#doing drawing exercises when I struggle with a drawing

[letswonderspirit]

Thank you for tagging me for Wip Wednesday @cookietastic! I am practically made out of wips and sketches.

Mostly I have unfinished drawings of mini comics, they take a lot of time to do lol. Tagging @maya-must-art @keylime-bat-art @necrocoleum @ectospacecadet if you wanna join, but it’s no pressure! 🕺

[wigglebox]

Suptober - Day 2;

Pillow Talk

[aria0fgold]

How is it possible that this is when I figure out how to draw a bigger body, like I knew the head needs to be smaller but I never figured out the shoulder proportion of it but I accidentally did it today... Cuz I made Owen's head small (good start) but couldn't figure out how to get his body started and it Looked okay until I zoomed out and realized... my guy has a bigger body than Cain like aRE YOU SERIOUS

[letters-to-lgbt-kids]

My dear lgbt+ kids, 

I had a panic attack in my kitchen the other day. 

It was a really warm evening, I was making dinner in the kitchen and I noticed I felt a bit weird. At first I didn’t pay it much mind, I was probably just annoyed at having to stand at the hot stove in this weather, but then the thought crossed my mind “What if I falsely believe this is some harmless discomfort and I’m actually having a heart attack?” - and those of you who struggle with health anxiety as well can surely imagine it was all downhill from there. Suddenly I got dizzy and my chest hurt and I felt like I couldn’t breathe… 

And I said to myself “These are all the symptoms of my usual panic attacks, these aren’t new or unusual symptoms that require me to get medical attention right now”, so I turned off the stove and did the first aid I learned works for my panic attacks:

I went to the fridge and got an ice cube and held it in my hand, until that sensory stimulation snapped me back to reality. And when I could think clearly again, I felt safe enough to do a deep breathing exercise and go through my “Why do I feel so shitty” checklist (checking for unmet physical needs I may not be consciously aware of), and I realized I was dressed way too warmly for the weather, so I changed into something lighter - and then I went back to making dinner. My “heart attack” was just me overheating and then my anxiety attaching a wrong interpretation to that. 

That’s a pretty boring story, right? Nothing dramatic happened. But that’s exactly why I share it with you. 

When you’re young and mentally ill (or if you have been freshly diagnosed with it, at any age), a common fear is that it’ll stay. You’ll be like this forever now, you’ll never go back to normal. And so positivity often focus on recovery, on “it’ll go away one day, you just gotta be strong until then”. And maybe it will! Mental illness is a pretty vast umbrella term, some conditions under it can be cured completely. 

But I wanted to share another perspective here: even if it won’t go away, even if it indeed stays forever because it’s a chronic condition or a treatment-resistant one (or because you learn, after years of wondering why your depression and anxiety won’t go away with traditional therapy, that you’re actually autistic and need a completely different approach than a neurotypical patient (hi, it’s me)) .. it won’t feel like it did at the beginning forever, simply because it’s no longer so new. When it’s new, you have no blueprint on how to deal with it. It’s a situation you’re thrown into with no prior training - of course you feel completely lost and hopeless! 

Mental illness is a real illness and as any illness, it’ll affect your daily life - but over all those days, you learn more about it. You try things to cope with the symptoms and realize that some techniques work better for you than others. Even if you can only learn to manage it rather than cure it: you figure out how to deal with it better. You draw your blueprint. 

It’s still part of your life but it’s no longer the showstopper. It becomes just a boring story of stopping dinner to take care of your symptoms first. And that’s something to hope for, to fight for. 

With all my love, 

Your Tumblr Dad 

[innaillus]

Drawing Ryōmen Sukuna

Development notes

This post has been in the making since last year, before the manga has reached its current arc. My aim was to respond to comments that pointed out that my version of that time didn't look like the one in the anime. I calculate everything I do and the way I do it. My current goal is to share my thoughts on the development of my take on him - simply because I'm a nerd when it comes to anatomy and I love figuring things out. It involves a lot of thinking, questioning, analysis, dissecting information and building theories. So I totally understand if it's not anyone's cup of tea.

MANGA SPOILER WARNING

The very beginning

I used to have a serious case of lack of self-confidence. My earliest art of Sukuna dates back to 2021, but it always felt like my skills are not worthy of this particular character. I never shared my art. I was also struggling to find my artistic voice. I was obsessed with the idea of semi-realism, but even if I managed to pull it off after weeks of stylisation practices, I didn't like the results.

Due to personal reasons, I stopped trying to draw him for a long time.

The development of "my" version

It was an entirely conscious decision to draw him differently.

The top reasons for the change was that I didn't want to sexualise him in his host, Yuuji, who is a minor. Back then I thought he inflicted the deformation on himself (extra limbs, eyes, etc), for the sake of efficiency, and I was curious what he looked like before that - or what he would look like in a civilised environment.

During the process, I considered a number of factors:

the beauty standard of the other JJK men - I wanted him to fit the lineup - his original appearance made him stand out quite much

in a setting where he adheres to the rules of society, more or less, I believe his MBTI personality type (ENTJ) would dictate a lot of his choices when it comes to appearance, at least to a certain extent. I thought he would choose to have an appearance that fits the beauty standards of the era

I kept his tattoos because it's a very distinguishing feature of him, but I also exercise freedom in the way I draw them, to make them as stylish as possible

Reincarnation

I used to believe once he reincarnates, his proportions would be closer to that of a "normal" human, even if he has some extra limbs. However, his size and features are above and beyond of what we are used to, and even the story emphasises their malformed appearance. So a a whole new era of Sukuna started in my art. I chose my favourite manga panels of him and mix-and-matched the most attractive features into a figure that I consider on the fine edge of monstrosity and unconventional handsomeness.

Even when I draw him with a regular number of limbs, I keep his usual mass and proportions. I dubbed this form "true gains" form.

I also realised that some of the tattoos Yuuji's body displayed was a product of the partial reincarnation stage, like we see it on Tsumiki's forehead.

NOTE: Did anyone notice that Sukuna is getting progressively more and more human/handsome in the manga? When he took over Megumi's body, I also noticed that as the story progressed, he started to look older and more mature. I'm curious of it was a conscious decision.

Twin dilemma and speculations

According to the Japanese wikipedia page, the mythical figure Sukuna could have been a conjoined twin. Despite my extensive digging in the matter, I was shocked by the recent lore drop.

My question: what does Sukuna look like in a universe where he did not absorb his twin in the womb during development?

It hasn't been confirmed, but I find it very possible now that he was born with his extra limbs, eyes and mouth, as well as the deformed, wide features. (...as opposed to my first theory about him altering his own body for the sake of efficiency)

This, however, would mean that in a universe where both him and his brother are born healthily, he would look different. There is the obvious lack of extra arms, eyes and mouth - but I believe he would also be closer to the JJK beauty standard of men, as far as proportions go (eg. more narrow face, anime-esque nose, larger eyes).

At first I was hesitant to accept this idea, as I'm very attached to the 4-arm hulk / "true gains" form now, but then I realised: this would mean that "my"version of him actually has logically explainable place in at least an alternate universe.

Thank you if you got this far.

I may edit this post later. Let's see where the story takes us.

[fischlkin]

✦ as you wish.

your lover will always come back to you.

character -> xiao.

info -> inspired by westley from the princess bride! sfw! established relationships, fem!reader.

w.c. -> ~550.

a/n -> can you guys tell who my favorite genshin boy is

all you have to do to compel xiao to rush to your side is say his name. whether you whisper it softly or shout it in desperation, he exercises the same urgency in reaching you.

you miss your lover so, but he has matters to deal with along the traveler's side. it's been a couple days since you saw him last, longer than he normally spends away from you. you lean against the railing out on the balcony of wangshu inn, scouring the horizon for any sign of your lover coming back to you. the chill of the night breeze draws you back inside, where you sit at the foot of the king-sized bed you and the adeptus share. you sigh, longing to receive the yaksha into your arms again. he did not reveal to you the details of his adventure, to your disappointment. you thought it must have been because the nature of his mission was dangerous.

your lips part to elicit a low mumble. "xiao, please come back and let me know you're alright." it's more of talking to yourself than really trying to communicate with him. after all, you don't want to take him away from something bigger than you.

even so, your heart skips a beat when the adeptus fails to appear in front of you. fear warps your features. slowly you raise your hand up to cover your mouth, tears threatening to spill. could he have- no way. you have to have faith in him. he's an adeptus, he wouldn't die easily.

with your eyes closed, you breathe deeply in and out in attempts to calm yourself down.

there is a strong breeze, reminding you that you left the balcony entrance open. it tickles at your arms, raising your hair on end. with a shiver, you open your eyes.

in a whirl of green and black mist, your lover appears before you, kneeling at your feet on one knee. his face is smeared with blood, dripping from an open wound on his forehead, and his chest heaves up and down with pained breaths.

"as... you wish," he grunts, clutching at his chest.

"oh, xiao!" your voice shakes, seeing him all battered and barely hanging on to consciousness forces sobs from your lips. you throw yourself forward into his arms, burying your face in his neck. xiao places a hand on your back, still fighting to catch his breath. "xiao, what happened?" you pull back to meet his honeyed eyes, reaching up to cup his cheek. he leans into your palm, sighing.

"the ancient god osial returned to destroy liyue. i worked with the traveler and a few members of the qixing to slay him. i'm sorry i didn't tell you about this before, i didn't want you to worry about me."

your eyebrows scrunch, and you wordlessly adjust xiao so he's leaning against the bed.

"i think i was right to worry about you. you're hurt," you argue, standing up. you leave him to go fetch a wet towel, and when you come back he's attempting to get up. your heart sinks at the sight of him struggling to stand, leaning against the bed for support. you stand still as he limps over to you. your lover reaches out to take your chin between his fingers. those golden eyes soften as they meet yours, and a small smile graces his lips.

"nonsense, i'll always come back to you."

[doumadono]

A/N: this small thing drew inspiration from a recent conversation I had with my wonderful @indignant-alpaca, delving into the common struggles faced by students across various disciplines. Despite our diverse fields of study, we all encounter similar challenges sooner or later. Drawing from my own experiences, I decided to craft a variation focused on enhancing the learning process, using one of my favorite characters, Bakugo, as a source of inspiration 💣

MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST

In class

Be actively involved in class discussions and activities. Katsuki would assertively participate, ensuring he grasps concepts firsthand.

Treat each class as a competition to stay engaged. Challenge yourself to excel, just like Bakugo's competitive spirit drives him to be the best hero.

Don't hesitate to ask questions when you're unclear. Katsuki would demand clarity, and you should too! It's a proactive approach to understanding the material.

Observe and analyze the teacher's explanations and demonstrations. Katsuki assesses his opponents' moves; similarly, analyze the "moves" in your lessons for a deeper understanding.

Take dynamic and concise notes. Katsuki strategizes in the heat of battle, and your notes should capture essential information for later review.

Studying

Approach your study sessions with intensity and focus. Katsuki's training is high-intensity, and your studies should match that energy.

Divide your study time into focused blocks for specific subjects. Master each "arc" before moving on to the next, just like Katsuki hones specific skills.

Work on problem-solving exercises regularly. Katsuki tackles various challenges, and you should too. Practical application reinforces theoretical knowledge.

Utilize interactive study methods. Katsuki learns by doing, and hands-on activities or simulations can enhance your understanding of complex topics.

Plan your study sessions strategically, focusing on high-priority subjects during peak concentration times. This approach mirrors Katsuki's tactical approach to hero battles.

Channel your inner hero by immersing yourself completely in the subject matter, just as Katsuki immerses himself in his battles.

Break down complex topics into smaller components for in-depth understanding, similar to how Katsuki analyzes quirks of his opponents to identify their weaknesses.

Learning attitude

Cultivate a hero's mindset. Set ambitious goals and view your studies as a heroic journey toward self-improvement.

Develop resilience in the face of challenges. Katsuki faces setbacks but emerges stronger. Treat academic difficulties as opportunities for growth.

Believe in your capabilities. Katsuki exudes confidence, and a strong belief in your abilities can positively impact your academic performance.

Be flexible in your approach to learning. Katsuki adapts his fighting style, and similarly, adapt your study techniques to different subjects or challenges.

