay.

from: killua @ 10:56 pm

“yo”

“yo”

“y/n”

“yo”

“you good”

“heLLOOOO”

“you’re supposed to answer me im your boyfriend”

“why do you hate me”

“are u alive”

“are u alive”

“come back”

“pls”

“where u at”

“it’s almost 11”

“if ur dead im going to kill u”

“ANSWER BRO”

from: y/n @ 10:57

“HOW DID YOU SEND SIXTEEN FUCKING MESSAGES IN THE SPAN OF ONE MINUTE”

from: killua @ 10:57

“:3”

[cuubism]

Hope for the Future

~2k, Dreamling, 1589 era, post-Eleanor's death, dream conversations and revelations. cw death in childbirth

Dream and Hob meet at Eleanor's deathbed, in a fashion.

--

Ages ago I wrote Patron Saint, a fic about Hob's friendship with Death. For a while I wanted to write a companion piece from Dream's POV since Dreamling is a background ship in that fic but their trajectory is different from canon. But lbr it's been 2 years and I haven't done that-- early on, though, I did write one scene from Dream's POV because I wanted to flesh out a potential moment that Death mulls on in Patron Saint, when she was visiting Hob after Eleanor and the baby died:

“So many babies die,” Hob says. “Mothers, too, I—” he runs a hand through greasy, disheveled hair. “Do you think it will be better in the future? Because I haven’t seen that much improved. Not in my time.” “I imagine so, yes,” Death says. Dream would be able to answer this question for him better. Dream would be able to tell him what doctors might be imagining solutions to the problem, what midwives were dreaming of new ways to care for their charges. Hope for the future is Dream’s business, whether he accepts it or not. She wishes Dream were here. She has a strong feeling Hob would find even his stoic pretense at apathy comforting. Caring for others is strange like that.

Anyway I wanted that scene, I wrote that scene, I didn't write anything else to flesh out a companion piece but I think it stands on its own and can be understood even without reading the original fic.

--

Dream would assert that he did not care about Hob Gadling. He was not interested in Hob Gadling, beyond a passing curiosity in his approach to humanity, sated every hundred years. He was certainly not thinking about Hob Gadling, or his wife and small child and knighthood and other life goals he’d managed to accrue in this century. 

And yet, as he felt a particularly vicious nightmare go for Hob in his sleep, not long after their last meeting, he took note. 

He wasn’t sure why he took note. Perhaps because Hob had been on such a disgusting high last they’d met, it seemed strange for this to happen now. Perhaps because he knew this nightmare particularly well, had crafted it from deep in his own soul, as he so rarely did.

He followed the thread of the nightmare. 

Hob was running. Both from and after something at once. A darkness chased him. And another darkness retreated from him.

“Wait!” he yelled, reaching for it. Smoke slipped through his hands. Hob heaved for breath, stumbling to a stop as he ran out of air. He leaned on his knees, panting and coughing. “Wait,” he sobbed, but the darkness did not wait.

The other wave of darkness caught him, knocking him off his feet so he sprawled on the ground, hands scraping on the dirt. It didn’t attack him, just hovered over him like a blanket of fog, blocking the meager light. 

“You weren’t supposed to go,” Hob said into the darkness. It didn’t reply.

It was not an unreasonable nightmare for a father to have, Dream knew well enough. But the sharpness of those dark shadows – this nightmare was not pure fiction. It was drawing more from memory than he’d thought.

“Enough of this drama,” he commanded the nightmare. “Show me the truth of things.”

The scene of darkness faded to reveal an ordinary, if well-appointed bedroom. An air of sickness hovered, and death also – Dream could feel the echo of his sister near. 

A sickly woman, heavily pregnant, lay in the bed, and it was she that Dream knew was calling Death forth. She, and the tiny baby cradled in her womb, not quite ready to be born, and now would never be.

And Hob – not dying, he couldn’t, but he looked about as close to it as a man could come. Ashen, shaky, trembling.

“I love you,” he was saying, kissing Eleanor’s hand. “You know?”

This was still a dream, and this had all already occurred, Dream knew. There was nothing he could do here, not that he would. He turned to go, feeling stiff and cold in a way he decidedly did not like, when Hob looked up, and saw him.

Dream had not meant to be seen.

“My friend,” said Hob, surprise temporarily wiping the grief from his features. “You’re here.”

“I… am,” Dream conceded, and, drawn in despite himself, sat in a chair beside Hob. 

“I’m grateful for it,” said Hob. Dream didn’t know what he could possibly be providing that Hob was grateful for. Then, “There’s no hope, is there? I mean. I don’t know why I’d think you would know.”

Dream looked at the mother and baby before him. Hob had called him friend. A friend, he thought, would tell Hob that there was always hope. But that was not what Dream believed.

“I do not think so,” he said. “I am… sorry.”

Hob sighed. He was still holding Eleanor’s hand. “I have to tell you, I– whatever I might’ve said to you at our last meeting, I’m struggling to feel any of it right now.”

“That is understandable.” More understandable, Dream thought, than his declaration of Life is rich! that Dream had found so hard to swallow.

“I’ve known others who’ve lost wives, children,” Hob said, and Dream looked down. Hob would have no way of knowing who those others might have included. “But I guess I always thought, not me, never me, never my Eleanor. Not until she was old and gray, anyway. But I guess everyone thinks that, don’t they?”

“Perhaps.” Dream thought he himself had always known the cost would come due. Destiny might have said that was one of the reasons it did come due. You make your own end. But that would not help Hob.

“It’s got to get better,” Hob asserted. “It’s got to. It’s got to stop some day, doesn’t it? All these children, and mothers dying.”

The instinct to sneer at his optimism jumped up Dream’s throat, but he managed to bite it off. He did not want to be… cruel, he realized, to someone who was suffering. Especially within a dream; dreamers’ minds were not for him to subject to his own feelings.

“In Guangzhou,” he started slowly, the dreams coming to him like a light rainfall, “there is a doctor who has just crafted a new medicine to ease pain during childbirth. She has been dreaming of it for years. In Oyo, a healer is learning to tell earlier and earlier when a pregnancy is troubled, that they might intervene in time. A few months more, and they will have it. And down the street, here in London, a midwife is just planting the seeds for the hospital she will open to help unwed mothers with nowhere to turn.”

Hob stared at him. He seemed to be holding his breath.

“Dreamers abound,” Dream said, “but it takes time for their work to come to fruition.”

Hob continued to watch him. Something shifted in his eyes, as he looked at Dream. Dream wasn’t certain he liked it. 

“You know everything, don’t you?” Hob said.

“Not everything.”

“You know all of that,” Hob mused, “all these things that are happening. And… you still come to ask me if I wish to live?”

Dream bristled, and Hob raised his hands in surrender. “Never mind, never mind, forget I said anything. You’re entitled to your own feelings on the matter. Thank you, for those stories. It helps. Truly. And I’m glad that I’ll get to see it. One day.”

“‘One day,’” Dream echoed. “‘One day’ is a time when no children die and no famine walks the earth, when soldiers break their swords before the fight, and later bread with their enemies. One day is always one step into the future, Hob Gadling. Ever-moving.”

“Aye,” said Hob. “That’s the point.” 

Dream frowned. What pleasure could be derived from wanting and wanting, and never having, he could not fathom. He had crafted nightmares thus. What hope to find in hope itself continually being dashed?

“I look forward to seeing you every century, you know that?” Hob added. “No matter what else happens. Bad days, or good ones.”

Dream kept frowning, unsure of the connection.

“It’s important to have those things,” Hob said. He squeezed Eleanor’s still hand. “Even now. Especially now.” 

In Dream’s own… aftermath… he could not imagine finding comfort in anything. What help could some nebulous future date possibly be?

“If that is what helps you,” he said. 

Hob cast him a look like he just knew that Dream didn’t get it, and it rankled. But there was no true criticism in that look. Hob looked at him with an unfathomable fondness, always.

He turned back to Eleanor, just gazing at her face with an expression Dream found difficult to witness in its softness. Were this the waking world, she would have certainly passed by now. But moments could freeze indefinitely in the Dreaming.

“Do you think I’ll forget her?” Hob asked quietly, still looking at his wife. “The details of her face, I mean? Her voice? What she smelled like? My memory’s far from perfect, and there’s a lot of time for it to fade.”

Dream knew without having to actively make the vow to himself that he would be sending frequent dreams Hob’s way to ensure he did not. He should not do so. He should not interfere. 

But.

“There are some things one does not forget,” he said.

Hob swiped at his eyes. He was crying now. “S’pose you’re right.”

If Dream was any sort of friend – and he was not sure that he was, though Hob had declared him so – he would end this dream now and spare Hob any further torment of reliving this memory. 

