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#but i still liked how it came out so i wanted to post it anyway lol
hazelfoureyes · 14 hours
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A Doe in Fall (Part 3)
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⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall smut💦
Part 1 - Pretty in Red Part 2 - Liar
So enraptured with Alastor, you forgot how you left work on Saturday. Tommy didn’t forget. And he made sure you remembered. Unfortunately for him, and fortunately for you, your paramour made a habit of helping quicken karma’s balancing act.
「warnings/promises: immediate physical assault (let’s be up front about that), allusions to sexual assaults having happened in the past to non-reader characters, HumanAlastor x FemReader, penetrative sex, Protective Alastor, bruises, somewhat graphic descriptions of murder, mentions to coerced prostitution, sex near a corpse (words that have the FBI watching me), stabbing, knife, bad burlesque names, gambling, my own new HC for the Radio Demon’s origins, another deer reference thanks to @n-after-me , chin quivering, Tommy doesn’t know French and it shows, posted early for @jazzmasternot, wrath」
Minors DNI 🤺
Part 3 A tragedy 
You walked into the theatre for rehearsals with a pep in your step, body still humming. It was like the usual adrenaline rush Alastor brought couldn't fade this time.
But it did, when Tommy grabbed you by the hair out of your makeup chair and threw you into the wall. 
You couldn’t react, head ringing after it left a small indent in the drywall. Unlike before, you didn’t try to stand. Make him work for his second hit. And he did. Leaning down he yanked you off the ground by your arm and dragged you to your feet. 
“Do you think you’re funny?” He shook you, you were sure you could feel your brain jostle. It was rhetorical, but you replied anyway.
“No, Tommy.”
“No. Exactly.” He backed you up onto the make up table, head pressed into the mirror. “Mr. Wilson was not happy. He pulled his contribution. I know you don’t have that kind of money. Do you know what you’re gonna do?”
His fingers dug into your cheeks, “No.” You genuinely didn’t. He was talking to you like you had been in the loop on whatever it was he had been doing on the side. All of this was as shocking to you as your actions were, apparently, to him. 
“You’re gonna take whatever meetings I make until that money is back.” He let go of you and turned to leave but changed his mind. Coming back, he swung his fist and clocked you on the left side of your face.
You didn’t see it, but you heard the other girls running and pulling Tommy off of you, yelling and pleading for him to calm down.
“I worked really hard for you!” He shouted, jerking his shoulders out from under the hands of the other performers. What was he talking about? You hadn’t discussed any of this, asked for any thing from him. “I waited for a high roller for you. Real classy guy. Just wanted a private show! That was it!” He spit, “No, every Tom, Dick, and Harry is welcome now to ask for your time.”
You just held your face, unsure if you had the right makeup to hide the bruise before stage call. 
“Well?! Say you’re sorry.”
You considered not saying anything. No response. When you looked at him, you could see the half a dozen other girls staring back at you, just say it. We have to rehearse.
“I’m sorry.” Eyes cast to the floor.
“For what?”
It hurt when you rolled your eyes, “For being ungrateful?” 
He shoulder checked a few girls on the way out. A couple came to you.
“He’s got some gambling debt, he’s just using us to get ahead.”
“I have some stuff to cover that up for tonight.”
“He usually cuts us in.”
Tears stung your eyes, you were angry and humiliated. You could work elsewhere, with a little luck. Take a job at a diner out of the area where no regulars would stir up trouble. Maybe leave until Tommy got his debts paid off or whatever was motivating this recent streak of cruelty. But you didn’t want to run away. No one applauded waitresses. Maybe if you made yourself as unattractive as possible, no one would request you. Dirty your teeth, talk about other men, speak crudely. 
“What exactly was he talking about?” you asked no one in particular. The girls were quiet for a beat.
“Well ya know, private shows for clients who can afford it.” High pitched and nasal, Florence spoke as she searched her make up station.
“That’s it?” Incredulous.
“Sometimes. You know how it is… woman left alone in a room with a man who has too much money or ego or drink. Doesn’t always stop at a dance.” Minnie had much more experience than you, “It isn’t our jobs. It isn’t normal. But, well, ya heard about New York right? They’re trying to make burlesque outright illegal…”
“Gotta enjoy the art while it’s just misunderstood.” Florence wiped down your mirror before setting her supplies down for you. “Come on, let’s get you fixed up.”
By the time patrons began to stream in, you had blood staining the white of your left eye. Nothing you could do, but maybe at a distance it wouldn’t be noticeable. The bruise under your eye from his fist was easy enough to cover. The contusion from where your right cheek hit the wall was a little harder. 
Luckily, the stage offered a buffer of space and the rest of the room was dark. 
During your show, you tried to keep your eyes moving so the red sclera never stayed in one place too long. For the first time, the cheers did nothing for you. You felt your chin quiver, fighting back tears. You wanted to scream, to tell them to hate you and leave. Stop fucking clapping.
Ruth was naturally the first to come to you after your performance, “Want me to do the tour with you? Arm in arm around the hall.”
You took her up on the offer. It lightened the load, her taking charge of the conversation when people approached or bought you drinks. Luckily the bartender always poured the performers weak cocktails and watered down liquor to keep their heads on straight. 
Ruth’s companionship afforded you precious time to plan, to consider how quickly you could find new work or at least a way out of this.
“What a treat. Two for one. Can I buy you both a drink?” 
Ruth turned first to greet the customer, “Ooh yes sir! Gin and tonic, please and thank you. Autumn?” Your stage name drew your attention back to the world, turning finally.
“Alastor.” It fell from your mouth like a lead balloon.
He smiled down at you, his hand offering a little wave, “Hello. Surprise.” 
Your face fell, a frown pulling down your chin. It took you too long to recover, batting your eyelashes and turning the corners of your lips up unnaturally. 
“So you do have a beau!” Ruth slapped your arm, “I’m Skye, Skye Scraper. Pleasure to meet you, Alastor.” She extended her hand, Alastor planting a kiss on the back of it, concealing his smile at the name.
You tried to keep your eyes on the floor, head turned slightly away from him to obscure the neon sign of an eye shouting, ‘Weak!’
Unfortunately for you, Alastor wasn’t an oblivious man. Unless he was dancing or drunk. “May I have a moment alone with her?” Alastor asked Ruth. Ruth looked to you for your okay, and you just nodded. She gave a little nod of her own to Alastor and slinked away. 
“Are you unhappy to see me, dear? Did I overstep by coming by unannounced?” You hadn’t heard him worried before, it pained you. 
“No, no! I am… so happy to see you. I just had a long day.” You scanned the room for the darkest area to bring him. A booth would be best, you could keep him on one side of you. You gestured with a nod of your head.
“Ah, I kept you out too late.” Alastor didn’t move.
“Not at all, come on let’s sit down.” You reached back for his hand without looking at him, but when you pulled he still didn’t move. He remembered the way you pulled at the hand of that man in the alley the first night you met. Desperate to escape somewhere. 
“Is there a reason you won’t look at me?”
Lie. 
“Uh, no, I’m just embarrassed about this heavy stage makeup.” 
Alastor paused, hand slipping from yours to adjust his sleeves. It was a nervous action, an attempt to self soothe, but you didn’t know that. “I should have asked before coming.”
“Alastor, it’s not…,” you kept your eyes down at your hands.
“Then look at me.”
Would he think you were incapable of protecting yourself? His pity would kill you. Perhaps he would decide a second rate burlesquer wasn’t worth making time for anymore.
You could intentionally wound him, say you don’t want to see him so he leaves. But that sword was double edged and you weren’t sure you’d survive that either. You weren’t making it out of this.
You finally looked at him. He leaned in, “What happened to your eye?” A slender finger gently tilting your chin upward.
Lie. 
You thought too long for an answer. Why were you getting worse at lying? It used to be one of your best shields and swords but now you were so slow on the draw you were left defenseless. Vulnerable. His hand took yours, gently pulling you into the lobby and through the glass doors of the theatre.
Under the bright lights of the marquee and the street lamps, Alastor inspected your face. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, wetting it in his mouth before wiping the makeup off of your under eye.
“Alastor, people are staring.” 
His eyes fell down, soft hands lifting your arm where a bruise was already formed. You hadn’t noticed that one.
“What happened?” He wasn't looking at you when he said it, instead cautiously wiping the makeup off your cheeks in search of more marks.
“The truth or wh-“
“Always. Never give me anything else.”
You sighed, and explained, “Tommy, the manager, he’s been shifting tactics for bringing in money because he owes some big bads a lot of debt. Private shows with performers that sometimes get hands on…,” his hands stopped moving but his eyes didn’t meet yours, “I never asked to be included in it. I wouldn’t do it. I was rude to a man Tommy introduced me to and I ran off Saturday. Yada Yada. He got me as soon as I got to work.”
Alastor didn’t reply, just turned on his heels and marched back into the theater. You chased after him, “I don’t need you to fight my battles!” You tried to get in front of him but he walked right past you.
“Not about what you need, dear, it's about what he deserves.” 
Alastor asked the bartender for Tommy, who pointed to the short but stocky man talking to a group of guests. Alastor approached so quickly Tommy didn’t have time to greet him, instead just backing up until he fell ass first into a booth. Alastor boxed him in, one hand on the wall and one on the table, towering over Tommy as he sat.
“I hear you sell dancers by the night.”
You paced the lobby nervously. Would you be fired? What would Alastor say? Would Tommy hit him, too?
He re-emerged, “Come to my car, please.” He didn't stop walking as he said it. 
You followed a few blocks down to his car, parked on the street. He opened the passenger door for you and closed it behind you. You wanted to ask if you were going somewhere, but thought better of it. A tight u-turn, he pulled the car into the side street where you’d first met each other.
Wordlessly he got out of the car, you opening your door before he could. Popping the trunk, he set the folded canvas inside a paper bag. Checking first, he placed it inside one of the tin trash cans. 
You stood, waiting for an explanation.
Finally he stopped and made eye contact with you. “You have a date tomorrow, with me. Bring this to the apartment above the theater before Tommy and I arrive.” Opening your mouth to speak, he didn’t stop to let you add anything. “Preferably near the bed.” He closed the trunk, “Wear red, please.”
You searched his face for some kind of discernible emotion but found none. Those constricted pupils again, an animal staring back at you from behind a pair of glasses. There was no reason to ask him, it was obvious what was going to happen. Did you want to stop it? 
Did you want to see it? Alastor at work?
“Okay. On all the points.” You looked back at the trashcan, “Canvas hidden near the bed. Wear red.”
“The extra clothes can go anywhere out of sight.” He leaned down, kissing your forehead, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Your voice cracked a little, “Wait, you’re leaving already?”
He nodded, “I can’t stay here.” Before getting into his car he turned and added, “Don’t cover the bruises tomorrow. He should see them.”
You nodded in return, “Are you doing this for me?” So quiet you almost hoped he didn’t hear it.
He paused, one leg already in the car and his back to you, “No. I’m doing it for everyone.”
You watched his car light up and leave the alley.
It’s not that you felt abandoned, you felt…. Stranded. You had to go back in there, alone, and put on the normal act but under abnormal conditions. 
So it was happening. You hadn’t seen the first time. Just felt it. You didn’t see the second. You were going to actually see a man die. Not just a man, someone you knew. Someone you used to consider a friend of sorts. Before he got into whatever trouble was driving him to act like a flesh peddler. Could you do it? Could you watch a man be killed? Was that even what Alastor had planned?
Tommy found you the second you were back in the room, hand pressing too hard on the bruises he left on your arm. “You have a meeting tomorrow after your show. If you don’t show up,” he yanked you close, putrid breath of dead teeth you’d never been bothered by before this moment and bad booze assaulting your senses, “I will fucking kill you.”
You almost started laughing, bringing your hand to your mouth to hide your smile. “Okay Tommy.” 
Fuck it. He was going to die anyway, might as well make it a date. 
Ruth saddled up beside you as soon as Tommy was out of earshot, “Look at that smile. Quickie in the alley?”
Disgust, “Jesus, Skye, I was gone like, 5 minutes.” She shrugged. “Why does everyone think — is everyone fucking their daddies* in the side street?” She nodded. “Well, I’m not.”