Regularly reflect on your progress. Katsuki analyzes his battles for improvement; evaluate your academic journey to identify areas for growth.

Learning, Bakugo-style, means embracing the fact that doubters will always exist, no matter your achievements. Instead of seeking external validation, channel that energy into mastering your skills and gaining knowledge for your own growth. The focus should be on personal improvement and the satisfaction that comes from overcoming challenges, rather than proving yourself to others.

Periodically review past material to reinforce your knowledge. Katsuki often reflects on his battles to improve his combat strategy. Apply this concept to your studies for a solid foundation.

Test yourself regularly to identify weak points. Katsuki constantly challenges himself in battles to enhance his abilities. Use quizzes to gauge your progress and strengthen areas where you struggle.

Develop mental resilience to overcome setbacks. Katsuki faces defeats but bounces back stronger. Treat failures as stepping stones, learning from them to improve and move forward.

[hayesflint]

Hello! I just wanted to say that you draw zeb really really well and I wanted to ask if you have any tips for how to draw him or a reference guide?

thank you anon!!! hell yeah i do!!! this is a somewhat chaotic braindump, but it has everything i keep in mind while im drawing him.

I've slowly made all these thru doing little studies, so I really recommended doing your own on areas you struggle with. You'll learn so much more that way than just reading this, but I hope that mine can help you for now!! Doing studies where you write little notes to yourself like this is an absolute game changer when it comes really understanding your subject.

I also use this messy head turn around I complied hahaha

but its not super extensive so i'll often look on pinterest or cap-that.com if i need a really specific reference.

sometimes, i'll resort to using my figure as reference, bit its not very accurate. I know others use the black series figure, so that's an option as well!

something else I do if im going thru a tough patch with getting my drawings to look right, or feel like him, is to do my timed warm up exercise but with zeb. Not an art piece, just some gestures to familiarize myself with him.

Thank you anon!! I hope these help!!

[uyuforu]

Astro Observations: Lunar Return Chart II

Finally succeeded to make a gradient text lol. Also wanted to post more LRC observations because it's lacking on the internet >:(

How to make a LRC?

✮⋆˙ Go on Astro.com

✮⋆˙ Free Horoscopes > Horoscope Drawings & Data > Extended Chart Selection

✮⋆˙ Chart Type: Scroll to "Lunar Return Chart"

✮⋆˙ Start Date: I suggest to start with 1st of the month and you'll see the date written when your LRC starts on your chart.

╰┈➤ For ex: For April, mine starts on April 12th 2024 and the next date if May 5th 2024 for my May LRC. So be careful about the dates!

✮⋆˙ Don't forget to add additional objects if you want to, and you are done!

All pictures are from Pinterest.

Other posts you could like:

જ⁀➴ Solar Return Observations I

જ⁀➴ Lunar Return Observations I

જ⁀➴ Solar Return Synastry III

Book a private reading: menus ; Q&A ; rules ; instagram

Buy me a Kofi •ᴗ•

₊˚⊹♡ Stellium in 6H means you'll be very busy with work this month, or just busy generally.

₊˚⊹♡ Traveling indicators in LRC:

╰┈➤ 4H Ruler in the 4H

╰┈➤ Jupiter 4H

╰┈➤ Sun/ Jupiter/ Sagittarius/ Part of Fortune in 9H

╰┈➤ Ruler of 9H/ 12H in 9H/ 12H.

₊˚⊹♡ If 4H Ruler is Mars and is in the 4H, this can mean the travel will be quick, not last long, and you may not go far either (meaning you travel in the country, or not too far from where u live).

₊˚⊹♡ Part of Fortune 1H could mean you can find yourself more pretty or more attractive this month.

₊˚⊹♡ Pluto 2H could mean there is a big change in your finances! If it conjunct/ sextile/ trines Jupiter, this is a big positive change! You could gain more money this month or get more money opportunities related to a big change! If it trines Jupiter, this can mean Jupiter is in the 6H, meaning this is related to a big change in your career.

₊˚⊹♡ Mars conjunct Chiron 4H can mean you could get a fight with a family member this month.

₊˚⊹♡ Uranus 5H isn't a sign of sudden break up or bad news in the relationship -.- Something sudden can indeed happen in your love life. If the Ruler of the house is Venus, this can be a good surprise, more if Uranus conjunct, sextile, trine Venus/ Juno/ Jupiter/ POF.

₊˚⊹♡ Uranus 5H could also mean having online crushes or having a long distance relationship or crush, etc. Romance could just be online.

₊˚⊹♡ 1H Ruler in 6H means you'll take care of your health this month or just your appearance, you'll do more exercise and skincare too.

₊˚⊹♡ Stellium 11H usually means you'll spend more time online or with friends. If Chiron is involved with Moon or Mercury, you could get in a fight with a friend or online, or with an online friend!

₊˚⊹♡ Sun 6H means you will be very focused on your career this month, and also your work. You will be busy, and you could also focus a lot on your routine, health and exercise. You could also be hardworking this month and study too.

₊˚⊹♡ Ruler of 6H being Venus could indicate a glow up.

₊˚⊹♡ Sun conjunct Venus 6H means you will love your job this month! You could also be very much loved in your career field.

₊˚⊹♡ Anytime I struggled with money or had hard time to make myself some money, I had Saturn in 2H or 8H.

₊˚⊹♡ 2H or 8H ruler being in 6H means money can come from your work.

₊˚⊹♡ Libra MC means a lovely and very good reputation this month! A lot of people can love you, mostly if Jupiter or Venus conjunct/ sextile/ trines MC!

₊˚⊹♡ Mercury 6H means you'll be very much into working, thinking often of work and perhaps can be a workaholic this month. You can also study more related to your job.

₊˚⊹♡ Mercury conjunct Venus in 6H or 10H means you can get a lot of compliment and praises for your work.

₊˚⊹♡ Moon in 6H means you could be very focused on work, and you could take everything happens at your work at heart. You could also be anxious because of your job, but depending of what aspects the moon, this can be more positive. You could have a desire to glow up, take more care of yourself too.

₊˚⊹♡ Jupiter 6H means a big opportunity at work could present itself! You could be quite lucky when it comes to work and make big progress! You could also lose weight more easily or having a better health this month.

₊˚⊹♡ 9H or 12H ruler being in the 6H or 10H could mean you travel for work.

₊˚⊹♡ 7H ruler being in the 6H could mean getting or signing a contract work related.

₊˚⊹♡ Stellium in 2H could mean focusing more on money.

₊˚⊹♡ Sun 1H could mean also feeling pretty or good looking. You could feel more happy this month. You could also feel like this month feels like a new start in your life.

₊˚⊹♡ 4H Ruler being in the 1H could mean you could live by yourself this month, or you could move in your own place. Or you could just end up having the house by yourself.

₊˚⊹♡ 3H Ruler in the 1H means you could talk about yourself more, or post more selfies online, you'll focus on yourself more.

₊˚⊹♡ Moon 12H means you could be quite secretive about your emotions this month, not letting it out easily and preferring to keep it for yourself. You could be more private about yourself generally. It also means you can be more intuitive this month and you could also be good at manifesting, more if it conjunct/ sextile/ trines Jupiter.

₊˚⊹♡ Mercury 2H means you could learn how to manage money or you could think more about your money. You could also learn a lot about how to live a stable life. You could post often about your outfit, your make up, but also lifestyle, etc.

₊˚⊹♡ Venus 2H lol, you could love money this month! You could love your lifestyle and go shopping often too. You could buy a lot of clothing, make up, and go often to the restaurant too.

₊˚⊹♡ Ruler of 5H in 2H is a sign of your partner paying for you on dates, or just providing you generally. They could pay on dates, pay for your shopping, literally being a sugar partner lol. Otherwise, this can also mean you'll enjoy spending money, and you could treat yourself a lot this month.

₊˚⊹♡ 7H Ruler in 12H is a bit tricky. It depends what's in the 7H and 12H. Im gonna take my example. I have this placement in July, and the ruler is Jupiter. I don't think it means bad because there aren't anything bad in the 12H as aspects and placements, I just think it means having spiritual awakening because of relationships, it can also means knowing a secret about your lover, or someone you love, or an enemy! Discovering a secret enemy. My case is very specific because it's connected to some houses, so I won't talk about it too much lol. One of my best friend had 7H ruler in 12H and it was also Jupiter, and she learned some good tea about the man she loves, and she was happy discovering that secret.

₊˚⊹♡ Saturn 10H could mean you may struggle with your reputation and career this month.

₊˚⊹♡ Having Chiron and Neptune 11H means you can get hurt because of something about you online. You could also discover something that will hurt you online. Someone could also post something about you that you won't like.

₊˚⊹♡ Mars 12H means you won't really want to do a lot of things lol. You could be more lazy.

₊˚⊹♡ Neptune 7H is a sign of being crazy in love, you can be on cloud 9 lol. You could also be confused about your relationship. There might be some misunderstandings between you and your partner this month.

₊˚⊹♡ Saturn 6H could mean you could struggle with your mental health this month, and if it conjuncts 7H Ruler, it can be related to your relationships or enemies.

₊˚⊹♡ Uranus 9H is a big sign of traveling unexpectedly this month. If the Ruler of the 9H is Venus this could be traveling with a lover or someone you love very much.

₊˚⊹♡ 9H ruler in 11H means you can travel with friends, or you could travel to see a friend. You could also travel with people you know in a group. You could also travel with someone you like, and travel in a country you like the culture, or you like the community there.

₊˚⊹♡ Mercury 12H could means you could be quite shy this month, or speak a lot a foreign language.

₊˚⊹♡ 4H Ruler in 9H is a sign of moving out of your country, or traveling out of where you live.

₊˚⊹♡ 7H Ruler in 9H is a sign of traveling with your partner.

₊˚⊹♡ 4H Ruler in 7H means you can move in or live with your partner this month, you could often stay at home with them or just feel at home and safe with them.

₊˚⊹♡ Mars 7H can mean arguments can happen but some hot times too... hehe Actually if Mars 7H aspects well 8H Ruler, well you'll probably spend a lot of times being intimate this month with your partner!

₊˚⊹♡ If 9H Ruler is Mercury, it can mean you can learn a new language this month, or practice more, and even in the country itself!

₊˚⊹♡ 3H with Saturn conjunct Neptune means some miscommunications happening! Where the 3H Ruler is, is why or what about! If North Node is there too, you could need to work on it this month.

₊˚⊹♡ In my case, I have it in 3H and conjunct DSC too. It means the problem of communication can happen in the relationship and because both people don't share enough.

₊˚⊹♡ Jupiter conjunct Moon 6H is a big sign of having a better mental health this month!

₊˚⊹♡ I forgot! The 9H is not only about travel but it's also about In Laws! So having a stellium there, 7H or 5H ruler being in the 9H could be a big sign of meeting your IL.

₊˚⊹♡ So 11H Ruler in 9H could be a sign also of meeting In-Laws.

₊˚⊹♡ And if the 4H Ruler is in 9H, it can also means living at your IL's place for a while.

Thank you for reading!

back to index ; ask ; request ; rules ; instagram

[netherfeildren]

With Mercy for the Disturbed

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: He's a father and then he isn't, and then he's in the perfect place with the perfect girl, and he's done so many bad things that terrify the both of them. And then, finally, he's saved and there are dancing bears and doors newly opened, and everyone's a little mad at the end of it all.

-OR-

the Hannibal/Alice in Wonderland AU wherein Joel loses his mind

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: AU; Dubious Consent; Dark Fic; Doctor/Patient Relationship; Forced Orgasm; Rough Sex; Face fucking; Oral Sex (f!receiving); Bondage; Power Imbalance; Exploration of Power Dynamics; Unreliable Narrator; Memory loss; Blasphemy; Discussions of religious disdain; Discussions of morality; References to suicide; Beware of the old man who’s crazy and lets all his intrusive thoughts win; Older man/Younger woman; Creampie; Light breeding kink; Like very light for the likes of me promise; Possessive Behavior; Kidnapping; Joel POV

A/N: Hello and hallelujah, I’m so happy to be posting this!! For a minute after I finished Pink I felt like it would be impossible for me to write anything else ever again, and felt so weird and without anything left to say.  I struggled so much just getting these words down, and it was supposed to be something very different initially compared to what it turned out to be, but I think I quite like the final product. I hope you do too. 