Instead, he sat beside him, far longer than he intended. Sat in silence, listened to Hob’s breaths, his sniffles as he cried, the subtle movements of continued life. He stayed in this sea of human endings and sickness and grief. With Hob. Something unnameable sitting heavier and heavier within him. And more than once he told himself to rise and to end the dream, and he did not. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Hob finally said, when much time had passed and they still sat side-by-side. And it was this that finally reminded Dream that he should not be.

“I should leave you,” he said, standing abruptly. “This dream is–”

“Wait.” Hob took his hand. Dream should– Dream should yank it away in offense. He should take his leave of Hob instantly for the familiarity, the daring. 

He did not. He merely stood frozen as Hob pressed his hand between both of his own. His touch was very warm.

“Keep all those things in mind,” Hob said. His eyes still glittered with tears, but his words were steady. “Those infinite things you know about the world. Wherever you’re going.”

“I have much in mind at all times,” Dream told him. Hob had no idea how much. 

Hob smiled at him sadly. “I’m sure. Just think about it, okay? Those doctors in those faraway places. Alright?”

Dream studied him, but gleaned no additional information from it. “Very well,” he said at last.

Hob squeezed his hand once more, then let him go.

A friend might comfort him again, in these circumstances. But Dream was not certain it was necessary. He could see in Hob, even now, the spine of a man who would not break, even when he was so far down.

It was… curious.

Hob bid him farewell, eyes just crinkling at the corners. “Until we meet again, dear stranger.”

Dream stepped back into the comforting arms of the Dreaming proper, discomfited by the moment in a way he could not quite pin down, and by his own willingness to stay and engage in it at all. To involve himself in Hob’s life in a way he had not intended. 

“Until then, Hob Gadling,” he said, letting the scene dissolve around them, “this dream is over.”

[pastel-medic]

So, wait, if Axel is the Spy that Red Medic removed the head of, how are they in a relationship? Wouldn't that spawn some kind of resentment?

I'm going to trigger warn this post for topics of s//cide, depression, and poor health because I can't exactly explain their dynamic without getting into Axel's mental health. I tried to make this as brief as I could but it ended up becoming an oc ramble anyway 😭 sorry in advance for the long post!!!

Also please note my personal lore and hcs for them isn't strictly based on canon lore, so RED Medic having Axel's head in fridge is due to different reasons than just being a crazy doctor :V

You have been warned!!!

This will be delving a bit more into Axel's character, and a lot of this I will try not to spoil too much as it is a plot point in an ongoing fic I'm writing.

Axel is, to put it simply, someone who struggles immensely with self identity and has a very nihilistic point of view. Working as a Spy for years since he was young has created a sense of worthlessness in his mind, as he viewed himself as a nobody who wears the faces of other people (especially after an incident that I won't detail since it's spoilers). He hasn't been able to hold relationships because he constantly "changes his identity", adopting a new fake name and fake history with every new assignment he's given while leaving the people he once formed bonds with behind once his work is done.

On top of that the people who had taught him to be a Spy often compared him constantly to his brother Pierre (RED Spy), so he never felt like he was good enough. He developed depression when he was a young adult and hasn't been able to cope in healthy ways, which led to him having very poor health and malnutrition. Every time he was offered help and support he rejected it out of fear and ran away (metaphorically and literally), the folly of pride and the guilt of being a burden to someone else. He's had many s//cidal tendencies (a lot of Axel is split from my personal trauma so bear with me), and believed that if he were to just disappear one day nobody would notice. He's waiting, HOPING, that one day he can just disappear forever...

So when he's taken by the RED Medic as a mere head in a fridge imagine his confusion when the enemy doctor refuses to kill him immediately no matter what he says. "Kill me" he keeps saying. "Later" is the only response he gets. Yet the doctor doesn't ever seem to want to. At first Axel thinks it's because of scientific curiosity, and he'd be right at first, but that's not the real reason Medic keeps him around. As it turns out Ludwig has a slightly twisted and odd excuse for keeping him around.

Seeing the Spy in a state of self destruction and withering health hurts Ludwig as a medical professional. A doctor's duty to heal others is something that even with his crazy mind still remains true. He can't help but feel the need to heal this person, his own enemy, who has become nearly broken beyond repair. He wants to help the Spy, but his solution is pretty bizarre and unconventional. If he keeps the Spy around he can try to heal the brokenness in his mind. As a head in a fridge he can't run away from the help offered to him. He realizes he doesn't want to just heal the Spy, he wants to help him; He wants to give Axel that feeling of value in his life that he struggles to have. He wants to be the person who can save Axel no matter how insane his methods are, a Don Quixote.

He wants to help Spy live.

"You are not the masks you wear, nor are you a nobody without them. You are you. And you are important no matter what."

As foolish as this logic is it's effective, as it doesn't give Spy that door to escape to. Now he HAS to see the damage to himself. Though the longer Spy stays with the enemy Medic the more he can see that he isn't the only one who needs healing. Out of all the people Ludwig can heal, he doesn't seem to be able to want to heal himself. All of his struggles are private, and he keeps the pain hidden away behind closed doors. It seems Spy is not alone when it comes to blocking others out. Medic knows he has sins crawling up his back, yet he actively pretends the Devil on his shoulder isn't there. Yet the more he ignores his mental strain the more volatile and unstable it becomes. He cannot see the damage he is inflicting on himself, and Spy knows he will continue to turn a blind eye unless he sees the harm it is causing. Regardless of how crazy it is, he realizes he wants to help the doctor too.

Spy wants to be someone who can help Medic see his self worth, a mirror to show him that he is more than simply a healer for others.

"How can you help those around you if you refuse to help yourself? You are deserving of healing too."

TL;DR to reiterate one of my previous posts about my MedicSpy ship their dynamic has always been about healing and finding security and comfort in someone who cares about you. Yes they have their flaws and are not perfect by any means, but they uplift and support each other because they care.

[mourninglamby]

helloooo i just wanted to say i've been a fan of your work for a couple years now i think? & dsmp means a ton to me but i had to cut it from my life after the inconsolable differences stream cuz i lost all faith in the creators and the fandom to be normal abt the story. point being i've started looking at your art again and it is seriously so breathtaking and inspiring to me and is reigniting my love for dsmp (which is to say, reigniting my love for the few fans like you who turned it into something worthwhile). i learned so much about myself thru ctommy and made some of the closest friendships in my life in the fandom so it made me incredibly sad to think that time would only ever leave a sour taste in my mouth, and i'm super grateful to you for seeing the story for what it was, criticizing the things that deeply need to be criticized and recognizing the good parts and transforming them into something new. sorry if this is incoherent just wanted to say thank you and i hope you're well!! <3 take care

anon i think we had extremely similar experiences.. To be candid, I never would have even begun to understand what happened to me if I had not watched dsmp. I identify closely with c!Tommy because there hasn't ever been another character like him that resonates with me and my experiences. And I've also made most of my closest friends thru dsmp! There is a silver lining to everything, and I will forever be thankful that I found my most beloved companions and like-minded people thru dsmp.

However, people will always try to make you feel horrible about it, and undermine the importance of this character and the themes in the story because they refuse to try and understand. And the fandom itself is a monster, constantly proving it is not a safe space for victims nor those with more complicated mental health issues. But I want it to be! And I'm beyond grateful that I could provide some comfort for you in the midst of the incessant adversity plagued on us by anti-intellectual assholes. What I and many others do with dsmp is a reclamation of the abuse narrative. I want to explore c!Tommy and his relationships in ways the canon series could not, so I can give myself and others the ending that we deserved. One that upholds victims as survivors, not as means to an end. I don't know if it's appropriate to tack on, but I've been hard at work structuring how I will divulge from canon in Mortis Metamorphosis, and this has only fanned that flame... I'm so excited to share it with everyone.

anyways ..thank you x 1 trillion for this extremely kind message, I read it as I was walking home from work and it made me start crying like a babyyyy but it was cathartic af to know that when I post my work, it's not for nothing and it does reach people... Wishing you nothing but happiness and comfort anony, stay safe and take care of yourself... xoxo.

[narcoticwriter]

Primogems & How They Predicted the Most Devastating Plot Twist of the Game

This item may be the bane of every F2P player's existence and the whale's minor inconvenience to acquire, but I believe that in terms of lore and what the future of the story holds, it can possibly be one of the most blatant warning flags in the game.

Before I go into this specifically, I would like to show you where this post is coming from in earnest.

The one on the left was the beta version of the primogem icon and I have the current one adjacent to it as a comparison.