“Prude.” She joshed before linking your arm in hers again, “We’ve got at least another hour of schmoozing. Tits up!”
Your smile came effortlessly that night, a thrum of excitement keeping you light on your feet. Not excitement for death, but for the very concept of being closer to Alastor. Would you see it happen, in front of you? Or would he have you leave? Either way, you were an active participant with a task list.
He trusted you, even if in a small way. Trust was so rarely given from the people who mattered. Men trusted you often; to be sweet when they tell you they were embarrassed about something, to lie when they ask if you orgasmed, to not steal their cash when they blacked out with their pants still on. Pulling it from strangers was one of your greatest pleasures. But it was easy. You were skilled. 
Yet again, like so often now, Alastor was the exception. He didn’t toss himself at your feet. He stood tall in front of you and on his own terms offered you the things you wanted. You didn’t have to pretend to be demure, you didn’t have sit on his lap in silence and nod and laugh. Just yourself, as much as you could allow yourself to exist in the world. No tricks. If his trust was presented wrapped in a bloodied bow, well, you would thank him dearly and wear the ribbon round your neck like a trophy.
Many men spoke to you, but luckily your participation in conversation wasn’t something they really cared about. As they spoke, your eyes were looking past them and into the future. 
However there was a sense of dread when you lied in bed that night. The excitement of getting closer to Alastor had melted into the fear there was no going back from this. 
Something in your chest stung, a thorn growing from somewhere unknown. Three encounters (that he knew of) and already it seemed your thoughts were more Alastor than yourself. No person had ever made such an impression before. You didn’t like it, but it made you happy. Which is why you didn’t like it. Tying your happiness to another person was a reckless thing to do. You’d seen your mother and half sister both use a man’s attention as a replacement for being happy with themselves and it made them brittle and hollow.
Thinking of what would happen the following night, oddly, you were reminded of losing your virginity. You were a “late bloomer” and were terrified you’d never be you again after. Like something would be taken from you. You fell asleep to that thought, of what you’d lose.
Then you woke, uncharacteristically early, feeling none the bit rested. No dreams. No nightmares. A few seconds of darkness and suddenly it was morning. With the extra time you had you wandered into a department store before going to the theater.
When a sales woman approached you, asking what you were looking for, you were too tired lie.
“A red dress.” You didn’t have the makeup at home to cover your marks, and gave up being worried about it. 
Unfortunately, it seemed it wasn’t so odd of a sight; a woman with a black eye.
“What’s the occasion? Apology dinner?” The woman fidgeted with the hangers while looking at you.
You grimaced, “No, a murder.”
She howled, “You are a hoot! Don’t we wish, huh? Let me pull you some options.”
You put the dress on the top of the paper bag, having hidden it under your make up table the previous night. Your fingers were trembling, applying your makeup needing deep breaths and concentration.
“Ruth, can you do my lips?” You turned and handed her the brush. 
“The eye looks better.” She took your chin in her hand and painted your mouth a pretty shade of red.
“Thank you.” You offered her a smile but she didn't let go, “What?”
“You ever seen a cornered raccoon? Like one got in the house and your mom boxed it into a corner with a broom?”
A nod, yes, actually, you had.
“Who’s got the broom?” She asked. You knitted your brow, not understanding. “Who’s got you in a corner? Is it Tommy?”
You took your chin back, deep breaths. “No brooms. No corners. Just rattled still from last night.” Not a lie, surprisingly. “You thought of a raccoon? Really? Is it because of the eye?”
When you took your bow for the evening and turned to escape the stage lights for the darkness of backstage, you found Tommy leaning just outside the dressing room.
“Get changed, doors unlocked upstairs. Room 504.” 
Grabbing the paper bag you ran through your mental checklist. Wear red, take off your make up, hide the canvas by the bed. An odd to-do list for murder.
The theater had two floors of modest apartments above it, the owners keeping two of the open for the theater’s use. One was for the owners should they ever visit New Orleans, and the other was multi use. Storage and a crash pad for performers or Tommy when he worked late.
The bag crinkled as you hugged it, looking over the small apartment. Boxes, decorations, a modest kitchen and a bed. The bathroom was quite large, a tub and shower head. Was this where the other performers went?  
Why hadn’t anyone said anything sooner? Why didn’t anyone leave yet?
Taking a second, you got to work. You opened the canvas and slid it under the bed, the smallest bit of edge sticking out for easy retrieval. Dizzy with the quickly settling reality of what you were doing, you sat on the floor for a moment. Trying to calm your breathing, you closed your eyes.
The fear of the unknown was suffocating you. There was a possibility Alastor failed and ended up hurt. Or, that he changed his mind and Tommy left you two to just hold hands on the bed for a sex-appropriate amount of time.
You patted your thighs and stood up. No time now for a panic attack. Alastor had a change of clothes in the bag, neatly folded and tied in twine. They were set onto the shelf above the closet.
And finally, yourself. Your dress was on and you stopped to wipe the make up off your face in the bathroom mirror. Still bruised, still nasty. The dress was nice though, carrying some of the weight for your battered mug. Red cotton, sailor neck and little gold buttons down the front. Flashy, brighter than the dark number you usually wore.
Would he like it? Most men looked for how a dress accentuated your curves (or hid them) but you had a feeling Alastor didn’t care so much about that.
You took your seat at the edge of the bed, thin mattress sagging from your weight.
The clock ticked, until finally the door opened and you saw something you hadn’t seen before and knew you’d never see again. Tommy and Alastor.
“Here she is. Autumn, this is Mr. Cerf. He's asked I stay in the apartment, apparently word of your attitude already spread among the upperclass.” Tommy wagged his finger at you in a playful way that was entirely out of place.
“Look at her. Pouting. Not very excited, is she?” Alastor smiled at you, softly. You felt for a second that maybe you entirely misunderstood. He looked calm, normal. Even peaceful.
“It’s always nice when they fight a little. But she won’t cause you any trouble.” Tommy patted Alastor’s back, who immediately shirked away.
“Do you like it when women try to fight you off, Tommy?”
A dry laugh, “Ya know how it is. They gotta act like they don’t like it so people still respect ‘em.”
A hum. Alastor’s smile falling entirely. A shadow settled over his face. “I see. That does make things easier.” He slipped on his short black gloves. “I always tell her she looks lovely in red. She rarely listens to me, but I’m happy to see she did tonight. It’s a special occasion.” 
Once, you thought. You didn’t listen once. 
Tommy nervously chuckled, looking from Alastor then to you, “What?” Alastor grabbed him by the back of the neck, pushing him to the ground and onto his knees. Hand fisted in his hair, knife pressing across his throat. 
Alastor dug his knee into the small of Tommy’s back, “Tommy, I think you owe the lady an apology.” You let your feet find the edge of the canvas and slid it out with a kick. It glided across the wood and stopped where his knees met the floor. 
“I’m sorry! Fuck, I’m sorry.” Tommy was staring at the waxed fabric in front of him. 
You felt your eyes sting with tears, a smile breaking out against your will. “For what?”
“I—,” his eyes searched the room for an answer, your words bringing a pulse of Deja Vu, “It’s about yesterday?” He seemed to relax a little, “Come on. I said sorry. ” Looking back to Alastor. “I didn’t know she had a guy.”
Alastor yanked his head back to look him squarely in his eyes, “Wrong answer.” He pushed him down onto his stomach, “Come on Tommy. I like when my victims fight a little, too.” Sensing the taller man towering over him with the knife, Tommy scrambled onto his back to look at Alastor. Tommy started shouting, “Hey!! Someone!” But there was no one to hear him. That was the beauty of the space he always brought his dates to; it was too loud to hear anyone scream. 
Funny how that works both ways.
Alastor shrugged, “Well that didn’t last long.” As Tommy backed up, trying to get traction on the slippery canvas and failing, Alastor straddled him. Tommy’s hands came up, one pushing against Alastor’s face, the other against the arm holding the knife. Alastor put both hands onto the knife’s handle, staring down into Tommy’s eyes as he inched closer to the man’s neck. “You look scared, Tommy. Are you scared?” 
The other man shouted, eyes trembling as he watched the knife come down.
Alastor pushed through, metal sinking into Tommy’s throat. No pause, he withdrew and sank it again and again. Tommy’s hands fell from Alastor’s face, flailing slightly at his neck before slumping down. He was frenzied, stabbing at his chest and upward with wide eyes. You recognized those constricted pupils. They made sense in this setting. Alastor was panting, taking a second to split the skin from ear to ear in the middle of his melee. 
You brought your knees to your chest, watching the crime unfold. Was this anger for you or truly for everyone? No one ever got so angry for you before, if you could be so conceited as to say this was for you. Your mouth opened and you spoke without thinking, no filter. “You look like an angry God. A jazz demon of wrath.” You smiled, the morbidity not lost on you.
Alastor stopped, frozen as he stared at you. For a second, he had forgotten you were there. He was always alone during these hobbies of his. Until recently. You looked like an angel in red and gold. Had he dyed your heavenly robes crimson? Or had you been made that way?
He dropped the knife, peeling his gloves off and stepping over Tommy’s decimated torso before kicking off his shoes.
You scooted back onto the bed and opened your arms, welcoming a strange after-kill cuddle. Your reward.
Alastor took off his bowtie, then his shirt. It took you a second, not realizing what was happening until he began to unbuckle his belt. “Now?!” 
He nodded, “Yeah.”
“What the fuc— okay,” your hands flew to unclasp your stockings and roll down your panties. You mumbled to yourself, “Jesus Christ.”
As he crawled over you, warm gloveless hands tracing along your legs, hips, waist, you looked at up him with your now dilated pupils, “It’s murder? You need murder?”
He laughed, embarrassing you a little, “No it isn’t that.” His face nuzzled into your neck, “You’d go to hell? For me?” 
You froze, you hadn’t really seen it like that.
“You’d damn your eternal soul,” his hips pressed into you, an unfamiliar hardness there that made you gulp, “just to spend time with me?”
How were you so heated over an erection? A dime a dozen, men practically threw them at women who offered them the slightest smile. Yet feeling him so hard against you, something you had been practically praying for, made you weak. A trembling virgin all over again. 
Don’t lie, he always told you to be honest so you decided to try it out even if it made you feel at risk of harm. Your hands slid up and into his hair, gripping gently, enough to elicit a groan from him, “Well I was worried heaven wouldn’t have jazz, so… yeah.” You had to always say something a little in jest, to hide from the vulnerability of honesty, “This seemed like a better option.” The truth was, if you had to state it plainly, you would dive head first into hell in exchange for his smile. To hear his laugh. To feel his breath over your mouth. You were quite sure hell was more your scene, anyway.
“I’ll be sure to fill your afterlife with jazz every day, dear.” 
How could he make hell sound so sweet?
“It’s a deal.” Fingers playing with his hair, basking in the warmth of skin on skin. 
He leaned up, eyes scanning your face as he always seemed to do in these intimate moments. The feeling spreading down his chest was one wholly foreign to him, one he was struggling to put into his own words. You hadn’t run away. You opened your arms for him even still, welcoming your own damnation in exchange for… affection? Attention? Him? The reason didn’t matter, not to Alastor, and not now to his growing need. You didn’t even push him for more than he wanted to give, not yet needled him for details, secrets, sex. Could you really just be there for Alastor? Take him for what he was and what he wasn’t?
His mouth was salivating at the thought you’d give him anything. Reality was, you already had. His finger caressed the purple welt on your cheek. You were given pain and he returned it ten fold to its owner. A demon of wrath. He felt his cock twitching, underwear tented around him. 
You smiled up at him, wiping a little streak of blood from his jawline, “You look quite pretty in red yourself.”
His head came to rest on your collarbone with a shaky sigh.
Had you said something wrong? 
“Please, you’re already pushing me to my limit.”
Making a show of it, you zipped your mouth and pretended to toss the key. You wanted to reach down and pull off his remaining bit of clothing, to rub yourself against his manhood. But, you weren’t sure if that was something he would appreciate. You didn’t want to ruin his experience, to make him regret offering you something he so clearly didn’t need to give.
He removed his underwear, watching you unbutton your dress and pulling your arms free. Your bra, garter, and stockings were still on. Somehow he found it more scandalous than if you were completely naked.