And one million kisses and thank yous and all the praise in the world to @frannyzooey for giving this a little looksy over before posting. You’re the greatest and the bestest, Kelli, thank you so so much :)

Please heed the tags carefully and err on the side of caution!!! The goings on in this are very strange and this is probably the darkest thing I’ve written to date. 

Word Count: 8.8K

Read on AO3

He can’t remember her name anymore, but he remembers the number. It’s been seven hundred and thirty eight days since his daughter died. 

Sometimes, he’s not sure if he even remembers his own name. He thinks it’s Joel, and the sound of it brings him comfort in a way, when it’s especially dark and confusing in his mind, and so he tells himself over and over again that that’s what it is. Joel. Joel. Joel. I am Joel. That that’s what it’s always been. That that’s the name she knew him as. 

Sometimes you call him that too.

He used to be a father, and then one day, so suddenly he can’t recall how it even happened, he lost everything. Like dominos falling over in his mind – the girl, and then his memories and then the man with the face like his. He plays dominos all the time now. 

In his spot in the sun in the big blue room, wearing his whites and his soft socks and taking the pills they force down his throat. He plays dominos, and he does his exercises, and he thinks of that daughter whose name he can’t remember. He says his own name over and over and over again so many times until it’s not even a sound anymore, only a buzz or a hum or a scream. 

His beard is thick and his hair is long, and he does not recognize his own face in the mirror. All he sees are ghost green eyes and dark hair and a fathomless sort of failure. A father, no longer a father. He goes for walks in the garden, he eats the food they give him even when he doesn’t really want to, even when it tastes like ash or greater madness than the one he’s already swallowed. And he waits for you. All the time he waits for you to come to him, he watches the big doors that go out into the world he’s too frightened and broken to step foot in now, draws his fingertip over the gristle of scar tissue at his temple mended over invisible fracture, and he waits and waits, and he says his name and he thinks of that nameless daughter and he waits and he thinks: the morning after I killed myself, I woke up in the perfect place with the perfect white walls and now all I do is wait. 

He sits in his chair in the corner now and counts the seconds for you to come for him. Always at this time, always when the sun is at that spot in the sky. When it rains, and he can't tell where he is in the world, and the clouds are swollen purple gray verging on melancholy and anger, he feels something like despairing. Something like the sort of insane they whisper he is behind his back now.

He watches the puddles filled with dark mercury grow and grow like the ocean rising out of concrete, and the orange tree that drips and weeps and sags and he thinks he feels very much that way inside too. Sometimes, when the sun shines and there are no clouds and he doesn’t feel so terribly downtrodden, or maybe worse than usual, each orange blossom opens like a hand reaching out for him. Begging him not to do it, not to think of it, not to go back to that bad place. Focus only on me, she says. Focus only on the blue walls and the perfect room and the place where the sun sits in the sky, she’s on her way, she’s almost here. 

The first time they’d told him he was ill – or dead – the first morning in the perfect room, he’d been angry, affronted or offended, and he’d howled and fought and said I’m not fucking crazy, it’s only that my daughter is dead. But as much as he’d fought or kicked or screamed, wept until he was brittle and dry as a whale bone, they’d not believed him. And so, he’d come to appreciate the peace of the perfection surrounding him, the perfection of a lie, or the perfection that comes to visit him in the shape of a woman, soft and round in all the right places and pretty. Fuckable. He tries not to think of it. He swears he does. But there’s little else to consider in the perfect place. So really, he thinks of little else. 

You’re almost here, he knows it’s almost time.

A few more moments of the sun in the place where it is until it’s in the place where it should be, and then you’ll be here, and he looks down at the stone in his palm, held for so long it’s turned dark with his sweat now. I shouldn’t have, but I brought you something, placed it in his hand, done that thing with your eyes and your mouth that told him secrets he wasn’t sure you were even aware you were telling him. 

He knows that it’s November now because you’d said it was, and he doesn’t know why, but when you’d told him, he’d wept and wept and wept. Become inconsolable which had sent you to worrying, put the different sort of look on your face, in your eyes, the one that vibrates, that screams instead of whispers. And he’s positive you don’t know you show him that one, but he sees it anyways, you’ve got a shit poker face. And he’d told you between sobs and chokes, it’s November and it’s terrible and I can’t explain why except to say that it’s as though the earth has suddenly realized that she’s grown old and cold and there’s nothin’ she can do to prevent it except weep, and I feel very much like this in my own heart too. And when he looks back up at the sun, it’s finally where it’s supposed to be, and when he looks back at the double doors that lead away to all his fears and all the bad, there you are. You walk towards him slow and measured, and you’re perfect, perfect, perfect. Precious, impeccable, absolutely exceptional in every way. He wants very much to ruin all that pure magnificence. 

He knows that he did something very bad after his daughter, after they took her, lots of very bad things to lots of very bad people. He knows this, he remembers this vividly, enjoys the memory of it, savors it like something sitting sweet and light on his tongue. 

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love with the idea of a girl who was gone who’d come from me who is never going to be again. Who I never made enough time for when there was still time to be made.

You always wear beautiful clothes, and it makes him appreciate the blandness of his own. That you stand out, that he’s merely a blank canvas for you to inflict yourself on. Wool skirts and silk blouses and sheer pantyhose he wants to rip to ribbons with his fingers. Makes him appreciate the beauty of you, faultless, guileless. Sweet in a way he’d never witnessed before like a kitten that’s so adorable you want to squeeze and squeeze and smother until it bursts. Big eyes and a full, soft mouth and breathy voice, and then you’re right there.“Hi, Joel,” and yeah, that’s right, he does know his name, you remind him of it all the time.  

“Mornin’.”

“Ready?”

“As ever.”

The room you usually sit in to talk has a big painting of a field in it, a bear in the far off center up on its hind legs, somehow, appearing as if it’s dancing away. Even the paintings are mad here, but he likes it, wants to dance away into the far off unknown like that too. 

“The middle of the day’s not the best time for fishin’ usually.” Sometimes, you let him start where he wants. Silent until he chooses to break. He pulls the thought out of nowhere. “Bein’ out there’s just the excuse, I suspect, in the sun and the water.” 

He listens to the scratch, scratch of your pen. You write with one of those fountain types with the sharp point, and he wonders if you’ve ever considered how easily he could turn it into a weapon. How smoothly it’d pierce the soft, satin skin of your throat he likes to fantasize about. He would never. But he does like to think about it, pretends it’s a show of your trust, wonders if the guards and higher ups know you bring something like that in here with him. Scratch, scratch, scratch, and it makes his brain itch. 

“You used to fish?”

“Think so.”

“Are you remembering?”

“Nah.” The morning after I killed myself, I lost my memories – it’s only that they’d hurt everywhere I’d touched them, and so I’d had to let them go.

“No?” 

You’ve got the loveliest voice, and sometimes he wishes he could tell you to stop asking so many stupid questions about him and talk about yourself. Endlessly. He chooses a new route. “What is it about empathy that people find so difficult to be generous with?”

That soft hum in your throat he loves, the one he feels soothe that itchy brain of his. “Humans can be inherently selfish. We’re born with only ourselves, we die with only ourselves, sometimes that gets in our way.”

“No… Don’t think that’s true.”

“No?” He knows you like to lead him sometimes, like a game he doesn’t want to enjoy. “You’re the one saying we’re greedy with our empathy.”

“Forgiveness too,” he adds.

The click of your tongue, “Do you think you’re forgiving?”

“Not at all.”

Scratch, scratch. Once he’d asked what it is you write about him during these talks of yours, and all you’d said was notes. It’s the only time he’s ever been angry with you, refused to talk to you for three days after that. Only because if you wouldn’t tell him things, then he wasn’t going to tell you anything either. “Then what’s the point you’re trying to make? What’s your question?” But then he’d missed the sound of your voice too much, had felt the burn of your gaze on his skin too intensely, had masturbated too many times without satisfaction to the memory of your eyes on him that he’d been forced to relent. He needed the sound of your voice in his head also to be able to come. 

“Why is it so difficult?” He asks again because he has to understand. Because he needs an answer desperately. 

“It’s hard to see someone as simply themselves, simply human – a sentient flaw, so to speak – when they make a mistake. And yet, as grievous or offensive as something can be, we all do it eventually. Some people have no patience for that.”

“Even though they themselves will eventually, inevitably, do it too?” He can feel himself getting upset, his heart beating too fast, a cold sweat sprouting at the back of his neck while his face flushes hot and red. 

“Yes.”

“That’s bad.”

You shrug, “Perhaps.”

“Selfish.”

Again, “Perhaps.”

And then the true source of his anger, “I think I’m like that.”

You nod like you understand, and he wants to shake you and make you see that there’s no way you actually could. “Would you like not to be?” It pisses him off when your voice goes all even and patient like that. 

“Yes. I hate people like that. I hate people that can’t find it in themselves to forgive – to give someone a second chance.”

“Why do you think that is?”

He can’t help himself when he vomits the words, not fully expecting them to come out so slicked in truth as they do. “Because I wish someone would give me one, even if I don’t deserve it. F– forgive me– But even then… what does it matter? What does it matter if I’m forgiven, given a second chance, absolved of all my sins? Look at where I am. Look at what I've become. I’m entirely lost to myself. You know, sometimes I can’t remember my own name if you don’t remind me of it.”

“You’re Joel. You had a daughter. Her name was Sarah.” He flinches at the sound of it, wants to bare his teeth at you like a rabid animal. “Your brother is Tommy. He calls every Friday at three o’clock to ask how you are. You’re Joel Miller.” That’s right. The morning after I killed myself, I met my brother for the first time. The real him. The him who’s afraid of me. The real Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Sometimes the name rings familiar in his mind, again, when you remind him of it.

He shakes his head, swallows a gruff sound, tries to shutter the manic look he knows floods his eyes, reverts back to his initial thought, “False senses of moral superiority disgust me.” The sun’s shining in at an angle so that there’s a single tendril of sunlight wrapped around the slim of your crossed ankle, gripping the nylon covered limb in its light. Joel’s eyes shift jealously from that held piece of you to the shadow of far off rain he can see in the distance through the window, trying to find some measure of peace in the sight. It’ll reach here eventually, and he tries to ground himself in the inevitability. “Yes, there’s right and wrong. There’s also humanity. There’s also the right to grow and learn, and to make mistakes that, in the end, make you better. Who are you to condemn me? Is your glass house so pristine not a stain mars it? Grace, forgiveness, empathy… I find those infinitely more valuable than whatever false sense of good and bad you’ve decided makes me worthy or not,” he says, eyes cast towards the coming rain. He can feel your gaze on his face, and he does not want to acknowledge it. 

“But the things you did were bad, Joel. You hurt people. You killed people.” 

That makes his eyes snap back to yours for the way you say it. As if you’re sharing a bit of inconsequential news with him. The weather is about to hit, the rain is almost here. Can’t you see it, just there, in the distance? Voice so even and soft. Sometimes he calls you angel, when he knows he’s charmed you enough just to get away with it, when he’s said all the things he knows you want to hear from him and smiled all the right smiles that cost him so much. Voice like a goddamn angel, face like a goddamn angel. Everything else… like something come straight from Hell to drag him down to where he really belongs and never let him go. 

He eyes you suspiciously. “The Bible says an eye for an eye. They killed my daughter so I took their eyes.” And then other parts.

“And then their lives…” And then their lives. He nods once, succinct. “You ascribe to the scripture?” You snap that little leather bound book open again, red, scratch in it once again, all your secrets about him. That itch returns, stronger than before. He bites down on it, chews it away within himself. 

“What? Like I believe in it? Fuck no. Fuck religion. It isn’t real. A weak construct made for weak men in need of comfort. And– and… like what – it’s going to save my soul? I ate that a long time ago, angel. Look at where I am…” He shrugs, letting his head fall back in a circular motion, coming to rest on his shoulder. He can’t help but smile at you, he knows you hate it when he gets like this, all ornery and heretical. 

