#purple prose is strong in this one
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I wanted to make an analysis but I made this instead
[ID: A three-way Venn diagram with Shou, Teru, and Ritsu from Mob Psycho 100.
Shou: 🔥child of divorce🔥
Shou + Ritsu: misplaced sense of responsibility over op family members
Ritsu: too much self awareness, outwardly polite
Ritsu + Teru: inclined towards violence, superiority complex that compensates for insecurity, impulsive
Teru: not a gram of self awareness, "humble" (in quotes)
Teru + Shou: developed main character syndrome to cope with The Horrors, neglectful/shithead parents, blunt
All three: psychic middle schoolers with issues. End ID]
#not complete but im sleepy and i wanted to be done with it now cause ik tmrw id forget it#id loooove to elaborate on this but the urge to mimimimi is too strong think ill just take my leave for now#anyway. woe parallels be upon ye#parallels? similarities? hm#mp100#mob psycho 100#kageyama ritsu#hanazawa teruki#suzuki shou#cine te a intrebat#point is theyd make a fun throuple. go and wreck stuff up for stress relief purposes#also also theres some stuff that wouldve fit all 3 but i wanted the center to be only one (1) thing so here we are#maybe i will elaborate later hmmm#it is now later and elaboration is still not in motion BUT theres ID now#thank @/ princess-of-purple-prose for that#i can barely write my posts wiehfwiuw
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It is time for me to unleash a portion of my jung heewon mental illness onto the paper. Clicks pen. She is just. My goodness. Everytime I feel like crying because of something dokja does, jung heewon reacts in a way that makes me want to cry ten times harder.
Thank you @princess-of-purple-prose for the ID (available in ALT text)
rambling about jung heewon further under the cut
I fucking love heewon, she's literally the husband ever. Whenever she gets a judgement hour moment I scream and cry and shadow box the ghosts of my ancestors in the room because holy shit, it is jung heewon. Jung heewon is so cool. And she has such a big heart.
She was saved by dokja, was literally just some random dying person in a shop that he ransacked, and then became one of their most important assets. Like Wow. Work it queen. And her personality just makes me giggle kick my feet and tuck my hair behind my ear. Right off the bat she's snappy, sarcastic and confident, but kind and compassionate. She's loyal and righteous but she can be selfish and desperate and emotionally vulnerable. She is so cool. When I saw her in a suit I was so grateful the gods sprinkled me with fruit before spawning me in this world.
She's so super strong and cool, but she keeps failing to save dokja, and my god, singshong really leans into how She's the one that screams and begs in anguish, and is absolutely fucking livid when he does reckless shit like that. She truly cares so so much and she hates him so much but all that hate is because she loves him so so much. And it Hurts and I desperately need her to be happy forever. ForEVERRRR
#orv#orv fanart#omniscient reader fanart#omniscient readers viewpoint#omniscient reader#kim dokja#kdj#jung heewon#jhw#orv spoilers#crit's art: orv
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hi i’m new to trigun but i’ve watched all of stampede and he’s so baby girl to me that i spent 18 hours on this! enjoy
ID written by @princess-of-purple-prose with additions about the BG from me! thanks for the help!
[ID: Digital Trigun Stampede fanart of Vash running on rooftops to escape bullets being fired in his direction. Vash is grimacing with stress as he lifts one leg so a bullet flies beneath him, and below him someone is firing two guns upwards towards him. The background is fully rendered. It is daytime and the sun is casting strong light on the scene. There are rusty buildings directly behind and to the right of Vash. Cliffs can faintly be seen in the far back of the drawing. There is a windmill on top of one of them. End ID]
#digital art#my art#art#trigun#trigun stampede#vash#vash tristamp#vash the stampede#fanart#anime#anime fanart#trigun fanart
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MotA Fanfiction: John Brady and first person/reader/insert no use of y/n.
18+: John Brady had me at “like you told me” five seconds before “son of a bitch that’s France” and now we’ve got seven kids and a mortgage. The following could be a very existential diary page about the first few months of that marriage.
But basically, John Brady makes me rabid: here have some purple prose smut about it mixed into an essay on happiness
My mother readied me for many things but not for this. I dig through the archives of her heavy advice, her off handed comments, her jubilant prognostications, all I keep so dutifully in my mind, and I search for some hint from her that she knew it could be like this. But I find nothing, it is all too weak or strong or wordy.
Did it not come in words?
Were her misty eyes when she settled the veil over my face the true meaning of it? Had I mistaken her emotion as a presentment of missing me when it was instead tremulous excitement for what was in store? Had she known when she wrapped me in white and insisted it fit me lovingly to my proportions that it was not tidiness and appreciation for good seams but instead, that holy knowledge of what more awaited me? That a wedding dress in its fit reflects what happens when the groom removes it?
She knew I had myself a good man. Did she suspect how well he’d fit me?
And I thought it was merely cloth, I had been too busy even for my own wedding. I was too busy loving him, the idea of him, of him being mine. Perhaps if we had met in peacetime, if he had courted me between his hours at the office and my semesters I would have looked forward to my wedding, planned each detail and worried over all manner of things that brides are said to care about.
But we had not; I’d no sooner loved him than he’d gone, and no sooner had death returned him on loan than I married him. I loved him and everyone else but me seemed to know what that meant as he kissed frosting from my wrist.
I had thought I’d known at the registry office, signing in ink my name, scrawling a practiced B that ended with a flourished Y.
Mrs. Brady.
I’d thought I’d known then. I had given the benign judge a saucy smile of the fully enlightened. I had no idea. To ask me if I was happy that day would have been a good joke, to ask me if I could be happier when we waved out a window chalked with news of our nuptials: it would have been more than half insulting.
I was happy. I thought I knew. And that night, what little doubt I had about the gaps in my theory, he filled. Love in its rawest form, breaking me apart, making a place for himself, I clung to his shoulders; this part my mother had told me of. She told me it got better; I can’t speak to that. He was pushing and petting and I endured until surrender turned to fascination and again to arousal by his rhythm, the concrete sense of his need, the clarity of his release. And still I was urging my sweet boy to take and take; it did not get better, it got sublime. I could not fault my mother for her faulty preparations, even though I think she knew -for her own sake I hope she knew. There are no words for it when two bodies become one, minds meld and he finds his way eased by your blood till he’s in so deep you think he’s probed at your heart. I don’t hear of people speaking about that part, and mother didn’t tell me, but I think they know.
I am quite forgiving of her that night, I thought I knew then, I assumed what she left unsaid, it was merely out for lack of vocabulary. Lying beside him, having tasted heaven, I am generous. She tried. I know.
He had put a pillow under my hips before he opened me, it tilted me kindly for his invasion and I wonder who told him of that. His innate desire to please had long ago led me to find he was good at kissing, and that he liked to kiss me everywhere. He was as delighted by the back of my knees as he was by my throat, and he forgot all reason when he tasted between my thighs, only his firm and unyielding hands on my hips gave a mottled clue he kept at such kissing for his own satisfaction as much as mine.
I know that I am happy then, on my wedding night, and next morning I am happier still. I might try at being cross with my own self, for sabotaging my arrival at absolute knowledge except that I cannot help but be giddy for it; he loves to kiss me, my boy, and he has a warm blush on his face in the sunlight, this first morning I’ve woken up beside him, and his hands are already busy with me. Mine grow busy with him and I know this is how we will spend our days, kissing with him inside me, and I am happy.
No one who encounters me in the coming weeks can doubt it. My parents whisper amongst themselves, his too, church members and fellow servicemen. My Johnny is not settled with a job and so we lodge at various places in the next two months, and soon each of our hosts knows it, too. It cannot be stifled beneath his quieting palm when he breaks me apart, thin walls and no place to call our own except the harbor of my body, that’s his home and he goes into it. Often and more vigorously each time until I associate happiness with the most alarming strength of exertion from the lithe length of him rolling against mine, noses to toes; I draw blood from his hand.
Even my boy is beginning to see: he makes me happy. He has the most melancholy eyes, my boy, I recalled them as being calm and observant before he went away. But he has observed too much though he never says so, and out of his army greens there is not a speck of baby blue left in them, they’re cold gray and the only time I see them sparkle are when I’ve made him laugh so hard a tear rolls down his creased cheeks. I am impatient with his happiness, I know it and I know I’m wrong for it, but I miss the sky blue of them and the way I didn’t used to have to guess at what roils beneath them.
If he can’t feel happiness as thoroughly as me, he at least presents with quiet confidence as he finds a peacetime footing, there is a job offer in Maryland and we take our first road-trip. He is full of plans and maps and well drawn schedules and I am full of 55 mph breezes up the nose, feet in his lap and face hung out the window merrily, there are endless rows of pines and the feel of bark against my back at the rest pavilion. More, more, more, I demand of him and he gives it, it’s happiness turned hungry, greedy, close to vicious. Happiness that needs topping off.
We fight that night before his interview. A silly thing, inconsequential, hotel room adding to the displaced feeling I have begun to feel after our adventure calmed into adult necessity. He is preoccupied with being excellent and I am preoccupied with happiness. Chiefly if I make him happy or not; this is the first night he has not been so undivided in his passion and I allow it to vex me. I am young and I am happy and I guard it jealously, thinking that holding it -gripping him- tight fistedly desperate about it, will keep it all the closer.