This? This right here? This is just a slap to the face, a true insult, dare I say a gauntlet thrown on the ground in front of me.

You don't know me if you think I'm going to take that shit, so of course, I'm picking it up and I'll have my pistols. Tell me where and when because I'll be there with receipts.

Not only will I argue that the beta design was quite pointed and intentional with how often this specific shape shows up with characters, lore, and the game at large, I will blatantly declare that it is the key to figuring out where this story is going to end.

If you've been here before, you know what to expect from this, and if you're new? Strap in with some snacks and a healthy appetite for questioning the lore because on this blog, we go ham or we go home.

What is a Primogem Anyway?

According to the wiki, the description of a primogem is as such:

"A primordial crystalline gem that's beyond the mundane world. Shines with the condensed hopes and dreams of universes that once were."

The information here is already intriguing in the sense that the words 'hopes' and 'dreams' are used in relation to their appearance as well as the word 'primordial', which roughly means 'from the beginning of time'.

So with that, we have to ask ourselves one question: how do you even get something like that in the first place?

How Do You Acquire Primogems?

Before I go into this, the ways that I am providing are (in my opinion) the only canonical ways that make sense to acquire primogems at all as they have lore, in-game quotes, and things that point to what I believe will tie into primogems either through other topics or their uses.

Genesis Crystals

To start off, the description of a Genesis Crystal is as follows:

"An energy crystal from the very origin of the universe. Formed from within nothingness out of pure potential and hope, it contains enough energy to create a newborn star."

If one looks at the definition of a primogem, one can see that this Genesis Crystal is used to make primogems. This is evident by the in-game application of the '1:1 Ratio' conversion of Genesis Crystals to Primogems.

It should also be of note that the distinct shape of the crystal is defined as the 'triquetra'. This symbol has a relation to infinity and interconnectedness, which is interesting as the crystal is used as a source to create a condensed byproduct in primogems, something decidedly 'star shaped'. So with that, you also have to ask how one could acquire such a thing in the first place.

The Blessing of the Welkin Moon - New Moon

Please note that this is not in reference to the product that you can buy in the game, but instead, the new moon variant that one can get in web events. This, however, doesn't mean that the lore is not inclusive of the said products either.

I have an ask that went into some more detail about this in a more speculative nature, but for the sake of this, I will put the description of this object below:

"A ritual prayer, recited on the rising of the first new moon, to ask for the moon's blessing in the form of wealth and good fortune. For your purposes, the new moon you shall pray to is the first-ever new moon in Teyvat, since it's the first one you've seen here."

So, with this, we can assume that:

There is a 'prayer' one must make to acquire both primogems and Genesis Crystals

The moon plays a significant role in this process as the said object only last 30 days (roughly the same length as the moon cycle)

Something else of note that I would like to point out is that the new moon is when the cycle starts specifically. Over these 30 days, one can acquire a total of 2,700 primogems and 300 Genesis Crystals, the same as the standard Blessing of the Welkin Moon you can buy.

This image of The Welkin Moon shows a few symbols that we've already seen, such as the primogems themselves as well as the triquetra, so we can firmly establish that this is indeed a valid way of getting these things. But in relation to the moon cycles and lore that incorporates that as well, one must stumble into places you wouldn't typically expect to find those or primogems at all.

Spiral Abyss - Moment of Syzygy

Primogems? In my Sprial Abyss? It's more likely than you think.

The Spiral Abyss is split into two distinct sections, the Abyss Corridor (Floors 1-8) and the Abyss Spire (Floors 9-12) and as such, I'm only going to go over The Abyss Spire in-depth as they replenish their primogems every cycle (15 days).

A physical description of the Spiral Abyss states plainly:

"A grand underground corridor which leads to an unknown spiral constructed by a great empire that has long gone. What treasures await deep in the palace, and what monsters lurk in the shadow..."

"Surrounded by mysteries, the inverse tower is now known as- Spiral Abyss."

With this description, I believe that this 'great empire' is not Khaenri'ah, but something affiliated with the 'Lunar Palace', something that existed and fell into ruination long before the game is set.

With this context in mind, one can see why the snippet called 'Moment of Syzygy' would say:

"The cycles of the moon elucidate the turning points of fate, and as the gears turn at the beginning and middle of the month, the treasures hidden at the end of the spire shows itself."

From Moment of Syzygy, one acquires 600 primogems per cycle of the Abyss, so given the presence of 'treasure' and the heavy emphasis on the moon, one can assume that you would absolutely find primogems even in such a place and if you don't think so, there is proof.

For example, the word 'syzygy' is defined as 'a conjunction or opposition, especially of the moon with the sun'. This is another term for an eclipse, a phenomenon that also includes three celestial bodies (the moon, the sun, and the earth).

Another example of this is something called 'Blessing of the Abyssal Moon'. These come in distinct phases (every 15 days) and are labeled as the 'Waxing Phase' and 'Waning Phase' respectively, granting boons to any characters fighting in the Spiral Abyss, this imagery is further emphasized by the accompanying images of the Corridor and the Spire respectively:

Further on, this Abyssal Moon seems to be a variant of the 'Blessing of the Welkin Moon' as the word 'welkin' means 'the sky or heaven'. So now we have the Heavenly Moon and the Abyssal Moon, two direct opposites in terms of definition and distinct as to what is granted as a blessing.

So yes, you could acquire primogems here with some difficulty. There is, however, another way to do so, though this one might be the most interesting one of all.

Batte Pass - Gnostic Chorus

Please note that I am only referencing the 'Gnostic Chorus' in the teaser trailer and not the purchasable one in the game, although like I've said before, the content in each can be inclusive to each other.

I had some back and forth in my mind concerning the addition of the Gnostic Chorus in this classification, but after looking at the provided dialogue from Venti, I believe it has its place as where one could acquire primogems. The said dialogue is as such below:

"Once, there was a glorious kingdom established among the heavens. From that kingdom came a crowned heir, tasked with seeking out the Genesis Pearl from the Kingdom of Darkness."

"The first crowned heir began her journey of seeking the pearl. But she was deceived, and the memory of her noble origins faded. She now believed that she was the queen of the Kingdom of Darkness." 

"But take heart, a second crowned heir had already taken up the path where the first had stumbled. This is the story of your journey, of your tale to be told."

Immediately, one can clock the term 'Genesis Pearl' and can relate that to 'Genesis Crystal', which we have already defined as something essential to how one can acquire primogems as well as going into what it is in its core.

There is also the imagery of the star-like things on top of the city in the heavens and this mountain specifically, which also lends credence to the presence of stars.

This 'Kingdom of Darkness', however, is up for some debate, as it could be Khaneri'ah, the Spiral Abyss, the Abyss itself, Teyvat itself, or something that we haven't come across yet, so I don't have anything conclusive to say about this particular matter.

From the Gnostic Chorus, you can get 680 primogems per pass acquired. As to why I chose to include this boils down to the fact that the story being told in the dialogue is the Traveler's. The story at large can easily be applied to the Traveler as the way the canonical story goes is that Aether is the one to pick up the task. While there are many theorists that think this isn't the case, for the purposes of this and how this will relate later, I will stick with this view.

Why Does All of This Matter?

To summarize what we've gone over, you can get primogems from

Genesis Crystals

The Blessing of the Welkin Moon (New Moon)

Spiral Abyss (Moment of Syzygy)

Battle Pass (Gnostic Chorus)

And the reasons why you can get them from there specifically is because:

A tie to the essences present at the beginning of the universe and frequently emphasized to be from beyond Teyvat

The frequent allusions to the moon and its cycles

The presence of hopes and dreams as material as opposed to abstract ideas

Symbols and lore that coincide with the topics already established

So in this sense, Primogems are not to be understated in any way as they can all be canonically acquired from this.

However, one thing that I haven't gone over until now is what one can do with Primogems after they've got them.

What to do With Primogems?

A primogem's uses are described and laid as such:

Replenish Resin

Unlock levels of the Battle Pass

Acquire Fates (Wishes)

While at first, this may seem like a system in which the game itself operates, the lore that I've also provided points to more of what to expect in the future as well as how the main character (Traveler) interacts with Teyvat at large as there are certain objects only primogems can make:

Original Resin

Acquiant Fates

Intertwined Fates

All of these things have importance to the lore due to how they influence the world around them and how they are used, the original resin being one that brings many things into question.

Original Resin

The uses of original resin are for ley line outcrops, domains, normal bosses, and weekly bosses. However, I will only really be focusing on ley line outcroppings as they are related to the ley lines themselves.

The description provided for original resin is as stated:

"It is said that the roots of all the Irminsul trees and blossoms in the world are intertwined at the deepest, most hidden place in the earth, and that the pattern the root system makes defines the Ley Lines of the world."

