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The impact of reblogging...
Just in case you’re new, or don’t really understand how this entire site functions (and it’s completely different from other social media apps, at least for now*), or if you wanted an illustration of why it’s so important to reblog the posts you enjoy and the hard work of creators you want to support, here’s a visualisation of the impact and reach of reblogging, using my biggest post (part one of my writing masterlist).
Creators are losing the will to post and share in droves because engagement is becoming next to non-existent, and if you don’t reblog the things you enjoy for free, creators wonder why they even bother, and soon they’ll just… stop.
(Look at that reblog to like ratio too… oof)
My little blog is at the centre of that dense circle, and every point in the image represents a reblog.
Of the people who reblogged the original post, most of them did so directly from me, but you can see scattered groups of reblogs which came from people who reblogged it from those who did so from me. And so on and so on, out into the ecosystem.
If you came across my masterlist in the wild, and didn’t or don’t follow me, you only saw it because someone reblogged it.
Most of the things you see on your dash are only there because someone you follow reblogged it.
It’s how this whole ecosystem works, and you’re smothering and killing it if you don’t reblog the ‘content’ you ‘consume’ (I dislike using those terms, but it is what it is).
To clarify, no one is saying you should feel obliged to reblog everything you come across, or that everything an artist or creator puts out there ‘deserves’ to be reblogged, but for pity’s sake, reblog the things you do actively enjoy.
Leaving a like or a comment on the post is like giving a compliment directly to the creator, and it’s wonderful, but it doesn’t show that post to anyone else or boost its presence on the platform. It can also give the impression you didn’t like it ‘enough’ or it wasn’t ‘good enough’ to bother putting on your blog or reblogging. How you really show your appreciation for something you genuinely enjoyed is by reblogging. (Even better if you screech away in the tags about why you liked it, but that’s an optional extra!) It’s like giving a meaningful and impactful tip, except it’s completely free, and it only costs you the time it takes to click or tap.
I hope that clears things up, and is a useful illustration of the impact you’ve had on creators’ pages by reblogging their work, so a huge thank you to those who represent points on that chart, and those of other creators on here! It’s because of people like you that work of people like me gets seen and enjoyed by more people!!
*(I know Tumblr is trying to change things so that you see other things now, instead of only the people you follow, but you can and should turn that feature off).
i’ll be honest, i don’t always like the way people talk about what happened to james. i feel like people let themselves be tricked by the supernatural element of the bracelet into thinking that this can’t possibly happen in real life, when the truth is that what happened to him after the bracelet was put on and everything he felt once it was over is indicative of real life experiences. sure, no one is ever gonna put a magical bracelet on your wrist that forces you to love them, but the bracelet is merely a metaphor for real feelings that real people experience when they’re in such a situation: feeling stuck and trapped, feeling like they’re forced to do things they wouldn’t do otherwise. these are feelings james himself explicitly talks about multiple times in the text. he feels ashamed, he feels disgusted with himself, he feels weak for not getting out of it sooner, he feels sick at the thought of talking about what he experienced with anyone, including the people he feels safest with. these are all feelings drawn from the experiences of real life survivors. so whenever you’re tempted to make a joke about the bracelet, or to feel frustrated that he ‘wasn’t even the one to tell cordelia the truth about the bracelet’, or even to say that some other male character would have handled the situation better, please remember that this might be a sensitive topic for some people on your dash. james is fictional, so he’ll never be hurt by what you’re saying, but the people reading your posts are real.
“Do you ship...” Buddy I will ship almost anything if I think about it too long. I love love and situations
nono, you like chishiya because you see him as your smart little cinnamon roll, i like chishiya because he's a humanity-lacking, empty, selfish, pathetic asshole who lacks the ability to converse with and understand others so badly he feels practically nothing. i like chishiya because he's so fucking apathetic he doesn't even care that he might die- not because he's a 'chill guy' but because he is SO disinterested in life he doesn't see the value in living. i like chishiya because hes jealous of people who try hard because he knows damn well he could never be as human as them, because he knows there's something wrong with him. we are not the same tiktok chishiya fans. nono, you like niragi because you see him as your hot aggressive crime committer, i like niragi because he's been so traumatized by the things others have done to him he's become the thing he hates in a desperate attempt to feel like he deserved everything he went through. i like niragi because he puts up the facade of being all confident and mighty, drowning himself in the power he forces other people to give him with the goal of seeming less emotional and voiding himself of potential weak spots. we are not the same tiktok niragi fans.
you Waste more energy with your mouth !!
as an artist that hates the like/reblog ratio on tumblr when it comes to art i promise you, on my life, that when people like your art they are not doing it out of a place of genuine malice. i have no idea what would make you decide that
cam telling demi to fuck off when she tried kissing him after he Rightfully aired her out was the most cathartic thing i’ve seen in media in so long
Sorry but this is so fucking funny. This is supernatural levels of funny. You take one of the shows that showed every other 2010s media how queerbaiting is done and revive it six years later just to kill one half of the ship while the other character isn’t even there, but still can’t resist adding a not so subtle reference to how ACTUALLY the fans were right and the ship was true (possibly, hilariously one sided) all along. Incredible. Truly one of the masters of the game
The love for Jonathan Sims just never stops. Like i'll think about him, even for a second, and i just. he was so good. He was so good. He tried SO HARD. And he was an arse and he was prickly and he was smug and he was not easily liked and yet and yet and yet he was SO GOOD. Unwilling god of an apocalypse still trying to figure out how to cauterize the wound, still stopping himself from indulging in his worst instincts, still CLINGING to what he considered to be humane.
He could have said "Game over" in S4 and we would have all understood. He could have said "Game truly over" in S5 and it would have made sense. And EVERY STEP OF THE WAY he was like. No. This brings me so much horrible joy and it feels so good and so right and /this is not who i want to be/.
It's been nearly 3 years since I did my fanart of Candentia's darkly, and now that she's reposting her fics I can once again show my appreciation to one of the best authors in the fandom. ...Maybe I'm a little excited to be able to show off how much I've improved since then as well
This is fanart for Where Hope and Reason Part, which I'll link in a reblog.
This this is knowledge this is what I've been thinking if put into coherent paragraphs and words
Mic/Yamada Analysis
I think about his trauma way too much and how overlooked it all is so here's my rant:
not romantic not platonic but a secret third thing (so devoted the lines blur)
Summary: Joel was a bad man. Perverted, dirty-minded, and old. He couldn’t keep you out of his thoughts no matter how hard he tried. You were the new neighbor across the way, though he’d made sure you’d never spoken. He kept his distance, kept to himself. Until Dina nearly dragged you into his dining area, forcing you to sit with him as he averted his gaze. And just like that, she got up and left—leaving you to whatever quiet little plan she'd already set in motion. || smut MDNI 18+, peepaw!joel, oldman!joel, big ol' girthy age gap (not specified but LEGAL), soft!joel, the man's obsessed, perv!joel, daddy kink, pinv, f!receiving oral, masturbation, << joel watches you, joel mentions reader's body is 'little' but only because he's a big boy, big dick joel miller, idk what else to put here, this fic lives in a world where creampies ≠ pregnancy, this takes place *before Ellie & Dina get together || a/n: couldn't stop thinking about this all damn night. Ok he’s actually an angel but THINKS he’s a bad man
Just focus on the wires, Miller. The wires.