“I am doing this for us.” his tone cuts me, I have admired it slashing others but it has never been directed at me before. He is wiser than I am and a self proclaimed cynic. I think he is fighting me in my happy quest, but, “For us, I’m doing this for us.”
His fingers dig into my cheeks and it is assurance enough. I have to agree that even heaven must have some maintenance work intruding on the celestial revels from time to time.
By the time I stand on the bed and cinch his tie the next morning before his interview, I have never been more in love. I am happy, yes, but there is admiration for him there too, but I struggle with finding a place for it.
Love, it seems, multiplies and I remain fixated with happiness in its tidiest form. Like the moment we cut the cake. I ask him that night if he has ever felt that, felt it simple and tidy.
“I feel a million things about you.” he swears instead; his tone suggests it is the most devout compliment.
I pray for wisdom next Sunday. I can feel that there is more to happiness than I know and it unsettles me. Our fight has long been made up but those million things that Johnny thinks and knows of me haunt the little life I try to construct, they haunt it as badly as whatever plagues his dreams at night.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” he begs a hundred times to me night after thrashing night; he suggests the sofa, I won’t hear of it. The bruises his flailing limbs land on mine are no darker than those he makes in calculated romance. His dreams respond to the feeling of my hands on his belly, he wakes easily with it, I have something to wake for and it is not perfect or quiet or even gentle always, but I am in love and when he allows me, I feel powerful and needed, hands on his belly, a thin tickle of hair beneath my palm. “You’re an Angel.” he swears to me, lips warm and plush against mine, I am so in love.
My cycle stops soon after the interview trip. I wait until I am sure to tell him one night, we are sprawled across our bed gasping back breath and I tell him, simple and direct as he prefers. I had wanted him one last time before he thought of me as a madonna. It had not been so different, I had been preoccupied with the child but I had also found my peak, and he had grasped greedily at my breasts, my nipples knotting beneath his fingers and only a lingering soreness in them to remind me of my secret. With his seed dripping from me, redundant and warm, I tell him.
“A baby?” My husband’s eyes glow, he cups my face like I am holy, his lips thank me with kisses to my nose and eyelids, “We’re havin’ a baby?”
He is all preparedness now. Striding with purpose and when he kisses me he is kissing the mother of his child; he gets the job in Maryland. We tell my parents of our happy news before we go, it surprises no one and yet there are celebrations as if we waited a decade. My Johnny is pleased and his smile is fixed, but I remember him when I told him, the glow about him, the naked press of him to me, his kisses on my belly. These are things I wish I could tell my mother -these are things that make me happier. Even more than the child itself.
On the way back to Maryland, our car trip is sedate, I eat ginger candies to quell the nausea and Johnny contemplates an unspoken thing. When I contemplate at all I think of driving down here over a month ago and the feeling of bark behind me and his hips snapping into me. I wonder if our child was made in the pines -how very different a few weeks makes a trip. He has foregone smoking his pipe indoors out of consideration for my queasy stomach.
“There’s somebody out here I should see.” He answers me at the gas pump, knowing I can tell he is preoccupied.
One of his crew lives off this exit, it’s why he’s filling up when the tank is half full. Johnny says he should go see him, and where he goes I will too.
Waist gunner Timmons is missing both legs. Together he and Johnny speak of bonds and education, his new job and the likelihood of drought, tidbits about the other boys' peacetime business failures, they laugh without malice. They laugh at themselves too. When taking our leave Johnny tells him our news. It makes me blush and I don’t know why, I was proud of our making the child. I should be proud of our finished product. I see him slip a hefty dollared bill in the coat pocket of the garden cover by the door as we leave.
Johnny stops our car at the end of the long gravel drive and while it confuses me, I know he is in a turmoil. His fists suddenly slam against the steering wheel and his face goes red beneath it’s feckless.
“Baby?” I question him but then he is weeping, forehead pressed to his knuckles on the steering wheel, aggravating buzz of a fly against the windshield unheeded.
It’s ugly and hiccuping and half panicked, he can’t seem to stop though the angry set of his shoulders tells me he wishes to, and after helpless fluttering beside him, I undo my waist belt and slide over to his side, arm thrown over his shoulders, forcefully prying him from the wheel. He lays in my arms and weeps for what feels like hours, letting me hold him and swear to him and soothe him. I’ve never known him like this, he speaks of Whys and Who’s and What’s He Got Going For Him to Deserve So Much Good Luck.
I am his good luck, his lips tell me as they press to my belly, he has fully sagged into my lap in his misery. I am his good luck, me and the baby and the job in Maryland and it is the first time I’ve ever thought of happiness as guilt.
The first days in Maryland, I cannot say that he is happier but he looks at me more openly, the guarded set of his eyes is gone and something sheepish but trusting shimmers there instead. Still steel gray but I notice the flutter of lashes around them and the dusting of pink cheeks more often. We never speak about Timmon’s driveway but I come to realize with a jolt: he’s softer for having let me see one of his million parts. I know him better now and it shows in his loosened shoulders and his shy smiles, the almost joyous eagerness he has to begin life here.
We close on an offer on a house, brick with a little porch, a small front drive and boxy lawn but in back there is a tall whitewashed fence going round and garden beds that are empty and waiting. It’s a prize and we are both delighted and he swoops me up, light as a feather, and brings me over the threshold.
“You’ve been waiting to do that!” I realize, he didn’t do it on our wedding night at the hotel or any of our other lodgings.
“We’ve got ourselves a home.” he grins back and there is such relief in his face I wonder at how much concern he was harboring before.
I begin to watch my man the way he watches me, I think less and less of whether he is happy and more and more if he feels safe. It’s why I’ve made no move to couple since he has not, not since I told him of the baby. We have been traveling, then moving in our boxes and he has been feeling whatever it was he felt in Timmons driveway. Some modicum of selflessness takes up residence in my childish heart, allowing him to hold me and not demanding proof of happiness from him. He cradles my belly every night as we spoon and I can feel his lips quirking in smiles as he gently hums to our child.
I watch my husband like he first watched me, from the bandstand, boyish cheeks blown full and nimble fingers flying over brass keys, I knew I wanted him then before he did. I went after him fast and furious, unlike myself in the way I tenaciously kept our first halting conversations going, shocking myself with the way I fanned my skirts around his lap and let him play beneath them -he was better at that than talking and I obliged him ravenously. Told him he looked handsome in his uniform and he told me he’d like to marry me. He came back to me as promised, four years late, yet the happiness that his first glittery eyed glance sparked in me is something I crave now as if I have not dabbled in far more heady pursuits with him thus far. His child grows in my belly but I miss his blush when I first stared at him past his bunker behind his music stand.
He watched me first, I wanted him worse. His eyes were blue then.
I admit my petulance to my mother after a week at the new house. Not that I am so wanton as to be bereft after a ten day abstinence, but that I cannot seem to settle some gnawing resentment that has begun. Again, not over the coupling. I am not sure what it’s over. I love him more than ever, and yet, that first blush of blazing white happiness of our first few days has given way to a nurturing watchfulness, an almost heartbreaking sympathy, a self effacing desire for his joy that robs me of my own. I ask her for a remedy.
She tells me I loved the idea of him before, and now I love him. And love is not made of happiness alone. She tells me to talk to him. “If you don’t know what it is,” she says, “he may. He knows you.”
He loves a thousand million parts of me, he had said. And then I had scoffed, feeling so sure I was comprised of only one: happiness.
Amongst the other basic necessities of settling in, we do our best to scope out the town, having arrived on a Thursday we attended mass soon in the only Catholic Church to be found in the small place, we find the town’s rec hall more promising, I keep my eyes peeled for a music store. There is one in Millersville, I find it when I go to inspect a couch that caught my eye in the Hutzlers catalog.
I do not know if he needs reeds. He hasn’t played since he got back, he may have a stack of extras in some box. But the sentimentality fills me strongly, the memory of missing him and waiting for him and having no ability to reach him over there except by sending the packages. And each of his letters with their little sheepish addendum: please send more reeds.
I got up from dinner that night to give them to him. He had asked about my day and as if I had some horrid secret to cover I had choked on my descriptions of the couch until I had broken down and admitted there was more. I place the item beside his plate and he puts down his fork while I stand in suspense.
An innocuous plastic wrapped package of saxophone reeds was probably not what my Johnny was expecting but he lets out a cut off little laugh about it.
“Did you even need more?” I am weirdly in knots over it, fingers nervously bunching at my dress and he leaves off opening the package to slip his own into mine to prevent the tick.
“I did.” he murmurs warmly, pressing a kiss to my forearm that dangles beside him, “Thank you.”
“Is that why you’re not playing?”
He looks surprised. “I -just busy, I suppose?” he questions himself.
“I miss it.” vocalized at last, I realize just how much.
“Do you?” his lips curve in a smile against my arm and move across to my belly, the hot gusts of his affection damping my dress. “Well, if my sweetheart misses it…” his lips have moved so low along my dress I feel an ache where I am missing other things.
He cleans his instrument that night while sat at the table while I do the dishes, our clearing of it a joint endeavor. He fusses over the need to grease it and other things too technical to be questioned but I understand, it won’t be played tonight. But it’s good to see him at the familiar task, his affection and seriousness for his work both manifesting across his face.