It is also necessary to define Ley Lines and the respective outcroppings (also called Blossoms), which are:

"A mysterious network that links the whole world together, within which flow the elements..."

"A flower blossom known as "Revelation" which grows from the Ley Lines in response to someone's desire for battle. Perhaps the treasures within it can help one recall the perils that they have experienced once before..."

"A flower blossom known as "Wealth" which grows from the Ley Lines in response to someone's desires. Perhaps the treasures within it can satisfy a person's monetary desires, for now..."

So to clarify, the original resin would naturally be a part of these as well as the outcroppings and as such, I do find it quite interesting that a certain number of primogems can replenish the Traveler's supply of it at any time it's acquired. This is important because the implication suggests that in theory, the Traveler can do this whenever they'd like.

This original resin can also be used to make something called condensed resin, which is described as:

"Crystal filled with immense energy. The silver-white Irminsul trees and blossoms are connected to ley lines that have become blocked over time. The energy contained in tree resin can purify the obstructing substance."

This implies that with enough of this resin, one could purify (enhance the bounty from the ley line blossom) any unnatural thing that could be obstructing the ley lines, something that primogems could expedite quite speedily in decent amounts. This, however, is nothing compared to what comes next.

Fates

There are no words that can describe how absolutely broken this is in terms of lore and implication, but I can give it a shot.

In short, wishes are the gacha system in the game, but as I've broken down the lore for every item in the game that I have here, it's only natural that acquaint fates and intertwined fates will have some lore of their own as well.

So to start off, the acquaint fates are used on the permanent standard banner. There's a brief description provided here:

"A seed that lights up the night. No matter the distance apart, guided by the stone's glimmer, the fated will meet under the stars."

This likely indicates that this certain type of fate is meant for the standard characters on the banner which will come regardless of the time that passes.

However, one must also take into consideration that the design of the acquaint fate was different from the CBT yet again.

As a result of this, I can no longer believe that the triquetra design is simply a coincidence. Primogems are naturally going to be used to make acquaint fates in this instance as the Genesis Crystals have this motif of infinite interconnectedness and primogems are a part of that cycle.

The intertwined fate lends credence to this statement as its description state:

"A fateful stone that connects dreams. Its glimmers can entwine fates and connect dreams, just as how its glimmer links stars into the shapes of a heart's desires."

This is painful to me. As if it could not be more obvious than this. We get it. Crystals = Primogems as Triquetra = Infinity. I suppose it had to be changed for that reason, then.

So this description is obviously calling people out every time they pull for the character they want, but a fateful stone that connects dreams? At this point, I'm being handed the motifs and themes within the story without even having to work that hard for them.

As I've stated before, dreams are described within the crystals and the primogems and as such, they are going to have to do with the intertwined fates. However, I will also make the point that this is the first time that it has blatantly said anything about the stars. As the primogem is meant to resemble that shape a bit, the connection is also there.

It is also interesting that the act of using these is typically described as wishes, so in the sense that primogems are described as condensed hopes and dreams, that isn't as far from the truth as one would think.

Byproducts

Speaking of stars, the byproducts of using these fates manifest in objects called masterless starglitter and masterless stardust. These are the remnants of fates and are described as such within the wiki except a point of note would be that they are referred to as a 'surplus of destiny'. This likely refers to the characters and objects acquired.

The descriptions are also more akin to off-hand comments such as 'perhaps it can create new destinies when in large enough quantities' or 'perhaps it can light up other corners of the universe.'

It should be noted that these objects can be used to buy more fates, but it takes a somewhat substantial amount to do so. Depending on which characters are acquired, you can get a decent amount of these, which can be used to buy things from 'Paimon's Bargains', which segues almost perfectly into this final section.

The Bottom Line (+ My Theory)

After taking into consideration everything I have gone over in the eight hours I have hyperfixated on this theory of mine, I have one conclusion and one conclusion only. This starts with a question. A small one, a seemingly innocent one. One that you wouldn't usually pay attention to but with all of this? You have to now.

Why is Paimon, of all people, able to convert starglitter and stardust into fates?

Well, I believe it is because of what has been established over and over again in the entirety of this post. Take a moment to look at her for a second or two.

What do you see? Is it familiar? With all that you know now, does it strike a chord within you?

It should, as Paimon is the only character in the game to have both the four-pointed star and the triquetra on their person and character design, and if the 'genesis crystal=primogem' ratio is to be made manifest within the speculation, this means that this little person may be unaware that they are a segment of the universe itself.

People have been saying that Paimon is the Unknown God. People have been saying that Paimon is the final boss of the game. People have been saying that Paimon will betray the Traveler in the end.

Well, I believe that every single one of them is wrong.

Ladies and gentlemen of the viewing party, I submit to you that Paimon is none of those things at all. I submit to you that such petty labels and titles mean absolutely nothing to her in the grand scheme of things. I submit to you that she is simply above them all.

We can discuss Teyvat, Celestia, the Abyss all we want but if this information brought forward is right and primogems really are the established way in which it can manipulate the world for our dearest Traveler and his flying companion? Then who are we to stand against it?

I, Narky, submit to you, the reader, that Paimon is, without a shadow of a doubt, the First Descender.

Do I think that I'm reaching a little bit? Maybe. But does the evidence lie? No, I don't think it does.

To clarify further, no I do not think that the Unknown God and the First Descender are the same people nor do I think that they are on the best of terms. So with that in mind, the theory will make a bit more sense.

Final Notes + Commentary

I've been scouring the internet and the wiki for over eight hours now, so I think I'll end this here.

So . . . what do you think? Will this entire theory be retconned in a future update? Will people much more observant than I pick it to pieces? Am I simply off my rocker and not medicated enough? Pick your poison! As I've said before, we go ham or we go home and I'm sitting in my house.

I would like to thank the Genshin Impact Wiki for having all of this stuff available to scrutinize and read to enable me to do this. All images and quotes I use are from there. I would also like to thank @scalpel-mom-mori for sending me an ask about Khaenri'ahn lore, as this is what got me started on this.

Leave your thoughts, questions, and commentary if you'd like. I'll get to them when I get to them.

Thanks for taking the time to read all of this and maybehaps you took something from it that you can utilize somehow.

Until next time, I see you when I see you.

[david-talks-sw]

The fact that Dave Filoni called Anakin “the greatest Jedi ever” is proof that he’s bias AF. His anti-Jedi rhetoric is bupkis.

I wonder if he means "the greatest" in terms of in-universe fame...?

Dunno if this is the case in Canon (then again Dave Filoni blatantly ignores any *non-motion* transmedia elements in Canon so meh), but in Legends he's:

"Anakin Skywalker, the Hero with no Fear™, handsome, dashing, the face of the Republic's army during the Clone War, the only Jedi who tried to resist the nefarious Order's coup and was treacherously murdered for it".

And I seem to remember that, in Canon, he's like the Jedi Temple's superstar anyway, every Jedi recognizes him on sight. I mean, that line from Baylon about "Anakin speaking highly of Ahsoka" must have some meaning beyond artificial personal stakes.

So from a fame and a "power level" standpoint... sure.

He's the greatest.

I'm giving Filoni the benefit of the doubt.

While I've talked about why Filoni's entire headcanon about the Jedi doesn't track with what George Lucas' intended narrative, I think it's worth acknowledging that Filoni's bias comes from part of his duties while directing The Clone Wars was.

One of the goals of TCW was humanizing Anakin, expanding upon his character make him go from "a character whose only purposes is to embody the themes presented in three movies based on the matinee serial format" to a relatable person, a good man, the hero Ben mentions to Luke in A New Hope.

I think it's normal that he'll see Anakin in a more positive light.

Also (and full disclosure this is just me theorizing I am no authority on any of this so if turns out I'm wrong just come right out and say so)...

I'm pretty sure that Filoni, Lesley Headland and most of the recent Star Wars authors are all Gen X, raised by baby boomers forced to conform to society, obey authority and have proper decorum (boys don't cry!) all of which they strove to rebel against. Add to that the corruption they witnessed growing up and coming out of high school, and you see a kind of jadedness emerge. "The rules aren't as black and white, the world is grey."

So while most of them and the boomers despised the Prequels upon release, a few of them projected a more individualistic headcanon onto those movies that fit with where their head was, at the time.

As such: Anakin isn't interpreted by them as a cautionary tale about what happens when you're greedy. He's a misunderstood rebel, a non-conformist who has his flaws but is ultimately good at heart. Which isn't entirely inaccurate, but it is very clearly an embellishment of a character who will one day become a space nazi.