But the zap bit into his fingers the second he looked, eyes drifting up just for a moment, out the window and onto you.
You were kneeling in the garden bed along the edge of the street by your house, wrist-deep in dark soil, the late-spring sunlight gilding your skin like something out of a goddamn dream. Your shirt had ridden up your back as you reached forward, and he caught the bare curve of your spine, the subtle arch of it with every shift of your hips.
He hissed quietly at the sting in his palm, jerking his hand back from the breaker.
He was supposed to be working. Minding his own business. In his own house. At his own dining table. Just tinkering. That was all.
Wasn’t his fault the window faced the street. Wasn’t his fault you were outside in cutoff shorts and a t-shirt, sleeves shoved up as you planted an unruly bramble of something in the dirt.
God bless late spring, he thought. Then immediately cursed himself for it, trying in vain to look away. But you stretched your arms over your head, back arching. Your shirt lifted with the motion, a sliver of skin flashing above your waistband before falling back down.
He blinked, hard, and dropped his head.
The wires. Focus on the wires.
The breaker sat in his palm, cold and sharp-edged. He adjusted his glasses, pushing them up his nose, trying to reorient himself with the tangled mass of copper and springs he was meant to be working on. His pliers hovered over the rusted coil, but his mind had already betrayed him.
The air inside felt too still. Dust floated through shafts of sunlight that slanted across the kitchen floorboards. A breeze fluttered the thin curtain over the sink. Somewhere outside, a bird chirped. A dog barked. Life, irritatingly, continued.
Then he heard voices. Loud enough to pull him from his head. He looked up.
Dina was out there now, talking to you, animated as ever. You frowned at something she said, then shook your head. He didn’t know why that made his chest ache, but it did.
He wanted to know what she’d asked. Wanted to know what you needed. If you asked, he’d do it. Build it, fix it, find it. He’d do it with no hesitation.
But asking meant talking. Talking meant being near. And Joel didn’t allow himself that kind of luxury with you.
Because if you saw him— really saw him—you’d see right through the practiced nods and gravel-toned grunts. You’d see the way his eyes trailed a second too long, the way his jaw clenched when you laughed at someone else’s joke. You’d catch the heat of it. The filth of it.
And you’d run.
He wouldn’t blame you.
But God, he wasn’t sure he could take it if you did.
And yet… if you hated him, at least you’d be thinking about him.
As he stared out the window, Dina suddenly gestured toward his house, thumb hooked over her shoulder. Then your eyes followed. You looked right at his place. And shrugged.
Shrugged.
He had to sit back for a second, stunned. What the hell did that mean? Were you talking about him? Dina was, clearly. But you…were you indifferent? Unbothered? That hollow thud behind his ribs wasn’t from a breaker.
He told himself he didn’t care. He tried. But then she was dragging you to your feet.
No.
You resisted at first. Body language stiff, reluctant. But Dina…Dina was not the kind of girl to take no for an answer. Joel knew it well, she was Ellie’s closest friend, after all. And now she was dragging you up his walkway.
“Joel?” Dina called out, knocking.
He scrambled to look busy, heart pounding, thoughts buzzing like flies.
“Yeah,” he called, low and even. “Come in.”
The front door creaked open in the corner of his eye, the sound of footsteps soft and careful as they moved closer. And then your legs came into view. Long, bare, sun-warmed. He had to force himself not to look higher, not to follow the shape of you all the way up to that sweet little body wrapped in tiny shorts and a thin tee, practically begging to be devoured.
The wires, Miller.
“Hey,” Dina said cheerfully.
“Howdy,” Joel replied, short and clipped.
“What’re you working on?” she asked, plopping into the chair beside him.
He kept his tone casual. “Old breaker. They were gonna toss it, but it’s just a spring issue.”
She leaned over the table, inspecting it. “Teach me?”
He grunted in what he hoped passed as agreement. Felt the chair next to her shift. Felt your hesitation fill every inch of the room.
There was a beat, some hushed whispers of Dina urging you again, but Joel still kept his eyes down.
Then the chair across from him scraped, and you sat. Tension spiked in his chest.
“Joel,” Dina said sweetly, “have you met my new best friend?”
Joel lifted his head just enough to look at her. “Thought Ellie was your best friend.”
“She’s in the Hall of Fame. But this one—” she beamed at you “—makes the best apple pie in Jackson.”
“I know.”
Ah, shit. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
You gasped. A soft little breath that made his stomach twist. He still didn’t look at you, but now he could picture it perfectly. The way your lips parted. The way your eyebrows probably lifted.
He wasn’t supposed to know.
You’d left it for him on a rainy afternoon. Knocked once, maybe twice, then stood there for a minute like you were trying to decide if you should wait. But when he didn’t answer—couldn’t answer—you turned and walked away, your footsteps soft against the damp porch.
He’d seen you enough around town, neighbors fawning over your story, your smile, your damn cooking. He didn’t want any part of it. Didn’t want to be another man pulled into your orbit just because you were sweet and sunny and made people feel something.
He told himself he wouldn’t touch it. But later, when the sky had gone pink and the house was quiet, he peeled back the foil, took one bite, and almost dropped to his knees.
It was perfect.
The kind of taste that sent him spiraling back through decades. Holidays at his grandmother’s house. His little hands and floured countertops and the sound of laughter he hadn’t heard in years.
He tried to hate it. Hate you for making it.
But Joel Miller was a lot of things. Stubborn, angry, mean when he had to be.
He was not strong enough to hate you.
Not even close.
Dina leaned over the table, elbows planted, chin in hand. “So listen,” she said, flicking a glance toward you before turning back to Joel. “Ellie told me you’ve been fixing up old stuff again. Thought maybe you could take a look at my space heater—it’s making this really weird buzzing sound, and I’m ninety percent sure it’s not supposed to smell like burnt popcorn.”
“What you need that thing for now? S’warm out now,” he grumbled over to her.
Dina’s brow furrowed at him, “My place is freezing!”
Joel rolled his eyes, grunting, eyes back on the breaker. “Probably just dust. I can swing by later.”
“Sweet,” she said, clapping her hands once. “I told Ellie you’d say yes.”
You shifted in your seat, fingers fidgeting in your lap. Joel could see it in the corner of his eye, the way you didn’t quite know where to look. Your gaze darted from the breaker to the worn tabletop to the window. You didn’t want to be here.
Dina, ever the social architect, didn’t miss a beat. “Anyway,” she said, standing suddenly and brushing her hands down her jeans, “I’m gonna run back and check on Ellie. She’s making me a cassette tape in the garage.
You looked up, surprised. “Wait, I thought we were gonna—”
She cut you off with a little wave of her fingers. “You’re fine. Stay. Learn how to fix shit. Or don’t. Flirt awkwardly. Whatever works.”
Joel finally looked up at that, shooting her a warning glare, but she just grinned and backed toward the door.