You purse your lips, shake your head at him gently, and he wants to eat the lipstick from your soft mouth. “You believe in angels though… you call me–”

His smile cranks up another notch for a single beat. “Gotta believe in somethin’ that’s right in front of my eyes, don’t I? What d’ya think, that’m crazy?” And his eyes slide to the window again, smile melting off his face. “‘Sides they told me so–” 

“Who told you what?” Voice slow, measured, all serious-like. He rolls his eyes, feels the stone of anger in his belly heat, spin, jump to his throat. 

“They killed my daughter,” he spits like a whispered scream instead. The shadow of rain is closer. If the dancing bear were out there, it’d be lost to the deluge by now. “I should’ve done worse. I would have, had I not been thrown away in here.” He remembers that a man with a face like his left him here, but he doesn’t know who. He shakes his head, jostles the non-memory out of his ears, searches harder for the dancing bear, killed a bunch’a people, he murmurs to himself, once more again, because he likes the sound of it.

“So you’re talking about yourself. You want to be forgiven.” He doesn’t like when you tell him, when you don’t ask. It makes him feel like you know something he doesn’t, and he wants to know everything you know. 

“No. I don’t know.”

“Do you feel thrown away, Joel?”

“I feel forgotten – impossible to remember,” his voice cracks at the end, eyes suddenly wet and hot.

“By who?”

“The world.” He can’t remember his childhood. He can’t remember what he was like as a child, and it makes him sad. 

You’re quiet for a long time, no more scratch, scratch, scratch, no more itch. No more angel voice, and then, very soft, like you know you shouldn’t. “I remember you. I haven’t forgotten you.” 

Once, a time ago because he can’t discern lengths of it anymore, it doesn't exist here in the perfect place, amidst what, he thinks, is a lot that you know you shouldn’t have allowed, you’d changed the routine up on him. Had sent for him, instead of coming for him yourself. When he’d stepped into the room where you have your talks, you’d been facing the big window, looking out at the green, the line of your shoulders and the dip of your waist and the swell of your ass in your skirt that shifts like water around your knees and the saliva pooling heavy in his mouth, it’d been too much, too much for a broken thing, and you hadn’t turned. Like the pen, like more trust, you hadn’t turned to face him even though he knew you’d heard the door snick shut behind him. He’d stepped as quiet as he could up behind you, quiet like when he was sneaking to kill, and he’d brushed a single tip of his finger up the length of one of your skinny, little ones, so much smaller and finer than his thick, brutish ones, stroked the palm of your hand. You’d made the tiniest sound, interrupted by a swallow, but he’d heard it. He’d heard the want in it. He’d not forgotten either, and he sees that sound in your eyes now, again, as you stare at him with an intention he’s not so fucking crazy that he doesn’t know you shouldn’t possess. 

He smiles a little again, and you don’t return it, but it’s okay, he sees the sound of your want in your eyes anyways, and that’s infinitely more satisfying to him. “It would serve us all well to remember to try to be a little more empathetic, a little more forgiving.”

You swallow, shaken, he can tell. Shaken by that thing inside you for him he knows shouldn’t be there. You scratch a little in the book, say slowly, “It starts with you, I think, you have to forgive yourself first.”

He doesn’t acknowledge that. There are things you talk about you clearly have no understanding of. You’re young. You don’t know better. He understands. “I think… I think, I haven’t been myself lately.”

“Who have you been?”

And again, he doesn’t mean to say it, but you tell him so much you don’t mean to say either that he feels he might as well also. “Someone–” That anger again, he can’t help himself even though he desperately wants to. “Someone my daughter would be afraid of.” Full blown rage now. At you. Yes, at you. You force things from him he doesn’t want to give you, and there’s a thing within him that wants to punish you for it, take a pound of flesh in repayment. “I want someone to forgive me. I want to be forgiven. I want to experience it.” Truth is like fire, hypnotizing, seductive, once it catches, inextinguishable. He wants to hate you sometimes for forcing these things from him, for not giving him a choice, and worst of all, done so unintentionally, unknowingly. He wants to not give you a choice either. 

“From who?” You ask. Silly little girl. You need to learn the art of restraint, of temperance. He should teach you. 

“Our hour’s up.” He looks away, dismissing you. As if he’s the one in charge here, and not the one caged. Divested. 

“No, it isn’t. It’s–”

“Our hour’s up,” head snapping back towards you, barking–  “It’s time for you to go.” And something in his gaze must tell how far he’s been pushed, by you, for you jerk up and out of your chair suddenly, turning to scurry towards the door, not bothering to say goodbye, not bothering to turn back, not bothering to notice the clatter of your pen on the linoleum. 

He watches you go, a single black seam runs up the back of your hose, and the sight makes him feel violent, eager for darkness and the solitude of his white box room. 

-

He doesn’t know why, maybe the way the rain beats against the singular tiny window in his room, maybe the way it whispers at him like all the other things that whisper at him now, but he knows you’ll come before he hears the stunted jangle of keys, the sigh and click of his door, the bare pad of shoeless feet on the hard floor, you’d thought this through, your too fast, too shallow breathing. 

He’s staring up at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head, cock hard, a little chafed. He wasn’t able to make himself come tonight, sometimes it doesn’t work, sometimes he needs the imagination of your wet cunt more than just the mere memory of your voice in his mind and the remembered feel of your gaze on him, but he’s never let himself picture the full act of fucking you. Thinks it would send him to a level of unhingedness he’d find unable to restrain in your presence. He only thinks of bits and pieces of you, like a dissected doll pulled apart for his half pleasure. Never the full thing, ever. 

You try and say whatever it is you want to say several times before it finally comes out, all choked and feigned regret, but you do try and put on a good show, swallowed up by nerves as you are. “I– I just– I just came to make sure you’re okay,” you whisper. You’ve never been in his room before. He’s never had you in his space like this, and it makes him leak. 

“You didn’t come for that.” Voice slow, still wide eyed, looking up at the white domed ceiling, something like victory in the shape of a hymn pounding through his veins. He won’t look at you until he’s ready. 

“I… I felt badly about how we left things this afternoon. I shouldn't have– I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t end our talk the way– the way… Joel?” You stutter,  trail off, voice small and unsure. 

He sees you move out of the corner of his eye. One step forward, two back, pressing up against the door again. Little bunny full of regret for coming into the wolf's bed, and he moves suddenly, swift despite his age still. He has little to do here besides move his body, make sure it doesn’t grow rust. He sits up quick as a whip, swinging his legs over the edge of his too small bed, planting his feet wide and sturdy on the cold floor. He can see the tremble of your throat even from here, the pristine lines of you. Your hair and your face and your tits and the tiny little pearl buttons of your blouse like soldiers waiting to be felled on the battlefield. He’s going to rip them from you, pluck the garments keeping you hidden away from your skin, spread you out, filleted. 

“That’s not what you came here for, angel.” He shakes his head slowly, and your panic ricochets higher, makes his cock harder. Your arm reaches back for the latch slowly, fumbling behind you, and he braces his legs. Your other palm outstretched, fingers trembling. He gives you another slow shake, as if that small gesture could keep him at bay. “I hear all the things you tell me. Don’t worry. I always hear.”

“Wh– what do you mean?”

“I always see the things you want me to know. I know… I know. It’s okay.”

“I don’t– I’m not sure… I shouldn’t have come.” Your hand finds the latch, angling your body to slip through as swiftly as possible, and his muscles coil tight and ready. “I just wanted– to– to make sure…” You pull the door open, move to slip away, and he lunges for you, catches the edge of the swinging door, lets you float in the lie that you’ve gotten away for a few seconds, scurrying a few paces down the dark corridor of his perfect place where he’s found his perfect girl. 

The morning after I killed myself, I found an angel. 

You make it as far as the bend in the hall before he’s trapping you in his grip, swinging you around so fast you bounce against the white tiled walls, cages you there, open mouth immediately at your jugular, biting down hard while his big palm completely smothers your face, forces your choked cry back down. His other arm wraps around your waist, lifting and dragging you back down the hall towards his white box and his little bed and all his fantasies, artery caught between his teeth, no more choices to be had, exactly like you leave him all the time. He whispers at you to be quiet, quiet, quiet, angels are always good, and then he’s shutting the door behind him, trapping you inside and plucking the keys from your skirt pocket, locking the two of you away together as you should’ve been from that first day. 

You try and struggle in his arms, little feet kicking weakly at his shins, scratching at his sides where he has your arms trapped, but the sound of your fight is restrained, held low and gurgled in your throat, and he knows that you know that this is what you’d come for, that you’re getting exactly as you’d sought. 

“Fight harder if you’d like,” he says low in your ear, throwing the keys to the far corner and wrapping both arms tight around you, pressing all the air out. Finally, fucking finally. He’s touching you, the plush heat of your breasts against his chest, the soft swell of your belly against his stomach. He’s so fucking hard he wants to rut into you like a beast. “I want you to be scared,” and it’s the foremost truth he’s ever shared with you. The heart of all his depravity. “I want you to want it so bad you’re terrified. As bad as I want it. I want you to not want it also. Want you to fight and cry and scratch and bite, and then take it anyways ‘cause I’m gonna to give it to you anyways. You always take all of my choices from me,” he adds on, voice going barely there, mumbled, pressing a tiny kiss to the tiny hammering pulse in your throat, and you let out your first soft moan. An angel singing right into his ear. Your fighting tells all sorts of lies. He hoists you higher, presses you closer, and you wriggle and squirm, grinding his erection into the soft apex of your thighs. 

“Joel– stop, please– please. I– I didn’t think–” He bends his head to your breast, drags his nose over the hard peak he feels beneath the silk of your blouse, nuzzles there, enjoying the sound of your breathlessness, again that feigned shock. You’re right, you didn’t think, and it’s too late now. What did you expect would happen, coming here to his cage like this in the middle of the night? He catches the taut peak between the edge of his teeth, tugs gently, plucking your cords.

With a fist wrapped in the length of your hair he forces you to your knees at his feet, jerking your head back roughly so that your mouth falls open on a gasp giving him the opportunity to hook his fingers over the edge of your bottom teeth, stretching your jaw open wide. “Open– lemme see,” he orders. “I wanted you so bad,” dragging the pad of his thumb along the sharp edge of your jaw. “I want you so bad. All those days when you forced me to tell you things I didn’t want to tell you. I’m going to show you temperance now, angel,” he nods his head down at you condescendingly when you try and protest. I didn’t force you to do anything, “But you did. You did. You pulled things out of me I didn’t want to share. And now I have to have you. You always take all of my choices from me.” He clicks his tongue down at you, and there are tears in your eyes that go wide and something worse than frightened when he tugs the elastic waist of his soft white pants down, pulls out his angry erection and heavy balls. Your expression morphing from something worse than frightened, to something like desperate, like hungry, like his for the taking. And he’s big, he knows it. Much too big for the pretty little throat he’s about to force it down. But he’s going to be gentle, he’s going to help you, teach you. 

“Joel, please–” And look at you beg, so pretty with tears in your eyes, running down your cheeks. He brings the searing brand of his erection to your cheek, presses the burning hot skin all over your face, coating himself in the wet of your tears, marking you in the thick male scent of him. And the feel of you, just like this, just this little bit – with his fingers still hooked over the edge of your teeth he turns your face so that your open mouth brushes against his length. “Taste– I know you’re hungry for it. Give it a kiss hello, little angel.” 

Your eyes flash up to his face for a brief moment, almost too quick for him to catch, and then you’re pursing your mouth against him, swallowing the shudder that moves through his entire frame. A tiny kiss to the ridged underbelly of his cock, the drag of your lips against the length of him to the fat tip, and then another kiss with wet lips and enough tongue to undeniably lick up some of what’s slicking it. You want him, even if you won’t admit it, even if you cry or fight. It’s all he needs to know. 