The fact is... the Prequels were made by a boomer. One with very liberal values and who was himself a rebel, but a boomer all the same. The whole point of his story is...

"we all must come together and fight as one, if push comes to shove; we must all be compassionate and selfless if we are to survive; don't be greedy, let people go when it's their time to leave".

And then he makes the Jedi say that, making them beacons of truth and good and compassion in his fairy tale, now aimed at Gen Z kids.

Gen X-ers hear/read that and project all the boomer BS they had been told onto the Jedi...

"oh, so the Jedi are saying you shouldn't love yourself, you shouldn't be yourself, you should give up on what makes you an individual to fit in, you shouldn't feel any emotions"

Because nobody is that good, realistically, right?

This happened in other mediums. The one that comes to mind on the spot is the relationship between Mufasa and Scar.

In The Lion King, Mufasa is strong and noble, Scar is weak and conniving. Simple enough. Around that same time, in A Tale of Two Brothers, young Mufasa is shown to be pretty nice with Taka (Scar), who is framed as a spoiled brat to begin with.

Skip to the 2019 remake, and it's hinted Mufasa gave Scar his wound, and in The Lion Guard they explain that Scar got his nickname from Mufasa mocking him for a misadventure.

He went from being a noble king to a bully who had it coming, Scar is an underdog who got picked on. Because again: nobody is that pure, right? Fairytales be-damned.

Nothing is black and white, it's all grey.

So yeah, long story short I do think that Filoni being part of the generation that wasn't the target demographic but was old enough to retcon the crap out of the Prequels also plays a role into his view of Anakin.

[lady-embers]

The Azriel Bonus Chapter that was included in the Books A Million edition is canon and inside of it, I feel like Sarah J Maas has let us know Elain and Azriel will not end up together and that they aren’t a good fit for each other. Whereas, by the end of it, she has laid down the groundwork for a mate bond between Gwyn and Azriel and shown a new love interest. When you consider how Azriel feels, what he says, and his actions in the bonus chapter when he interacts with Elain, Rhysand, and Gwyn, it is very telling.

♡

Interaction with Elain – He focuses on what he perceives as the negative things about him. He can’t fully accept himself in her presence. He almost feels unworthy of her. He seems to focus on her more sexually to me.

- “Az tried not to look at his scarred fingers as they took the gift.” He hasn’t even touched the gift she gave him last year. It stays on his nightstand just for him to look at whenever he does sleep there where it's located at. He's not doing this every night either because remember he has other places he can sleep at...

- He wasn’t sure about giving her gift from him because her mate was there, had been in the family room and he had to stay be the door because “he couldn’t stand the sight of it, the scent of their mating bond, and needed to have the option of leaving.” He also mentions how he rarely comes to family dinners. He's intentionally staying away from her at this point and appears to have been doing so for a while before this even took place in ACOSF.

- “It had never gone this far. They’d exchanged looks, the occasional brush of their fingers, but never this. Never blatant, unrestricted touching. Wrong--- it was so wrong.” This shows its all been surface level and Azriel knew it was wrong to even be touching Elain..

- “She looked up at him, her face so trusting and hopeful and open that he knew she had no idea that he had done unspeakable things that sullied his hands far beyond their scars. Such terrible things that it was a sacrilege for his fingers to touch her skin, tainting her with his presence. But he could have this. This one moment, and maybe a taste, and that would be it.” He doesn't really seem to want her beyond the moment he wants to experience with her. Signifying it's all about the sexual release for him.

-Rhysand stopped them before they even kissed!!

- Their interaction ends with Azriel saying, “This was a mistake,” and deflecting an apology while vanishing before she could say anything else. Which visibly hurts Elain as it's a clear rejection by another guy who she has grown some feelings for.

♡

Interaction with Rhysand – Before this, Azriel has already admitted that he was and has been envious of Cassian and Rhysand.

- When Rhysand calls him out for about to kiss Elain in the middle of the hall where anyone could see them, including her mate who was there, all he can ask is, “What if the Cauldron was wrong?” This to me brings into question on if the Cauldron was wrong, does that mean it could have made a mistake pairing Nesta and Cassian? So in essence he's essentially also questioning his own brother bond...

- He then deflects Rhysand’s question about Mor and goes on to say, “The Cauldron chose three sisters. Tell me how it’s possible that my two brothers are with two of the sisters, yet the third was given to another.” He reduces Elain to the third sister here and to me it just means he wants the mate bond. Because if he wanted Elain, he'd accept her and want to be with her despite her mate bond with another. Not questioning things...

- Then, Rhysand asks Azriel if he believes he deserves to be her mate to which he deflects and mentions how he thinks Lucien will never be good enough for her and how she's not interested in him anyways (let’s not forget Elain hasn’t really given Lucien a chance and Lucien has stayed away respecting Elain’s wishes)

-When Rhysand asks him if his plan is to seduce Elain away, he says nothing and “He hadn’t gotten that far with his planning, certainly not beyond the fantasies he pleasured himself to.” (Which only happened in the dead of night when even his shadows are asleep). Once again, proving its all about the sex/sexual release for him with Elain.

- When Rhysand mentions Lucien could invoke the Blood Duel (which is a brutal battle to the death that is only enacted in rare cases) if he finds out Azriel is pursuing Elain, Azriel with pure arrogance states he will defeat him. Rhysand reminds of the repercussions of those actions and puts an end to it.

- This whole interaction only shows that Azriel is only thinking of himself and his wants/needs. He isn’t thinking about Elain and how him killing Lucien would hurt/traumatize her because of the mate bond. He isn’t thinking politically which also brings about its own issues.

♡

Interaction with Gwyn – A little background history about them two: He is the one who found and saved her at Sangravah and ended up slaughtering all the soldiers and wrapping her in his cloak who was then taken by Mor (when he usually leaves one or two for interrogation purposes). When he is around her in this bonus chapter, he also seems to be himself and not have any thoughts about his scars or feeling of unworthiness being in her presence. He just is.

- His whole interaction with Gwyn, he never once focuses on his scars or anything negative about himself. He actively engages in conversation with her and its in a flowing, joking, kinda flirty behavior. He even stays after pretty much a clear dismissal by Gwyn.

- When Gwyn was trying to copy his movement, “and he watched her self-correct, fighting against the urge to open up her wrist and rotate the blade.” Notice no mention of his scars or anything negative associated with him touching her if he was to do that...

- After Gwyn makes a joke about Cassian and Nesta and thanks Azriel, “Azriel dipped his head in a sketch of a bow, something restless settling in him.” (mate coding)

- He ends their interaction wishing her a Happy Solstice and telling her to not stay out too much longer or else she’ll freeze. Showing he already cares about her in a way already.

♡

Now onto some other things I found interesting….

His shadows – I think this is important when mentions how the shadows interact between Elain and Gwyn- “Though his shadows kept him company, as they always had, as they always would” His shadows are always going to be apart of him. They aren't going away and based on this thought from him I don't believe he wants them to either.

- When Elain sucked in a soft breath that whispered over his skin, “His shadows skittered back at the sound. They’d always been prone to vanish when she was around.” Interesting they have ALWAYS been prone to vanish when she's around. If that's good/bad remains to be seen but compared to how his shadows react around Gwyn.....well I'll get to that...

- When Az was thinking about Elain (sexually) he mentions how he only ever had those thoughts when even his shadows had gone to sleep. This arises the question.... Why only then Azriel?

- The shadows never warned Azriel that someone was in the training pit when we went to work off the temptation, rage, and frustration. Then, they peered over his wings at Gwyn when they were talking. Something I haven't seen them do yet around anyone else...

- When Gwyn asks him how that party was, “Her breath curled in front of her mouth, and one of shadows darted out to dance with it before twirling back to him. Like it heard some silent music.” (Mate coding here here me)

- Another quote: “Even his shadows had calmed. As if content to lounge on his shoulders and watch.” This is a direct mention of how his shadows calm while he's in the presence of Gwyn, which is a more accurate representation than Feyre or other POV of how they act around people. (I think this can also be mate coded)

- When he is leaving the training pit, he mentions how he swore he could hear faint, beautiful singing following him and that his shadows sang back in answer. (Mate coding)

♡

The Necklace – “It was a small, flat rose fashioned of stained glass, designed so that when held to the light, the true depth of the colors would become visible. A THING OF SECRET, LOVELY BEAUTY.” (There is a reason I capitalized that last part.)

- Azriel at first gifts it to Elain and puts it around her neck. As he is doing that- “He knew it was wrong, but there he was, sliding the necklace around her.” He knew it was wrong.... I think that speaks for itself...