“Thanks, Joel. You’re the best,” she said sweetly. Then, turning her back to him, shot you a wink.
And just like that, she was gone.
The front door clicked shut behind her, and silence fell over the house again.
Thick as syrup.
You cleared your throat softly, the sound barely audible over the ticking wall clock and the quiet hum of the fan. Outside, the breeze rustled through the garden beds, and you could still hear the soft creak of Dina’s boots fading down the porch.
Joel didn’t move right away. Just let the silence stretch, long and taut, like a wire about to snap.
Then he finally exhaled, “She can be a bit…”
Your eyes lifted to his face, and he had to remind himself to hold your gaze. Don’t be impolite. Don’t be a scrooge. So he looked up a you.
“Yeah,” you exhaled, lips quirking at the sides.
“Didn’t have to stay,” he said, voice low as he looked back at his hands and quickly busying them, placing in a spring to the small breaker.
“I know…” you said, hesitating, and then, sitting straighter, you added, “Actually, I was gonna ask you…think somethin’s wrong with my water heater.”
His gaze snapped up.
Anything you needed.
He’d do it.
Fix it, build it, find it.
God, he was so screwed.
“Been a few days now,” you continued, rushing the words under his stare. “Water’s comin’ out freezin’, and the pressure’s been real weak. Can you come look at it for me?”
Joel paused, the breaker in his hand feeling like a hundred pounds.
Don’t, Miller. He told himself. But his mind, his imagination, the unhelpful bastard that it was, already lept at the thought.
You, naked under a stream of frigid water. Shivering. Nipples tight from the cold. Your fingers rubbing at your arms, slick and bare and goose-pimpled. Hair heavy, dripping, clinging to your collarbones. That soft little sound you might make when the water hit.
He swallowed hard, fighting the flush rising under his collar. He couldn’t have you suffering like that. No man in his right mind would leave you to freeze in your own house.
“Yeah,” he said, voice catching. He cleared his throat, shifted in his seat. “Yeah. Sure.”
“How’s tomorrow?”
Joel nodded, quick and clipped. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t already planning it out down to the damn hour. He’d come by early. First thing. Get it done and gone before he did something stupid like linger.
But early meant sleepwear. Meant you might answer the door in those tiny shorts he pretended not to notice through his window.
Afternoon, then.
That’d be safer.
“Just, uh,” he said awkwardly, fingers twitching around the pliers. “Maybe don’t be there when I show up.”
You blinked. “Huh?”
His eyes flicked up to yours, brief and sharp, “In the shower.”
“Oh,” you said quickly, “Right. No—of course. Definitely not.”
But his ears burned. And no matter how hard he tried, the image came back anyway.
You. Cold. Naked. Wet.
He was so fucked.
Joel felt sick to his stomach just crossing the street.
Would you know?
Could you tell he’d spent the whole damn night lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, your tight little body haunting every inch of his imagination as he tugged at his fist beneath the covers?
He felt filthy. Perverted.
Bad.
He was a bad man, and worse, he knew it.
He probably didn’t need that second cup of coffee that morning—his limbs jittery, his hand aching as he lifted the old metal toolbox from the shed beside Ellie’s garage. His knees popped as he straightened, the ache behind his eyes a dull throb. He was too old for this.
Too old to be thinking about you like this til all hours of the night. Like some teenage, horned-up fool.
Still, he made his way over, the weight of the box not half as heavy as the tension in his chest. At his feet, the little garden bed was already blooming—blackberry bushes nestled in the soil and climbing your freshly painted fence. They suited the house. Suited you. Sweet, wild, a little thorny. He wondered what you planned to do with them. Jam, maybe. Pie, if he was lucky. If he was ever lucky again.
He doubted he’d get the chance, not after today.
Not with the thoughts scrambling around in his head, sharp and dirty and desperate to spill out.
He knocked once with his knuckles, quiet, almost hoping you wouldn’t hear.
Maybe you were out—off at the community garden, like he’d seen you some mornings with a basket slung over your arm. Or off sweet-talking the horses, sneaking carrots to your favorites. Maybe you forgot.
But no such luck. The door opened.
“Joel,” you breathed, eyes widening like you hadn’t expected him to actually show. The sound of your voice—saying his name for the first time—ripped something open in his chest.
Say it again, he wanted to beg. Please. Just once more, so I can keep it locked away. So I can die with it in my memory.
You smiled, a little sheepish.
He didn’t smile back. Just kept his brow furrowed, his expression hard. He couldn’t afford to let you get close. Couldn’t let you mistake him for someone safe.
“Hi,” he nodded, voice low.
You tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “Uh, my shower’s just… in here—”
“Need to take a look at the water heater first,” he cut in.
“Oh,” you blinked, hands still gripping the door and its frame. “Right…”
“Can I come in?” he added, one brow raised. A flicker of something like amusement in his voice. Maybe you were just as nervous as he was.
“Course,” you said quickly, stepping aside. “Please.”
He stepped inside.
Into your world.
It smelled like cinnamon. Like apples and woodsmoke and something fresh baked—though he saw no tray of anything waiting on the counter. Just your scent, clinging to the walls. Like you lived here completely. Like you’d settled in, made it your own.
Of course you had.
Fresh flowers sat in a mason jar on the table. Little framed paintings dotted the walls—ones he recognized from the barter-and-trade shop, and a few of horses that made his chest ache. One in particular, just a lone cowboy on a mountainside, was his personal favorite.
“The uh… water heater’s down in the basement,” you said, already walking toward the narrow door at the back of the kitchen.
Joel followed, but when you stayed behind, hovering uncertainly near the top of the stairs, he didn’t protest. It was better that way. He needed to get himself under control.
He ducked into the dark, found the breaker box, and the old water heater behind it. It didn’t take long to spot the issue.
The main switch was off.
Just… flipped off. No blown fuse. No leak. No damage.
He stared at it, confused. Then narrowed his eyes.
No.
No, no, no. That wasn’t right.
Had someone messed with it? Played a prank? Messed with you?
But he’d never seen anyone else go in or out of this house. You lived alone. He was sure of it. Which left only one possibility.
His pulse thumped in his ears.
He flipped the switch. Waited for the hum. Then made his way back upstairs, each step landing heavy beneath his boots.
“You should be all good now,” he said as he reemerged.
“Yeah?” you asked, arms crossed loosely over your chest. “That easy, huh?”
“That easy,” he nodded.
Easy. To get him here. To get him to look. To fix it.
Fix it, build it, find it. He was your man. He wanted to be your man.
“Well,” you said, fidgeting, “you sure you don’t need to check it upstairs?”
Joel moved to the sink instead, turned the handle all the way to hot, and waited. Within seconds, steam curled up from the basin. He held his hand under it, felt the sharp bite of heat.
“Good to go,” he said, glancing at you. He wondered if he would’ve noticed it before, but this time he was certain. You turned a little pink under his gaze, pulled your bottom lip between your teeth.
“Oh,” you murmured. “Good.”
He nodded. “Yup.”
But he didn’t move. Didn’t turn to leave.
He didn’t want to.