Still caught by the teeth he jerks your head back forward, opens you wider and forces his cock down your throat. You gurgle around him, whining, shrieking, false, he knows what you really want. Can feel it in the slicking of your tongue around the proof of his desire for you, he’s giving you everything he has, and he spits your name, purges it from his belly like an infection over and over again while he starts to fuck your mouth. Feels you gulp hard just at the right moment to get his leaking tip caught tight at the choking opening of your throat. He could come just like this. He could, he could. You’re all his. Fill your belly with his semen until it bulges, feed you himself until you’d never be without him. He lets his head fall back, looks up at the white dome, at the false home of the false God, tells you again, voice all cracked and broken and gone away from him, “I don’t believe in God anymore, but that’s okay. I have you to believe in now,” fucks harder, listens to your cries climb up the walls, savors the scratch and shove at his thighs when he tightens his fist in your hair to a painful degree. You always take all my choices from me, always. But he knows that if he’s to show you temperance he must exercise his own, and after a few more slick thrusts, he pulls wetly from your mouth, enjoying your whistling groan as you sag face first against his thigh. He pets your hair now gently, fingers twisting through the softness. He’d always wanted to feel it, memorize its texture, its scent. There is nothing about you that isn’t worthy of veneration, of doing the worst thing in the world just to have you, taste you, keep you.

He lets you rest for a moment, wonders at the fact that you haven’t screamed yet. You easily could, call for help, salvation, an escape. You haven’t, and it soothes him. Makes him feel disgusting in a way that doesn’t match up with how disgusting it should feel to force himself on his pretty angel; a self satisfied type of disgust. Something he should be more ashamed of than he truly is. But when you have so little, when you barely have yourself, when theft is the only means of self satisfaction, little recourse remains for creatures caged in perfect places with only bad avenues left to them. 

He hauls you up by your underarms, lets his wet cock press trapped between the two of you, and he’s so close, so close, so close to what he’s needed for so long. He gathers you in his arms, cradles you gentle and with purpose. Tucks your hair behind your ears and wipes the tears and spit from your face, takes it the sparkle of your big wet eyes. So pretty. “Truly like an angel,” and chucks you beneath the chin when you shake your head at him. “You are. So pretty and so soft.” And then finally, like so many times he’d forced himself not to imagine it because he was terrified of what the fantasy would turn him into, no longer the dancing bear in the distance finding it’s escape, but a hungry one, a violent one, an animal so far beyond control all it could do was devour, he pulls you close by the tip of your chin and swallows your mouth whole. All tongue and teeth and the slick slide of your own fervor because yes, it’s there, tangling with his own mouth, pressing your own spit onto his tongue like an offering. You kiss him back.

You kiss him back.

 And, “I want to make you my little butterfly,” he says, “Spread you open, pinned just for me to look at. Only me.” He whispers it into your mouth, soft and secret and true. He’d string you up if he could, split you open and peer inside, rifle through the shafts of your ribs like a lexicon that spells out the truth of who you really are. And then that sudden anger again, that furious stone spinning in his throat. His touch becomes harder, punishing, “You’re going to tell me everything about you,” he says with all that rage in his voice, spits the stone out at you. “You shouldn’t have kept secrets from me.” Fuck the little red book and the scratch, scratch, scratch. He’s going to have all your truths. He’s going to be the one taking all of your choices away from you now. 

He hauls you towards his little bed, popping the pretty pearl buttons as he goes, knowing he’s going to go to his knees later to collect them like treasures for himself after this is done. He rips the blouse from your shoulders, shudders at your indignant little gasp with the sound of the tearing silk, and you’re all soft skin and fine lace and the prettiest thing he’s ever beheld with his own two eyes in this whole life. 

You bring one delicate hand up to his throat, try and grip him there, push him back, but he presses into the touch, sucks at your mouth again, harder, biting, and you say onto his tongue that you shouldn’t, and please, Joel, just wait, but he won’t and he can’t and he tells you it’s useless to fight because he’s having you regardless. 

“No, no– none of that. You’re going to take your fucking like a good little girl,” and something about his words or his tone or the look in his eyes must make the connection in your brian that this is happening click because you suddenly go boneless, head falling back to bear your throat for him, soft sound of concession slipping from your lips. 

He goes in for the kill, he’s always been exceptional at that, after all. Teeth latched at your jugular, tongue up and across the slope of soft sugared skin, and you taste like salvation. He’s saved now, he’s sure of it. Everything he’d lost, his daughter, his mind, himself, he’s going to find it buried in your cunt. Joel is absolutely certain of it. 

He divests you of your skirt, the pretty lace, leaves the nylons held up by tight elastic around your soft thighs, and then it’s all just bare skin and heat and your soft whimpers, the coolness of your hair between his fingers. He lays you out across the length of his bed, takes in the majesty of his winnings. An angel felled and caught. You lie there staring up at him, and there’s an innocence to your gaze that brings him to his knees, set down and at your mercy now. He parts your legs slowly, one small kneecap in the bowl of each palm, the softest skin he’s ever felt beneath these death roughened hands, and Joel could sob now, weep if he had the time for it. He spreads your thighs wide, palms dragging up the insides, calluses catching on the smooth nylon and watches the dip and hitch of your belly as you gasp and shiver. 

“Are you scared?” He whispers right as his palms reach the uppermost part of your thighs, and you’re all softness and warm, damp skin, plush in a way that makes his mouth water and his gums ache, and then he’s finally laying eyes at the center of you, and you’re slicked in the gloss of your desire for him. Playing pretend, feigned fight and reluctance, but he’s looking right at the heart of you, and all he sees now is your truth. You shake your head no, let out a soft breath. “Look at this drippy little cunt,” and he drags his thumb over the pearl of your clit just as whisper soft as his voice is. A half screeched hitch claws up your throat, your thighs jumping at that first touch. He needs to see more, hooks a thumb at each delicate lip and spreads wide, but gently, so as not to hurt you. That’s for later. He stretches your little hole, enjoys the shy wink it gives him. 

“My God… look at you,” he says with something like reverence in his voice. So slick and gorgeous. “I think this little cunt’s going to take me in very nicely.” He runs the pad of his thumb over your swollen clit again, clicks his tongue when your knees try to struggle shut. “None’a that, angel. Be good for me now.” He presses harder at your clit, runs his thumb down to your twitching opening, passes there lightly, coating himself in your leaking slick. “I wanted you so bad,” he tells you, one more moment for confessions before he starts. “I want you so bad. And you’ve always taken all my choices from me. Forced me to stay myself when that’s not who I want to be anymore.”

“You’re Joel,” you whisper, and bring your hand to circle the wrist of the hand he’s petting you with. Not pushing him away or pulling him closer, only a gentle manacle around the thick of his bone. He looks up and into your eyes as he presses his thumb slowly inside of you, hooking it over the thin edge, twists you open slow and gentle and measured, gets you ready for the thickness he’s about to split you open with. 

“That isn’t who I wanted to be anymore. I wanted to forget all that, all the bad, her, I wanted to forget all of it. I tucked her name under my tongue for so long it became blood, and I wanted it like that. And you didn’t let me.” 

Your thighs shift restlessly around him, and you bring one foot up to the edge of the bed, anchoring yourself there so that you can begin a gentle rocking motion of your hips, fucking yourself slowly on his thumb. Your breasts heave and sway with the motion and his balls go so tight and so searingly hot, he could come just now like this from the sight of you, suddenly green and untried like he was in his youth. He didn’t think it was going to be like this, and it’s like he’s wasting your honor, stealing it from you, but something given can’t be stolen and his plans are foiled, he’s not in control but he doesn’t really care either. He finally has you. 

He bends his head, brings his mouth to your slick swollen cunt and takes the first sip. Groans so deep in his chest he’s more animal than man suddenly, sucking hard and sharp on your clit, he pulls his hand from you and laves his tongue over the entire slope of your sex, tongue dipping into the well of you. He spreads your lips again, wide, stretches your hole and fucks you with his tongue, big nose pressed to your clit, drowning in your sweet musk. Your fingers twine in the overly long curls of his hair, and he grips your thighs so hard he’s sure you’ll be left with the mark of him later which only makes him rougher, stronger in his hold. With your grip in his hair you sing for him in soft moans and whimpers and more feigned resistance with whispers of no, Joel, and please, stop while you ride his face, his entire mouth covering your cunt, eating it. More beast than man, not Joel, not a father, not a brother, not a killer, only yours. Carved in the image you’d wanted him to be. The one you’d made him with your words and your looks and your scratch, scratch, scratch. All those times you’d asked him what do you want, Joel? And he’d never had an answer for you because what was he supposed to say? You, this, freedom, your wet cunt, the far off field and the dancing bear and my daughter back, alive, my brother, face not unknown. My name, my name, I want my name back. I want myself back. To be alive. I want to be alive. You come on his tongue, first with a shudder and then with a groan, your entire body flushes hot, and it’s a concession of yourself and a door opening, the first vestiges of what the rest of his life will be. 

“You’ve got the sweetest little cunt, baby. Goes so tight and wet and fluttery,” he licks up the sticky sweet of your come, runs his tongue over the wet around his mouth, feels it trickle through his beard. “Think I’ll keep you.” 

Pulling his shirt up and over his head, he crawls up the length of you, slotting his hips between your damp thighs, pushing his soft pants down his legs as he goes, gathering the small of your wrists in a manacle of his fingers to pin them up above your head. He drapes himself over your body, covering you entirely with his weight and pauses for a moment, nuzzling through the curtain of your hair to get at your ear, your throat, your smell. “Are you going to fight back?” He says soft into the small shell of your ear. 

“No, I don’t want to.” You turn your head further to the side, bearing more of your throat to him. 

He follows your orders, runs a line of wet kisses up the delicate column, tastes the pulse of your heart and the slope of your shoulder. “Why not?”

“I don’t have it in me. I’m not a fighter, I came from a place where there was always fighting, where I always had to do battle constantly. I don’t have it in me now, anymore, ever.” You turn to face him again, lick at the line of his mouth, suck on his tongue, your hips rolling now against him, his erection slotted between the soaked lips of your cunt, swallowing him in warmth. “But also, because you were right. Because I want you. Because I did take all your choices from you.” 

Your words pull a groan, a whimper from him, and he pulls his hips back, presses forward, uncoordinated and slipping against all that slick, hot skin. He lets one of your wrists go, keeps the other trapped above your head. “Fuck– grab my cock,” and he feels the heat of your fragile formed hand wrap around the thick of his cock. An ugly, brutish thing held by perfection. You squeeze gently, twist just barely, and he feels his tip rim puckered skin, hot and round and persistent, probing against you as you try and find the right angle. “I’m gonna ride this cunt – hard. And you’re going to take it just how I give it. And you’re going to beg for more and harder and you’re going to thank me.”

Yes, yes, yes. Please, Joel. Thank you, Joel. 

You notch the tip of his cock at the wet mouth of your cunt, and then he’s pushing in, saving himself, finding salvation, returning or leaving himself, it doesn’t really matter anymore. He presses in, in, in all the way until he’s sitting hard and heavy and deep inside of you, and he’s sure he can almost feel your heartbeat when he bottoms out, balls pressed to the slick curve of your bottom. Your breaths scratch in whimpers against his ear, his hair fluttering in the wind of your gasps, and your free arm wraps tight around the back of his neck, your hips rolling to take more, impossible, for he’s already deep as he can be, tip to womb. But he shifts his weight, grinds against your cervix and enjoys the sound of your pained moan. 

“You feel right there? Where it hurts? That’s where I fuck you full’a my baby, little angel.” And his thoughts are unhinged, his desires full of madness and future and possibility. He pulls his hips back, drops them and shifts his weight forward inside of you. “And right there?” Grinds against your most sensitive spot, “That’s where I make you cream all over my cock.” He pulls his hips back again, focuses the tip of his cock at that desperate place inside of you and with his hand gripping your bottom to the point of pain he pounds into that place over and over again. The slick wet, obscene sound of his cock fucking in and out of your drippig cunt rings in his ears, and he grits thourgh clenched teeth, “Say thank you, say thank you. Beg me for it harder.”

And you’re so good, so good, and all please, Joel. Harder, harder, more. You’re so deep, it’s so good, please, more. 