- The next morning after Rhysand stops them from kissing, Elain’s necklace is back in his gift pile. The whole day he has every intention of returning it to the shop. Instead, he finds himself in front of the library as the clock chimes seven in the evening. It's interesting how he was pulled there.... maybe the mate bond led him there? Especially since in Hebrew 7 is said to communicate a sense of "fullness", "completeness", "perfection", "wholeness and harmony" and we know Sarah is Jewish.

- He gives the necklace to Clotho and asks her to give it to Gwyn if she sees her, but then tells her to not to mention that it came from him.

- When Clotho mentions Gwyn deserves something as beautiful as the necklace and thanks him for the joy it will bring to her, this happens:

“Something sparked in Azriel’s chest…. He could picture it, though, as he ascended the stairs back to the House proper. How Gwyn’s teal eyes might light upon seeing the necklace. For whatever reason…. He could see it. But he tucked the away the thought, consciously erasing the slight smile it brought to his face. Buried the image down deep, where it glowed quietly. A THING OF SECRET, LOVELY BEAUTY.” The "something sparked in his chest" is mate coding to me as well as the fact he tucked the thought away and buried it down where it glowed quietly.....

I also happen to think it is significant that in the description of the necklace it mentions a thing of secret, lovely beauty and the bonus chapter ends with that same sentence when he is thinking about Gwyn and the image of her that he buried deep down. Azriel felt it was wrong to put the necklace around Elain but was drawn to the library and gifted it to Gwyn and his reaction and thought process afterwards makes it seen like the necklace was meant to be Gwyns all along. With his mate. Because we all know Azriel wants his own mate, and I think it'll be Gwyn.

♡

Between the interactions, Azriels shadows, the necklace, the wording Sarah uses, just in this one bonus chapter, I fully believe that Sarah J Maas has already shown us who Azriel is going to end up with and that is Gwyn.

[theyanderespecialist]

Base Yandere Monkey D. Luffy Headcanons: His Treasure (One Piece)

#Yandere #YandereLuffy #YandereHeadcanons #YandereOnePiece #LuffyOnepiece #Onepiece #Headcanons #LuffyxReader #GenderNeutralReader #Reader #GenderNeutral 

[Hello, My Sexy Muffins! I am here with a new chapter! This one another request from, Archive, and almost a year old, if not older. Better late than never! Anyways it is base Headcanons for Luffy! I hope that you all enjoy this!]

(Disclaimer: Luffy is not yandere in canon, this is just for fun and not to be taken seriously at all! Simping for fictional characters and fictional yanderes is fine! Just do not be gross or illegal about it! Also, Remember to separate headcanons from canon, and fiction from reality! Yanderes are not ideal partners to have in real life!)

(Disclaimer 2: I have not watched all of one piece so I am not up to date on it all, so if some of this is incorrect I apologize!)

-Base Yandere Headcanons With Monkey D. Luffy X Gender Neutral Reader-

.Luffy is going to be King of the Pirates.

.That was one of his goals for the longest time.

.He put his heart and soul and everything he is into becoming the king of the pirates.

.Then he met you, he was not able to love, but something about you changed him.

.He felt something that he has never felt before and he cannot get you out of his mind.

.He more or less persuades and or kidnaps you to join his pirate crew.

.He is not going to leave your island until he gets you to agree to join his pirate crew.

.He is just as determined to make you his as he is in becoming king of the pirates.

.And you will be his co-ruler! The Majesty of the pirates!

.He also is very open about his love for you.

.Declaring you his majesty a lot.

.He is also VERY VERY VERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRY protective of you!

.Like if anyone was to hurt you, they are beyond dead.

.He will not stand for you to be hurt. You've seen Luffy go so beyond angry. Think that times 100.

.You are his treasure. HE WILL NOT LET YOU BE STOLEN OR HARMED. ]

.Though he lacks the common sense to know when to stop declaring his love or be able to take a hint that you are not interested.

.Oblivious to that in general he also knows he can worm his way into your heart and then you will be his for sure.

.He can be seen as a childlike yandere in the sense he goes to extremes.

.Such as declaring his love for you and trying to marry you.

.To also being very simple that he loves you and you will love him so why should you both wait?

.It is a simple way like a child has.

.He would also risk his life to protect you and defend you, no matter what!

.Luffy would hate one thing about you, that if your love was weak.

.Saying that you and he could not be together.

.That it was impossible.

.He loves you with all his heart and will make you love him just as much to take that risk and be brave enough to accept your love for him.

.He is the type of yandere to be determined and not give up if you say no.

.He will show you that you two are meant to be.

.He does not care how long it will take he will make you his treasure no matter what!

.He would deal with rivals by beating them just saying that you are his treasure or his majesty and that no one else can have you.

.He would confess to you almost instantly and beg you to join his pirate crew.

.If you say no, he will not give up either persuading you or kidnapping you or both!

.He is also very good likely so no matter how much you say no or how much you fight his love.

.He will not give up or falter and he will make you his majesty of the pirates!

.No matter what you are his treasure!

[YASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS Another chapter is done! I hoped you all enjoyed this and stay sexy, all of my sexy muffins!]

[isthe-protag-cluelesstho]

Okay, probably not a hot take, but imma scribble about it anyway,

I honestly think Cale Hetinuse/Kim Rok Soo has chronic pain/fatigue.

Like, everybody loves the whole coughing up blood/wet meow meow thing he's always doing, but personally? People who are that nonchalant about Shit Happening To Their Body, are typically people who are waaaaay too used to Fucked Up Shit Happening To Their Body,

It's just a head canon, but as someone who is chronically in pain, I absolutely do some of the stupid shit CH/KRS does, like carrying stuff I should NOT be carrying, or continuing to Do Things even when I should be sitting and resting. I also know several people who (like me) can be experiencing level 4-5 pain and not show a hint on their face/through their actions besides maaaaybe moving a bit slower/stretching more

And we know KRS has been on his own since he was itty bitty... And then he grew up in a world hell bent on killing everyone. I can't help but think that a tiny child with no one to help him with the general cuts/bruises/little hurts of childhood would 1) have zero frame of reference for what "okay" actually looks like 2) probably has never really received medical care beyond emergency assistance (which does jack for chronic conditions) and 3) has NEVER really had someone in his life long enough for them to catch his way of coping with pain (my very close friends can hear when I'm hurting/tired, everyone else only notices if I am visibly incapacitated)

So, Kim Rok Soo ends up in a world/body that "technically" hasn't experienced his life, HOWEVER fibromyalgia and PTSD are like goddamn pb&j. It's a condition that is deeply tied to a body's stress response. And what does Cale say once he has the Heart? "I feel BETTER"

And that just speaks to me of a person who is so used to pain, that it no longer really registers... I had daily headaches for 7 years, it wasn't until I moved and got a new primary that I found out that more than 4 headaches in a month was considered a concern... I got on some migraine meds and actually stopped having that daily headache, something id just accepted as "how my body works" gone,

I personally don't consider pain at a 1-2 as particularly bothersome, it's more like a general annoyance. Onces it's up to 6-7 it's hard for me to move, and yet I often will still do so, despite the pain. It's only at 9-10 so I stop moving entirely and focus on just weathering it. Usually when that happens, I sleep so much after as my body tries to recover.

And when I read Cale, so casually continuing forward, despite the work he takes on himself, after the constant planning and prepping and ass kicking, all I see is a person who has lived so long with his body's suffering that it's just background noise. Yeah, he coughed up some blood, but the pain is back to "normal" so how can he raise a fuss? He killed 3 monsters with a dislocated shoulder that one time, this? This is easy. And despite claiming his body is weak, he refuses to truly accept the help and rest he needs because (like I used to) Cale thinks "this is just how my body works"

Sometimes, I cannot remember how I lived prior to my pain. Sometimes, I cannot imagine a world where I do not spend half the night attempting to force my muscles to relax, so I can actually sleep. I cannot imagine a world where I am able to do everything I want in a day and not collapse at the end. And I see so much of myself in how Cale continues to move despite the weight of the ancient powers, the expectations of the gods and his own personal hopes. He seems like a character doomed to continue walking, his bones broken but refusing the care because whats the point if everything still hurts the same way in the end?

Anyway, Raon should invent a cure for chronic illness and force Cale into a year long sabbatical

[buddiebeginz]

Hey, Justine! Did you see the new article?

https://ew.com/911-season-8-preview-exclusive-photos-interview-8704969

I did. I think things are looking very good for us. Tim has had every opportunity to remove or distance Eddie from Buck's story and he's not. B*mmy's seem to think that's what's happening here but it isn't. When characters and their storylines are being distanced they don't get talked about like this. And this isn't just the journalists inferring this is Tim's own words.