Not now that he knew, by some cataclysmic star crossed miracle, you’d brought him here on purpose. That you’d wanted him here. But he wasn’t sure what that meant. What he was supposed to do with it.
Still, you let him make his way to the door. Sweet as anything, practically shoving cookies into his hands as thanks.
He refused, hands up in surrender as he backed toward the entryway.
“Really,” he said, voice lighter now, accent thicker as he let his shoulders relax, “I’m fine, darlin’, please. Just—” his hand found the doorknob, “Just let me know if there’s anythin’ else you need. You just holler, alright?”
You smiled, soft and a little playful. “Alright. Well… thank you.”
But, somehow, your water heater broke again only a few days later.
Then the lights went out in your second bedroom.
And then— his last and final strike—the curtain rod came crashing down from your bedroom window on a Saturday morning.
Joel stood on a small foot ladder beside your bed, boots braced on the tread, hand wrapped around the curtain rod bracket as he tightened the last screw into the wall. The hardware clinked softly against the metal as he adjusted the fit. You sat on the edge of the bed behind him, legs swinging, talking about something—weather, or the community garden, or a dog you’d seen with a lopsided face. He wasn’t really listening.
Not in a rude way. He just liked the sound of your voice more than whatever it was you were actually saying.
He hummed now and then, nodding at the right moments, letting you fill the space. It helped. Gave him something to focus on besides the fact that he was in your bedroom, that even your curtains smelled like you. That your nightstand had a little dish with jewelry in it and a book with a pressed flower between the pages. That your closet door was cracked just enough to show a glimpse of your laundry basket, and his brain, the traitorous thing, kept wondering what might be folded inside.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and gave the bracket one last twist.
“You sure must’ve worked real hard to get this damn thing off the wall,” he said, voice low.
Your words stopped mid-sentence.
He turned his head, just enough to catch the look on your face.
Eyes wide. Mouth parted. Silent.
Caught.
The silence stretched between you like something taut and dangerous.
Joel straightened up slowly, the curtain rod still in his hand, his eyes never leaving yours.
“You gonna tell me what that was about?” he asked, voice gentler than it should’ve been. “Or should I just assume you wanted me back over here so bad, you started pullin’ things off your walls?”
“I—” you choked, voice barely above a whisper, the color draining from your face as the words stuck in your throat.
Joel caught the way your fingers curled against the bedsheet, how your knees shifted slightly, like you might bolt. And God, part of him wanted you to. Part of him needed you to.
But the other part, the selfish part, couldn’t bear the thought.
“S’alright, darlin’,” he said softly. “I like your company too.”
Your eyes lifted to his, wide and searching.
“You… you do?” you asked, like you didn’t believe it. Like no part of you had expected it to be true.
Joel nodded, slow. “Yeah.” The word came out tight. It took effort, like he had to shove it past all the reasons why he shouldn’t say it.
You stared at him, stunned and unmoving. He stood still for a long beat, then finally stepped down from his stool. The floor creaked under his weight as he crossed to your bed, each step slower than the last. He moved slower than he really needed to, but it kept him steady, until he finally sat beside you.
Not too close, not touching you, but he could feel the heat of you anyway. He caught the faint trace of your perfume, something soft and warm and inviting, and it nearly knocked him out. He wanted to breathe it in until it lived in his lungs. He wanted it to cling to his shirt, to the collar of his flannel, so he could press his face into it later—alone in the dark—like that might be enough.
Or better, that filthy corner of his brain, the beast that lived inside him wanted you to smell like him. Wanted it clinging to your sheets, your wrists, the hollow of your throat. Wanted people to catch it in passing and wonder why you’d let a man like him get that close.
But he wouldn’t. He was trying to be good, to have restraint.
His hands stayed on his knees, tense, knuckles pale where they pulled against the denim. This was your room, so soft and warm and clean. The kind of place he could get lost in if he wasn’t careful.
“Ain’t a good idea, what you’re doin’,” he murmured, “I’m an old man, honey.”
Your eyes tracked over his face as he looked at you, “I like that you’re older, Joel.”
He shut his eyes for a moment, jaw flexing. Christ. You didn’t know what you were saying.
“I’m old enough to be your daddy, baby,” he whispered. The words came out rougher than he intended.
He heard the way your breath caught. Saw the way your body stilled. Like something inside you had jolted awake.
He should’ve looked away.
Instead, his gaze found yours as he swallowed dryly. When he finally got control of his heavy tongue again, he asked, “That do somethin’ to you, sweetheart?”
You didn’t speak. But the answer was all over your face.
Joel exhaled slowly, leaning back just enough to get a better look at you. Still not touching, but close enough to see the flush rise in your cheeks.
“Gonna answer me?” he asked.
Your voice trembled. “Y-yes.”
His brow lifted slightly.
“Yes, I like… thinking of you that way.”
His stomach turned over. “You think about me, huh?”
You hesitated, lips parting, and for a second he thought maybe you’d lie.
Then your voice hit him square in the chest.
“All the time.”
Joel went still. Your words rang in his head, loud and clear. Like a bell tolling inside his ribs.
Now he knew. You wanted him. You thought about him the same way he thought about you. And if he so much as reached for you, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.
So instead, he just looked at you. He let his eyes rake over your face, your body, looking at how your thighs had pressed together. How your breathing had changed. How your fingers twisted in the fabric of your shirt like you didn’t know what to do with your hands now that the words were out.
And then, his voice came low and steady, like it was coming from somewhere deeper than his own body, “Show me.”
Your brows drew together in confusion, your mouth falling open. “What?”
His eyes locked with yours, and he knew you could see it. The way his pupils had all but swallowed the color from his irises, how tightly he was clinging to the last scrap of control he had left. He could feel the sweat at the back of his neck, the pulse in his throat, the ache in his hands from how hard he was trying not to reach for you. Not to ruin you.
He couldn’t let himself slip. Couldn’t let it crack wide open.
“When you think of me,” he said, quieter now, words coming like gravel dragged behind his teeth, “what do you do?”
You looked away for a second, your gaze dropping to the bed beneath you, cheeks heated and mouth parting like you didn’t know how to answer. But then your eyes found his again—wide and shining, nervous and breathless.
“You want me to… to show you?”
He didn’t speak. Just nodded slowly.
That was all he needed. Just to watch. That was the line. That was what he could live with. He wouldn’t touch you. Wouldn’t lay a single hand on your sweet, perfect, young body. He’d sit still like a good man, like a gentleman, and let it wreck him quietly. He’d carry the memory of it back across the street like a loaded gun and bury it deep where no one would ever find it.
You hesitated, breath shivering, legs pressing together as you sat there, body unsure while your eyes held his like they were searching for something—permission, safety, the truth of how far this would go.
“S’alright,” he said again, his voice soft like velvet, “Just lay back.”
He saw your throat bob, and then, slowly, you leaned back onto your elbows, shifting further onto the bed. The mattress dipped with your weight, the sound of your shorts brushing the sheets too loud in the stillness. He swallowed hard as you arched your back just enough to hook your thumbs in the waistband of those tiny, soft little shorts, sliding them down your hips, exposing the smooth skin beneath inch by inch.