The next day he goes with me to Hutzlers, his opinion on household furnishings having been impeccable thus far and far more decisive than my own. He humors my myriad of hypotheticals regarding comfort and staining and color schemes, hands shoved easily in his pockets and a gentle smile on his face, I know by look alone he is categorizing each of my expert arguments into tidy little categories that he will present to me again in fifteen minutes time when a decision must be made.
In the end we purchase a pale blue couch with roses imprinted tone on tone into the fabric. It was decided upon only after he had hauled me down to the cushions to see if it were a plausibly good place to kiss. I now wonder if we have gotten a blue couch instead of a peach one simply due to the fact it was further from the window and he felt free to dip me down over the arm for a brief half minute.
Either way, it is set in stone that our new couch will be blue and on the way to the cash register, he immovably halts at a counter displaying the most heart wrenchingly cute baby items.
“We have to get somethin’.” he sounds almost exasperated at the previous weeks’ oversight.
We leave with ten different things, not having agreed upon what gender our child will be and I am unable to argue that booties are always a sensible option for either sex, I also want to strangle the woman behind the counter whose over eager desire to help robs me of the unguarded delight Johnny was showing over the little things before she came up.
He is opening my car door and teasing me for being so mercurial when he himself turns mildly glum before a hard determination sets his jaw.
“What?” I question, half wondering if he sees some old acquaintance or is having some awful recollection. I can’t imagine what amongst this urban place and departmental hedonism could inspire it but, stranger associations have done so.
“It’s midway through September.” he mutters, keen eyes fixed at the store’s grand facade, hand still heavy on the window before closing my door.
“Yep.” I am at a loss.
“But the seasons are milder down here.” he is presenting a case of his own for something and all I can do is agree, Maryland is more temperate than New York.
“Your mother even gave me a book about the different zones.”
“Yeah.” he is pleased with my perceived understanding, face lighting up, “So it’ll stay warmer down here.”
“For longer.”
“Yeah.”
“Johnny? What?”
He seems to realize I’ve not understood what he keeps looking at so intensely across the parking lot. “I want to buy bushes and flowers but it’s September.” he admits.
An extravagance this late in the season, and my man is not extravagant. “They’re very pretty.” I settle for acknowledging, knowing this is something he must decide but he looks so torn I would do anything to smooth that creased brow.
“It would make the place more, I dunno,” he stares down at his hand on the still adjar car door and shrugs, “…homey?”
“Some things are perennial.” a little blossom of hope tinges my own voice, my mind had gotten away with me -if he is this invested while yet undecided, I cannot imagine what diligence he might display at husbandry were he to act on it. And there’s nothing I have grown to love more in all my watching than him at some diligence.
We don’t get them. But in the car on the ride back there is discussion that the place is only a fifteen minute drive. Which pertains to the delivery of our couch, and we must hurry back to have the front door opened and I wanted to sweep where it will be once more. The delivery boys thump the blue thing on our floorboards carefully and its large presence is exactly what Johnny was saying we needed -Hominess. Emphatic. Settled. Ours.
No sooner have they left with his kind tips in their pockets than he is pulling me down on it, a hungry imitation of his actions at the store with hands more risky and insistent. I have been missing him so badly I come apart easily from his finger’s ministrations between my legs, sidetracked in trying to pull off my panties and garter belt. When he sees me go, he takes mercy and lets up, a gentle swiping through his prized currency of sticky pleasure and I watch him bring those long fingers to his lips, sucking them clean.
“You taste different.” he admits with heavy lidded eyes, “Since…” he doesn’t finish his explanation of the change in my belly, the slight swollen pooch that is our child.
“Bad?” I ask with feminine panic at the very notion.
He is settled on his belly between my thighs, blue couch a plush landing beneath us both, “N’bad.” is emphatically mumbled against me and my legs kick out the buzz of his voice. By his vocal and insistent enjoyment of it, I cannot help but be assured. Not bad. I keen up at our ceiling as he wrings one and then two and then -he won’t stop and I am needy for it, enjoying the familiar span of his hand dominating my belly, only this time it is cupping my swollen womb. I settle in relief that the proof of my maternity beneath his palm does not deter him, or at least, distract. He hums into his messy work and noses at me where I am all lightning and pulsing need, his hips jerking down into our plush new addition each time I pull at his dark locks.
Different, he says of my taste, and wedges his face in deeper, his hips beginning to move with the movements of his face against my parts and I swear to him that he is good, that he is perfect, that I’ve missed him, that he is beautiful and that he should have gotten those flowers.
His corresponding laugh makes me gush onto his tongue and his humor turns into a moan that only prolonges my delicious agony. He pushes my legs wider so forcefully I think he would like to take them off entirely if he could, his face smothered in my heat.
“You have a job now.” I present a case of my own to him, about the flowers as I try to get on top of the feeling, it is too much and he is unrelenting and I try to grasp onto something that is not his rocking body and clever lips, “A very good job and a car and -and we have this house, a-nd a-a a very nice couch -aaah God!”
His grip on my hips is deathly as I list his accomplishments until he seems to seize and then sag, tongue grown listless at last as his lips part and a shuddering groan fans over my tacky thigh.
“And we deserve flowers.” I whisper hoarsely, petting the dark strands from out of his eyes.
He’s spent himself in his writhing, I can tell by the molten expression on his face when his eyes finally drag up to meet mine over the small swell of my stomach, and set off by our new couch, they are the sparkliest of baby blues.
I have never been more startled. Or pleased. I had forgotten to watch for it, and so it had returned of its own skittish volition. I cling to that glimmer of blue until his smile grows wider and his eyes flutter shut in exhaustion.
Happiness.
At the end that night, bathed and fed and having inspected our new assortment of infant wear and argued once more over the likely gender, he brings his instrument out of its case with the package of reeds in hand. He has been offered a part time job at the high school, teaching music. It would be a hobby, he protests against his own interest in it, it would take away from time with me and Little One.
“I could go, too.” I point out.
“You’d like that?” he is pleased, the lamp is too dim for me to discern if there is blue but his lashes flutter briskly and I kiss his cheek, it’s hot beneath my lips.
“I always love watching you play.”
Before he fits the reed to the mouthpiece he makes me close my lips around it, a red stain marking it after, much to his satisfaction.
“You’ll be teaching children!” I swat at him, utterly pleased despite my own remonstrance.
“And I am married.” he says as if it were a universal absolution for all things.
The clock strikes five fifteen the next evening and he is not back. I have a plentiful assortment of excuses to choose from to explain his variance from routine. Traffic, work, a waylaying colleague -he has only been at work a couple of weeks, it is absurd to expect a forever unchanging home time. By five forty I cannot pretend expectation of what may have occurred and so keep the meatloaf warm with its proper cozy and when there is a bustle at the front door, I sprint to it like he’s back home from the war again.
It’s well I opened the door myself, he was endeavoring to while juggling three large potted plants in his arms. There is dirt in his white collar and I let out a little whoop at his uncharacteristic impulsiveness, stepping aside to help him get them through to the back porch. It doesn’t even need discussing, the large sliding glass door gives a beautiful view of the backyard from the living room and it’s sheltering insures privacy and a deterrent from our children’s stray balls flying to the next lot. At least for a few years. And the plants will go in the empty beds at the perimeter.
It is a Friday, and we eat my tepid meatloaf in between his smooching apologies for having been tardy and garbled plans for where we will put each plant and how we will stagger them according to their eventual size. It was far more than the three pots he brought, the trunk and also the cab were full of fauna.
Our excitement next morning is idiotic, we manage to snicker at ourselves for being so domesticated that this inspires frenzy but the self awareness gets not further than that, I throw on my rattiest -and coolest- sundress and he his jeans and with only his white singlet, breakfast is inhaled while standing at the backdoor, last minute plotting being discussed between bites. And then we spend our entire Saturday at it.
Johnny digs the holes and carries the plants to their allotted places and only then allows me to gently labor in filling soil over the roots, we eat cold meatloaf and slug down ice tea under the afternoon heat, not even bothering to go inside. When I have no other job, I weed the beds in preparation, watching unreservedly the way his shoulders glisten in his hard work. I have caught him eying the neckline of my dress, the recent changes he has imposed on my body now ensuring it does not gap so much as bulge while I lean over and grasp the next offending dandelion. I know he is watching and he knows I am watching and we are happy at our work, tidy garden beds filling out and his tongue pressed to his top lip to catch a drop of sweat.
The sun is a glittering soft light through the western trees by the time we take stock.
“Nothin’ left to do but water them.” he has his arm over my shoulder, hand nearly brown with caked soil where it hangs against my smudged breast, his undershirt gone translucent from sweat, the oddest attraction to his underarm blooms in me as he huffs in satisfaction next to me. I press a kiss to the swell of his pec instead, he folds with a shocked giggle, he is ticklish.
“It’s very homey.” I pronounce, feeling indeed a bone deep satisfaction over our garden at our own house from our own hands. His elbow crooks further and he has my neck secure in the bend, golden hour light the prettiest thing in the world as he nuzzles our sweaty noses and slowly claims a kiss.
“Our kids are gonna get to play out here for years.” he seems to realize as he lays his head atop mine, his voice sounds so softly comforted I can feel my eyes smart with tears.
He can feel my nod beneath his chin. “And us.” I suggest.
“And us.” he agrees with a laugh, “I’m gonna mow.” He decides suddenly and he is giving me one more smooch before moving away, headed at a jog to the garage for his machine before the sun fully dips. Never one to leave a job slightly imperfect.