Your breath was shaking, uneven as the excitement took control of you. There was a not totally unfounded fear you'd black out from hyperventilating.
Alastor lined himself up with your heat and pressed in, making a hard to decipher face as his brow knit up and he bit his lip. You were already so wet, not a hand or mouth needed from him. He wondered if you shared more than an acceptance of justified homicide; your body so relaxed and welcoming to him. 
With a few shallow thrusts, he was fully sunk into you. You may have let out a cry. An emptiness you hadn’t clocked was suddenly gone. Was this what Zeus meant when he said the two souled humans were too powerful and tore them apart to weaken them? 
Was this sex, or love? The word made you nervous. But—- if he offered it to you in both palms, you’d suffocate yourself in his hands.
He began to move in earnest, thrusting in and out slowly. You had expected the frantic moves of a horny virgin. Instead he was moving with control, hips rolling into you like waves gentle and steady where the lake met land, not slamming like many men before him. 
Had it been any other dick, you’d whine and begin moving yourself against it for that needed speed. This was Alastor. Dripping pleasure into your open mouth like a drought-breaking summer shower.
You didn’t recognize your own sounds, already panting and moaning as a warmth spread from the place where his cock was sliding around inside you.
Alastor tried to keep calm. Even when his body was sensitive, he wasn’t used to the mental work needed to fight off his orgasm. Usually he had the opposite issue, struggling to stay focused enough to finish. Mind wandering to more productive chores. 
But you were so wet, so accepting in body and mind. He watched your eyes close, one hand gently clawing at the blankets, the other reaching down to touch his lower stomach every time he thrust back in. For the first time in a very long time you really truly wanted to remember who was at the other end of the dick you were enjoying.
Languid moves. Swollen cockhead hitting the bottom of your walls, the top, the end, pushing still a little further.
“I’m sorry,” Alastor leaned down over you, kissing at your jawline, “For making you wait so long for so little.”
His rhythm picked up then, burying himself deeper into your sopping cunt and dragging out enough to pull back that quiver of his release.
You shook your head, lips tingling. “Nothing little here.”
He attempted a laugh, losing his breath. He wanted to last longer, to make the experience worth your while but he could feel you dripping down his balls and it weakened him with alarming efficiency. Finally the frenzied speed you witnessed earlier was turned to you, you brought your legs up, holding at his sides. “Darling I need to-,” he moaned into your ear.
“Please stay.” You clung to his neck, nails grazing at his shoulders.
Alastor’s voice was soft and sweet, a small moan and a gentle grunt. His legs spread more, trying to get every centimeter of himself into you. Hips now grinding in a small circle, but not losing any of the comfort of your warmth. You felt him still pumping that welcomed heat into you, and you tightened around him, drawing out your own moan. He hissed, “Sensitive.” Your legs were shaking like leaves in a storm, no orgasm but the pleasure nonetheless intoxicating.
The front of your brain felt like static, perhaps from the lack of oxygen as you had uncharacteristically lost your breath under Alastor. 
Like losing your virginity, after the fear faded and you were able to find a moment for introspection, you found yourself larger than before. The edges of your canvas expanded out, new parts of yourself unfurling for you to explore. Nothing had been lost, only gained.
Alastor kissed at the dark circle under your eye, at the bruise of your cheek, he lifted your arm and kissed gently at the purple and blue spots there too. He had lied, and he wasn’t sure why, but maybe he’d find the will to admit it to you someday.
He had left yesterday to keep from strangling Tommy in the center of the theater, finding himself in a rage. He rarely felt anger. His killings always about retribution, about karma, about righting the scales. He needed to leave to keep from losing his composure.
He lied to you in the alley, unable to look you in the eye when he did it for fear you’d see it. You always seemed to see him with a clarity others didn’t despite such a short time together. He struggled to hide from you and it was as exciting as it was frightening. A testament to your similarities.
He hadn’t done it for everyone. No. His personal moral code fell to pieces when he saw your bloodied eye and bruised skin. He would have killed Tommy even if he had been a good man, even if you’d been the instigator. None of his murderous rules mattered. And it scared him. 
(Next Part Next Week, orz)
*slang for boyfriend, often a rich one
༻Masterlist༺
∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):
@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,
@ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1 , @simphornies , @alleystore , @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @fizzled-phoenix , @fjorjestertealeaf , @phobophobular , @surusurusuru , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @simplyonehellofanotaku , @xixflower , @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it , @roxxie-wolf , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 , @watereddownmilk , @raynerrold , @crazii-saber-wolf , @valkyrie-expeditions , @bontensbabygirl , @sillyb0nez , @oo0lady-mad0oo , @jazzmasternot , @pseudobun , @fraugwinska✨, @alitaar , @straows , @alastorssimp , @angelicwillows , @b-o-n-e-daddy , @one-and-only-tay /
🏹Alastor stalkers: @celestial-vomit , @amurtan ,@valkyrie-expeditions
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itsokbbygrl · 2 days
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Just Stay.
- A GN!Reader x Jackson!Joel Miller story
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For my wonderful, lovely, kind, hilarious friend, Jo (@morgaussy/@merci-killing), who wants nothing more than to worship that old man. I hope this is to your liking ♡
Tags: 18+ MDNI, explicit content, BODY WORSHIP, slight size difference (reader is described as shorter than Joel), reader is generally able bodied and has hair but is otherwise not described, oral sex (M receiving), heavy petting, lots and lots of kisses, body hair appreciation, domestic fluffy smut, two goobers deeply in love, kink discussion (daddy kink, and per jo's request, "A secret barely there splash of mommy kink"), grief mention, TLOU2 Jackson Era (post-Ellie run away era, pre-snowstorm)
WC: 4.6k
A/N: this is full of lazy writing technique and i am aware! there is POV switching whenever i say so, get in both their brains, die mad about it POV purists :)
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Warm water, straight from the tap. Straight from the tap and into the basin where Joel Miller’s aching muscles are learning to relax, still, years after their first reconnaissance with a god’s honest bath. He can’t quite believe it. More than 20 years after the end of the world, where people starve and maim and kill and hunt to survive, there are still hot baths. He takes a deep breath and sighs in relief, letting himself sink lower beneath the surface, only the top of his broad chest and shoulders remaining above in the cool air of the home. He closes his eyes for a moment, soaking. 
The jiggling of the sticky front door knob calls his attention. An alertness solidified in a world consisting only of predators and prey. Kill or be killed. He knows, rationally, he’s safe here. His eyes clock his hunting knife laid safely on the vanity anyway. 
He listens to the familiar sound of your steps, the way you insist on toeing off your boots at the front door, the soft pattering of sock clad feet as they maneuver around the first floor, the creak of the loose floorboard near the kitchen island that he’s been meaning to fix. He can tell just from your movements that you’re hankering for a cup of tea—hearing the cabinet door close softly, always gentle, the ceramic clink of the base of your favorite mug coming into contact with the stone countertop, the metallic clang of the filled teapot as you set it atop the stove. He relaxes further knowing you’re home, safe. 
The water is just turning tepid when he hears the stairs creak, signaling your imminent arrival. He pushes himself back up to greet you, the cooler air causing his wet skin to break out in gooseflesh. He turns his head to find you standing quietly, hip propped against the vanity, warm mug cupped between your palms, eyes trained on him already, his favorite soft grin gracing your lips, plumping your cheeks. 
“Whatcha doin’ there, starlight?” he asks. 
“Just admiring the art,” you respond, raising your mug to your mouth and taking a slurping sip, careful not to burn the fragile skin of your lips and tongue. The response makes him chuckle and flush, blaming the pinkness brought to his chest and neck on the temperature of the water if pressed. 
His starlight. A beacon in the dark, guiding him home. He found you at a time when he thought he’d lost everything. Ellie had run off, and, terrified, he’d run after her. Once she’d been found, she’d confessed how she hated him for the choices he’d made for her, how she didn’t want to be part of his life anymore, and he’d agreed to her terms as long as it meant she’d be safe and home. He’d spent the entire ride back to Jackson fighting off the grief that threatened to overtake him. He wasn’t sure how he was going to cope this time, losing another daughter. At least this time he knew she was alive, could watch from a distance as she grew, could talk to the other townsfolk and get updates on her life, make sure she was ok. 
That was where you came in. You’d been serving at the local watering hole, The Tipsy Bison, when he’d come in for a drink. You’d poured his whiskey neat, just as he’d requested, and quietly left him to his thoughts as you tended to other patrons. He sat quietly, sipping his drink and listening to your conversation. His ears perked up when he heard you mention your students having a hard time with an assignment you’d given recently. He knew everyone in town shared responsibilities, should’ve figured you would have more to offer to Jackson than to only be a bartender. When you came over to check on him, see if he wanted another pour he assumes, he cleared his throat and asked about your other role as a teacher and your entire face lit up as you gushed about your kids. He tried to listen, but found himself lost in the feeling of being a kid again, the awe he felt the first time his dad had taken him and Tommy out to the wide open Texan countryside and shown them how bright the stars could shine. 
He tuned back in when he caught you talking about one student in particular you had connected with—his Ellie. How she was a natural writer, so creative, always scribbling in her journal. Mostly doodles, but over time you described how you’d earned her trust and she’d opened up a little more, shown you some of her poetry, how you’d encouraged her to keep writing. You talked about how she was quiet, shy, kept to herself most of the time, but she had a lot to say on paper. Joel tried to tamp down the proud tears that threatened to well at the news. She was ok. She was going to be ok. 
Joel kept going back and you were always there for him, greeting him by name with a soft smile, pouring his glass of whiskey before he’d even had a chance to take a seat on one of the old wooden barstools. You’d formed an easy friendship and before he knew it, he was inviting you over for dinner. You’d gone a little speechless and he worried he’d overstepped, but then you’d let out a breath you must have been holding and giggled, burying your face in your palms for a second before you found his eyes again and the way they shone for him was nothing short of celestial. You’d agreed, and the rest is history. 
“You wanna get in?” Joel asked, motioning to the tub. 
You shook your head. “Not today. Just want to keep you company if that’s alright.”
“Course that’s alright, sweetheart. Make yourself at home,” he said before going back to relaxing, closing his eyes.
You watched him ease back into contentment in the water before you moved, opening the cabinet below the sink and stealing a couple clean towels. You placed them on the floor next to the tub before kneeling atop them. You took a long drink from your mug of tea before placing it aside. You looked over the products on the tub ledge and grabbed the shampoo. Quietly, you leaned over, laying a soft kiss to Joel’s exposed shoulder before whispering in his ear, “Tip your head back for me.”
He did as instructed, sitting up from the wall, keeping his eyes closed and tipping his head back. You grabbed your mug of tea, draining it before quickly rinsing it in the water, filling it and carefully soaking his sweat damp curls, using your hand to ensure none of the water dripped forward onto his face. You then uncapped the shampoo and squirted a small amount into the palm of your hand. You lathered your hands together, causing the shampoo to begin sudsing, and brought your fingers to his scalp. He hummed in bliss as you began massaging the soap into his tresses, the day’s tension easing from you both as you cared and were cared for in return. 
After a few minutes of gentle ministration, you guided his head back with your fingertip under his chin before rinsing the suds from his locks. You then reached for your bottle of conditioner, something you typically reserved for special occasions, and squirted a dollop into your hand before softly carding it through his hair. You let it sit for a bit, rinsing your hands in the water and allowing yourself a moment to admire the man in front of you. He was remarkably beautiful—strong, broad, sun speckled chest giving way to a softer stomach coated in a fine layer of soft brown hair that drew your eyes southward to where his thick cock laid softly against the crease of his thigh, his legs strong enough to walk or ride for miles. Scars littered his skin and you mentally pressed a kiss to each one as your eyes worked their way back up to his face. His eyes met yours there and he leaned forward, capturing your mouth with his own. He held you in place with his palm in its favorite place, cupped around the side of your jaw, thumb finding its place in the divot next to your ear. He kissed you deeply for a few more moments, pouring all of his affection for you into it. You smiled, effectively breaking the embrace, and left him with a final peck to his lips, the tip of his nose, his forehead, before maneuvering him once again to rinse the conditioner from his hair. 