“Slow–” he said, voice rough and wrecked. You paused, and nodded, eyes never leaving his face as you gently brought them down your legs. Your hand quickly and gently let them fall to the floor.
And there you were.
Laid down on your own bed, your legs bending slightly, thighs pressed together, hiding yourself from his fiery gaze. Joel’s knuckles popped with restraint to keep himself from spreading them for himself.
He tried to keep his eyes on your face, so sweet and flushed and burning with heat. You let out a breath, seemingly collecting your courage as you let your thighs fall to the sides. He couldn’t do it anymore, his eyes dropped almost immediately, giving in. Your precious puffy lips were outlined in the panties, light colored enough that he could see the stain of wetness forming in the cotton.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Your fingers slid slowly down your stomach, over your panties, pressing lightly between your thighs.
Joel’s lungs locked. His jaw ticked. Every muscle in his body coiled tight as wire.
This is all I get, he told himself. This is enough.
He could feel his pulse hammering behind his eyes. His jeans were too tight, his hands were trembling, and he hadn’t even touched you.
You moved your fingers again, slower this time, dragging them up and over the damp fabric, letting out the softest sound—barely audible, but to Joel it was deafening. It struck him in the chest like a damn hammer.
He was going to die here. He was going to die right here in your bedroom with his boots on the floor and you moaning into your own palm, and he was going to deserve every second of torture.
You didn’t rush.
Joel thought maybe that would save him. That you’d move fast, try to get it over with. But you didn’t. You took your time. You let your fingers glide softly over the front of your underwear, lazy strokes that did more to him than anything explicit could have. Your thighs shifted, knees bending up and falling open a little wider, and Joel could see the heat of you blooming beneath the thin cotton, darkening it, making it cling.
He had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, just to breathe. Just to stay sitting where he was and not reach for you, not grab your hips and tear those panties clean off your body. When he opened them again, you were watching him. Watching the way he breathed through his nose, the way his fists stayed locked tight on his legs, the way his gaze kept dropping down no matter how hard he tried to fight it.
You circled yourself again, slower now, the fabric catching slightly, and your breath caught in your throat. Joel’s heart was pounding so hard he thought you must hear it from where you lay.
His voice came out low, nearly wrecked. “Take ’em off.”
You paused, fingers freezing for a moment, your expression flickering with nerves and something else—excitement, anticipation, the realization that this wasn’t just about putting on a show. This was about him needing it. Needing you.
You slid your thumbs under the waistband and raised your hips off the mattress. He watched, helpless, as you peeled them down your legs—slow, hesitant, like maybe you were savoring the tension just as much as he was—and let them join your shorts on the floor.
Laid bare in front of him, thighs parted, glistening, flushed, and so fucking soft-looking it almost hurt to look directly at you, you looked like a god damn angel. Joel swore under his breath and dragged a hand over his mouth again, like it might erase the things he was thinking. It didn’t.
His voice cracked when he spoke. “Touch yourself.”
You nodded, barely, and your hand slipped down again. But this time, there was no fabric in the way. Joel watched your fingers move over your folds, the way your hips tilted up to meet them. He could see everything now, every flicker of pleasure across your face, every little tremble in your legs. When you let out that first real moan—low and quiet, almost like you were trying to stifle it—Joel’s body jolted like he’d been shot.
“Jesus, baby,” he whispered, his voice nearly breaking.
You rubbed slow, steady, getting yourself wet, and his eyes dropped to where your hand moved, slick and glistening, and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.
But it wasn’t enough. Not for him. Not for what he wanted to see.
“Put a finger inside,” he said, and it came out lower than he meant it to—rough, almost angry with need.
You looked at him, lips parted, lashes heavy. “Joel…”
“Do it,” he rasped. “Just one, baby. That’s all.”
You hesitated, breath shaking. Then you did it. You brought your fingers lower, traced the slickness, and pushed one inside—slow, stretching, burying it to the knuckle—and Joel’s hands finally left his knees, flying up to rake through his hair as he groaned quietly.
He couldn’t fucking take it.
And neither could you.
Your back arched, mouth falling open with a quiet gasp—daddy—as you moved your finger in and out, your palm pressing down against your clit for more friction. Joel couldn’t even pretend to look away now. He was locked in, watching the way your body responded, the way you started to tremble.
And then he heard your voice again. Small, breathy. Needy.
“Please.”
Joel’s heart stuttered.
“Please, Joel,” you said again, whimpering now, your eyes shining, mouth wet, hips starting to lose their rhythm. “I don’t… I can’t… I need you.”
He clenched his jaw so tight it ached, his whole body bowstring-tense as he leaned forward just slightly, elbows on his thighs, fists clenched again, because if he moved even a little further he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.
“Don’t do this,” he whispered. “Don’t beg me, baby. I can’t—”
But you did. You begged anyway.
“Please touch me,” you said, breathless, desperate, your hand moving faster now, legs trembling under the pressure building in your body. “I want you, Joel. I think about you all the time, and I—fuck—I want it to be you.”
He shook his head again, slower this time, like he was trying to convince himself more than you. But then your leg moved—bare and trembling—and your ankle brushed against the back of his hand where it still rested uselessly on the bed.
And that was it.
That one small touch, like permission and invitation all wrapped into one. He didn’t think. Couldn’t. His fingers wrapped gently around your ankle, warm and steady, and for a second he just held it. The first time he’d touched you. The first contact after all this time spent trying to keep himself in check.
You whimpered under the weight of his touch, a soft, aching sound that nearly unraveled him. His thumb traced a slow, reverent circle against your skin, and his heart beat so hard it was nearly dizzying.
So soft. So warm. So alive.
He bent forward without a word, still clutching your ankle, and pressed a kiss to the inside of it. The smallest kiss. Barely even a breath. But it was everything.
His lips moved again—just a little higher.
Then higher still.
Trailing up your calf, slow and worshipful, his hand shifting to the back of your leg, guiding it gently as your thigh began to tremble. You were still breathing hard, hand stalled now, frozen against your center as you watched him.
He pressed another kiss to the inside of your knee. Then just above it. Each one a little firmer than the last, like he was testing the shape of you with his mouth.
And then, eyes locked on your hand still buried between your legs, he grasped your wrist gently, his touch reverent but sure. He pulled your finger from yourself and brought your hand to his mouth and looked at you like he was asking permission, even now, even on the edge of ruin.
You didn’t stop him.
So he parted his lips and took your finger into his mouth.
His tongue circled it first, slow and wet, curling around the soaked digit, savoring the taste of you, dragging it over the pad with aching, deliberate pressure. He sucked it in deeper, lips wrapping tight as his tongue moved along the underside. You watched, frozen in intense rapture, mouth parted and chest heaving. His eyes never left your face, even as he groaned low in his throat, eyes fluttering half shut.
You whimpered his name again—breathless, high, barely held together.
He let your finger go with a wet sound, still panting, his voice hoarse and ruined when he finally spoke.
“So fuckin’ sweet, baby.”