I water our new additions while he pushes the mower, strip after strip, along our back yard, closer and closer to complete perfection. I have little doubt that once he finishes this he may find yet another task and knowing we have done enough, I go inside as he finishes the last swaths and grab a tablecloth, an opened bottle of wine along with salami and a brick of cheese. I have these waiting for him on a cloth, laid upon his freshly shorn grass. He cuts the engine, I watch him as he heedlessly take off his soaked singlet and uses it to rub the grass from his eyes. He is beautiful, my boy, where tan skin blends to fair and a strong, lean back disappears into jeans. There are dimples on his back, right below that belt, I know them, I’ve traced them with my tongue.
“C’mon, we’ve done enough. Sit and look at how perfect it is.” I beckon and his face lights up at my little spread, sauntering over, undershirt still clasped in his hand.
“Im filthy.” he warns and runs his hand along his sweat sheened belly in a motion I find obscenely captivating.
I pat at the tablecloth, “So am I.” for my dress is soiled and I am sweaty and only my hands are really fit for food as I scrubbed them thoroughly.
He holds his own up to show their grimey palms yet sits himself beside me anyway, and I notice the callouses dotted along the pads of his hands. I want to kiss them, soil and all.
“Then I’ll feed you.” I reply to his unspoken question and bring a bite to his lips.
We toast each other with the wine, drinking from the bottle and we watch as dusk begins to throw her first veil over the golden light.
“I’m not nauseous anymore these days.” I report and he is sweetly relieved for me, I pull out the pipe I packed for him and hand it to him between salami rolls.
His eyebrow, mobile and ever so empathetic, asks if I am sure but I am, and I watch as the match recreates a golden glow on his face once more today as he lights up and I watch him with the most lazy feeling in the world as he watches our gardens go muted by dusk.
“We’ve really done it.” he observes, relief dripping in his voice, a long exhale tinges the air around me with sweet tobacco and I am reminded of courting, of chasing him down while trying to appear reserved. Of wanting him so badly I had little choice but to remain devoted. The smell of smoke in the street would stop me dead in my tracks, thinking of this young man an ocean away.
I think I know what he means but I need to be certain, and I find I am hungry to know everything, every bit of him. If his current happiness is placed in stark relief against some previous melancholy, I want to know that, too. “What have we done?” I ask teasingly, scooting nearer to him on the cloth and kissing at his shoulder. He smells of gasoline and grass and pipe smoke. And I taste salt when I lick my lips.
“We’ve got ourselves a home.” he grins so easily, my boy, and if it were earlier in the summer there might be fireflies out in the twilight. “And you’re not nauseous anymore.” he giggles.
I’ve wanted long enough these many weeks, when my lips trail from the meat of his shoulder to his beautiful neck, he cannot mistake my intentions.
“O-out here?” he stutters out, hissing at the end by my bite on his fragile throat, i place my hand on his jeans and palm at him. There is still nothing so thrilling to me than the feel of a man firming, the way he awakes to me and only me and at my least whim, even while his mouth is all stuttering questions and his eyes are startled shimmering pools. He is always surprised when I initiate, as if he can imagine his own desire being that needy but not my own, he is always surprised and I realize it may be the only one of the million parts he does not fully know of me: how badly I love him at all times. “N-now?” he is rocking denim clad hips into my palm and their fit has grown impossibly taut.
I have the zipper down, my hand meeting the sweat soaked crease of his thigh and wiry curls that are equally wet from his work, when I wrap my small fist around him, he is clammy and pulsing in my hand. It should be revolting, perhaps, with dirt and gasoline and sweat acting like a gritty lubricant, but nausea has been replaced by something else hungry and while he may have found comfort in having provided the necessary civilian checklist for our lives, I am a woman whose body he has forever altered with his child and I have never loved anything so much as watching him at work. I want to smell it, feel it, taste the gritty earth of the man who has renovated my very flesh.
“Yes, now,” I beg, giving him one last squeeze before I lay myself back, sundress riding up my thighs, “I want you to take me under our gardenia.”
He watches me raptly, boyish eyes fawn-like and batting lashes fluttering like moth wings in the dim light; he rises to his knees and stays there as I unbutton my soiled dress. There are twenty four buttons to the hem and I make theater of each until I am bare. More than he anticipated, for while at work I did enjoy the last bit of clement weather on all my parts.
He makes a pained noise of want at the sight, maybe he too loves the sheen of sweat that makes us both shimmer in the far off patio light, how it reflects off my swelling belly, breasts grown large enough my necklines are impossible to keep discreet. I stop him from tasting me with a foot to his clavicle, I love his mouth but I want to be taken. And he indulges me, shimmying between the parted scraps of my dress and laying himself against my body, denim rough and thrilling against my bare thighs, the slightest space between our bellies lest he crush me. I am hardly large enough for it to be a concern but I can see his fascination with it, his preoccupation, his hair hangs into his eyes as he stares down at where his desire parts my petals and I can feel the drag of him against me, sweat and unabashed want making a swamp of me.
I peak and thrash from the torture of his steady grind alone, and in a typical moment of firm implacability, I feel my husband press into me while I am yet writhing. He scoops the back of my knees into the crook of his elbows, leaning over me with mischief on his face as he folds me, “You started this.” he still has enough self possession to remind before he gives into the grip of my heat and begins to move in me, engaging work-sore muscles not yet fully fatigued.
If my novel new shape has created some preoccupation, if my symptoms and moods had once ruled me in earlier weeks, it is worth it now for the way my body goes alight beneath him, electric delight curling my toes and fuzzing my sternum at each thrust, I respond to him half possessed and he snickers like he knew of this before me. I swell until my sheath is so tight it makes us both keen from it, slippery to the point of cacophonous. I claw at his back and his shoulders don’t stand a chance at remaining unmarred as he stays unperturbed and sweetly vicious inside me, jamming himself deeper. When I begin to scream he lets down a leg and cups my neck, forcing my mouth against his own.
He tastes of wine. I hook my toe into the denim of his waistband and tug it further down, till I can fully see the pale swell of his backside and I think the motion tickles him as he giggles in his rhythm. I can register that the air has grown cool as the sun fully deserts us, leaving us to it with a final curtain call on the happiest day I’ve ever known.
The force of our endeavor has shoved me up the blanket until I am well and truly beneath the far branches of our gardenia. I tilt my head up and smell the blossoms’ heady scent, their leaves and white flowers blending into the canopy of nightly stars beginning to show. Johnny’s warm face is tucked, groaning, into my neck, our bodies so close as he begins to falter in his control that I cannot watch him. So I watch the blossoms above sway in my vision as his need rucks my body up and down beneath them for a few more desperate minutes. I turn my face and press a kiss to his temple, his hair damp with sweat and smelling so much of him I clench. I love you, so good, you’re so good to me, so deep, so deep, I love you- my mind is adrift and where he rocks inside me is all I know and I babble and beg and praise him for it.
His breath is a hot steam over my clavicle, dirty hands tenderly grasping at a swollen breasts, he bites at my lower lip to hush himself when the pleasure overtakes and I too go under one more time, legs drawing up again under the wracking delight and my modest man groans and pants the filthiest appreciations, for taking him, slippery beautiful thing, tightest little cunt, could spend all my days in you, milk me, that’s it milk me sweetheart, you like it when I make you?
What he babbles to me as he spurts is never something later to be answered, it is gibberish and rhetorical and yet I believe every word, treasure them when he rolls off and pants beside me, I will rehearse them in my mind when he is gone to work. I know this last set will have me ready down to my thighs long before five o’clock.
In the cold night air his hands are soothing the damage his forceful want has done, petting my trembling flank down like a horse after a race, it gives me zapping little after-quakes that make him hum into our kisses as his warm palm feels me twitch and clench and melt.
We should go inside soon -we both mumble it at the same time and barely have energy to laugh over it. We stay on the tablecloth, grass texturing our backs, his only movements are to roll me closer to him, pulling my gaping dress with me, and plucking a white starry blossom for behind my ear. After he has placed it he drops his head again, pillowed on my upper arm and I can feel his breath even out across my throat.
My mother did not tell me of this. I have asked others in the most discreet way I can summon, but they all just say they hope I’ll be happy, they’re sure I’ll be happy, he seems to make me happy, they themselves are happy.
It is likely only myself at fault, but now I think of happiness as a very desperate thing, tentative and elusive and ever watchful. I did not expect to find its most distilled essence in quiet things. There is nothing more to write as our happiness did indeed persist after we woke and rose and went to shower, chilly from our exposure, it went on after we had wrapped ourselves under the bedding and clutched at each other like twins. But what is there to relate of such happiness? It has no great drama, it is not so very vigilant unless it is to actively prevent sadness, and even that is welcome here when it must be passing by. Perhaps the poets, or the preachers, or my wise boy would tell me it’s joy I feel. Maybe that was what I was looking for all this time.
Maybe that is what feels so foreignly precious about lying on a blanket with his spend cooling between my legs, our shrubs like loyal sentinels dotting the fence line and my man gently snoring atop me after having created a life sworn to himself when he thought he might die. It is sobering to be integral to that dream, but it is also peaceful.
It is joy, I suppose. Or a sort of Garden Variety Happiness.