Tim could have distanced Buck and Eddie in s7. If Buddie wasn't happening he could and should have made 704 about Buck and T*mmy and not really included Eddie at all. But really that episode was very loudly about Buck's feelings for Eddie.

You could make the argument that Tim wanted to wait and see what the audience response was going to be to T*mmy before he made any major changes. Which he had plenty of time to do that leading up to the final two eps of s7 considering T*mmy wasn't in eps 707 and 708. 709 and 710 also went through significant rewrites before filming so there was definitely time for Tim to put more focus on B/T but he didn't. He didn't even have T*mmy at the hospital with Buck and that wouldn't have required taking time away from the other characters at all, just like a shot of him there sitting with Buck.

Consistently since B/T became a thing Tim has told us in every way imaginable that Buddie is more important and that Buddie (canon) is the goal. Even think back to how Buddie was handled vs B/T at the bachelor party. B*mmy's make all these excuses for what happened there but the main thing is Tim decided he wanted Buck and Eddie dressing up in a couple's custom. He wanted Eddie to be the one there spending the whole night with Buck not T*mmy. He easily could have had T*mmy there instead of Eddie or had it be the three of them there but he didn't.

You can tell this pattern is clearly going to continue when you read what Tim is saying about s8. We already know T*mmy is just stepping stone to Buddie, Lou himself said as much in one of his early cameos. Tim is likely going to use T*mmy for dramatic tension while Eddie has his feelings realization about Buck.

I suspected this was where Tim would go with things this season I just wasn't sure if he was going to bring Lou back after the all the drama him and his fans caused. I'm assuming he got told to stop interacting with his psycho fan base though because we now know he's coming back yet he's not been communicating with his fans at all. He likely was contracted to come back for a few eps with the stipulation he can't cause any more problems.

T*mmy will likely be around for a few eps while Eddie's storyline is getting more of the focus. Hopefully we'll get some jealous and pinning Eddie cause that would just be delicious. I don't see T*mmy lasting beyond mid season if even that. I know a lot of people aren't happy about him coming back and I'm right there with you but also as someone who has been waiting and hoping for Buddie to happen for years I've never seen it so within our grasp. This feels like it will be our year.

Anyway hope you don't mind my long ramble. Thanks for messaging me. ❤️

[sparkanonymous]

Let me ramble about my ship opinions real quick. I gotta say something to somebody while my siblings procrastinate watching what's available.

⚠️ Total Drama Reboot Season 2 Spoilers ⚠️

We're gonna talk about the canon ships this time. It makes it easier to talk about.

Caleb x Priya

They might not have gotten together yet, but Millie said that Priya has a crush on him. I really don't see this one. She showed no interest in him the first season - probably didn't help that he was only in one episode - so the first sign of interest from her was when Priya had mentioned looking him up on social media. I don't like Caleb as a character very much; I think he's kind of boring. Plus, it still feels like the writers don't really know what to do with him since he's barely done anything yet, besides literally carrying his team in the third episode. The writer's paired them up as the strong couple and haven't really gone beyond that yet. I personally would've wanted Damiya because there was a more interest last season and because Damien is just a better character, in my opinion.

0/10

Raj x Bowie

This relationship is by far one of the more nuanced ones we've gotten out of Total Drama as a whole; Gwent and Duncney were great in their first season, but after that, they made it so painful for me to like them. If you look at my profile, you can tell Rajbow is one of my favorites. I think they're cute, and I hope that we get to see them be assholes to other people together at some point. Maybe even with Wayne included. Hell, I'll just take fanfiction if the writers don't provide. I like that they're spending more time together doing various things and that Raj isn't afraid to scold Bowie when he thinks he's doing something wrong. I think they have an easier time discussing things, even if Bowie is technically lying to Raj right now about not cheating. A lot of their bonding felt a little rushed last season. There was the scene where they were going to talk by the lake, right before Julia found out about the video posted on her social media account (does she still have that account?). That was only a ten second scene. There were so many quick moments, blink and you'll miss them. They're more obvious now, longer too. I like that.

10/10

MK x Julia

I know I said canon ships, but... but COME ON. This is canon. I'm not taking any other opinions. Anyway, I did notice when people started shipping these two last season, and I'll be honest; I didn't see it. This new season, though, has made me see a new light. I think the writer's felt like they had more leeway and like they had a better grasp on these two's personalities. MK was always a bit of a troublemaker and thief, and she would definitely take the easier way of winning than to actually try if she had the choice. Julia doesn't want to get voted off, so she'll take cheating to win, knowing that she's always on the chopping block when Bowie has both Raj and Wayne on his side. The writer's are really playing up their flirting, too, so whether they actually get together in the season or not, their relationship will not be forgotten.

9/10

Ripper x Axel

I'm gonna be so for real right now; this caught me so off guard. Out of all the characters they wanted to pair up, I didn't think Ripper would be an option. I do like him more this season, but he still makes me kind of uncomfortable, especially in the second episode where he butters himself up while only wearing his swimsuit. I cringe. Axel being into him? For why? I don't know what's going on up in that brain of hers, but this is awesome! I didn't expect to like their relationship as much as I do, and when I found out it was canon, I was buzzing. I don't know why I was so excited, but I was, and that's all that matters to me. I don't like poetry, and neither does Ripper, but the fact he put that aside to impress Axel is really sweet to me. Ripper has officially gotten himself good points and is no longer my least favorite character. I hope these two get along well and don't do the thing Emma and Chase did, where they constantly try to get a rise out of the other and break up every twenty minutes. I do believe we should've gotten more interest in them last season, but I think the only interaction they got was when Axel kicked Ripper off the ship.

7/10

I do feel bad for the Axel x Nichelle shippers, but just because it's not canon doesn't mean that you should stop shipping it. Both Axel and Ripper are a bit fruity anyway, so even if they hadn't gotten together, they would've been shipped with other characters by the fandom regardless.

[cosmicjoke]

Alright, so, I wanted to write a little here about the new story from Isayama coming out, and address a few things. Before I get to that though, I want to say how special I think this is. Unlike some of the complaints I'm hearing about regarding the story being about Levi, and it being "unnecessary" because we supposedly already know about Levi's childhood, well, no, we don't. We don't actually know a whole hell of a lot about Levi's childhood. People don't realize that, in the main canon, we never actually get a real look at Levi's childhood Underground except through a handful of panels, all of which aren't from Levi's perspective at all, but from Kenny's. We get no insight whatsoever into Levi's mental or emotional state, into what he's actually thinking or feeling. Again, it's all from Kenny's POV, not Levi's. So how anyone could say that 'we already have Levi's backstory, we don't need more', blah, blah, blah, is beyond me. You're wrong if you think that. We're finally going to get a look at Levi's life growing up and finally get a look at how those events actually shaped him and affected him. We could only engage in extrapolation before, based off what little we did know. Levi's voice here is important to acknowledge and hear, because it's the voice of a child growing up in extreme poverty and violence. Levi was a victim of social indifference and disenfranchisement. He was a victim of persecution and poverty and violence. And we've never, before now, gotten the chance to hear him, or hear what those experiences did to him. We've only gotten to see the end result. So anyone saying 'we don't need' to know more about Levi's childhood, again, you're dead wrong. You might as well say that it's not important or necessary to hear the voice of any child who's suffered the things Levi has simply because you know the basic outline or generalized facts of that child's life. Get the hell outta' here. Yes we do. I can scarcely think of anything more important.

Secondly, for anyone whining about the story being about him and not about one of the other vets, you have to understand, Levi is to the vets trio as Eren is to the EMA trio. He's the focal point. He's more than just a side-character, or a supporting character. Levi is, in many ways, an embodiment of some of the most core themes of SnK. He's representative within the story of some of its most essential messages. He's just as vital to the story as Mikasa, or Armin, or even Eren, in terms of understanding its thematic thrust. He's as much of a main character as Mikasa or Armin, in many ways. So a greater exploration of Levi's childhood, through Levi's perspective, is vital and important, I think, to further understanding the whole of SnK.

Anyway, with that out of the way, like I said, I think this is really special. I think it's amazing that we're getting more background on Levi, when for all intents and purposes, it seemed Isayama was done with SnK. People should be grateful, instead of whining as usual because they didn't get exactly what they wanted. Jesus. If the story had been about anyone else, I wouldn't have complained. But Levi is a special character. There's a reason he's so popular. And it isn't because he's "the strongest" or a bad-ass, or "cool". It's because he's an incredibly deep, layered and complex person, a character that connects with so many people because there's something intrinsically real about him. He is, in many ways, what we all wish we could be. He's a genuine hero. Someone who's suffered immensely, but who, despite that suffering, not because of it, is still a deeply good and kind man. He's someone who didn't let the cruelty of the world ruin him, or corrupt him, despite him personally experiencing more of that cruelty than really any other character in the story. And so Levi is in many ways representative of the story's hope. Of how goodness and kindness can still exist, even in the face of such overwhelming darkness. Even in defiance of that darkness. Levi overcomes in a way no other character in SnK does. He experienced and lived through the worst humanity had to offer and still came out the other side as the best humanity has to offer.