You whimpered his name again, breath catching as he released your hand and kissed higher on your leg, faster now, the heat of his mouth so close to where you wanted him. He nudged your thighs further apart with gentle pressure, his hands firm but trembling slightly as they moved up the backs of your legs, his thumbs dragging over the delicate curve of your inner thighs.
He paused just before reaching you. Breathing heavy. Hovering.
“This is what you wanted?” he asked, barely a whisper. “You want me here?”
“Yes,” you breathed, already breathless, already gone. “Please, Joel.”
That was all he needed.
He dipped his head and finally—finally—dragged his mouth over you, slow and sure, tasting you like he’d been starving for it. His tongue parted you, flat and warm, collecting everything you’d made for him. He moaned low against you, the sound vibrating through your whole body, and his hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open like you were something sacred.
And God, you were.
Joel wasn’t delicate with it. But he was steady, focused. Slow only because he wanted to draw it out. He licked a purposeful stripe up your center, then did it again, dragging his tongue in slow circles over your clit until your back arched off the mattress.
You gasped, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting into the graying strands.
Daddy daddy daddy fell from your lips like a prayer, and he groaned into you, tongue pressing deeper, tracing the way you opened for him. He noticed you said it the most when you were falling apart. When your brain was lagging and hazy.
And couldn’t stop thinking—this is what you taste like when you think of me.
He wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked, just once, firm and slow, and your legs clenched around his shoulders as a broken sound tore from your throat.
He pulled back slightly, his breath ragged, beard soaked with you.
“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh again, slower now, lips softer. “You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”
You begged again—don’t stop, please don’t stop—and he didn’t. He buried his mouth back between your legs and gave you everything. He wanted you to come on his tongue. Wanted to feel it. The way your body would tighten, the way your thighs would tremble, the way your breath would stutter in that pretty chest of yours before falling apart completely.
He was going to carry the sound of it for the rest of his life.
And still—he didn’t touch himself. Didn’t grind against the bed or reach for relief. This was for you. All of it.
If he could only have this, this taste, this sound, this moment, he’d take it.
And he’d burn for it later.
Joel’s tongue moved with steady, reverent purpose, his mouth open and hungry against you, like this was the only way he knew how to live anymore, by giving you this. His hands stayed firm, keeping your legs open, thumbs brushing softly against your trembling thighs, grounding you even as he pulled you closer and closer to the edge.
You were panting now, moaning freely, head thrown back against the pillow, your fingers tangled in his hair, his name falling from your mouth like it was the only one you’d ever known. He could feel the way your body was coiling, tightening, the way your hips were starting to stutter beneath him, like you were trying to chase that last bit of pressure before it ripped through you.
He sucked gently around your clit again, tongue flicking against it just right, and that was all it took.
You broke.
Your whole body arched, legs tightening around his shoulders, a sharp cry punching from your chest as you came hard against his mouth, your fingers fisting in his hair, holding him there while you rode it out. Joel groaned low in his throat, the sound dark and satisfied, almost possessive as he kept licking through it, gentle now, working you down slowly, coaxing every last tremble from you with his mouth still warm and wet against your skin.
He felt it, all of it. The way your muscles fluttered and clenched, the way your hands shook where they gripped him, the way your breath hitched as you tried to come back to earth.
And still, he didn’t stop touching you. Not yet. His lips moved lower, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, your hips, the crease where leg met pelvis, like he couldn’t stop worshipping you now that he’d started. His beard was damp with you, his mouth swollen, his hands still gentle where they rested at your hips.
But then your hands shifted.
You grabbed the front of his shirt, your fingers curling tight in the collar, and tugged.
“Joel,” you gasped, voice high and breathless, chest heaving as your eyes found his, wild and wanting, “Please.”
He lifted his head, eyes glazed, lips shining, chest rising and falling with every labored breath. “What, baby?” he rasped, even though he already knew. Even though his own body was screaming with the need he’d been trying to bury.
You pulled again, harder this time, dragging him up your body with shaking hands, your mouth still parted, your skin flushed and damp.
“Please,” you whispered, again and again, like you were unraveling, like the word was all you had left, “please, Joel… please, I need you…”
Your legs parted wider beneath him, your hips rising, searching, the fabric of his jeans rough between your thighs as he braced himself over you.
“I can’t—I can’t wait anymore,” you whispered, nails digging into his shoulders as you pulled him closer, your voice shaking. “Please—I want you inside me. I want you to fuck me, Joel. Please.”
And who was he to deny you?
Hadn’t he said it himself?
Anything you needed. Anything you wanted. He’d be the man for you.
He'd said the words and meant them. Even if they were only in his head, he meant them down to the marrow in his bones. And now, here you were, laid out beneath him, skin flushed, lips parted, pupils wide and pleading as you begged for him. Begged with your hands, your voice, your whole trembling body. And something inside Joel cracked so deep it felt like it might never close again.
He couldn’t stop himself.
He leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue slipping past your lips so you could taste yourself on him. It was filthy, intimate, perfect. He should’ve been ashamed of how much he needed it, how tender it felt even with the heat still thrumming through him.
He’d always thought that stuff was bullshit—the way books and movies and every sappy romance insisted sparks flew when two people kissed. That it meant something. That it could change you.
But this… this was something else entirely.
This was fire and gravity and truth all wrapped into one aching, perfect moment.
And for a moment, Joel believed every goddamn word.
His hands fumbled with his waistband as his tongue explored your mouth, your sweet cooing noises filling his ears, your breath soft and sweet as honey as you gasped against him. The sound of his belt unbuckling and zipper lowering filled the room, sharp and electric. Finally, he wrapped his hand around himself, freeing his cock as it sprang free, tender, aching, and flushed dark and thick with need. He swore under his breath as the air hit him, the head already leaking for you.
The idea of being a good man was long gone now. Left back on the floor with his restraint, his better judgment, his self-control. All that was left was you. Your scent, your skin, the desperate way you reached for him like you couldn’t bear another second of distance. Your gasp hit his mouth like a spark to gasoline. You moaned into him, hips lifting, thighs spreading wider around his waist as he rocked forward, lining himself up, his cock dragging through your slick folds.
He groaned deep in his chest, the weight of your heat soaking him instantly, the wet glide of your cunt against the underside of him making his whole body jolt.
And then you whimpered.
Joel pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips.
“I know, honey,” he cooed, his voice low and sweet, like a lullaby wrapped in filth. “I know it’s a lot, but you can take it. You can, baby. I know you can.”
He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your throat, his hands cradling your face like you were something precious even as his cock pressed closer, sliding lower with each slow grind.
“Such a good girl for me,” he whispered, barely able to breathe it out. “Knew you’d be so good, so sweet. Just let me in, honey.”
You whimpered, needy and breaking, and he slid forward again, this time pushing the head of his cock inside, slow and careful, watching every flicker of sensation cross your face. You were so warm. So tight. Your walls clenched around him instantly and his head dropped to your shoulder with a strangled groan.
“Jesus Christ,” he choked, his voice barely holding. “You feel so fuckin’ good, angel.”