Here’s my widdle Brady Taglist, thanks to each of you for expressing such interest and always showing such love. This was a bit of a weird passion project and I’ve got no idea if it actually “worked” but it was the branching out my creative brain needed. So many of y’all are already nailing this Man so well, 🤨😏 I’ve been such a happy recipient of all yalls works. Scream at me. Lemme know. Xoxo
@luminouslywriting
@ktredshoes
@archival-hogwash
@gigisimsonmars
@steph-speaks
@ab4eva
@lilfreebee
@slowsweetlove
@xxanaduwrites
@blurredcolour
@venus-planetof-love
@pearlparty
@winniemaywebber
@sagesolsticewrites
@ginabaker1666
#masters of the air#mota#mota fanfic#mota imagine#mota spoilers#john brady x oc#john brady x reader#John Brady#John Brady imagine#mota smut#mota x reader#ladies who brady
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Wow I make a lot of money doing nsfw art, oh but I'll only be doing this for a bit longer or in the future if I really need the money.
Gotta focus more on my professional art career :] I'll open a few more slots for nsfw art then I'll stop.
Oh I got a commission from a… Daddy Vesper?
You glance at the letter that arrived in your mailbox.
It's written in probably the finest cursive handwriting you've ever seen in your entire life, an absolutely gorgeous swirl of dark ink on pink-tinted durable paper. It's almost hard to read the verbose message shaped onto it, but this is clearly in english.
You lean in to smell the delivery, getting mesmerized by a strong wave of sweetened floral and fruity scents, something that reminds you of sunny Spring days and the softness of a lover's gentle caress across your cheek. Oddly specific sentiments to get evoked by something as ambiguous as a scent, but you're fascinated. Greedy impulse has you inhaling several times just to savor it and- Is that a hair? Fur? Pink fur in the envelope... Huh.
Well. It's definitely some kind of commission. You haven't the faintest idea as to why you haven't been contacted in one of your online accounts, as that's where you're most professionally active, but maybe this is the result of telling the locals about your skills. Some posh and pompous person reaching out in a needlessly exuberant way. But... Oh. Oh the pay...
Your client doesn't tell you what they want. Not at all. In the midst of his borderline flirtatious prose, they insist that you must reach out to them so that the two of you can discuss the art itself for they have very specific tastes apparently. Not a problem.
What is a problem, is that they want you to summon them. Idiot that you are, you fail to recognize the royal seal of Lust, but you do know your client is demonic. If you knew what you were inviting into your home, you'd probably never have gone through with it to begin with. Or maybe you would, the temptation might be too great to ignore.
All you see is the floor tearing apart and furniture flying to the walls as ethereal pinks and purples blaze into your retinas and a giant of a demon manifests in your home, sighing his pleasure at being contacted so readily.
There are no words for you to describe what you're looking at. No words but the epitome of carnality. Squatting before you, witch cloths that cover nothing at all, massive pink form spread and wanton as he curls a digit at you.
You can't think, you can't speak, the scent from before clogs your cranium and burns its gray mass to a crisp.
" I'm so very glad you received my letter, contacting you involved more hurdles than anticipated. " He purrs. " But I wanted our exchange to be more than just a clatter of nails on a keyboard, I want it to be physical, intimate, special. "
A heavily muffled voice in the back of your head screams that this is no standard demon standing before you. That you're in great danger. But you can hardly bring yourself to care, it's much easier to get lost in the glow of his magenta hues.
" Ohhh what I haven't heard about your talents! " The large tendril attached to his head sways amorously and both gluttonous mouths grin.
" You will show me. But first, let me show you some of mine. "
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Part two of this Post because I literally ramble for so long.
So, was Gwen trying to shut down Miles, or incline something is possible?
Let's dive in!
This is her looking down towards her hand Miles's, who very subtly, try to get closer. She notice what he is doing.
It's very subtle, the type of stuff you notice after you are going half-speed and compare the images side by side. I also think regardless of how quick, in movement you can capture how she appears to almost be swallowing a bitter pill.
Closing her eyes, the corners of her smile falling just slightly so, in the moment it looks almost like she is telling this to herself more than she is telling Miles.
This, is the moment when I feel is Gwen shutting Miles down.
Because no one here has actually said the words dating or relationship or similar, not in the context of them together at least. Yet they are both well aware that what Gwen meant with those words wasn't just casual trivia about the spiderverse.
And Miles takes it as a sign to pull his hand back.
Here is a part that has trip me in my multiple runs to the theatres.
She looks back at her, and smiles, heck her smile even gets bigger in this shot.
A lot of this conversation she has looked back at the horizon, with her smile showing at its brightest when is at him, and yet she tries to keep her gazes short most of time.
But not here, she stares.
And Miles sees that.
I don't know if the moment we move the camera to this angle, Gwen's moves her face away for no reason, or maybe the fact that we are seen Miles now, means he is just turning to see her now, and she shies away.
What I found interesting is how the shot doesn't show them looking at each other, or seeing them in front each other.
Angles have different meanings in cinematography, and believe it or not, despite being this crazy about frames I have no idea about these angles. Not in a true professional level.
But I can see that if we were seeing Gwen look at Miles from this angle, we would miss her expression. This also means we get to see Miles's expression sink in while she looks back to the horizon.
I wonder what Gwen felt when she saw his gaze, if she saw the way he looked at her and needed to look to the other side because her love for her shows so clearly in his expression and she knows they can't.
Remember how in the last post, I pointed out how Miles turned into a better lighter something, and it helped?
He is just doing it again.
Here is the thing, I don't think Gwen is fully convinced about this anomaly-ending-all-the-universes situation, if she truly thought Miles was dangerous as Miguel makes him seem she wouldn't be here.
She believes it because Miguel makes a strong point, because he is the one who introduced this situation properly, and because she is in an agency fully committed to Miguel's mission and this is her life now.
Yet she is still with Miles, repeating the things Miguel probably has pointed out (if not him, someone, I don't think she stumble onto this by accident.) and they kind of get outweighed by Miles here.
Here we go back to what I was talking about, they are seeing each other, but we don't get the entire picture of it, we just seem what they see, with camera making us look almost like if we are looking over the shoulder of the character.
I think this is a good way to show the still present divide, we cannot see their feelings for each other fully appear on the screen, and they can't see it either. They cannot realize that the two together like this paint a picture that could only have one meaning.
But let's stop my sad attempt of purple prose, and to this.
Gwen leans into Miles, is her doing this.
So, if we establish that Gwen still smiles after hearing his refusal to buy into that mentality, to look at him and just stare as he lovingly glances at her, and she is the one to lean into him; I still think she is trying to turn him down?
Because...she didn't say anything else.
The situation is this, this entire exchange has been showing moments of Gwen slightly pulling back, from the different moments at the clockwork where she walks away from him, to her going to fast for him at times, for her saying to Miles and herself it is probably not meant to be.
Yet she never tries to go far enough he cannot follow, or she cannot get back to him. She still leans into him, smiles; the last time they saw each other she reminded him that she was older than him, for 15 months, but still counted for her.
(Yes, I think it carries meaning that she herself reassures is not that big of a gap, but this is not the post to dive about that.)
So what is it now that she still cannot find a way to say clearly, no?
She doesn't want to, it's really that.
She knows she shouldn't be here, she shouldn't be talking about this, and she shouldn't be in this position, but she is, and she doesn't want to go away.
I think she still shuts him down because the last thing she said about the subject (or well, while hinting at the subject,) was she thinking it wasn't going to work.
Before, she told him that it was great talking to him, and confirmed it so again. She told him things were different with him, even if she wasn't sure how to put it.
And yet at the chance she has to say "yeah, maybe there is a first time," she stays quiet. But leans on him.
For me, this is her indicating that she is just letting the moment sink in, to have the closest she has to a proper date with him. If circumstances were different, this is the moment when while looking at each other, they should had kissed.
But they still turned their heads away, not taking that step.
This is where people may feel Gwen is giving mixed signals (and I will probably go for the kneecaps of someone trying to imply that,) but I think the fact that Gwen doesn't mentioned something between them again is that she is letting those words be the last ones about her opinion on the subject. And the fact that she isn't saying anything else is that her mind hasn't changed in that regard. Yet.
And we finish this sequence with one of my favourite frames of the movie, which says a lot in a movie full of frames that feel like works of art.
I like to point out how earlier we see them being still a bit far from each other, but the last shot on this environment is them rectifying that.
How this is a show where not by coincidence, makes it looks almost like they are the only people in the world, on a shot only people like them can see, and yet it happened because this was Miles favorite spot, and Gwen decided to sling in a way Miles has never attempted before.
Making this a sight, only possible by them being together.
#ghostflower#gwiles#gwen stacy#miles morales#atsv spoilers#across the spiderverse spoilers#across the spiderverse#atsv#spiderman#spiderwoman#ghostflower files#I cannot believe I wasn't thinking on analyzing this sequence because I assumed I didn't have anything to say#and I didn't even address the beginning of it!#jeez how I do these things
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Because I already brought this up on Reddit, let’s talk about it here too.
LONG POST ABOUT HADES, HERA AND AVOIDING ACCOUNTABILITY LIKE THE PLAGUE INCOMING.
Persephone knows that Hera and Hades had a thing now, right? So after guilt tripping herself all day for feeling insecure, they finally talk about it. Hades admits to having feelings for her once. Feelings, let’s be specific. He hasn’t yet said they had a relationship or a centuries long affair behind Zeus’s back.