Once clean, you helped ease him from beneath the water, wrapping him in one of the towels, now body-warm from where you sat, using the other as a soft barrier between his wet feet and the cold tile floor. He lets you care for him without a word, chest warming as you dry his body and leave sweet kisses in the towel’s wake as you go. He laughs good naturedly when you try to comb his hair back and have trouble reaching, bending down to make the job easier. His heart swells when he sees you grab your precious jar of aloe from the countertop, swiping your fingers through the gooey substance and working it between your palms. 
“Can you sit on the toilet for me, please?” You ask. He plants a kiss on your head and complies, thankful for the warm towel you wrapped him with saving his damp skin from the cold porcelain. You stand between his spread thighs and begin your work, piecing together a clump of curls and twisting them around your finger, effectively applying the gelled aloe before giving the little ringlet a squeeze and moving onto the next piece. Joel sits calmly, loving the feeling of your fingers in his hair, the way you love him so simply. He wonders, as he often does, how he got so lucky to find such goodness in a world gone so rotten. 
You take your time, dipping back into the jar of aloe you harvested earlier that week as needed, ensuring each ringlet receives the care it so deserves. You love doing this for him. You love this man—this man with his reputation for violence, this man with a karmic debt that may never be fully repaid, this man whose hands were made to create, not destroy, who patiently sits with children as he teaches them to play the guitar, who misses his daughters more than anything in the world. Joel Miller, who protects the least of these with his gun and his knife and his bare hands. The same hands that delicately carve in his workshop, drafting some of the most intricate pieces of woodworking you’d ever seen. 
You finish the last curl at the base of his skull, just behind his ear. You give it a little tug and watch as it springs back into shape, smiling at the sight, before leaning down to leave a kiss there…and there and there as you move down the column of his strong neck. You feel his large palms grip your hips and you move your kisses northward, along his jaw, to his mouth where he meets you, urges your mouth open to lick inside and explore. You pursue a deeper physical knowledge of him in return, giving as good as you’re getting, tongue dancing behind his teeth, cataloging every crevice, every bump and ridge, deciphering the taste of him as if he were a fine wine—notes of apple and coffee and his 5pm pour of whiskey and something uniquely him. 
You feel his hands roaming, making their way to the front of your jeans, pushing the button through its hole and tugging down the zipper before stuffing his hand inside. He gives you a few firm strokes over your underwear, just to feel, to be so close, and you allow him to explore for a moment before you break your kiss to rest your forehead against his. 
You shake your head softly when he attempts to move his hand beneath your cotton barrier and he stills his hand. “Not tonight,” you say quietly, “you first,” and you step back before sinking to your heels in front of him, grabbing the towel from in front of the bathtub and placing it under you before kneeling forward and meeting his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, mouth shiny and flushed with arousal, his chest and neck blushed a beautiful pink. You think he’s never more beautiful than when he’s about to get his cock worshiped by your reverential mouth. 
You reach up and gently unfurl the towel from where it’s tucked at his waist, allowing the soft graze of your fingertips to lightly tickle the skin of his stomach, the muscles beneath contracting in their wake. You unwrap him like the gift he is, allowing the towel to open fully, exposing all of him to the room. You take in the sight of him, hard and drooling at the tip, thick thatch of curls nestled at the base, strong thighs parted to cradle you between them. You turn your head to the side and lay a kiss to the inside of his knee, up his thigh, right to the crease of his sensitive groin, before repeating the motion on the other side. You hear him groan and look up to find his head tipped back, already losing himself to his pleasure. You’ll never get over how easy he is for you, how much he clearly loves the way you love him. You repeat your favorite vow to whatever god is listening, to love him forever if they’ll be so gracious. 
You reach up to grip the heavy weight of him in your palm, curling your fingers around him as much as you can, and give him a few gentle strokes, the velvety soft skin warm in your hand. You feel his pulse combine with your own as you glide your thumb along the veiny underside. A fresh drop of precum oozes from the tip and you’d be remiss to let it go untasted, leaning forward to meet the spongy head with the wet warmth of your tongue and lapping at it, thankful for its musky, salty gift. You’re sure at some point you’ve stepped out of your body because everything goes quiet as you taste and taste and taste him, lathing your tongue over and over the weeping head while your hand continues to stroke, kissing the very tip of him gently before trailing your lips along the length of him, down to the base and tonguing back to the top, mirroring your actions on the other side, lifting him to give attention underneath, not wanting to leave even a millimeter of him unfound by your mouth. 
“God, baby, there you go, so good at this,” Joel’s praises bring your head back above water, but all you want to do is drown. And so you do. You flick your eyes up to meet his before opening your mouth wide and allowing the thick length of him inside, sliding him along your textured tongue, and closing your lips around him tightly. You hold him there for a moment, watching his face as you roll your tongue along the underside of his cock, sucking in a stuttered pattern, allowing the pillowy softness of your inner cheeks to hug him briefly, before pulling off and refilling your lungs. His eyes glisten just as yours do. He cups your face in his palm and you turn to kiss him there. He pushes his fingers into your hair and gently scritches at your scalp. You close your eyes and lean into the gesture before returning to prayer at your altar. 
You take him as deep as your jaw will allow over and over, not caring for how messy things are getting as you continue the push and pull, saliva pooling on your tongue and dripping along his length, down the corners of your mouth, off your swollen lips and onto the towel below. You can hear him moaning with abandon now, knowing he’s loving this as much as you do. You tenderly roll his sac between your fingers and he tugs at your hair, so you continue your ministrations as you suck. 
“Shit, baby, gonna make me cum,” he warns. You pull your mouth off him and continue to stroke him with your hand. 
“Cum in my mouth. Please, want to taste you, want to, want to,” you stutter, mind focused solely on him, making him cum, easing him into blissful release. You open wide and take him back inside, closing your eyes and losing yourself to the feeling. You grab his other hand with your own, holding tight to each other as he helps guide your head exactly where he needs you. You suck and suck and suck until he grants you the prize you’ve eagerly anticipated, and he does it so beautifully. The sounds he releases from his throat resonate against the tiled floors and walls of the room, reverberating into your bones. His lashes fan and grace the tops of his cheeks where his eyes are squeezed tightly shut. His pillowy lips part, the plushness marred by his own teeth marks, bitten in an effort to not give too much of himself away too soon. He tastes so deliciously of man—clean, soapy, salty, musky—as he releases onto your tongue, into the back of your throat, and you make every effort to gracefully swallow everything he gives. 
Once he’s finished, you softly suckle the last of your combined fluids from his length, ingesting them to become one together inside you. You leave a parting kiss to his length in thanks for all he’s given you before you allow Joel to haul you up to meet his mouth. He kisses you fiercely, tasting himself there. You know him almost as well as you know yourself, and you know he’s itching to return the favor, but you slow him, softening the kiss until the temperature returns to a simmer. He holds you there against his bareness, one arm keeping your head against his chest while the other strokes your back and you mirror him, fingers running gently all along his back. You feel more than hear when he speaks as it rumbles from his chest. 
“Thank you, darlin’. Love you, more’n I thought was possible,” he says. You sigh and kiss his chest, wrap your arms around him tighter. 
“Feeling’s mutual, my love. I promise,” you assure him, giving him a final squeeze before stepping back, keeping his hands in yours, not wanting to completely break contact with him just yet. “Come with me, we need to get you dressed.”
You lead him by the hand to your shared bedroom and sit him on the edge of the bed. You turn around and find the dresser where you keep a majority of your combined clothes—yours on the left, his on the right—and pull out a well worn tee and pair of grey sweatpants. You bring the clothes back over to him, setting the pants aside for the moment, and unfolding the t-shirt. 
“Arms up, baby,” you instruct. He complies amusedly, raising his arms above his head while you drape him in soft cotton, paying careful attention to the collar, ensuring it’s stretched wide to not disturb his drying curls. Once the shirt is tugged down to cover his soft belly, you move to his pants, scrunching up one leg and feeding his foot through before repeating the motions with the other side. “Stand, please,” you request. He stands, allowing you to tug the waistband up over the swell of his ass, carefully pulling the material over his front to not accidentally overstimulate his now soft cock. You eye him up and down, nodding in approval of your handiwork. “Beautiful,” you say under your breath, not intending for him to hear, just for yourself. 
Joel doesn’t remember the last time he felt this way—so deeply cared for. For as long as he can remember now, he’s been the provider, the protector. He hasn’t had a moment to slow down since before Sarah was born, 30 some odd years ago now. And it feels…nice. He feels small in some ways, but not diminished, never with you. No, he feels almost young again, experiencing this kind of selfless love that he’s only ever experienced before from a parent, and something clicks for him. He sees you near the hamper, changing out of your day clothes and into your own pajamas and he gets you, understands you on a deeper level than he had just hours before. He lets you finish your routine and make your way back over to him, anticipating you getting into bed, but instead he’s met with your hand reaching out for him. He takes it in his own, he’ll always take it when it’s so graciously offered. 
“C’mon, let’s have a snack, worked up an appetite,” you say jovially. He snickers, thinking to himself that he fed you pretty well not 10 minutes ago, but he’d follow you to the ends of the Earth if it meant you’d keep smiling at him like that. 
You lead him downstairs to the kitchen and sit him in his chair at the breakfast table he made just for you. While you putter around, preparing the two of you a small meal to share, he thinks about how beautiful you look in the morning light, the early sun catching on your hair and in your eyes. And you, you give the sun a run for its money with how you shine, bright and golden, warming everyone you come into contact with. You make it so easy for him to forget where you all are, when you are. Nothing is simpler than time spent with you. And now he knows you even better and he isn’t sure yet how he’ll quite thank you for that. 
In what feels like just a blink, Joel watches as you plate a simple late evening dinner of eggs and toast for the two of you, an old favorite of Sarah’s, nothing sillier to a child than having breakfast food while the moon sits high in the sky. You bring the plates to the table and sit across from him. He hooks his foot around your ankle as soon as you’re settled. 
“Thank you, sweetpea. You didn’t have to do all this,” Joel tells you as he accepts the proffered fork. 
“I know,” you respond, stabbing a bite of your scramble with your own cutlery, “but I wanted to,” you finish simply, popping the eggs into your mouth with a smile. Joel returns your smile and digs in. 
The two of you quickly polish off your plates, leaving nothing but the crumbs from the bread you’d baked a few days prior behind. Joel moves to clear the table and you allow him to, but join him at the sink, grabbing the dish towel from its place draped over the left half, falling into your regular routine—Joel washes, you dry. 
“You know,” he starts, “I think I understand you even better now, after today.”
You turn to look at him with an amusedly confused face. “In what way?”
“You know how sometimes you ask me to be your “daddy” in bed? I love you and I would do almost anything for you, so I’ve never had a problem with it, and I love how it seems to make you feel, but I didn’t fully understand it before,” he pauses, giving you time to respond if you felt you needed to, and turns to see you’ve paused with plate in hand. He fully turns his body to face you now. “I think I get it now. The way you took care of me tonight? It was…almost parental? But it wasn’t at all at the same time. I think,” he tries again, “I think the only other time in my life I’ve experienced that kind of selfless…devotion, I guess…was from a parent. And obviously you’re not my parent, but…fuck, I’m fucking this up, aren’t I?” he asks self-consciously, unable to meet your gaze. 
You bring your fingers to his chin, lifting his eyes to meet yours before you speak. “You’re not fucking anything up. You’re right, that’s why I like it, why sometimes I need it. It’s the way you take care of me. You make me feel so incredibly safe, Joel,” you answer him. 
Joel pulls you into his chest, gently rubbing your back. “It makes me so, so happy to hear that, my sweet starlight. Always want you to feel safe, loved, taken care of here.”
Your hands snake up the back of his shirt, needing to feel him closer, flesh on flesh. “The same goes for me, you know? If you ever need, or want…I want you to feel that way, too. I love taking care of you, too.”
Joel leans down and kisses the top of your head, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of you, wanting to solidify this memory for as long as his mind will allow him to hold it. He considers leaving the dishes in the sink to be tomorrow’s problem, wanting nothing more than to return to bed with you, but he knows he’ll be frustrated when the egg has glued itself to the pan and he has to really scrub to remove it. He reluctantly releases you from his embrace and turns back to the sink, washing the remaining plate before handing it to you to dry, and doing the same with the utensils and the old, salvaged steel pan. 