So that's why it's important for this story to be told. Seeing Levi live through the horror of his childhood, but within the context of knowing him to be a genuinely good and kind man, of him being a genuine hero, will drive that theme home. That the world's cruelty and the cruelty of other people doesn't have to end with us ourselves also becoming cruel.

Anyway, I don't care what anyone says. I can't wait. And I know the vast majority of fans can't wait either. If you're disappointed the story isn't about some other character, fine, fair enough, but don't shit on other people's excitement, and don't shit on Isayama because of it. We're lucky to be getting anything extra from him at all. Also, I don't know why anyone would be surprised that the story is about Levi, since Isayama said months and months ago, after he was asked if he had any plans to continue AoT, that he had a story specifically about Levi that he wanted to tell. This isn't out of nowhere, and this isn't just to capitalize on Levi's popularity. This is something Isayama wanted to do.

[r0guedr0id]

The Unknown Regions II

A Din Djarin x Fem Plus Size Reader Fic

Summary: You, a soft astrophysicist, meet the hardened Mandalorian in less-than-ideal circumstances.

Read Chapter 1 | Read Chapter 3

Warnings: Expect conversations about weight, body dysmorphia and internalised fatphobia that may be triggering, so read at your own discretion; injuries and blood; canon typical violence; reader is AFAB and user she/her pronouns; no use of y/n; smut to come in next chapters; porn with plot; plot with porn; Din Djarin need a hug and a fuck.

Word count: 1,392

A/N: This is a shorter chapter where we learn a bit more about your job (watch me make up things about astronomy lol), which will be handy for our little adventure with Din. The hot speeder bike ride was 100% inspired by @djarins-cyare fic, Be-All and Endor! This fic is just everything I could ask, just so detailed and thorough, I really recommend it to you! Anyway, I hope you enjoy this, sorry if Mando is too gruff but I try to keep him in character, don’t worry, he’ll warm up later. ;)

🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐

You went through your notes again, looking for the data you had gathered previously. If your calculations were correct, you were one step closer to mapping the Unknown Regions. Studying the orbit of this planet had been a difficult assignment. It seemed to elude you every time you were close. But today, you could say that finally, its coordinates were finally revealed. Jumping from your desk, you rushed to discuss your discoveries with your supervisor.

The older, Rodian female, was working on gathering the info the radio antennas were providing. The purpose of the observatory, funded by the New Republic, was to map the mysterious regions beyond the Outer Rim, popularly known as Wild Space. In the year since its foundation, your team had located the system you were currently studying and successfully calculated the orbits and characteristics of its two stars.

Your Rodian supervisor, Dr. Vala, took her time to look through all the data you'd gathered after inserting the disk into her computer. You shifted your weight and played with your hands nervously.

"It looks like everything makes sense." She said after a while, smiling at you proudly. “I’ll discuss sending the first space probe with the engineering team in the next meeting.”

You mirrored her expression feeling a bit shy, but the truth was that you were over the moon. Receiving praise from someone like Dr. Vala couldn't be taken for granted, and the prospect of having a probe sent to the planet you were studying was exciting. All your dreams were coming true. This would be the best day of your life if the pressing matter of the bleeding Mandalorian wasn’t making you kriffing anxious.

“Would you mind if I left early today, Doctor? I haven’t been feeling very well.”

Dr. Vala sent you home immediately, knowing how you had been overworking yourself. You thanked her and after gathering your possessions went to the hangar where one of the landspeeders that transported the workers from the compound was parked. After providing the droid with your employee code, the vehicle started the trip. The ball of anxiety that had been growing in your belly grew with every klick of desert you covered. He probably had left already and you were worrying for nothing like an idiot. But what if?

You arrived at home covered in sand and rapidly discarded the goggles and cape that you used for protection. Entering the main room cautiously, you didn’t notice you were holding your breath.

“Mando? Are you still there?” You asked in a small voice.”I brought food and medical supplies…” The bag against your hip was full of some rations and medicine you managed to grab from your workplace before leaving. A mix of fear and excitement was boiling inside of you, hoping that he hadn’t left. You advanced two more steps when something very shiny dazzled your eyes. Confused, you brought your hand to your face in pain.

“Uh…sorry.” A gruff voice apologized from the main room.”I was about to leave…”

Your heart jumped inside of your chest. He sounded exhausted and sad but it was better than before you left. The bright light moved and then you could see the source of it. The warrior, in his full, polished armor, was reflecting the light from Tatooine’s twin suns like a star. It was such a beautiful scene to look at. He was standing there like an ancient statue finishing with placing one of his pauldrons. You swallowed hard. Was this man the same person that bled out on your carpet?

“Are you feeling better?” You asked fidgeting with the end of your sleeve. It looked like you were the guest and this was his house instead of yours. Your eyes couldn’t stop registering every detail of his appearance, from his width to how well that ammo belt hugged his hips. Maker, you were in need of a good lay.

He just nodded and then approached you. You could smell your soap and his characteristic scent under it. He then grabbed your hand with his gloved one and blood rushed to your cheeks. The sound of credits took you out of your trance.

“The carpet.” It was the only explanation he provided, and when he noticed that you weren’t moving, he squeezed himself between you and the doorframe.

What was the problem with this man?

“Wait!” You managed to unfreeze and catch him before he actually left. Even though he tried to hide it, his limp was obvious. He didn’t turn but stopped walking. “We’re in the middle of nowhere and I haven’t seen any ships close.” The question floated in the dry air, and you could see how his shoulders dropped infinitesimally.

“It won’t be the first time I walk through this desert.” He responded cockily and shifted his weight, this time turning the helmet slightly to you.

You rolled your eyes and sighed, and then grabbed your goggles and cape again.

“Come on, I have my speeder bike in the compound’s hangar.” He fully turned to face you then, tilting his head to one side, probably balancing his options. “You want to find your son, don't you? Well, you won’t be of any use to him bleeding dry among the dunes.” Now it was his turn to sigh. He surrendered to your offer, nodding in response. You smiled and closed the door, having already put on your gear plus your little blaster. Everybody knew that venturing to the desert unarmed was insane.

The warrior followed you obediently to the hangar, where you provided your credentials to the security team to open the gates for you.

“I haven't asked you, is it okay if I call you Mando? I accidentally heard the man from the holo doing it, I’m sorry.” You asked while you put your riding gloves on. Riding was something you loved, and it was important for you to keep the bike and your accessories in good shape, so your speeder was in perfect condition for the trip through the dunes. You climbed its leather seat and sat comfortably. He just stood there like a statue. “I wanted to apologize too for trying to remove your helmet.”

“No offense taken.” He responded after flexing his gloved hand a couple of times. He looked kriffing tense, but you would too in his situation. You smiled in relief and put your helmet on. He took the cue and sat behind you. To anyone watching the scene, it had to look ridiculous as hell, but the only thing in your head was how Mando felt behind you and how you were going to focus on driving. You swallowed and started the bike, maneuvering it outside of the hangar.

“Where are we headed?” You asked, trying to sound confident. Mando looked like he hadn’t made a decision about the best place for his hands.

“Mos Eisley, Hangar 3-5.” He provided, and you thanked your past self for the food you had stolen from your workplace. That would make a long ride. You inserted the city’s coordinates in the nav computer and placed your boot on the accelerator. But your copilot still looked hesitant about where to get a hold of.

You sighed exasperated and in a bold move, you took a grip of his hands and put them around your waist. It was notorious how Mando went rigid instantly as if he had been struck by a bolt. Kark, he looked like a seasoned warrior, why would he be so tense about sharing a speeder bike with a woman? Nevertheless, you were no seasoned anything so you allowed yourself to be flustered when he finally grabbed your waist with determination. It was only a second that the malignant thought of how he’d find your soft curves disgusting. Your waist wasn’t tiny by any means, and in this position your belly flexed forming some rolls. You were flustered now but for other motives.

But Mando’s huge hand just grabbed you tighter and with a confidence that had been absent before, making you jump in your seat.

“Are you…are you comfortable like this?” He asked unexpectedly in a gentle voice. You clenched your hands around the bike handles, making the leather of the gloves crack.

“Yes, just hold tight.” And oh Maker, that grip would have you daydreaming for the whole journey.

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