Persephone, as any sensible person would, asks a very fair question. Let’s ignore how disconcerting she looks for a second.
Now the response any normal fucking person would give here would obviously be “no”, right? Or some variation. “No, I’m not.” “No, we’re just friends.” “No, that’s in the past and I love you.”
That’s the normal, reasonable, acceptable response…but this is Lore Olympus. So naturally Hades doesn’t do that.
“Let me just preface this” oh I just know I’m about to hear some male manipulator bullshit. All that shit he just said when he could have simply said “no”. Also, why the pause?
Never fails to make me laugh how LO Hera is supposed to be this glamorous, sympathetic, strong, aspirational figure that Persephone and the audience alike should revere, when all she is is a racist, classist, deadbeat parent and chain smoking drunk whose primary hobby seems to be putting on too much mascara just so she can cry it off every other chapter.
Also, Hades, if you had a lot of respect for Hera, you wouldn’t be telling Persephone all her business without her knowledge or consent.
JUST SAY NO YOU ANTISEMITIC LOOKING MOTHERFUCKER.
What does that even mean? “What we are now is a ghost of what we used to be.” What a weirdly vague yet specific choice of words.
What did you used to be? Hades never says what they were or how long it went for and he still never fucking says it’s over. Now it’s just…a ghost? What’s that then, Papa Smurf?
Are you still haunted by this relationship? Is it like a ghost in the sense it’s going to come back cuz that’s what ghosts do? Cuz I’m not hearing “that phase is completely done”, I’m hearing “this phase is on pause and will most definitely be picked up on again the second the opportunity presents itself”.
Like I said, it’s such a weird, specific choice of words.
To quote Mabel “Madea” Simmons, “look at him try to throw it on you now. It’s like if he tries to get Persephone to engage and agree with him, then it’s all okay and he’s successfully excused himself and distracted from the question at the same time.
First, a couple of petty things. One, look at how wonky his eyes are. Those were adjusted last minute and you can see it. Also his hairstyle changed with each panel.
Second, there have always been a lot of immortal beings around. At the specific time we’re talking about back when Hera and Hades first got together, for example, there was already a whole mess of chthonic gods running around. There were nymphs, satyrs and other immortal creatures that were and are perfectly viable dating options.
Hades just so happened to want the woman who was dating his brother and banging his dad, and Persephone just so happened to get involved with two of her cousins and then marry her uncle.
This whole “the immortal dating pool” comment feels like a disclaimer to avoid the fact that, try as she might to avoid it, Rachel ended up right back in the incest pit that all Greek mythology adaptions inevitably try to avoid yet fall into in the end.
I’m also not going to pretend that these two having such a limited word view on dating options doesn’t stem from the fact that they think basically everyone else is inferior to them.
But, in conclusion, Hades was asked a fair question that required a one word answer. One word, two letters…and he could not do it.
Instead we get dragged on this purple prose wannabe, “I’m 14 and this is deep” diatribe that barely skims the surface of what his entanglement with Hera really was. Immediately following this, Hades goes on to explain Hera’s golden traitor title and her history with Kronos. This is also the infamous chapter where he claims Zeus has no trauma.
He was more comfortable discussing his father abusing and then brutally maiming Hera, and more comfortable minimising what happened to his brothers, than he was just saying “no, I don’t love Hera anymore”.
Rachel does this for Hades a lot. Hades is, at least in my opinion, not one of the more interesting greek deities and the fact he’s the male lead of LO and her celebrity crush’s insert means she feels the need to beef up how important, how powerful, how desirable, how vulnerable, how lonely, how angry, how complicated he is, but does not possess the skill to do so.
So she writes herself into a corner and the mountain of evidence for Hades being a fucking awful person gets bigger.
For example, as we just saw, Hades had a thing with Hera. He’s soooo sexy and so hot and so kind and so perfect and so irresistible and desirable that even Hera can’t resist him! But wait! Making Hades and Hera have a centuries long affair behind Zeus’s back and with Hades going into another relationship where he cheats on his current girlfriend, Minthe, with Persephone, doesn’t reflect well on poor daddy Hades! What to do??
The simple and logical route, other than just not having the stupid affair in the first place, is for Hades to just admit he made a mistake and he regrets it and is trying to do better. But wait! Daddy Hades is a complicated and edgy bad boy…but he can’t actually do anything bad cuz he always has to be in the right!
So instead of ever admitting he’s wrong, god forbid he do that, let alone apologise, every time we get treated to what a piece of shit he is and the consequences of his bad actions and Rachel’s bad writing, we get tormented with more faux-deep prose that’s meant to paint him as a helpless lonely victim and remove any blame from him, while conveniently always minimising and dismissing someone else’s suffering.
I’d kill to see what sad, poetic, overly-wordy garbage he spins when he inevitably cheats on Persephone with Hera, because this whole exchange all but screams that the door is very much still open.
Persephone felt bad about herself for being insecure by the chemistry and contact that Hera and Hades still have, because how could she even think of misjudging poor dear Hades? IMO, she’s not worried enough. Homegirl is already on her way to ending up where Minthe was.
#lo critical#antiloreolympus#lo criticism#lore olympus critical#anti lore olympus#lore olympus criticism#here we go#art belongs to Rachel and her team
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Hi, i'm writing a fantasy with an indian-looking character. tried describing her skin as "ash-brown" but someone commented that he had to Google this and it sounds like her skin is mottled. i used "silver-birch skin," but someone else commented that it sounds like her skin has the texture of a tree bark. How do i communicate her "light brown skin, cool undertones" without using a word like "undertone", which to me doesn't sound very elegant?
Describing Indian-coded Character’s skin as “ash brown”
Take a look at this: WWC's guide to writing skin color.
Do you have a specific undertone that you’re going for? I’m getting taupe and silver out of your description, so I might go for something like describing how she looks with silver jewelry, or talking about how she looks in the moonlight.
You could also talk about the colors of her clothing and whether it brings her undertones out or washes her out. If the elegance of the description is specifically important, I would focus on incorporating other aspects that show her elegance, like demeanor, gait, and behavior, that can be prefaced with a quick description of skin tone.
Do you have a specific reason for focusing on comparisons to wood and trees, e.g. a willowy figure, she goes where the wind takes her, being rooted in a strong foundation? The tie-in to metaphor can allow the description to serve more than one purpose, but in this case, I would use other descriptions as opposed to her skin tone.
Remember that you can go as simple or as complex as you need to get your point across; saying something like “Her ornate silver earrings caught the light, bringing a gentle sheen to the tan skin of her face,” can be just as effective, or even more effective than finding the exact shade descriptor, because you can introduce other aspects of her character. Getting too far into the description can lead to purple prose–be wary of excess. Otherwise, take the route that feels right to you.
~ Abhaya
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THAWING ICE QUEEN (part 23)
–one night of fooling around with the annoying campus king gojo satoru (he thinks so), turns into...well, something else more long term
CHARACTERS: gojo satoru x you | geto suguru | jjk characters
GENRE: college au | eventual smut | smau | smau + prose | everything in between | ons | fubus to lovers | aged-up characters | idk where this is going
⚠️ TW/CW: strong/mature language | 🔞 | mentions of alcohol, smoking, etc. | this will most likely have narrations | god-awful pet names | will add more if something arises
MASTERLIST | CHAPTER INDEX
<<prev part 23 next>>
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A/N: Purple chat boxes are Shoko's POV.
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TAGS LIST: @arxliana @neeneee @charlie-xo @aelynaneedsalottathing @arizzu @cloudxp @justpuddinglol @mikkies @nyfwyeonjun
© ORIGINAL WORK BY nanaminokanojo. CHARACTERS ARE INSPIRED BY GEGE AKUTAMI'S JUJUTSU KAISEN. [20230809]
#gojo x you#gojo x reader#gojo x y/n#gojo satoru x you#gojo satoru x y/n#gojo satoru x reader#jujutsu kaisen#jjk#jjk x you#jjk fanfic#gojo satoru#gojo#smau#jjk smau#jjk smut#gojo smut#gojo smau#jjk x reader#jjk gojo#geto suguru#sukuna#social media au#jjk x y/n#jujutsu kaisen x you#gojo hcs
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OUUGHHUIIIUIOO DIMPOLE
edit: image description written by @princess-of-purple-prose ! thank you!
[ID: An in-character interview with Dimple from Mob Psycho 100 on 4chan. It reads:
>Interview with Dimple
>Q1. What kind of person were you when you were alive?
A. I forgot... But since its me, I'm sure it was a hella sexy dude.
>Q2. It seems you can communicate with Reigen when you're possessing him. How is that different from others?
A. Who knows. It's probably because we have a shared purpose. Even when you're both sitting in a car, only one of you can use the steering wheel, right? So unless two people agree exactly on which direction they're going, the car's not going to move in the right direction with two people behind the steering wheel. Ordinary people aren't usually conscious when I'm possessing them. It's different for espers, though. Especially strong ones, who can't even possess.
>Q3. What do you feel like?
A. Wet, smooth, slippery. A bit cold, but that can be adjusted. But it's not like ordinary people can touch me to begin with.
>Q4. Why did you stay in the world after giving up on becoming a god?
A. I'm not sure either... Spirits are born from a purpose, like resentment or obsession. Only with strong desire can the spirit body be maintained. But maybe it's like what Mob said. People are just people. You don't have to exist for a reason, and it doesn't matter if you care about it or not. Why does that kid occasionally say something profound when he's dealing with something besides himself?