You clung to him, arms around his shoulders, legs wrapping around his hips as he sank deeper, inch by inch, until you were gasping, trembling, completely filled.
Daddy. It was like a siren’s call from your lips.
Joel didn’t move right away. Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut as he fought the urge to lose himself too fast.
“Fuck,” he murmured against your skin. “You take me so good. So perfect for me.”
And then, finally, he moved.
Slow at first. Measured. Deep, rolling thrusts that pulled back just far enough to make you whimper before he pushed forward again, thick and steady, dragging every inch through your soaked, desperate cunt. He kissed your shoulder as he rocked into you, his voice hot in your ear.
“That’s it, baby. Just like that. You’re doin’ so good.”
You were breathless beneath him, hips lifting to meet every stroke, your nails digging into his back, your mouth pressed against his neck as you moaned and gasped and whispered his name like a prayer.
Joel was unraveling with every sound you made, every pulse of your body around his cock. He held your face, kissed your lips, your cheek, your temple, the top of your head. He told you how beautiful you were. How tight. How fucking sweet you felt around him. Told you you were his good girl. His angel. His.
Joel moved inside you like he was trying to memorize every inch—slow, deliberate, reverent. His hands mapped your body like he’d never get the chance again. One gripped the underside of your thigh, keeping your legs spread wide for him, the other braced beside your head, grounding him, holding him back from fucking into you the way his body screamed for.
But he didn’t want to rush this. God, he couldn’t. Not when you felt like this.
So tight, so warm, so wet and fluttering around him with every slow thrust of his hips. Each roll of his body drew a breathy moan from your lips, and he drank them down like they were keeping him alive.
“That’s it,” he murmured against your cheek, his voice rasped and heavy with worship. “Just like that, sweetheart. Grippin’ my cock so good, angel girl.”
Your fingers were tangled in his hair, your body arching into his with each stroke, and every time your hips rocked up to meet his, he felt it—that trembling pulse in your cunt that told him how close you were.
“You’re so pretty like this,” he whispered, kissing your jaw, then lower. “So goddamn sweet. Feels like you were made for me.”
Your hands slid down his back, clinging, like you couldn’t get close enough.
“Joel,” you whispered, voice soft and shaking, “You feel so good—I don’t want this to end.”
His heart almost broke right there.
“Baby,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours, hips rocking slow and deep, “don’t say that.”
“I mean it,” you whimpered. “I—Joel, I think I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw you. I used to dream about this. About you.”
Joel groaned, low and guttural as he kissed you. Not hard or frantic, just deep and warm, letting you feel every bit of how much that meant to him. How much he wanted to give it back.
He rolled his hips slower, deeper, angling just right until he felt your legs tense around his waist again, your body tightening, that little gasp he was starting to crave spilling from your lips as you tipped your head back against the pillow.
“There she is,” he whispered, voice rough and desperate. “You’re gonna come again, ain’t you? Gonna let me feel her squeeze my cock, huh?”
You nodded, mouth open, breath catching on each thrust. “So close—oh my God, daddy, daddy—”
“Come for me, angel,” he said, his voice shaking now. “C’mon, baby girl. Be my good girl and come.”
You cried out as it hit you, body seizing under his, thighs trembling, your walls fluttering around him in tight, wet pulses. You clung to him, your fingers locked in his hair, your mouth gasping out his name again and again.
He kept moving, kept fucking you through it, slow and steady, letting you ride it out, watching the way you shattered so beautifully for him. He held you through every wave, every twitch, every soft sob of pleasure.
And then he couldn’t hold it anymore.
Your cunt still fluttering around him, soaked and tight and perfect—Joel’s control finally snapped.
His hips stuttered, breath coming in short, punched-out gasps, and he buried his face in your neck.
“Fuck—oh baby, I’m gonna come—Christ, you feel so good—I can’t—I can’t—”
He gripped your thigh tighter, pulled you flush against him, and thrust deep one final time as his release hit him hard, spilling into you with a broken groan. His whole body shook, teeth gritted, face buried in your skin as he came in long, slow, pulsing waves that left him shaking above you.
He didn’t move right away.
Just stayed there. Still inside you, just breathing with you. His hand smoothing softly over your ribs, then your belly, then your cheek.
“You okay?” he whispered finally, voice barely there.
You nodded, turning your head just enough to kiss his jaw. “Yeah. More than okay.”
Joel pulled back just enough to look at you, really look. Your skin was warm and glowing, your eyes heavy, dreamy, dazed in the way he hoped he’d be seeing again and again. You looked happy. Content.
He’d wait ‘til tomorrow to let the guilt creep in.
PEEEEEEE PAAWWWWWWWWWW
If you cant SAY the words rape, sexual assault, grooming, or sex, youre not mature enough to have an opinion on it.
Thinking about Aki, Denji and their love for Makima-
How the two of them got saved by Makima- She saved Denji by taking him out of the gory warehouse, giving him an actual meal, good clothes and a home; and she saved Aki by (reasons we don't know)
How their behavior is different towards her- Denji has sexual and romantic desires about her, and even expressed his said desires once. While Aki keeps a politeful distance towards her and doesn't express the same desires as Denji.
How they both had people who genuinely loved them and could offer them more than Makima- Himeno and Angel, who genuinely cared for Aki and wished to keep him safe, and Reze, who had a connection with Denji due to their shared identities as illiterate children forced to become weapons and wished to run away with him. And yet, Both Denji and Aki wasn't able to reciprocate their feelings of love and care because they were gone before they could express anything.
How unbeknownst to them, Makima desired someone else, and played them both to get to that someone- Pochita. She took Denji in just to break him down and force Pochita out of his body, and she used Aki to be the set piece that breaks him down.
There's probably more thoughts I have about this but this is all I have right now
hello lovelies! A small rant, but someone needs to say something. If you actually like incest, pedophilia, or any of that in writing, or even at all, please please seek professional help. I cannot stress this enough. I can’t believe people don’t talk about this enough. I honestly don’t care if you use it to cope, write that for yourself PLEASE and stop putting it on the internet. Get therapy, or at least any kind of help PLEASE
GIVEN | Ugetsu Murata Character Deep Dive
Ugetsu Murata is one of my absolute favourite characters out of any anime and manga because as a composer and musician, I can relate to his struggles on a spiritual level. I thought it might be kind of fun to really see how much we can try and understand this beautiful and flawed individual who is still very very deserving of love and a happy ending.
Ugetsu's Personality
Nonchalant and aloof exterior but extremely sensitive interior
Pivots between being a bit needy and dismissive, hot and cold
When it comes to the topic of music, he is extremely honest, sometimes a bit brutally honest.
Finds it hard to verbalise his true needs and wants - constantly self-sabotages.
Basically a walking human contradiction
Ugetsu and music is a matter of SURVIVAL
Let's first talk about Ugetsu's relationship with music. Ugetsu is an exceptional violinist deemed by others as having bestowed with genius talent. Everyone, including Akihiko and later of course Mafuyu when they go and attend one of Ugetsu's concerts are absolutely mesmerised by the way he plays and connects with the music. Everyone is so incredibly moved by the way he plays because
Ugetsu can be his authentic himself when he plays the violin.