He’s going to fill you up and mark you and keep you for himself, and he bends his head, wraps his mouth around the full and heavy weight of your bouncing tit as he fucks you into orgasm around his cock. Going tight, tight as a fist, so wet it drips down his balls and onto the already soaked sheet of his too small bed, and you come for him the way he’d never let himself fantasize about before. Your moans like a song in his ear, and it’s so fucking good, better than any dream, better than anything the voices in his head or the dancing bear could have ever conjured up. He shifts upwards, anchoring himself above you so that he can look down at you as he fucks down deep into your cunt, cock punching against your womb so that it hurts, so that the look on your face is folding in on itself, but good enough still so that your pussy convulses again in another forced orgasm. He wants to look at you as he fills you with his spend, turns you into something he owns after this. 

“Gonna fill you up now– gonna fill you until you’re leakin’ me.” Your hands slide up the soft slope of his stomach, his chest, fingers dragging through the hair there, twisting and pulling on it, up to his face where you cup his chin gently, eye to eye and all wrapped up in your cunt he starts to come, the thick heat of his semen coating your womb while you milk him deeper, every last drop of every last part of him he has to give. 

When he’s done he pulls heavy and wet from you, the sight of your swollen red cunt gaping from him, he finally pulls the slick ruined panty hose from your legs, the marks of the too tight elastic leaving brands in your soft skin, he fingers the grooves gently, clicks his tongue at the sight in reproach. The only thing leaving marks in your skin now should be him. He pulls your wrists back into his grip again, and the look on your face is almost melting in submission, soft and spent and sloppy, leaking cunt all covered in him. 

He ties each delicate wrist to the iron frame of his bed, tight, he can leave marks here now, you’re all his, and returns his attention to the source of his salvation, ignoring your protests as he eats his own come from your cunt until you’re crying a little too loud to remain undiscovered, coming twice more before he gives you reprieve, but he’s the one taking all your choices now, and you have no say in what happens after this. 

He eyes the forgotten keys he’d thrown to the dark corner of his white boxed room, “If you’re not good and quiet, I’ll leave you here for everyone to find, naked and fucked and leakin’ me. Pretty used cunt for the whole world to see, that what you want?”

“No, Joel,” you shake your head, all falsely innocent gaze sparkling up at him. 

And he tells you how good you are because the two of you are only going to share truths with each other now, only going to share everything. “I had nothing for so long. Nothing. Not even my own body, not even my own mind. Now I have you, and I won't give you up for anythin’. You’re mine now. They all told me so.” 

“Who told you?” You ask softly, but he ignores the question as he draws his clothes back upon himself. 

“I find myself so hard to remember and so easy to forget, but you remember me. You said so, and now I’m going to make sure you never forget.” Joel collects the keys and the pearls brought to him for his salvation, the dancing bear is so close now, and wraps your shredded clothes back around you, unties your wrists from the bed only to re-secure them, and hoists you folded over his shoulder for the taking. 

Joel lost his daughter, and then he lost his mind, but now he’s found you. And they said it would all be okay now that he’s found you. 

The morning after I killed myself, I found the end of my suffering, and at the end of that suffering there was a door – behind that door, I am alive again.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

[cuubism]

physical therapy part 4

--

It takes some time, but finally, Dream's hand starts to feel better when he's painting. Granted, his grip strength still needs some work, and he's had to adjust the way he holds a brush to accommodate the lingering stiffness he gets in some of his fingers, but he's finding it hard to care when a few months ago he couldn't draw a straight line without it turning into a scribble. He'd known Hob was good at his job, but it still feels like a miracle.

The only downside is that once he makes enough progress Hob will surely decide to end their sessions. And while he had said that he liked Dream, that he cared about Dream... Dream is finding it hard to feel assured of those feelings. Someone's feelings can change on a dime, and it's impossible to predict.

But finally the day does come when Hob deems him progressed enough to simply continue his exercises at home. "At this point I think you've regained enough mobility that it's just a matter of gradually increasing how much you're using your hand," he says. "You've made a ton of progress."

"Have I?" Dream is less sure. Some things are certainly easier now, like doing tasks around the house, and picking things up. Art is another matter. Though perhaps he is simply making excuses because he doesn't want to stop seeing Hob.

"Yeah, look." Hob pulls out a folder from amongst his files, and shows Dream several sketches--the ones Dream's made in session, which he's apparently kept. Dream picks up the oldest sketch, the cats he'd doodled at his first appointment. They're shaky and uneven, like something he might have drawn when he was barely four. He supposes he can't deny the progress since then. He's torn between wanting to tear the drawing up, for it's too wretched a reminder--and wanting to hold it close to his chest.

"It's not that I think there's no more room for improvement, or anything," Hob says. "I just don't think continuing these frequent sessions is going to offer more than a marginal benefit."

Dream thinks that the benefit he is receiving at this point is more in being able to look forward to seeing Hob each week, than the physical therapy itself. He needs something to look forward to. He's put Hob's objectively terrible finger painting on his fridge. It's still the only spot of color in his empty flat. He needs that.

"So," Hob continues, "I thought I'd take you out to celebrate."

That pulls Dream from his head. "You... will?"

Hob winks at him. "Promised you, didn't I?"

Yes. Dream supposes he had promised that if Dream's feelings held true Hob would act on them. Is that what he's doing? Dream's growing disappointment swiftly morphs into something else. Hope.

"I--" he swallows hard. "I. Would like that." It's still strange, to have something he wants. And to feel like it may be okay to express it.

"Perfect." Hob grins, gets up, holds out a hand.

"Now?"

"You got somewhere else to be?"

Dream never has anywhere else to be, and doubts he would go there if he did. He takes Hob's hand.

Hob takes him to a Chinese restaurant nearby, and Dream looks at him suspiciously as Hob passes him a pair of chopsticks with a cheeky grin. "Now you are just testing me."

"Yup. 'Course if you can't use chopsticks in the first place then it's moot."

Dream can use chopsticks. Could. No, can. Death would say that he should think positively.

So he takes the chopsticks.

Once their food comes, Hob, the absolute bastard, puts down his own chopsticks and picks up a fork instead. And Dream knows, somehow he just knows, that it's not because he can't use them. He's teasing Dream. Or perhaps ensuring that Dream won't compare himself if he struggles. Or both.

He should feel hurt by the teasing but... somehow he's not.

"See?" Hob says when Dream manages to eat his noodles with the chopsticks. It's... not that hard. It doesn't even hurt. Maybe Hob is better at his job than Dream even thought.

It makes him tear up. Such a silly, small thing to start crying over when he's barely cried at all, even when he'd first hurt his hand.

"Hey, it's okay," Hob soothes him, wiping away Dream's tears with his thumb. "I think the noodles are salty enough without the addition of tears, hm?"

Dream laughs, wiping at his eyes when the tears keep falling. "Good tears," he manages to say.

"I know," Hob says, and smiles at him.

Dream surprises himself by having an actually nice time. He hasn't had a nice time doing something in so long. It feels good. He doesn't want it to end.

Of course, it does end, and he finds himself lingering outside the restaurant, hesitant to go home. Particularly as he no longer has a set time when he will see Hob. He feels aimless without that, but. It is hard to ask.

"Dream..." Hob starts, likewise lingering in front of the restaurant. The lights of the signage above cast his face in shades of violet. Dream has thought him handsome before, but never so much as now.

Hob hesitates over what to say, then finally just steps over to him. "Come here."

And before Dream can decide how to react, Hob folds him into a hug.

Dream goes still on instinct. Then, gradually, relaxes into Hob's strong hold. He... can't remember the last time someone hugged him.

He lets himself tuck his face into Hob's shoulder.

"Hey," Hob says. His voice is so close to Dream's ear now. "I'm proud of you."

Dream hears himself make a tiny whimpering sound. He. He does not know how to be proud of himself. He thinks he would only be proud of himself if he could go back in time and stop himself from getting in that terrible relationship to begin with. But he does like how it sounds when Hob says it.

Hob gives him one more squeeze, then, disappointingly, releases him. "I almost forgot. I have something for you."

He digs around in his bag and comes back with a box that looks rather like art supplies of some kind. "It's modelling clay," he explains. "So you can play around and work on your hand without just doing, you know, boring exercises all the time."

Hob is too considerate of him, truly. Dream holds the box close.

"You okay to get home?" Hob asks, and Dream nods. His ex has not bothered him again, and Dream is now hopeful that he won't. Though that does not necessarily mean he doesn't want Hob to follow him home.

"Good," Hob says. Then, while Dream is still thinking about the hug and the clay and everything else, Hob leans in and kisses his cheek. "Goodnight, Dream."

Dream stands paralyzed until Hob is gone, and it's only then that he realizes he failed to set another time for them to meet. He supposes he does have Hob's office contact info. Still, it is disappointing not to have something to look forward to.

But when he gets home, and opens the box of clay, he finds a note inside. It has the name of a coffee shop, and Tuesday, 3pm?, and Hob's personal number. At first he's confused. Why wouldn't Hob simply ask him while they were together? And then he realizes that Hob must be trying to give him a chance to comfortably back out if he wants to by letting him decide in private. It makes him want to cry again. Hob truly is too considerate of him.

But he takes out his phone and types in Hob's number, and a simple reply. Yes.

[the-colourful-witch]

⚡️✨Katie Bell✨⚡️

This girl just drew herself, really. No effort needed. I liked the actress that portrayed Katie in the films, so I took inspiration from her dark hair and put my own spin on the rest ✨

There is something I have always struggled with when seeing sporty girls represented on screen or in fan art… it’s that they’re always athletically built. Now, that makes sense, in a way, because to make a character design believable it is the easiest way to get the message across: this girl is fit.

But when it comes to representing women in the athletic field, this is not always true. You can be strong and fit and still have rounder arms or legs. You can still have a belly! Unless you’re actively trying to loose weight, exercising does not mean you look like an Olympic runner or swimmer or whatever. 🫡

So, I try to draw real girls, that are sporty, but aren’t necessarily skinny. I hope that makes sense. I’m trying to do better with my designs and incorporating more different body types, to step away from those stereotypes, so maybe you don’t agree with me and think: huh, but she’s still pretty skinny. I’m trying some things, one character at a time :) 🧡☀️🥇

[tongue-like-a-razor]

There Are Consequences

Pete "Maverick" Mitchell x F!Reader

Summary: While hiding your relationship is an essential requirement of maintaining it, Maverick struggles to hide his feelings when another man becomes involved.

CW: age gap, student/instructor dynamic, swearing, and where would we be without the angst, people??

WC: 3000+

This is Part 3 in the There Are Rules universe.

You’re packing up when Maverick calls your name from the front of the room. You look up at him warily as the officers around you start rising from their seats.

Maverick clears his throat, his eyes locked on yours and, even as the rest of the room is bustling after a long day of flying and debriefs, you’re suddenly completely still. Everything always slows down when his gaze settles on you.

“Can you hang back a minute?” he asks.

You nod, sliding out of your seat. You head to the front against the flow of traffic while Maverick walks around his desk to meet you. He stands a good five feet away, riffling through some papers in his hand, until the last of the officers leaves the room.

Maverick glances up at you once everyone else has gone, gingerly setting the stack of papers down on his desk. “Lieutenant,” he says quietly. “That was some flying today.”

You blink at him, a small smile spreading on your face. Surely, he didn’t call you up here to talk about aviation.

Maverick watches you levelly, not a hint of humor in his face. “You broke the hard deck.”

“For a second,” you say, rolling your eyes. “To avoid a collision –”

“Breaking the hard deck is a collision with the ground,” Maverick interjects.

You sigh. “You would’ve done the same.”

Maverick shakes his head. “You can’t keep using that excuse.”

You stare at him moodily. “You’re not denying it.”

Maverick furrows his eyebrows. “We train like we fight, Lieutenant. So that we can fight like we train. You keep breaking the hard deck during exercise, you’ll end up crashing during combat.”

You seethe under the guise of a polite nod. “Yes, sir,” you reply.

Maverick narrows his eyes and tilts his head to the side as though he isn’t convinced that you’re done arguing. “I don’t care if you’ve got bogeys on your tail chasing into the cliffside – you might as well have gone straight through the rock.”

You glare at him, holding back every single retort that threatens to escape your tightly sealed lips. “Yes, sir,” you manage to utter, gritting your teeth the moment the words leave your mouth.

Maverick watches you patiently, waiting for you to dispute his logic. When you don’t, he takes a step forward. “Lieutenant,” he says calmly, his eyes sweeping over your face.