Once you’re both satisfied with your work, you close down the kitchen in tandem, flicking off the lights and heading back to your room. You move to your respective sides of the bed—Joel going left, you going right—before climbing beneath the old, soft comforter. You’re both wiped from the day’s activities, opting to just turn the lights out rather than do your usual song and dance of reading for five minutes and falling asleep with the book splayed open on your chest, leaving Joel to gently dogear the page and set it on your bedside table before clicking off your lamp in fond exasperation. In the dark, you hear him shuffle, turning towards you. 
“Hey, darlin’?” he asks, getting your attention. 
“Yeah, baby?”
“Can you, umm, would you hold me tonight?”
“Of course I will. C’mere, my sweet boy,” you answer. Joel turns over again and shuffles back, allowing you to snake your arm over his torso and bury your face in his shoulders. He holds your arm in place and it feels…right, so nice and comforting and he gets it. 
“Thank you. For everything. Never known a love like this, but you make it so easy. Not sure how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”
“Just stay, Joel,” you answer simply, “stay with me. That’s all I want, all I need.”
And he thinks he can do that. And he sends up his own prayer, his favorite vow, to whatever god is listening, to let him stay with you forever, to let him love you until his dying day, that they owe you that much at least, your simple wish. He’ll do whatever he can to ensure it comes true. And as he drifts into unconsciousness, held safely in your arms, he thinks he never wants to be anywhere else. 
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thank you for reading ♡ please reblog or leave a comment if you enjoyed!
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AITA for making my ex taking medication as a bargain chip for us to get back together?
This happened a while ago but I saw some posts about the right of someone to go unmedicated and now I feel bad and wonder if I was shitty 💊🧘‍♀️ mentions of death, pet endangering, pet death, untreated mental illness and if you call them a narcissist I will steal your left socks. Also not disclosing their diagnosis because you guys can't be normal about mentally ill people.
So me and J (about 25, I was 22 at the time. Name changed for privacy. Both of us is NB) had a extremely quick developing relationship where in 5 months we went from dating to living together. Don't judge me okay I was 20 when we met and I needed a place that wasn't my parents house. Sorry, this will need some context. J convinced me to drop college due to mental health and to move out of my roomies house for privacy reasons.
So three days before my 21th birthday, J lost her brother due to an accident, and we moved together anyway. One month after her brother passed her cat also passed away. That made the grief way worse and about 10 months into the relationship she tried to choke my cat because she peed in the wrong place. I told her I was going to leave her and in result she slitted open her arm with a box cutter.
Later she admitted to be hurting our two cats when I wasn't home by choking and almost drowning them.
By december of the same year I came out as aromantic and she was extremely shitty towards me from deceiving her because she thought I actually loved her but that was all a ruse. So we broke up for real this time but kept living together because well, it was unfortunately what we had and we couldn't move to our separate paths due to our income. That was january with until march/april more or less when she noticed i was pulling guys like no one and hooking up constantly (that was self harm but that doesn't justify it. In my defense I told her just because she would ask me repeatedly if I was hooking up with guys and always wanted to know where I was going). I also went back to college and started hanging out with other people that seemed to actually like me!
Keep in mind all this time she was unmedicated and when I tried to bring up she need therapy and medications she would shut me down, even before the break-up.
And then, by may she was crawling at my feet because she wanted me back. And I cared a lot about her. So I put in my conditions that unless she was medicated and on therapy by the end of july, I would never consider going back to her. And would you look at that, it actually worked because before june ended she was both medicated and on therapy and I said well you did your part, and went back to her, with her now.
Btw for all that matters I am 25 and broke up with her again from almost 2 years now but last time I talked, she was still on therapy and medicating herself, making a bitter remark on how "that's the only way people can stand her, that no one can stand her true self"
So, AITA for making my ex take care of her mental health before I considered going back to her?
What are these acronyms?
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To hunt or be hunted #4
Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader x Lucifer Summary: Truth unveiled, Alastor being unusually touchy, Lucifer being himself. Warnings: Mentions of child death.
Hazbin Taglist: @sakuraluna2468 @boogiemansbitch @mysterypotatoink
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One year and seven months left. You reminded yourself while watching the black snake tattoo that slowly made its way up your arm, soon it would reach your heart and all would be over.
“Ten years, you work for me at my Hotel, and if I can’t manage to convince you to find something good to do with yourself, I’ll set you free” Charlie’s voice resonated in your head, it made no sense, but the true meaning of the deal was that if she could manage to help you find a reason to continue living, you would have a permanent home at the hotel.
If she couldn’t, you would have your soul back, and then the snake takes care of ending your suffering.
A swarming of feelings and thoughts came from thinking about the countdown, “It’s probably the best” who was going to miss you anyways? No one did back at the living world, your daughter died post-partum, your husband had died because of his sins, most of your friends at the time flew overseas looking for a better life, and there was no family left to mourn you.
Still isn’t.
Your father and your husband were most likely around in hell somewhere, in a hundred years you haven’t bothered to check, probably ended up repeating the same pattern: Gambling, debts, death.
May was a dreadful month, Mother’s day, your daughter’s birth and death anniversary, and just by the end of it, your birthday. Turning 40 is bad, but imagine turning 140 years old, that is worse.
You died at 35 years old in the 1920’s, since that to now it’s been 104 years, plus your age at the time 139, now turning 140. “It’s a blessing that I stayed looking the age I died in, otherwise I would be looking worse” you outlined your hips with your hands while straightening the leather straps around your waist.
‘Y/n, can you come to the parlor please?’ you heard Charlie speak through. You immediately knew what was going to happen, giving that it was nine Am sharp, and you weren’t summoned to make breakfast.
She either told them, or Angel was going to be fried alive.
Just as you guessed, there was Charlie in front of the fireplace, as the rest, except Alastor, looked rather hurt and shocked, specially Lucifer and Vaggie.
“You called?” the smoke cleared, making yourself appear sitting on the couch next to Charlie. A gasp found its way out of Vaggie’s throat before anyone could say anything. The angel collected her thoughts and then she was able to speak.
“Charlie, what the fuck is the AXE-MAN DOING IN THE HOTEL!” Vaggie didn’t doubted a second to stand before her with the spear pointing at you, “She’s the chef of the Hotel” Charlie smiled weakly, trying her best to stay collected. “Since when?” the feline bartender asked, not minding your presence very much.
“Before it started actually, eight years now?” she turned to you for confirmation, which you nodded affirmatively. “And you hid this, because…?” Angel’s turn to ask. Charlie was in shambles trying to come up with an answer that wouldn’t raise more questions, but failed, so you interceded.
“We made a deal; we don’t need to disclose the details, but it made her feel guilty” she shot you an unamused look before turning to her partner, her hand softly tracing the outline of her cheek.
“How come you got angry at me for lying to you, but you keep this kind of secret, honey?” ‘Oh hell no’ master or not, you weren’t going to allow that girl to talk to her (or anyone) like that.
“Hey now, whether she wanted to tell you or not it’s my and her business, but you hid the fact that you are an angel, worse than that a murderer, and no better than us sinners, so don’t act all hurt because now you two are even” your eyes lit up as the staring began to feel more lie a threat towards the fallen angel.
“You knew?” she diminished the distance between her spear and your neck, not earning a single flinch on your part, “One piece of advice, your golden blood leaves a trail, and the stench is very… specific, those like me that are used to blood can tell the difference” Alastor nodded in agreement.
“Why didn’t you tell me” Charlie sounded suspicions not hurt, to no one’s surprise really, “Last thing I knew I was a chef, not the gossip press” you took a look back to Vaggie, using a finger to lower the spear with zero effort, “Besides, wasn’t my secret to disclose” you winked an eye.
“Wait hold on, what makes the Axe-man want to work in a place for redemption?” Lucifer questioned, now more relaxed, he was all and hellfire before thinking you had taken her daughter’s soul. “She’s…kind of…forced to be here” another gasp.
Everyone turned to you, “I’m not ashamed of it, I got my ass kicked by miss sunshine here, lost my soul in the process and now I’m the chef” all except you and Charlie laughed, tearing up a little too.
“Charlie doesn’t own a soul, don’t be stupid, she’s lying right, Charlie?” Lucifer, watched his darling, perfect daughter image crumbled when all she could respond to that was a quiet shameful nod.
“YOU OWN A SOUL?” the shock was understandable.
It was too much for Lucifer so he sat beside you, holding his head on his hand, “Before you all judge her, I was stupid enough to challenge her when Lilith had just left, she was in a very dark place, my timing was terrible”
“How dark?” the king whispered your way, “I was her punching bag” he muttered a ‘oh shit’ both impressed and somewhat feeling guilty. They both had similar eyes when it came to pain.
“The infamous Axe-Man of New Orleans, I must say I am a big admirer of your work” Alastor came forward, grabbing your hand and placing a chaste kiss on your knuckles. “Oh, how unfortunate” he knew your name from above, so he lived around or in New Orleans.
“Why would you say that? You made an entire state fear your axe, for years there was nothing but jazz playing in the streets at night, and what’s best you were never identified nor caught” he pulled you from your seat, hitting his chest, his cane disappeared, leaving his free hand to sneak behind to hold your back in place.
“Well, I’m not that person anymore” Alastor drank in your scent, the sweetness burning its way down his lungs.
Every fiber, every hair on his body, told Alastor to run. Animal instinct, a deer in the jaws of a lion, a prey in front of a carnivore. Maybe because of the post-battle adrenaline he didn't feel the same instinct when you helped him. What will you feel with him so close? hunger? anger? lust? Curiosity ate him alive, he wanted to know what was telling you your instinct, how would it feel to be eaten by you.
“What made you bury the hatchet?” Angel’s pun made you smile, “Alastor” still in his arm, you felt him shift. “When you made yourself…present in hell, young, power hungry and all that, something inside me just told me that it was time to stop” ‘or else it was going to end with blood’ you thought. 
“Also before all this, I had heard about the cannibalistic murderer” you were aware of his aberration to touch, but given his closeness, you had no choice. Both of your hands settled on his hips, mostly for leverage, but to see how he would react to you.
“What an honor, I must say your performance inspired mine” his smile twitched, specially after feeling your warmth though his coat.
“You’re insulting me, Mr. Heartfelt” his chest tightened, a growl emanated from your throat, subtle but it made Alastor’s mind cloud a little. Focusing on your dilated pupils at all times to read any sign of warning, he saw nothing, no emotion whatsoever.  
“Your act was sloppy, careless. The bullied that became executioner of his bullies, tell me, do you feel better?” He didn’t understood what you were implying, once he tasted human meat he just couldn’t stop. He never asked himself if he was content, or if the blood made him feel better.
“You only targeted Italian mobsters; I’d say that’s rather sloppy” that’s all he could think, “And yet I didn’t allowed myself to be shot in the head” there was a weird aura surrounding you and him.
The situation was charming, two assassins of excellence, powerful Overlords with influence and stigma. Despite their sins, they were beautiful beings full of life and grace. Lucifer couldn't help but feel a tingle on his back watching such a scene. It seemed like they were going to devour each other, and relish in it.
“Disappointed?” your fangs shined with the firelight. “A little” he answered, expecting you to be more sanguinary, just as you used to be. “I’ll make Jambalaya today if that makes you feel better” but no matter what he did, while froze in place, like a deer in headlights, you couldn’t make him feel less excited, so alive.
“Thank you chérie, what about my work as of late?” reluctantly he let go of you, taking both of your hands in his.
“Very entertaining” he has a very slim waist, and yet it felt strong under your fingertips, warm. He has his hands and forearm blackened, just as his legs must be. The rest of his skin must be of that beautiful cream color. Of course, his chest wasn’t bald, like you he has a thin layer of short and soft fur.
“Get a room” Lucifer broke the moment, making Alastor’s eyes turn into the demonic radio stare you knew so well, “Funny I didn’t think such a tiny person could have a massive mouth” he then stepped away. Was it normal to be cold? Your body missed his closeness.
“Here he goes again, how about you help me with breakfast munch-king?” Lucifer felt his jacket being pulled off the couch, dragged by it towards the door that lead to the hallway to the kitchen, “Did you seriously called me that?” he allowed that, with a smirk he gave Alastor the finger.