>Q5. Is there anyone you particularly enjoyed possessing? Anyone you want to try?
A. That old lady or whatever guarding Claw. People who have very little spiritual resistance will do whatever you want, so that feels nice. Being the cult leader of LOL was especially fun! One person that surprised me was the leader of the Body Improvement Club. It was like manipulating a giant robot! Someone I'd want to try... probably Hanazawa. If you give him to me, I'm sure I can take him from being the school idol to the least popular guy in school in a day.
>Q6. What do you do when Mob's at school?
A. I've been going to Spirits and Such more often because interesting things occasionally happen there. Besides that, sometimes I take a walk, watch TV, or I check out your house. (evil laughter) I'm kidding, of course.
A. He's always trying to play pranks and thinks he's got Mob fooled, which is pretty funny to watch. Or at least that's what I thought, but it turns out Mob is really just that gullible. Reigen's like that guy who keeps building shaky towers out of building blocks, and it should come as no surprise when they collapse. He's always using some weird and question means of maintaining it all, and sometimes I just want to poke him a little bit and make him fall. ...I have to repress that desire.
>Q8. If you could become a human and become Mob's friend, what would you do?
A. Become a human... Make friends... Travel, eat food, play sports. Anything would be good, but I'd just like to pass the time as usual. That's enough to make good memories. ...or actually, I think I'd like to do sumo! Even if I can't beat him in powers, I want to use my bodily strength and muscles to toss Mob around. Let him see how that feels like.
>Q9. What was your first impression of Mob? How about now?
A. I thought he was just a kid so I underestimated him. But instead he was scary as fuck. I pissed my pants, okay? I don't think I understand him as much now since he's grown up a lot. I wonder how he'll end up.
>Q10. How can someone see you? A. You need to think that seeing me is something completely natural. Once you can fool your brain, your perspective changes. This is something that you can train, but maybe something completely unexpected will happen. So it's dangerous and not recommended. The easy way is to just let me possess you. The important thing is just to break the common sense that forms your vision.
Q11. Can you eat ordinary food? Please tell me your favorite food!
A. I can still eat and drink, and I'll absorb the energy in the food. My favorite food? Beans and peanuts. That's cute? Yeah, that's right. Also alcohol. Beer has the best alcohol fragrance. You say I sound like your dad? Hmph, shut up.
>Q12. What's the first thing you remember?
A. The memory of my life is entirely gone... I can't remember at all. I feel like it should be like it is now. I stare at the sky a lot. There's some old memories from right after I became a spirit, probably in a cemetery. But I don't know if I have a tomb somewhere. It's all like a prior life to me, anyways. One day, will I forget about what's happening now, too...? Ugh, that sounds like something an ordinary living person would be worried about. Forget about it. End ID]
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Hi hi hi! In your intro you said you were working on prose in your third draft, and I loveee learning about prose and prose styles. Can I ask about your process/tips/random interesting prose things? Thanks! <3
hi!!! thanks for the ask<33
A few things I have discovered work well for me when writing prose (this is just general stylistic stuff, not specific to narrative voice because that is a whole other conversation haha):
Sometimes a short, even a clichéed, action beat packs more punch in a fast-paced moment (ex. "his eyes narrowed). Vivid, original details aren't always better.
On the other hand, sometimes vivid, original details can enrich a slower moment. If the prose feels dull in a scene it is probably because action beats like "his eyes narrowed" need to be fleshed out more. (ex. "he watched me through the slits of his eyes").
My best descriptive writing comes from forcing myself to flesh out stuff, and when I think it has been flesh out enough I force myself to push it further. (ex. "through the knife-edged gap beneath his eyelids his brown eyes tracked me across the room.")
When describing an action done by another character, show how the POV character reacts. (ex. "he watched me through the slits of his eyes and the lie died on my lips.")
When choosing what actions/facial expression/body language to describe, pick things that aren't obvious. If I have to describe something obvious anyway I don't use vivid language. It will just sound like purple prose.
Less is more. Particularly with dialogue and action tags.
I try not to over-rely on em-dashes, -ing verbs, adjectives, or the "as" dialogue tag structure (ex. "she said as she yawned.") Any time I find myself writing one of these I force myself to rephrase it.
Word order, comma placement, conjunctions make a huge difference for flow. (ex. "wind sang through the mountains with a whistle that chilled the bones" versus "through the mountains the wind sang, a whistle shrill and strong, and a chill shook my bones.")
There are definitely more but that's what I have got for now. Some of this I learned while researching writing advice but a lot of it is just stuff I have decided works for me - even the stuff I technically learned through writing advice first didn't really stick with me until I came to the realization on my own that I was already gravitating toward it.
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obsessed with the fact that daniel thinks that louis is constantly performing (he is) because he is talking in purple prose but it's actually. just how vampires talk to each other. they are weirdos before anything else. like daniel will have to watch armand and louis give 2 page monologues to each other about what they would like to watch on netflix that night
armand: I doubt that it will answer to our mutual tastes completely... but I have grounds to assume that I will enjoy it immensely, while you may find the implications of the work compelling. I believe we have already seen the supposed continuation of this work, but I have gathered that it does not have a strong relation to it thematically or even narratively, and overall the connection is superficial.
louis: I think I will trust your assertion. I do find myself particularly attracted to works with themes of alienation and the nature of creation, and this specific one, from what I've seen, is masterfully done. But we should no doubt include our guest in our discussion. Daniel, what do you think? Shall we watch this?
Daniel: ...
#they are discussing prometheus btw#I will cope with the horrors by making the horrors funny#interview with the vampire#iwtv#amc iwtv#louis de pointe du lac#armand iwtv#daniel malloy
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Night Gardening. Loki x Möbius. Dreams are just the brain processing past events. They’re not real, even if his senses tell him otherwise. Right? Smut and purple prose out the wazoo.
———
Okay. Don’t break him. He can take so much more than you think but apply stress from a certain angle and he’ll shatter like— what’s that thing? Prince Rupert’s drop? Yeah. Yeah, that’s it. That’s the thing he saw once down in Engineering, crushed under a hydraulic press— only it wasn’t crushed. It disappeared, and when the press rose again it bore a hole in the shape of the drop. Glass stronger than steel, stronger than unstoppable force: it was strong, yes, but when Mobius held it in wondering hands he fumbled and it shattered— disintegrated— landing on its wispy tail and it was gone.
So he’s scared, you know? Reaching out means maybe getting what he wants, and maybe taking back a chilled and empty hand. He breathes out on a shudder and strains to hear Loki’s words through the haze of this dream, in this hollow in time carved out by sweat and tears and the iridescent shine of maybe it’ll be alright. Maybe I’ll wake up and
You’re wandering again.
There you are. I was afraid I’d be here all by my lonesome. Levity runs in Mobius’ veins; he can’t ever seem to get out ahead of it to find the words he needs to say and so he trails behind hoping the meaning comes through just the same.
If you were, you’d soon be unmade. And, okay,
Harsh. But listen. I know none of this is real, okay? I know you’re just something I’m making up while I sleep. But I still gotta ask. Are you alright? Ask stupid questions and get no answer. But he knows Loki well enough to clock the minute twitch of his jaw
(not alright, not for a long time, but there’s something on his mind and it’s more than just the Tree)
and how familiar are they that he can see it even here, in the flow of innumerable worlds? Okay, not the time. I get it. If ol’ tall dark and self-sacrificing over there wants to get something off his chest, he will— even if it’s coded in the flick of a finger or that way he has of shifting his weight just so. And anyway, this is a dream so Mobius can do whatever the hell he likes, right? He can even close the distance between them til he smells juniper and snow as he breathes Loki in deep. Easy, hoss. I should’ve done this when I had the chance.
And oh, if this is a dream then may he never wake up. If there is any justice left then let him remain here, half-draped over Loki with that clever tongue silenced, breathless— let him live out his days with this tremble in his thighs from trying so damn hard to keep himself in check. I used to know how to do this. I think. Doesn’t matter if he’s out of practice or if the angle is all wrong; all that matters is the way Loki strains to meet the kiss.
But for all his strength, Loki is bound in place: he is jailer and prisoner— no, that’s not right, he’s a conduit, a gardner— as infinite possibilities course electric through him and he cannot rise, cannot reach out, cannot pull Mobius down by the lapels and give him everything he never realized he could ask for. I— ah. I can’t— and please, please understand that Loki doesn’t bare his throat to just anyone. This is a gift. This is the pulse of artery and vein, of xylem, of phloem— yes, yes, somewhere in the distant unknown you passed a science class or two— and if they only get one chance at this, he’s gonna give it all he’s got.
And Mobius is so goddamned careful right up until the moment Loki nips at him, following sharp teeth with a lick that says I’d drink you up if I could.
Did you say that? Or did I?
Darling, does it matter? Oh. Oh, the word slips into his ear, past grey hair gone just a little shaggy, tip-tapping over his eardrums and hey, yeah, okay, he likes that. He likes that a lot. Mobius breathes in a single sharp breath and on the exhale pours himself down Loki’s throat: all of his being compressed into a single breath, tinged with salt spray and stubble-rough around the edges; it’s not nearly enough, but it’s all he has.