“Captain,” you reply.

He moves just a touch closer, letting his fingers skim the back of your hand. “I need you to be more careful,” he says in a near-whisper.

His proximity dizzies you until you can hardly decipher his words. “Mm-hm,” you respond vaguely.

His thumb draws a couple of circles into your palm, but he never quite takes your hand. “You’re dismissed, Lieutenant,” he says in a low voice.

You close your eyes, letting out a wavering sigh when his breath warms the apple of your cheek. “Aye aye, sir,” you say quietly.

Maverick releases a partially stifled groan, pressing his head against yours for a moment before he steps away. “That shouldn’t turn me on,” he says, backing away further as he holds his arm out, pointing at you.

You furrow your eyebrows. “What?” you ask, a little bewildered because you’re still stranded in a moment that’s already passed.

“You calling me that,” he says, shutting his eyes and shaking his head as though he’s attempting to clear it of your sorcery.

“Sir?” you ask.

He laughs tensely. “Stop.”

You press your lips together to keep from smiling. “Captain?” you say innocently, exploiting his weakness now that you’ve caught on. You take a step forward.

He sighs, bringing a hand to his face. “This is bad,” he warns as you approach, although there’s an amused grin on his face.

You bite your lip, smirking. “Do you like it when I’m bad, Captain?”

Maverick’s mouth drops open for a second as he watches you in awe. “Lieutenant,” he says hoarsely, placing his hands on your arms before you can come any closer. “If you’re trying to test my self-restraint, you’re winning.”

“Am I?” you ask softly, trying to push yourself against his hold.

Maverick moves his head to one side, setting his jaw as though he’s bracing himself for a difficult task. “I’m begging you,” he whispers, turning back to look at you as his breathing becomes more pronounced. “Don’t come any closer.”

“You started it,” you say.

He nods. “I won’t make that mistake again,” he says, finally letting go of you and shaking out his hands wearily. “We can’t do this here. If anybody finds out –”

“I know, I know,” you say. “There will be consequences.

…

Later that evening, you meet your squadron at the Hard Deck. You nod at Maverick and Cyclone, who are seated at the bar, but walk past them to join your friends. You spend the night going over the day’s hops with Phoenix, kicking Rooster’s ass at pool, and exchanging furtive glances with your instructor who has yet to run out of creative reasons to look over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of your group near the back of the bar.

It has been two weeks since the locker room fiasco but, in all this time, you and Maverick have barely had a moment alone. Between the grueling training and keeping up appearances, there has hardly been time for romance, so when you see Maverick getting out of his seat and pulling his leather jacket over the fitted, white t-shirt he’s wearing, you can’t help the disappointment you feel.

You down your martini moodily and rise slowly, leaning on the table.

“You doing okay?” Phoenix asks.

You nod, feeling the significant weight of your head as you perform said action. The third martini must have been a double. Still, you straighten your back and release the edge of the table. “Never better,” you respond, taking care not to lose your balance as you spin on the spot. You let out a sigh upon seeing Maverick’s back as he nears the door and start unhurriedly for the bar.

But before you reach it, a man in service khakis steps into your path. Not only is he wearing an exuberant grin, he’s also still sporting his aviators despite the late hour and lack of sunlight indoors. “Hey there, gorgeous,” he says in a jubilant voice.

Cyclone looks up from where he’s seated at the bar and raises his eyebrows in your direction before pointedly turning away. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see that Maverick has come to a halt near the exit.

“What’s your poison?” the man asks, putting a hand on your arm and gesturing to the bar.

You watch him quietly for a moment, trying to decide whether you’re devious enough to take advantage of the situation. After all, the moment the man lays his hand on you, Maverick turns to watch you from where he still stands by the door, and you can’t say that the pissed off expression he’s wearing isn’t wildly attractive. But, ultimately, you look up at the man who’s now putting his arm around your shoulder, and say “I’m good, thanks,” and slip out from under his embrace.

“Come on,” the man insists, taking a hold of your wrist as you start to walk away. “One drink, sweetheart.”

In your periphery, you see Maverick start to make his way back toward the bar. “No, thank you,” you reiterate, pulling your hand out of his grasp.

But when you turn away, the man steps into your path. “Don’t be like that, sweetheart,” he says, putting his hands on your waist.

Before you can respond, you hear Maverick’s voice, much closer than you would expect him to be. “I believe the lady said no.”

You glance over to see the threatening look on his face despite the composure in his voice.

“Hey gramps, how ’bout you take a hike?” The man chuckles.

You notice Cyclone turning back to face the three of you, his eyebrows hovering even higher than the last time you saw them. He meets your gaze with a cringe just as Maverick narrows his eyes. “Step away,” he says in a low voice. “I’m not going to ask you again.”

The man leers at Maverick. “Or what?” he asks, tugging you forward.

It takes but a moment for Maverick to wedge himself between the two of you and grab the man by the collar of his uniform, nearly lifting him off the ground. “I suggest you get out of here right the fuck now,” Maverick growls, displacing the man several feet. He drives his back into the bar before finally letting go of his shirt.

“Woah! Woah!” the man yells, clearly not prepared to take a beating for what he thought might be a decent hookup. He holds his hands up, cowering. “I’m leaving, pop.”

Maverick glares at the man as he stalks off in a hurry. You glance nervously between Maverick’s curled up fists and the relaxed set of Cyclone’s shoulders. He’s watching Maverick in amusement. “Well, that was entertaining,” he comments while Maverick continues to seethe.

You wince as Maverick’s jaw hardens in response, not entirely optimistic that Cyclone won’t end up in his path of destruction. You bite your lip as Maverick finally releases a controlled breath and looks in your direction. His eyes sweep fleetingly over your face, although he holds your gaze for a deliberate moment before turning to Cyclone. “I can’t stand that kind of arrogance,” Maverick mutters, reaching for a bar stool next to his superior.

Cyclone smirks at him pointedly. “That’s ironic.”

Maverick gives Cyclone a flat look but doesn’t respond.

Cyclone takes advantage of the break in conversation to glance in your direction. “You alright, Lieutenant?”

You gravitate warily toward the bar. “I could use a drink,” you respond honestly.

Cyclone calls over the bartender while Maverick looks over his shoulder to steal a glance in your direction. He’s wearing an unreadable expression and this about doubles your level of anxiety. Cyclone distributes six shots of Tequila between the three of you and, lifting his shot glass, says, “I thought you were leaving, Maverick.”

Maverick eyes Cyclone impassively. “Is that your toast, sir?” he asks.

Cyclone chuckles. “Why not?” Then he downs his shot.

You follow suit, squeezing your eyes shut as the bitterness of the liquor settles in your mouth. You let out a quick breath before sticking a wedge of lime between your teeth and cringing as you bite down. When you notice both Cyclone and Maverick watching you in amusement, you give them a forced smile. “Oh my god,” you mutter around the lime wedge still in your mouth. “So good.”

The men laugh and you take a breath of relief, feeling the tension dissipate. Maverick raises his second shot glass and, while Cyclone reaches over the bar for the saltshaker, winks at you with a discreet smile. This tiny gesture is enough to send a ripple of electricity through your body.

Cyclone lands back on his barstool with a loud sigh and offers Maverick the salt. Maverick holds up a hand to indicate that he isn’t interested so Cyclone just shrugs and starts sprinkling his hand.

You glance at Maverick just as his eyes linger on yours once again and the desire to touch him becomes disastrously overwhelming. You feel your heart begin to race when you recognize the longing on his face before he squares his jaw and looks into his shot glass. He brings it to his lips, but Cyclone stops him with an outraged “Maverick!” He looks at Cyclone in surprise while the latter shakes his head in disapproval. “It’s your turn to give a toast.”

Maverick lets out a weak chuckle, reverting his gaze to the liquid in his glass. “To the mission, of course,” he says. He takes his shot quickly and then looks at you with a mild squint, as though he’s studying your reaction.

“Of course,” Cyclone agrees and, as he tips his shot glass back, you feel the back of Maverick’s hand brush lightly against your knee.

That’s when the troupe of enthusiastic aviators arrives at the bar. “Excuse the interruption,” Hangman says. “But this looks like a party I want to crash.”

Maverick raises his eyebrows at him. “Typically, I advise my pilots against crashing,” he says.

You chuckle, rolling your eyes at Maverick’s joke while the rest of your squadron gathers around.

Maverick rises, allowing the newcomers access to the counter, and gives you a subtle wink as he moves through the swam of aviators. “See you kids tomorrow,” he says with a smirk.

“Captain!” you exclaim, leaping from your seat and squeezing through the bodies crowding the counter.

Maverick glances back at you warily. “Lieutenant?”

You hesitate for a moment, wondering how appropriate your ensuing request might sound. “Mind giving me a ride back to base?”

Maverick blinks at you mutely before his eyes briefly slide over to Cyclone and then back to you again. “Sure,” he says pleasantly.

You give him a tight smile before turning to bid your friends a good night. Cyclone gives you a quick nod and returns his attention to the beer someone’s just handed him. Apprehensively, you make your way toward Maverick, who’s about halfway to the door. Maverick turns on his heel as soon as you reach him and marches briskly toward the exit. “Keep up, Lieutenant,” he mutters under his breath as you pick up your pace.

“Are you mad?” you ask quietly as he holds the door open for you.

Maverick meets your gaze. “No,” he says with a shift of the jaw as he fights to keep a straight face. “Impatient.”

You raise your eyebrows, stepping over the threshold with a small laugh. Maverick walks out after you and gestures to the parking lot at the side of the building.

Once the two of you are past the large windows of the establishment, you feel Maverick’s fingers weave through your own. The afternoon sun has sunk below the horizon and the long shadows of palm trees start to melt into the soft darkness of dusk. It's thanks to this cover of nightfall that Maverick pulls you aside behind the Hard Deck and, after a quick glance over his shoulder, finally looks you in the eye. “Good evening, Lieutenant,” he says and, even in your pocket of darkness, hidden between the spotlights of two unsuspecting streetlamps, you see the twitch of his lips as his mouth curls upward.

You smile back at him. “Good evening, Captain,” you respond, not meaning to sound quite as sweet as you do, only you’re so enamored by his eyes, it’s damn near impossible to keep from melting.

Maverick brings your hand up and presses it to his mouth, closing his eyes as he lets out a breath. He shakes his head, meeting your gaze with a more serious expression. “Sorry I intervened,” he says.

You blink at him in surprise. “I’m not,” you respond. “I mean, I know you know I can handle myself.”

Maverick chuckles. “I assure you, I don’t doubt your competence.”

You lower your gaze to watch his hand tighten around yours. “It was nice, having you stand up for me.”

Maverick reaches up with his other hand to lift your chin. “I almost decked him.”

You laugh. “I noticed.”

“I think I reacted before I realized that I probably shouldn’t have.”

“Hmm.” You pause, searching his face. “I know the feeling,” you say finally, perhaps a tad sarcastically.

He watches you quietly for a moment, knowing exactly what you’re getting at. “Your barrel roll,” he concedes.

“I was inverted before I even realized it.”

Maverick nods. “You’ve got great instincts.”

You gaze at him thoughtfully. “My point is, I don’t think I would have done the same maneuver at a lower altitude. Another reflex would have kicked in.”

“Look, I’m not going to stand here and deny that you’re a talented pilot. But I’m also not going to commend you for a reckless stunt that put your life in jeopardy and nearly caused your pursuing aircraft to lose control,” Maverick states firmly.

You pout your lips teasingly. “Not even a little?”

Maverick grins reluctantly. He brings his head down to rest over yours. He’s silent for a moment, breathing calmly, in unison with you. “That was some flying today, Lieutenant,” he mutters finally, echoing his morning lecture in an infinitely more agreeable tone. Affectionate. Proud. “Couldn’t have done it better myself,” he half-whispers. His hand moves to cradle your cheek while he places a tender, burning kiss on the corner of your mouth. Your lips part as you let a soft, whimpering sigh escape in the midst of your mounting desire. His lips linger longingly on your cheek before he shifts his weight to move closer and kiss you again. He’s not even kissing your mouth and the passion of the moment is already driving you wild.