“Want me to sing the song too?” you warned with a smile, “You wouldn’t dare-” your arm hugged his small frame into your side as you started to mock him, “Ding Dong the witch is dead!” you started, dragging the king down the hallway, “STOOP!” that was the last thing the crew heard before the door closed behind you.
🍎📻
“So, you challenged my daughter?” you hummed a yes, “She took the split a bit bad, huh?” on the corner of your eye you could see him sit on the kitchen island, just a few inches from where his daughter had hurt her hand.  
“I’ll send you my medical bill” your sarcasm made him laugh a little, “You don’t look like you belong in the sin of pride, yours must be wrath, isn’t it?” do demons look accordingly to their sins? You didn’t knew, “You tell me, I have yet to allow myself to ponder over what I have done”.
“I think I didn’t introduced myself, please forgive me” you left the kettle under the fire and walked over him, “My name is Y/n” you extended your hand to him, he took it with a smile. “Lucifer Morningstar, you may call me however it pleases you” his touch was gentle, but firm, you could feel his pulse though his gloves.
A thought tickled your brain, “In that case, would you like sugar or honey in your tea, Samael?” his eyes shifted, his horns grew. Like wood, like wood, his gaze was the same as his daughter's, and yet they harbored both hatred and sadness, both as deep as an abyss.
It shot an intense wave of electricity up your spine. You stood in front of the biggest predator in all of hell.
“Sorry, sorry, I just wanted to get a reaction out of you” he hadn’t let go of your hand, nor squeezed it, “I apologize, my king” your free hand caressed over the fabric.
He pouted, still not letting go of your hand. “If you let me touch your ears, I may forgive you” he turned back, you caught the sight of his tail slithering inside his pants.
“Sure, but please don’t get too close to the inside, my instincts are very strong and unforgiving, I would hate to have your blood on my uniform” You couldn't even finish speaking when he pulled your hand, immediately starting to touch the fur surrounding your ears. His knees settled on either side of your hips, taking advantage of the extra height the furniture provided.
“So soft, it’s so weird, a lion sinner, usually it’s a loyal, brave and true creature, heaven material” the sensation made your heart flutter. You felt like a dog, which made your ego bruise up a little, but at the same time his hands were warm and gentle, he took your advice and avoided the areas that you mentioned.
“Anyways, you’re forgiven, again, you’re very soft” Another cold feeling due to loss of touch, how annoying. You swallowed a lump of saliva before you could speak again, “Thank you, I take care of myself”.
“Oh and the note, thanks, it hasn’t been easy” he didn’t eased the pression on your hips,  “Marriage ain’t easy, and being apart after thousands of years must be rough” it’s not like the closeness bothered you, but it grant him a cocky smile and a sense of power over you, that feeling brought back the feeling of looking like a dog.
“I just…I wish I could make it up to Charlie” his hands grabbed one of yours, fidgeting with your fingers and the palm. “If it makes you feel more at ease, the sole fact that you’re here partially does more than enough” the light in his eyes lasted a few seconds, it was a lovely sight.
“Partially?” worried? Understatement. “If I say it you can’t hit me or anything” he made an X over his heart, then his hand went back to yours.
“She lied to you and you just went along with it? Parenting 101, mutual respect: she doesn’t lie and you don’t either” he applied a light pressure to your hand pads, making your claws come out and retract, that seemed to amuse him.
“So I have to…ground her?” his golden gaze went up to your eyes, but you were far too concentrated in his movements. “Well not now, but maybe speaking with her about it might be the right course of action”.
Melancholy, he had a feeling so he went for it.
“You were a parent?” he was right, your pained expression lasted a second but it was enough for him to feel a pang on his side. “For a day and a few hours” your eyes darkened, as it they were lost in a thought. The warmth of his hand on your cheek and a soft ‘My condolences’ brought you back.  
“I just know appropriate parenting by taking my parent’s example and do the opposite” you masked your pain with a smile and a smart remark, just like him, “Yeah, me too” his response made you scoff, “Where would you’ve sent you daughter for this kind of idea, Heaven?”.
Laughter filled the room. He wouldn’t do such a thing, nothing Charlie did would make Lucifer banish her anywhere, much less punish her like that for trying to help others.
“I had a different perspective of you” your tail stiffened around your leg, “What, a soulless maniac killer and nothing more?” you used to be like that. He laughed, “I mean, soulless indeed” you ruffled the hair that fell on his forehead, “But I’m glad I was wrong, thank you for taking care of my daughter, I see she trusts you a lot” you wouldn’t call it trust, nor she relied on you much.
Now that you think about it, taking care of her was instinctive, “I just grew used to her this past eight years” he smiled, “Thank you” he sensed the shift in you, the situation tensed up very quickly.
“Don’t, and just to be fully open about it, you were my objective” you would never show your fangs to anyone, looking like an animal doesn’t give you the right to act like one.
“Wait really?” his lips twitched, almost smiling. “I thought if I bruised up your daughter you would appear, but you saw how that ended” he hummed, rather amused. Your intimidation did nothing to him.
“Are you strong enough?” his question, he was insulting you? “Are you offering to fight?” you looked  at him up and down, not a trace of malice. “I mean if that’s what you wanted?” he was willing to fight with you? “I…I knew I wasn’t strong enough, nor I am now. To be honest, I wanted to pass to history as a crazy bitch who died at the hands of the devil”.
‘I’m oversharing, shut up’ you took a deep breath, adjusting yourself in between his legs, “I see” his breath hit your skin, “Now I just do this, and I’m fine with it”.
“I’d say, you’re terrific in the kitchen, no matter if it’s a served cold or hot type of dish, you always make it taste like home” your ears flattened against your head. “Thank you” he then looked up from your hand once again, a tender pink hue adorned your cheeks.
“Anyways” you got rid of his touch, as well as separated his knees just enough to walk a few steps backwards, “I have to make breakfast, and I just pulled you away because your constants fights with Alastor has gotten old very quick” you walked away, taking your white apron off the hanger, then tied a lovely bow on your back with the laces.
“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, see you later then” was that disappointment? You didn’t knew, and couldn’t care as long as your body remained trying to shake off the excessive heat, and the phantom of his touch still lingering. “Fuck” thinking about it made you cut your finger with a knife.
-------------------------------------------------
Stay tuned :3
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smellrain · 10 hours
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in which: Jack has liked you for years, but so far you have been oblivious to his feelings. Will the guide he made with the help of his teammate make you fall for him? Or will it end up destroying your friendship?
tags: written, use of alcohol. (masterlist for this au) (my masterlist)
notes: hi so uh. I'm really excited and twice as nervous as usual about posting this. It's hard to put it into words, but there is something very fragile about this to me. come tell me how you liked it!! Enjoy :)
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Jack let his head fall against the sticky counter of the bar table. Dawson, who sat next to him, shot him yet another worried look but Jack couldn’t really find it himself to care.
On his mind was still you, from this morning when you had come over to get your jacket that you had forgotten at his place a few days ago. You, who had stood in his apartment, laughing at something he’d said, the sunlight hitting your face at just that right angle to light up your eyes in a thousand different tones of the same colour. You, you, you. 
“Don’t worry about him, he is probably pouting again.” Jonas said over his head, “what was it today? Did she jokingly talk about setting herself up with one of your friends again?”
From the other side of the table Holtz chimed in, “no, I think she might have just looked at one of his friends for a second longer than at him so he got jealous.”
The others laughed. Jack wanted to defend himself and argue that that would never happen, but it had, once, so they weren’t excatly wrong. 
Now, sitting in this bar, already halfway to being drunk, Jack contemplated the choices he’d made thus far that had led him here. Being laughed at in a shitty, almost empty bar where only a handful of people recognized them. 
Maybe he should just quit hockey, pack up his things and just move to a foreign country where no one knew him and start coaching instead.
One thing he was sure of however, was that he should definitely get new friends. Preferably ones that didn’t bully him half as much as his current ones did. 
Then Nico interjected, “c’mon guys, don’t be mean.”
Jack allowed himself to turn his head so that he could look at Nico and just as he wanted to thank him, Nico continued. “She probably just stood in his kitchen and looked happy and he was just reminded that she wasn’t officially his.”
Okay, fuck him too. Back to plan A, dreaming about running away. Why was he still on this team with these people anyways? Luke, probably. Instead he just mumbled a “fuck off,” to his friends that only laughed in response. 
Nico’s statement hit a little too close to home. Was he really that pathetic? So what if he wanted to come home to you, to be the one that wakes up next to you, to be the one you fell asleep on when you were drunk (which you always insisted wouldn't happen this time but it always did anyways), to be the one that leaves the hickies on your skin he saw once when your skirt rode up high when you tried to pet a cat that kept trying to escape you.
“No but seriously,” Jonas said, and the others quieted down, suddenly caring about what Jack had to say, “why don’t you just ask her out? What do you have to lose?”
Nothing, actually. But then he thought about you, about what could happen if you rejected him or what happened after came crashing down, because relationships with him always ended brutally. 
Jack had everything to lose, because he could lose you. “Her.”
The others were silent after that and Jack didn’t want to lift his head and face whatever expression was on their faces now. It was hard sometimes, being honest like that. 
“So you just need to make her fall for you, right?” Holtz said.
“Just?” Jack replied, jokingly, but it came out rawer than expected. As if that wasn’t the crux of the problem, the way his feelings for you remained unrequited. 
“C’mon there was a reason everyone calls you ‘pretty boy’. If you can’t make her fall for you then I don't think she will ever settle down.”
The others that were listening to their conversation agreed and a sliver of confidence flooded back through him. Jack lifted his head from where it had been stuck to the table. “Okay, but how do I do that?”
“Simple,” Nico said, his eyes alight in the same way they were when he discussed a weakness in the other’s team's defense they could exploit, “we brainstorm and make a plan.”
Jonas seemed to like it, “a cheat sheet to make her fall for you.”
Jack perked up at that. It seemed worth a shot at least. Even if you didn’t respond to his advances, at least he’d have tried. “And if that doesn’t work then you should give up on her.” Holtz said.
Jack knew this. That realistically he couldn't pine for you forever, but suddenly there was something bitter in his mouth.
This would be his final chance, his final attempt after trying to subtly flirt with you over this past year. He had been steadily brushed off and he wasn’t sure for how much longer he could stomach the constant rejection. Jack looked at his teammates, the ones he had trained with, the ones that had always stood by his side, the ones he trusted with all he had. If they couldn’t do it together then he knew that he truly gave it his all. 
“You know what,” he grinned, “I’m in.” 
The rest cheered and clapped him on the back, as if it was as simple as that. Despite not wanting to, he was happy. With their help he might actually have a shot at getting your attention.
This was so stupid, so reckless, and yet he was just so indescribably happy that he had these people in his life that would support him and an idea as stupid as this one. 
Maybe, just maybe he wouldn’t have to run to a new country just to find new friends. 
Without meaning to, he almost started laughing. It might just be insane enough to work. Even if it was a stupid idea, he had to try it, because you were worth it. Worth all of their efforts combined.
So, Jack took the piece of paper that Nico had somehow gotten from the barkeeper in the meantime, clicked one of the pens that he carried around everywhere and wrote down: 
Jack Hughes’ guide to falling in love. 
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taglist: @alwaysclassyeagle (send me an ask to be added!)
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ellilyre · 2 days
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Ive lose the ask asking for my transmasc!Leo headcanon TT but i have them written down so imma post em like that
Leo transmasc headcanon
(many things are based on my own experience. Especially the dysphoria related things (so when i talk about Leo not being a real boy it is what he thinks bc of dysphoria. It’s not true.))
(warning angst angst (but thats Leo so that was expected)
it was so obvious even when he was small. He always wanted to play with boys, wear boys clothes, ect… His mom was fine with it. She bought him boys toys and clothes and even sometimes called him hijo. She was a bit confused, but she knew it made her child happy and it's all that mattered. 
However, it didn’t go that well with his foster homes. However much he tried, they always stuck to his deadname and she/her. That was a big part of the reason he kept running away. 
There really is no story behind the name Leo. He picked that one bc it sounded cool. 
Once he got a good enough passing, he did everything he could so ppl will assume he’s cis.