And Mobius shoots off in his pants like a damn teenager; he’s all spreading stickiness and it’s just too goddamned much but he isn’t finished yet. So he drops his head and threads one hand through Loki’s hair as the other is fumbling, searching for buttons, a zipper, anything— how do I get these open, did you forget that when you get the trousers on you’ve still gotta take them off—
Laces. There, just to your left and he’s in, nails catching at the knots; in his idle moments Mobius might’ve pictured this, but slower: maybe somewhere quiet outdoors with sunlight slipping lazily over his back, Loki’s hand closing over his— open your eyes. I want to see you— but this is worlds better; this is the ache between his shoulders and the drag of skin on skin; this is Mobius licking bitter salt from his palm and reaching for more; this moment does not crystallize but rather atomizes, drifting up and into the branches of the Tree.
Damn, I wish (I— we— could’ve found another way,) I mean, I want (more time. Why is there never enough time)— next time I’ll buy you dinner first. In the dream a little self-indulgence won’t go amiss; he can concentrate and maybe the next time he sleeps he’ll be able to come back and do this properly. Maybe he’ll follow the thread of this unraveling dream back to its beginning; to this place where he doesn’t have to hold so tightly to his memories, watching them fade out slowly til they’re just amorphous feelings. Maybe he'll stay a while and watch the ebb and flow of life through the branches of the Tree.
But the dream ends, as all dreams must; Mobius awakens with his head pillowed on one arm, the sleeve of his jacket pressing its imprint into his face; he breathes slow and quiet, rubbing his thumb across his first two fingers, listening hard for a fading whisper:
I tend to many worlds, but remember— the gods do play favorites, and I play for keeps.
#loki#loki series#lokius#loki x mobius#lokius fic#lokius smut#Loki x Möbius fic#Loki x Möbius smut#mcu
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imagine if more male units aside from chrom had child units??
Oh how I wish I was better at making OC’s, but have some thoughts I thought up:
- Frederick has a son who ended up becoming a hugely rebellious teenager due to his father’s strict discipline. He does become a royal knight, albeit nowhere near as, er, “dedicated” as Frederick.
- Ricken NEEDS to have a son who ends up being way bigger and buffer than he is lmao.
- Stahl has a daughter who’s pretty much just a “mini-me”: kind, honest, very hungry, and interested in brewing potions. However, she’s more insecure about her averageness, and spends a lot of time trying new things to find something she excels in.
- Kellam has a daughter who ends up getting spoiled rotten from all the love and attention her dad gives her. Tends to deliberately draw attention to herself, but knows how to be just as sneaky as her dad.
- Henry has a son who is perfectly, astoundingly normal in the head. He’s deeply embarrassed by his father’s whole deal, and is reluctant to associate with him. Henry’s bloodlust turned him vegetarian.
- Libra needs to have a daughter who gets mistaken for a man all the time lol. While she does worship Naga like her father, she secretly has a strong curiosity about Grima and the Grimleal.
- Lon’qu has a daughter and is pleased to discover he has no issues being close to her. However, she ends up being innately talented with the sword, which makes him self-conscious.
- Gaius has a son who is easily sickened by sweet things and poor hygiene. Actually, a lot of things make him sick. Squeamish boy. EDIT: I changed my mind. His son is gonna be similar to Saizo for giggles.
- Virion has a son with a passion for poetry. Most of his poems consist of purple prose ramblings about how excruciatingly gay he is.
- Donnel has a daughter who wants to get a formal education and become a farm vet, but struggles to learn directly from the books and needs extra help from her pa.
- Vaike has a son who is just a total shrimp. A wimpy wet mop of a man. Easily bullied. Can’t handle his dad’s roughhousing.
- Gregor has a daughter who is a mercenary like him. Cocky, confident, and commanding. A “one of the boys” kind of girl like Sully and Flavia. Picked up many of her father’s speech quirks.
#fire emblem#fe13#headcanons#fe oc#fe too many to tag#someone asked me something#anonymous#actually this was fun to do
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You stare at the woman who has accosted you in the street. She's blonde, with black eyes that something urges you to call "obsidian orbs" or "two limpid puddles of ink" or "gates of the abyss".
[CHECK: Cosmocomics Awareness: Easy.]
3 + 4 = 7+3 = 10. Success.
This is a sign of the powers of Chaos when unconstrained by the discipine of the Way.
YOU: The purple prose?
COSMOCOMICS AWARENESS: Yeah. It's a warning sign. Like an electric dosimeter in a nuclear power plant. You can't check your film badge, but you can check the little beepy thingy around your neck.
[TRIVIALORE: Trivial]
TRIVIALORE: Oh, it's Send Valu. One of your fellow demigodesses, though of uncertain origins and a party-hard demeanor. Many people refer to her as the "Eighth Problem from Dorastor".
YOU: Not to her face, I hope.
[EXTRO-EMPATHY: Challenging]
EXTRO-EMPATHY: That look on her face... she's torn between impulse and responsibility, and it's a new feeling for her. She doesn't like it. She seems vulnerable.
[HEROINE OF THE RAZOR: Easy]
HEROINE OF THE RAZOR: You could lift her with one hand and place the other just under her chin, ready to jab inward and collapse her throat. Might not kill her, but if you ever wanted to shut her up...
SEND VALU: I heard about your amnesia, Jar-Eel. I... if there's anything I can do to help, then...
The air of a question hangs over the scene.
Thank you for the offer. I shall have to think about it.
I know what your "help" is like, and I'm nasally ready to snort lines off of you, Sendie.
No. Not now. Likely not ever.
[HEROINE OF THE RAZOR: Trivial] I thirst, Sendie. Without the comfort of memory, the yearning grows too strong to control. [Break her arm with one hand.]
[EXTRO-EMPATHY: Impossible] I know what you want, sweet Send Valu, sent here as tempter and mocker. Gimme sugar, baby, and if you're good I'll fold you in half later.
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20 questions for fic writers
tagged by @captain-hen @anxieteandbiscuits @lemonzestywrites @forthewolves @king-buckley @hippolotamus @watchyourbuck @shitouttabuck @lover-of-mine @thewolvesof1998 @heartshapedvows @jesuisici33 @hoodie-buck @wikiangela @monsterrae1 @exhuastedpigeon
thank you all! sorry it took me so long to do this <3
1. How many works do you have on AO3?
13
2. What's your total AO3 word count?
582,638
3. What fandoms do you write for?
only 911 at first but now i have a fringe fic and a wolfsong fic in the works
4. What are your top five fics by kudos?
there's always been a rainbow hangin' over your head (eddie comes out to buck and to be supportive buck buys eddie a very gay mug)
today i live for a single drop of you (5 times buck dreams about sucking eddie's cock and 1 time he actually gets to do it)
when the violence causes silence (set after 6x10, eddie dealing with the aftermath of the lightning strike and working out how to confess his feelings)
we live and breathe words (buck finds eddie's poetry and realizes eddie is in love with him and decides to do something about it)
slowly getting sober from the taste of your skin (pwp, threesome between buck, eddie, and evil doctor buck)
5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?
i do! at least, i do my best, i know sometimes i get the notification and look away and completely forget asdfghjkll, but i love responding and weeping about my gratitude
6. What is a fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?
ummm all of my fics have happy endings sooooo i don't have an answer for this
7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?
ummm maybe red life might stream again because eddie and buck went through a lot of shit in that fic so i made it my mission to give them the happiest and sappiest ending possible
8. Do you get hate on fics?
i have been very lucky in that i haven't
9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?
oh yes i do. and i suppose it's very emotional and sappy smut. i do try to balance filthy and sweet
10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?
never written one
11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?
not to me knowledge
12. Have you ever had a fic translated?
nope
13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?
me and @elvensorceress started writing a s2 rewrite where shannon lives that i absolutely adore, it's taken a bit of a backburner but it lives forever in my heart. also me and @spaceprincessem plan on writing one that im sure will be so very self-indulgent
14. What's your all time favorite ship?
gotta be buddie (though polivia from fringe is a close second)
15. What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?
im not sure. i plan on getting all of my wips done at some point and i don't really think there is one that i won't (at least not at this point)
16. What are your writing strengths?
descriptions i think. i can paint a pretty picture and definitely have flowery purple prose. and a lot of people have told me i am good at characterization which i always worry about but am glad to hear that's it's something im good at even if i doubt it
17. What are your writing weaknesses?
i cannot shut up. everything i write is so lengthy even when it doesn't need to be. being succinct definitely isn't my strong suit. and uhh i struggle with writing dialogue because i will get lost in the character's headspace and forget people are supposed to be talking
18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?
i absolutely love it though i don't do it often because i get nervous about it. thankfully i have friends that i can ask if i am unsure about something and im trying to get more comfortable doing it
19. First fandom you wrote for?
supernatural
20. Favourite fic you've written?
gotta be to you i'm just a man (to me you're all i am) because i put my heart and soul into that fic and i really loved delving into the 118's dynamic and everyone's relationship with buck and creating new circumstances for eddie and buck to fall in love
no pressure tagging (and sorry if you've already been tagged) @elvensorceress @spaceprincessem @bvckandeddie @colonoscopys @housewifebuck @prettyboybuckley @rogerzsteven @paranoidbean @911onabc @honestlydarkprincess @bigfootsmom @try-set-me-on-fire @bucks118 @devirnis @giddyupbuck @disasterbuckdiaz @transboybuckley @rewritetheending @eddiediaztho @callaplums
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