Then, just as you’re about to insist on a proper French kiss, a booming voice impedes your plans. “Maverick!”

Maverick leaps away from you like he’s been stung, as though this action might negate what Cyclone has undoubtedly already witnessed. “Sir,” he starts, his tone confident despite the alarm on his face. “Let me explain” –

Cyclone silences him by holding up a hand. He glances mutely between you and Maverick. “I don’t have to tell you what kind of position this puts me in, Captain.”

“I understand that, sir,” Maverick responds with a stiff nod.

Cyclone stands quietly for what seems like a full minute before speaking again. “This ends now,” Cyclone declares levelly, the hushed quality of his voice adding a threatening tone to the statement.

“There’s nothing to end,” Maverick assures him. “This was an error in judgement, and it will not happen again.”

Cyclone juts out his chin in a grimace and shoots a stern glance in your direction. “This ends now,” he repeats, ensuring to enunciate every syllable to emphasize his point.

You don’t say anything, but Cyclone doesn’t wait for you to respond. He heads out into the parking lot, leaving the two of you behind.

Maverick drags a hand over his face. “Of all the fucking people” –

But you don’t let him finish. “Nothing to end?” you say hurtfully. He looks up at you wearily. “An error in judgement?”

Maverick watches you resignedly. “What would you call it?”

The despair on his face frightens you; makes you consider the possibility that his response to Cyclone might have been more deliberate than simply a spontaneous evasive maneuver.

Maverick sighs. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. You meet his gaze; his eyes brim with tears but his jaw is set. “I take full responsibility.”

As if you want an apology. As if you need to place blame. You take a step toward him, but he retreats.

He lets out a labored breath and blinks back a flood of tears. Then, he says in a strained whisper, “This ends now.”

You might’ve accidentally broken the hard deck but, just like that, Maverick intentionally breaks your heart.

Read Part 4

Tag List:

Not sure when Mav's tag list got so long! As always, let me know if you no longer wish to be tagged in my works <3 The rest of the list is in the comments.

@wandering-wah

@callsign-sunshine

@ghost-heart34

@birdy-bat-writes

@matya4

@wkndwlff

@nyx2021

@bellamy1998

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@army24--7

@thefandomimagines

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@smit41

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@simp-for-fictional-people

@ollyoxenfrees

@iamabeautifulperson18

@living-in-my-imagination88

@wintercap89

@mavrellover91

@gingerbreadandpaper

[stawbeemilk]

⤷ their s/o has anxiety – hq

✩ characters: various

✩ warnings: mentions of panic attacks

✩ a/n: i know anxiety is different for everyone but this is just based on my own personal experience ◡̈

⭑ kenma is very observant and can always sense when you're feeling overwhelmed in public places— it isn't long before he's asking if you want to leave, and if you say you feel guilty for cutting your day out together short he'll tell you it's fine because he prefers being at home with you anyway.

⭑ hinata isn't afraid to deliberately embarrass himself in front of others whenever you do the same, he knows you hate being the centre of attention and so he hopes that he can draw everyone’s eyes away from you and onto him instead.

⭑ yaku is so good at reassuring you when you have a panic attack, he’ll stay with you the entire time and hold your hand, refusing to leave your side as he tells you that everything will be okay and that you'll get through it just like you always do.

⭑ akaashi is always happy to listen if you ever need to vent to someone about your struggles, he can empathise with how you feel since he experiences a lot of the same things you do and is therefore very understanding of what you're going through.

⭑ sugawara has no problem with being the one who talks to the cashier when the two of you are at a checkout, and while he does try to encourage you to face things that make you anxious, he appreciates that it's not always easy for you and is happy to help you out when you need it.

⭑ kuroo likes to remind you to take your medication on time, especially if you're someone who is prone to forgetting— he even buys you one of those pill organisers and will leave various post-it notes around the house to help you remember.

⭑ yamaguchi does his best to learn all of your triggers so that he knows when you might be likely to have a panic attack, and whenever he notices that you're feeling anxious he'll walk you through breathing exercises to try and help you ground yourself.

⭑ bokuto will always order your food for you if you ask him to, he does it for you so often that he practically has all of your go-to orders for different restaurants fully memorised— he never judges you for not being able to do it yourself, but any time you do find the courage to order without his help he'll be so proud of you.

⤷ please do not repost my works on any other sites!

[sirenpearldust]

Pearl - Part one

series masterlist ⋆ part two

Pair: Eris x reader; Lucien x reader (platonic)

Word count: 1.191

Warnings: Lucien is only mentioned, unrequited love, fluff, angst, arranged marriage, mentions of pregnancy and virginity

Once you two were the closest of friends and now you were his wife.

The marriage wasn't terrible, he was a good husband, but your heart belonged to Lucien.

You had been terribly in love with him for as long as you could remember, your heart would often feel like it was about to burst out of your chest. The similarities between Eris and Lucien didn't make it any easier.

"Have you thought of any names yet?" you asked softly, struggling to zip your dress.

Eris approached, offering his assistance, his upper body bare and sweaty.

Multiple freckles adorned his exercise-hardened body, stretching across his skin.

He looked too good; you shouldn’t be drawn to him. Your heart belongs to his brother. You cursed yourself for thinking about Lucien while drooling over Eris.

Yet, those shoulders, those full lips, and seeing him sometimes in uniform made you feel delirious.

He appeared composed, unlike you, showing no signs of breathlessness after everything you did.

He smirked as if he knew what you'd been thinking.

"What?" you asked.

Eris smiled warmly, remarking, "Considering you're eyeing me, like my brothers do with Mother's strawberry cake, I think I look good."

You laughed.

"You look horrible," you blurted out. "Your ego shouldn't become bigger."

Eris only chuckled finally securing the zipper.

You turned around, looking up at him. His russet eyes were filled with love and a dazzling smile stretched across his face. He seemed happy you noted.

"Stop smiling," you demanded.

"I'm not responsible for what my face does when you talk," Eris replied with a grin.

His hands sought your waist, drawing you close, chest to chest.

"I think we've had enough for today," you interjected, placing your hands between you two, creating a small distance. He merely laughed, nuzzling his head into your neck, inhaling your scent.

"We are now husband and wife, don't be shy now, there is nothing wrong with me hugging you. Hugging my wife," he said. You playfully hit him.

"I've picked some names. I just hope you like them," he said, his voice slightly muffled.

He kept running his nose along your neck, making you shiver and softly laugh.

Running your hands through his soft hair, you felt him shudder in response, a quiet sigh escaping his lips.

He fought the urge to confess.

I am in love with you. I've been in love with you since forever.

Pulling his face from your neck, he gazed into your eyes. His right hand slowly rose to tenderly caress your cheek before he kissed your forehead.

Guilt consumed you, weighing heavily on your conscience for entertaining thoughts of his brother while fully aware of Eris's feelings for you.

He wasn't subtle in his behavior around you, he looked out for you, even as you were foolishly in love with Lucien, who already had a mate and had been courting her.

Perhaps Eris was meant to be your mate, perhaps the bond would snap while being with him. Either way, you couldn't abandon him, you owed him your loyalty, as he deserved it.

"You're cute," he chuckled, watching your face scrunch up in an adorable manner.

"What?" you asked, puzzled.

"I said you look stupid," he snickered mischievously.

"Eris! How dare you!" you exclaimed, mouth agape at his audacity.

He laughed out loud as you attempted to wriggle out of his hug.

While watching you, doubts slowly began to surface. Although you were now officially his wife, he knew you were still in love with Lucien.

He desired to win you over, a goal he'd set since your first meeting.

He remembered it, clear as day.

He was mean to you and despite being the high lord's son, you had fearlessly insulted him, causing Lucien to burst into laughter and your own parents to scold you.

Now years later, you were attempting to conceive a child because Beron desired it.

He believed that your power would be a valuable addition to the blood line, so the marriage was arranged.

You bid farewell to your friends and family, knowing that you couldn't see them as often as before. You had taken on new responsibilities .

Raised in a wealthy and affluent family, you were perceived as family-oriented, educated, and poised in Beron’s eyes, despite the fact that your siblings might beg to differ.

In his eyes, you were a precious pearl, untainted and pure.

The sight of your bloodied sheets on the wedding night confirmed to him that you were a virgin, worthy of his son and as the princess of his court.

To you it was a dumb tradition that needed to disappear, a rule discriminating against females. It held power over them while men faced no such restrictions.

Despite being over 300 years old, you had never been intimate with anyone. Eris was surprised, he had expected the opposite.

Nevertheless, he was deeply in love with you, unable to imagine life without you - he would have taken you regardless. Still the mere thought of someone else being with you filled him with raging jealousy.

You upheld that tradition yourself, not only due to your families pressure but also out of a lack of interest in giving yourself to someone, only to potentially regret it later; at least with a husband, you reasoned, he would be bound to you.

It didn't mean that you were inexperienced or unaware of what needed to be done and how to do it, you weren't naive.

Marrying Eris and having a child with him would secure your family's high status, even though your father strongly opposed the union. Your father had different plans, and a marriage to the heir of the court wasn't part of them.

You and Eris each reassured your father and mother that you would be protected.

He himself promised you, to save you from the same fate as his mothers.

Your wedding was a grand affair, with a significant amount of money spent and all your loved ones in attendance, except for Lucien.

He couldn't risk his life by attending but sent a heartfelt letter wishing you happiness and asking you to inform him if Eris ever wronged you.

As wedding presents he sent you a beautiful blue dress, reminiscent of the night sky, a solar system from the Dawn Court, along with books from the Day Court.

The sweetness of his gestures moved you to tears, deepening your love for him and making you feel ugly as you were now married to Eris.

Eris, always protective of you, became even more obsessed and vigilant after the wedding. He was somewhat relieved that Lucien couldn't attend, despite missing his brother dearly. Eris feared that your love for Lucien might grow stronger, causing you to lose any affection for him.

But that’s not the only thing he had been worrying about.

Unbeknownst to you, he secretly has been using a forbidden tonic to reduce his fertility.

You having a child would jeopardize his plans, it would put you in harms way if anything were to go wrong.

And he wanted to win your heart over before burdening you with a child.

Main Taglist: @bubybubsters

Pearl - Taglist: @bubybubsters @favsrachz @fxckmiup @st4r-girl-official @starriestarlight @adharanotfound @mybestfriendmademe @se7enteen--black-blog @anainkandpaper @bunnyredgirl @loneliestluvr @justanotherlostreader

[genericpuff]

I'm about to ask an embarrassing art question: what's your advice for beginner artists who struggle to draw a good circle?

You don't need to draw perfect circles! I can't even draw perfect circles! My circles are shit! Look at this garbage!

But! They do what they're supposed to do :)

(and if I really need a "perfect" circle for something, I just use rulers LMAO)

But! There's still a lot of value in learning how to draw circles ✨ confidently ✨ and with ✨ gusto ✨, so let's do an ACTIVITY >:D Please feel free to follow along! All you need is a sheet of paper and a pencil, or, if you're a digital artist, a fresh canvas and a round brush!

On your clean sheet, draw circles like how you normally would. Scribble them out, don't take your time with them, just do a 1-3 pass circle, you should only be spending like a second on each one. Start with small circles, and then gradually build up to some bigger ones.

While drawing those circles, did you notice it got harder to draw them the bigger they got? Maybe it felt like they were "outgrowing" your range of motion?

Start with a new page again. But THIS time, as you scribble out the circles from smallest to largest, focus on your elbow when you draw. Pretend there's a heavy jug of milk taped to your wrist that's preventing you from moving it. Oh no, what do you do now? Keep that wrist still and move your elbow instead. This will give you a MUCH larger range of motion that will allow you to fully utilize your drawing tool without your wrist restricting your movements, which is, as you might be discovering, very helpful when you're trying to draw bigger circles.

These are exercises we would do in our life drawing classes back in college, every single day, before proceeding with our actual model studies. It seems silly and boring, but it can really help you develop confidence with your technique which is ultimately all it comes down to - it's not about perfection, it's about decision-making, and building confidence in the lines you put down, even when they're not "exact". Imperfect lines and circles are often more expressive than if they were perfect, anyways! You just need to develop the confidence in creating them <3

Best of luck anon! (•̀ᴗ•́)و