Don’t ask me how he gots his hands on hrt. It’s a long and weird story.
The wilderness school was very strict about not mixing girls and boys in dorms. 
Piper was his roommate, that’s how they met. 
In their memories created by Hera, Jason has kinda always known he’s trans. So Leo never bothered to hide it from Jason (as he does with others).
But Jason doesn’t have much (any) education on transidentity… At first he assumed Leo was a cis guy, and then some things were a bit confusing (why was he in fem dorms ? Why does he wear a tank top under his shirt ? Did he just ask Piper for a tampon???) but he just kinda gave up on trying to understand, bc Leo is a nice guy anyways. And with time (and exterior knowledge on the matter) he started to put the pieces together and to understand that “ooh ok that makes sense". 
Otherwise. Leo has no desire to get out of his comfortable closet. 
He has such a fragile masculinity 
Sometimes he acts a little bit macho. He’s aware he’s acting like an asshole but he’s terrified of being perceived as feminine. 
Why does he try to flirt with every girl he sees ? Another attempt to pass better (and comfort himself in his fragile masculinity) by copying stereotypical boys' things.
He overbind so much, GODS. Man will wear his binder for 11h straight (while fighting and running around) and then have the audacity to complain that his body hurts.
Piper tries very hard to remind him to take proper breaks. 
Jason is the biggest gender envy ever. He is handsome, tall, muscular… Leo really loves him but he also is so jealous and envious. 
He is very envious of other boys in general. 
When Percy got woken up in the middle of the night and left his cabin shirtless. When Frank went to take a break in the men’s restroom…
Gods, he would do anything to just be a normal boy. To be like them. To have their bodies. To not have to destroy his body to look slightly more masculine. To not have this constant fear that they’re gonna find out. 
And to add to the reasons why he felt so much like the 7th wheel : Among the 7 there are 3 girls, 3 boys… And Leo. Forever inbetween. Not a girl, but not a boy like the others either. 
Fortunately, with time he learnt to accept himself better and to feel more comfortable with others. 
Piper helped him to go easier on himself. And he had an actual proper talk with Jason.
The first person he actually came out to was probably Annabeth, bc she’s cool and wise and nice. 
And then he saw it actually was ok. She didn’t treat him any differently, she didn’t tell anyone else. She was cool with it.
He then told Frank and Hazel, with Piper’s help (mostly to explain to Hazel all those new terms). And it also went very great ! He then also told Percy and Nico. 
He’s not entirely out, just to his closest friends and his siblings at camp. And it’s enough. 
He still overbinds, but he has ppl to (discreetly) remind him to take care of himself. He’s still very dysphoric but his loved ones know how to remind him that he is their brother, an amazing boy.
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Ok, there was a post I never got to write so now I don't get to post a HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT update. But I want to write it anyway.
TMI, weird personal symbolism, etc.
There's a type I rather dramatically call "people of dark water" and it's usually women. Very rarely represented in media. Almost-tricksters with some kind of important personal truth if I try to boil it down to a sentence.
They usually have been wounded by something most people never notice (canary in the mine situation) or have the privilege never to encounter, and then made it into a strength somehow.
(watch me fall for someone like that every time)
I came up with the term when I learned that in Old Irish and in Proto-Indo-European there was a distinction between clear flowing water (danu) and dark deep water (dubros in PIE, dobur in Old Irish specifically). You can still see it in places' names across Europe (Danube, Dover, etc).
In part, Childe excites me so much because he's that. He's like all the women I've ever loved except that he's a guy.
There's also a Jim White's song Still Waters which is exactly about a person of that type if you look at the lyrics. The tone of the music doesn't match at all though. His still waters are Louisiana swamps, not sea or lake depths.
And I always wondered what would a character or an irl person of that type look like.
And when Aventurine came out I sort of nodded to myself and decided that yeah, that's it. He's that type. Nice to finally have an answer.
"Still Waters" became my Aventurine song.
So imagine my surprise when I used Aventurine's overworld skill and saw a "Still waters run deep" status appear.
*pauses for a moment of incoherent shouting*
A coincidence and something about archetypes, I know. It's a popular proverb, it fits him well and there's no way someone in Hoyo even listens to Jim White. Even Americans don't know him, he's a musicians' musician.
Also I'm not sure whether a similar phrase even exists in Chinese and maybe this parallel happens only in English translation.
Still, I feel like reality just glitched ot something of that sort.
Don't you know there are projects for the dead And there are projects for the living Though I must confess sometimes I get confused by that distinction And I just throw myself into the arms Of that which would betray me. I guess to see how far Providence Will stoop down just to save me.
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kerubimcrepin · 2 days
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Liveblog - Dofus, livre 1 : Julith [PART 10]
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These sweets are so appetizing...
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Due to the way this stall looks, I am assuming that these are types of candy that ouginaks and ecaflips love, and not literal animal food. Tragic.
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Things Joris wants forgiveness for: leaving a bestie with cops (after she asked him to leave), disobeying his father after he folded on their plans for 99th time, telling his father that he's CRINGE and FAIL using his real cringe fail moments, and running away while having a mental breakdown.
Danmn he's so evil and bad for this fr fr......
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Anyway, I think Joris's love language is gift giving and acts of service, and Kerubim's is words of affirmation and gift giving.
(This is wild ass headcanon territory because Atcham is a rarer character, but: Atcham's are acts of service and quality time. Source? It came to me in a vision.)
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The street signs in this movie are killing me.
The Dofus Pets 2 ad says Dofus Pets 2.
Cute ad! It looks familiar though...
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There ain't no way that these two pieces of art don't use some of the same reused assets...., I refuse to believe in that reality.
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Joris is dissociating and Khan is trying to get his dick wet. Their friendship is so special.
By the way, the fact that they cut the "Khan makes/lets Joris do underage drinking, with many horny Khan-loving women present" scene still haunts me. Why? Why must have they forsaken me this way...
I still believe Khan bought Joris alcohol on regular until the guy was finally 18. I want to live in a world where Khan helped suicidally depressed 14yo Joris have a "coffee with cognac in the morning, chicken with cognac in the evening" lifestyle, and it's like one of the reasons Joris is still alive or something.
My other thought on the topic is that Atcham (imagine him being physically 4yo in this scenario), taught Joris how to smoke cigars. And then he had the shit beaten out of him by Kerubim (also 4 years old).
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This is like his 60th divorce.
And he's never even been married.
Man.
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The reaction to the door opening is IMMEDIATE.
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THE PLATONIC DIVORCE #61 HAS BEEN CALLED OFF. But genuinely, it's so cute seeing how happy he is...
Joris thinking these things about him is his worst nightmare. AND the little guy is in danger. So, chances are, for a few hours he spent time thinking about how bad of a father he is, and how it's his fault that Joris is god-knows-where and in danger and also HATES him and will NEVER forgive him.
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AND the disciplinary action he takes is just so chill and cute... (cough-cough, my own thoughts on whether Joris was based for this aren't relevant, because 1. he ran off god knows where and children shouldn't do that, and 2. even though his grievances are valid, he did bring them up as hurtfully as possibly, with some really fucked and irrelevant things too, just to make Keke feel pain at that moment. Which is not something one should get in the habit of.)
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Your agonized twitching and worried faces have both bewitched me heart and soul.
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He's literally still infant/toddler sized... So small, compared to Lilotte...
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Sometimes, we say horrible things, when we're angry. They love each other so much... They're both willing to look past all the imperfections.... (throws up on the carpet like a cat)
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No commentary, I just like seeing him afraid.
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She and Kerubim have beef, as has been mentioned in many past posts.
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Bakara does her fighting with the same icy, emotionless expression, that she had during her conversation with Kerubim at the bar. This is her "I am going to kill everyone in this building" resting face for when Julith is mentioned.
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Kerubim is SHOCKED by how fast she leaped into combat. Also, I want to think, disappointed. This is too dangerous of an enemy to spring into action like that, simply out of rage, while having literally no combat experience...
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Because like, Kerubim and Julith are veterans of a war/multuiple wars.
While Bakara is a 20~yo, freshly graduated, alcoholic nepo-baby.
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Let it be known I don't like Julith. She is a fun character to watch, but... I feel like the fandom treats her as someone who's done no wrong, despite all the evidence we are given to believe that she is a horrible person.
She was framed, and she did love Jahash, but that doesn't take away from anything else. She beat the shit out of Bakara here, even though she could have restrained her much more gently, — she dug into Bakara's insecurities and called her a poor little fool too.
I really doubt Jahash would have liked that. (Same for her plans of killing a thousand people though, so, I really doubt she gives a shit about his wishes at this point.)
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She does THIS SHIT. Jesus christ! Maybe, just maybe, she would know of your feelings, because she loves him just as much? Maybe that's why she wants to kill you as much as you want to kill everyone in Bonta? Have you thought about that, you hot topic customer-looking edgelord?
Besides her hypocrisy, she was known for her ruthlessness, even before the war. There's a reason they still call her a butcher. Which is why I kinda dislike how often this stuff is swept under the rug by fans making cute content.
...I do support women's rights, but I also support women's wrongs, and Julith has a lot of those. She's tragic, but also evil.
Unlike someone like Nox, she makes no effort to empathize or connect with people who oppose her, and knows no mercy. At the very least, Nox had a twisted sense of morals, and could whip out an epic "you're just like me fr...." during a battle.
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pinnapop · 24 hours
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death of an author, reclamation, and you
"We never are what we intend, or invent 'Cause I make little lies and then I pull them apart Think something dark's living down in my heart And if I wanted to die before I got old I should've started some years ago digging that hole"
Brand New. "At the Bottom." Daisy, 2009.
Brand New was among one of my favorite bands in high school, and I still listen to them today. Their music is important to me and shaped a big part of who I am. Their lyrics about being tortured, burnt-out, and choking on the weight of your own self-perceived flaws are relatable! Their compositions ooze with a level of self-hatred that can only be genuine. It's utterly depressing, and I adore it!
That's not not the full story, though. Jesse Lacey, the vocalist of Brand New, is a sexual predator. This informs everything about how the music of Brand New is. It's self-loathing for a very good reason. I love Brand New. I condemn Jesse Lacey. These two statements coexist. I used to be a part of the /r/brandnew subreddit, and when the allegations against Jesse Lacey came out in 2017, many redditors of that sub were quick to claim "death of the author." After all, the band had broken up immediately after the news broke, and they had also cancelled their tours. Currently, the people using that subreddit mostly talk about buying old BN merchandise and discuss what their favorite concert memories were. Jesse Lacey himself confirmed that the allegations against him were true, so there isn't much debate to be had. The subreddit serves as a monument for fans who still enjoy the music, and as a platform to speak about it with like-minded fans.
In my opinion, claiming "death of an author" is a slippery slope. We can't always claim that Miku is the creator of Minecraft. But often, we see that that is the response people have when a creator is outed to be problematic; "I still like the thing So-and-So made, so I will ignore that the creator exists!" The reason that this worked for Miku Minecraft is because, by the time that Notch was publicly making transphobic comments, he did not own Minecraft anymore. The joke is quite literally that he does not own the thing that people like. He sold it to Microsoft, so he doesn't get royalties from it anymore. You can play Minecraft devoid of supporting its original creator. This joke works so well because it is an actual case of the death of an author! That's great and all for Minecraft, but what about other instances? What happens when we claim "death of the creator" erroneously? And why are we so obsessed with this concept anyway?
So like, back to Brand New... they released their last album, Science Fiction, back in August 2017. The allegations came out later that same year. I own all of Brand New's discography physically, including their last release. I bought most of it off eBay when I was 15. I was not supporting them post-allegations. But that leaves me with a lingering question- what do I do with all these CDs that I still very much enjoy the music of? From how I see it, there are two firm camps on this topic:
Camp 1: You know about Lacey's crimes now and his music cannot be separated from his actions. Solution: Throw your CDs away.
Camp 2: It's something you bought without knowledge of Lacey's crimes, so you should enjoy it anyway. Death of an author! Solution: Continue as usual.
I'm not fond of either of these answers. They come off as too polarized for a situation that is the entire Pantone swatch library of grays. "But, how are there any shades of gray when its clear that Jesse Lacey is in the wrong?" I want to provide some counter questions for you to think about:
What about the other people in the band? You might not be directly supporting the sexual predator anymore, but there are other victims here too- effectively his band mates lost their jobs overnight. (Another example would be LOSTPROPHETS)
Is it feasible to destroy each object you own because it was created under problematic circumstances? When or when isn't this the case? Does it apply to your cup of coffee? Does it apply to the clothes you wear? What about any product with palm oil in it? What about the hardware in your computer? If you look into any company, you're going to find some horrific things you don't like about it. The takeaway here is that it isn't beneficial to treat situations like these as black or white. I don't think that destroying my CDs is going to do anything to take away the abuse that Jesse Lacey caused. Nor do I think ignoring the context of his music will do anyone any favors. The music he made is a product of his crimes. To ignore that fact would be disingenuous to why people enjoy his music and why the music exists in the first place. There's another element here, though. I, and many others, are no longer monetarily supporting Jesse Lacey. You can't even officially support the release of Brand New's music anymore as their record label (Procrastinate! Music Traitors) doesn't even seem to have a functioning website anymore? Regardless, I wouldn't want to support his music in a way that supports him, anyway. Yes, I enjoy the music and the themes of it, but I do not want to be directly supporting abuse that happened BECAUSE he was a vocalist in a band. And I can safely do this with CDs that I bought secondhand, right? This is death of the author. So what's the issue?
I believe there is an issue when people claim “death of the author” far too quickly and scramble to reclaim the media for themselves. It’s an increasingly popular trend these days to pluck characters/concepts from an author deemed to be problematic. "I'll save [Character I like] from this shitty piece of media!", they claim. I don't think people realize how multifaceted in effect that is, though. For instance, if the author is actively making money from their creation, you can't truly "reclaim" a character from them. It's more like you're paying homage to them with fanart.
My best on-going example of this would be Floraverse. There are a multitude of reasons why people do not like the author/s of Floraverse, which I will not go into here. To put it simply, though, since its inception in 2013, many artists and writers involved with Flora either left or were kicked out. These artists either directly contributed to the art and worldbuilding of the webcomic, or were heavily influenced by it. To this day, there are many times someone links me to art on Discord and I’ll say “oh I remember that person, they used to be a Flora fanartist!” and the other person is absolutely floored that that artist was ever linked to Floraverse. Anyway… There have been multiple attempts at people trying to reclaim Floraverse from the author, and this never works out. Like, it really doesn’t work out. Any time that someone tries to reclaim Floraverse characters for themselves whilst condemning the author, that person is dogpiled by the Floraverse community. Which is a weird behavior for a CC BY-SA webcomic, but I digress. Here are some highlights:
In 2019, there was a thread dedicated to Redesigning Floraverse that immediately got taken over by Floraverse itself a month later.
An artist got harassed for multiple years (I think it was 2020-2023) for having an oc based on Beleth, a character in Floraverse.
Just 2 months ago, an artist got harassed for drawing fanart of the characters
Historically, reclaiming Floraverse characters from the author hasn't worked out. And I mean.. why would it? It's an actively running "webcomic" (I'll be charitable) and with an active community that supports the author's current works and views with their wallets. It's one thing to enjoy a piece of media with a problematic author and want to reclaim that media for yourself. It is another for this reclamation to actually be effective. Attempts of "reclaiming" Floraverse get written off as fanworks that the community dislikes. You cannot reclaim Floraverse characters as they do not exist in a vacuum. Listening to secondhand Brand New CDs does work in a vacuum; Jesse Lacey's career is dead in the water. The same cannot be said for reclaiming the art of Glitchedpuppet and co. Floraverse characters and stories are not divorced from the abuses they cause. Characters will be used as strawmen to abuse community members, past or present. Or entire works will be up dedicated to making light of your childhood trauma! These characters were made by an abuser, and will be used to abuse. That is a simple fact about Floraverse. Except... in that statement, I'm not even talking about Glitchedpuppet, the current author of Floraverse. I'm talking about Marlcabinet, the previous author of Floraverse. This statement does however, apply to both of them. Hey, wait a minute, that's weird! I've been talking about "death of the author" for this entire post, and I just said that reclaiming Floraverse characters can't work because the way the characters were used to abuse real people doesn't exist in a vacuum. So like, why does this work within the Floraverse webcomic itself? Marl is the abuser of Glip, but Marl is also the author of the majority of early Floraverse. Isn't the story itself, as it currently stands, an act of reclaiming characters used to abuse community members, minors, and any detractors? Then who is to say that those who contributed to Floraverse and were similarly abused are not also allowed this same privilege? Their real-world suffering is what fuels the comic. When I was 13-16, I adored a Floraverse character named Cayenne. His whole deal was that he was an autistic child slave and was horribly abused by everyone around him. Weird character to connect to, but he’s the character that made me figure out I had autism! I drew a LOT of fanart of this character and I even own a (gifted) life-size plush of him. The authors only ever treated him as a joke and it was a joke even within the Floraverse community that I was the only person who actually liked/cared about him. Sometimes I think about reclaiming him for myself. But I also don’t want to get harassed, and I know I could design much better things, and write better things. Conversely, I also think about how this is the exact character that made me get into contact with Marl when I was 16. It’s a heavy weight to carry knowing that this exact character was the reason I was almost in the clutches of a child predator. Glip personally deferred me to him. Reclaiming Cayenne would hold emotional value for me as a reminder of my triumph over a predator. Would it be wrong for me to reclaim an abused child character from a comic that abused me and many others as children? I've no clue. And I don't think anyone can answer that. I've waffled on it for ~2 years now. Reclaiming Cayenne would give attention to an individual that profits off abusing others, myself included. I'd say that reclaiming Floraverse characters wouldn't be a case of "death of the author", but the original creator of them was a child predator that's no longer on the internet. Floraverse is already practicing death of an author, and it is a shell of its former self. That being said, it is not a story that only has one author. Its other authors are still active, and these authors include every person that it has abused in its wake. After all, it's a comic that relies on you to know about its dramas with and traumas of real people. Tell me: Does a death of the author matter when its being written about you?
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wanderfan2000 · 2 days
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The Depression - WanderFan2000′s Side of The Story
Before I get started with this, I need to say for the sake of my viewers. What I’m about to talk about is MY side of this Tumblr drama that’s been going on around here regarding me and my love for the Wander Over Yonder episode, “The Lonely Planet”.  Keep in mind when I first read the post, I felt depression, flabbergasted and shock all take me over. I couldn’t shake it off and it still continues to take me over this morning. So, without further ado, let’s begin with…
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“Why do I have depression?” you might ask. Well, I’ll explain…
I was looking at the “Wander Over Yonder” tag like I always do when I came across a post written by a fellow tumblr blogger, it involved a question with highlighted words as I clicked on it, I never thought I’d find myself in the MIDDLE of a Tumblr drama war.
The story in particular was all about my countless obsession with “The Lonely Planet.” It even included pictures of questions I told some other WOY fan about the episode and how I wanted them to draw fan art of the episode. Then I started reading more, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing… 
The blogger was explaining how the lonely planet artwork, the questions, everything related to said episode was basically just a giant huge pot of NSFW content and many other things. I didn’t quite understand it, but once I did, shock and depression took over my body. 
Now that I’ve gotten the backstory out of the way, let me explain MY SIDE of the story…
First of all, everyone should know that I would NEVER in my lifetime do ANYTHING to harm Wander, he’s a character who I love and will love forever. I clearly don’t understand why on earth the Wander fandom wants to go against me, especially after seeing what I have been doing regarding my fan artwork of a sentient talking planet we’ve only seen in ONE episode and especially, the thing about me not giving a hoot about the opinion! 
But there’s no need to attack me or say anything about it. Just because I’m obsessed with an episodes of Wander that involve him getting captured by a lonely, sentient planet who ties him up with plant vines DOESN’T mean that I obsess with these episodes MORE than the entire series. I love the WOY series as a whole, each episode is unique and special in their own way, plus I always get a laugh out of a lot of them.  Now, lemme talk about my art work of Wander and Janet: 
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One thing I’d like to point out that whenever I draw Wander and Janet together nowadays, I draw them as Forever Friends. Because I like to think that Janet enjoys loving over Wander as a friend rather than trying to force him to love her. NTM, she has Maurice as her husband now.  Now I understand that a lot of folks aren’t fans of the whole “plant vines tying around Wander’s wrists ofc, many of them aren’t fan of the vines touching his face ether”. In fact, in a deleted storyboard, there was going to be a scene where Wander was completely surrounded by plant vines. It even mentions that the vines were going to be stroking his face. This never made it into the final episode, tho. Thank grop, I can’t even imagine what the fandom would’ve done with THAT. 
But anyway, the plant vines in all my fanart for this episode aren’t stroking Wander at all, they are cuddling him sweetly. (Well, in Janet’s defense.) Because the vines love him just like Janet loves her forever friend. 
Yes, I know it’s a lot to take in, but I wanted to express my feelings for what I do whenever I draw fanart for Janet. 
Listen, guys, I apologize for any convenience that my artwork, questions and screenshots centered around this episode have made you all uncomfortable. But you need to keep in mind that it is still based on the episode with a different twist: Janet is now obsessed with having Wander as her FRIEND, NOT keeping him as her lover. I mean, sure, I draw artwork based on what happened in the actual episode, but it’s fun to draw something different that Janet can obsess with Wander.  The thing is I don’t want you to view me as a bad person, especially someone who you think is obsessive with fetish. But I am NOT OBSESSED WITH ANY OF THAT! I don’t want to draw A N Y T H I N G that could cause a problem in the fandom. 
Also, the artwork that I draw of The Lonely Planet in particular, talking about it, screenshots I share, I keep all of this FRIENDLY! I don’t want them to be viewed as “NSFW” content because I would NEVER do anything to upset you guys out there, you are all my FRIENDS and I LOVE all of you! 
So, please, don’t block me just because of my obsession. I’m a friendly person who wants to love everyone I meet on here. I’m sorry if the thing I did made everyone upset and uncomfortable. I won’t do it again. 
- WanderFan2000 
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ink-the-artist · 1 year
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Rabbits
Some bonus art, I initially started making this in a totally different art style but changed my mind about halfway through lmao, here are the parts I finished
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duskerot · 11 days
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i disappear inside myself / my friends don't know it can't be helped
[Pure You - Nothing But Thieves]
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mothssoup · 2 years
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— maybe you’re both a little scared of having the other’s lives in your hands again
SORRY SORRY I HAD TO DRAW THIS SCENE THEY MAKE ME ILL
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koipalm · 9 months
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cyno my love
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crunchchute · 1 month
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holy moly. just hit 1k. thank you!!
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coffeemira · 8 months
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need an age regression/de-aging fic where a post-KH4 riku has to take care of a younger sora, and bb sora is just completely awestruck over how strong and kind and pretty (and tall!!) his best friend riku got… and is so transparently smitten that riku, who is actually dating present-day sora, is just like: wow we really were oblivious how did either of us miss sora’s glaring crush on me??
#soriku#i’m picturing like… sora right before kh1 or post-kh2#old enough to have butterflies over this other riku but not quite old enough to know what it means yet#just a puppy crush#there’s angst potential too if it’s kh2 sora before he found his riku#so he throws himself sobbing at older riku#but a BBS sora bouncing around teen riku would be very cute also#anyway i would write it myself but i don’t have the time#also am not confident about writing children#i just want riku getting to see firsthand that he wasn’t the only one pining for years and years#and that sora always loved him even at his worst#8yo sora doesn’t care that his riku teased him sometimes he still wants to play games with big riku#10yo sora doesn’t understand why his riku said they’re too old to hold hands#and is thrilled that big riku is happy to give him hugs and ruffle his hair#kh1 sora doesn’t care about their old ‘rivalry’ or that his riku was working with maleficent#he is just overjoyed to learn that riku came back to the side of light and that they get to be friends again#kh2 sora is loud about how much he missed him and very impressed by how far riku has come as a keyblade master#(also blushes when he sees him working out and then is confused as to why)#(i am thinking of that one manga panel where sora talks about riku’s “big arms” and how he can carry big logs by himself lmfao)#any of these soras would follow a cool older riku around like a duckling and be wowed by everything he does i am convinced
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