For those few minutes on stage, Ugetsu doesn't need to hold back and can show people his emotions, his sensitivity, his overwhelming vulnerability and feelings for the world, he can let it all out because holding it in, would have probably killed him.
When Ugetsu says that he wanted to be with Akihiko but he's in love with music. What he really means is that music is his source of life, without it, he simply can't live. As an artist, I can actually really relate to that. Sometimes the overwhelming feelings of emotions need to be turned into art or music, there needs to be an outlet, it's unhealthy to actually keep it all in. We must understand that for Ugetsu, playing music is a matter of SURVIVAL otherwise his emotions all become a bit too much.
Ugetsu as we have established is an incredibly sensitive person. He knew that the relationship with Akihiko was suffocating the both of them because he realised how much his playing held back Akihiko as a person. Akihiko consciously or subconsciouly began to dedicate himself entirely to Ugetsu's happiness and lost his own drive and passion as a person. Ugetsu picks up on this so he began to also hold back (consciously or subconsciously) on how freely he could express himself with his music, which I believe became terrible for his own mental health. Music for Ugetsu is a form of therapy.
While he continued to provoke Akihiko to take music seriously again, he could tell when Akihiko was not confident in his playing knew he had to put an end to it. He knew it was bad for the both of them.
Ugetsu and the loneliness of the Genius
While music is just naturally a matter of emotional outlet and survival for Ugetsu, other people put him on a pedestal. Overwhelmed by the intensity of his emotions and playing, the audience cannot see him simply as a human being but as a genius. This is why, Ugetsu although admired by all and envied by all, we don't really see him get any sort of emotional satisfaction from winning a competition or playing well at a concert. It's just something he has to do and the consequence is that others idolise him and isolate him from their normal day to day interactions.
Although this is something that was sort of pushed on him, he himself fuels this victim mindset of 'loneliness' as well. @morievna explains it so well in this post about Ugetsu being stuck in the Ni-Ti loop, I'll leave it here.
I find it absolutely brilliant where through watching Mafuyu perform, Ugetsu also identified him as a genius. He not only means that Mafuyu has talent, but music perhaps is a matter of survival for him as well. Mafuyu communicates better through music than any other medium. I think there is so much weight in this line because Ugetsu I think predicts that Mafuyu is dealing with some level of loneliness as well and therefore is able to give such an outstanding performance.
Ugetsu is honest when it comes to music
Ugetsu also is not only incredibly perceptive but incredibly blunt when it comes to music as well. We see that he doesn't hold back on harsh feedback when Mafuyu comes to visit and play for him. He tells it as it is because music is easy for him to understand. Music doesn't lie.
Ugetsu's Love Languages
Ugetsu does sort of follow a bit of the genius stereotype a bit in the sense that outside of his music, he acts like a bit like a foetus. Of course, post-breakup in his New York apartment, we definitely see an improvement on his independence (makes me very happy).
1. His top love language is acts of service. Multiple times throughout, we see Ugetsu asking Akihiko for coffee, to be fed breakfast or dinner as a means of getting attention, love and care. In Chapter 21.5, it is revealed that his father was a diplomat and grandfather a politician and he's kind of just thrown into this concrete basement as a young adult. I think he can't help but continuously return to the Tender-Loving-Care that Akihiko provides that he so desperately lacked as a child due to his absent parents.
2. Second love language would be physical touch. I think more so than sex, he just wants to be held sometimes. I literally don't think Ugetsu enjoys sex all that much but more so the feeling of being truly desired by someone. That's why I believe he always has such a hard time saying no to Akihiko's advances even after they broke up. Everytime Ugetsu sleeps with someone else, it's actually a very conscious attempt to break things off with Akihiko.
Quality time just doesn't seem possible with being a renowned violinist and honestly, as a musician, I really relate to that. Dating is hard for artists because schedules and performances are all over the place.
Words of affirmation I don't think is even a thing between Akihiko and Ugetsu. Ugetsu communicates through provoking Akihiko to try and get him to be more confident and serious in his music. But anything outside of music, Ugetsu cannot be honest. Akihiko just doesn't really communicate at all.
Least favourite love language is probably receiving gifts, as shown with Ugetsu slapping away the mug that Akihiko got for him. It seemed like an overly dramatic moment at the time when I first watched the Given Movie but I think in all honesty, I think it was a good representation to show how Ugetsu began to take Akihiko and his TLC for granted after a while and the moment the mug broke, it was a metaphor for him realising how much he was hurting Akihiko and taking advantage of the Akihiko's overwhelming love for him.
Ugetsu has Anxious Avoidant Attachment Style
According to psychologists Nicolas Favez and Herve Tissot, the researchers behind the 2019 study from Journal of Sex & Marital Therapy, these are some of the traits of the Anxious Avoidant Partner:
Severe difficulty regulating their emotions in relationships - 100% he is always pivoting between hot and cold
Responding poorly or inappropriately to negative emotions - because Ugetsu is so sensitive, he actually internalises all of Akihiko's insecurity and pain while at the same time hurts Akihiko to break things off, which in turn hurts himself even more, it's a vicious cycle
Negative view of themselves - actually admits that he is the "lowest son of a bitch towards Akihiko"
Perceiving other people and their support negatively - doesn't trust Akihiko's sacrifice of wanting to be with him
Less commitment and satisfaction in romantic relationships - well, this point explains itself.
Higher likelihood of showing violence in their relationships - well, point explains itself.
Having a very high number of sexual partners - point explains itself
More sexual compliance (when asked for sex, you're likely to say yes) - everytime Akihiko makes any advances, Ugetsu accepts.
Elevated anxiety - everytime Akihiko leaves, Ugetsu is just emotionally completely going crazy hoping he would come back. The basement is completely in disarray.
Fear of intimacy or fear of relationships - He loves Akihiko to death. On one hand he's doing it for Aki's mental wellbeing. On another, he's self-sabotaging.
People like that often say:
I want to get emotionally close to my partner, but I worry about them hurting my feelings.
I want to feel close to my partner, but I also don’t trust them to want to be close to me.
I can’t live without my partner, even though being with them isn’t working.
I don't know about you but that sounds very much like Ugetsu. Ugetsu self-sabotages and it's because as a child he's been neglected for so long, he wants to be loved but he also craves to be alone. He is always so anxious whenever he pushes Akihiko away and hopes that he will come back.
So how can Ugetsu heal?
I think Ugetsu is well and truly on the path of healing. A period of independence will actually do him a lot of good in New York. Ugetsu needs to learn how to stand on his own two feet as an adult and practise proper hygiene and self-care without being completely reliant on music as a way of outlet and therapy.
Ugetsu if he is to find the right kind of partner, they need to have a secure attachment style and have lots of patience with him. Someone who initiates conversation and actually asks and says,
"Hey, what's wrong? Why are you doing this? What is the actual meaning behind your actions?"
Someone who holds him accountable whenever he tries to self-sabotage. Ugetsu needs to then step forward and start practising and noticing his new partner's love languages and meet in the middle, rather than have one person in the role of the caretaker and one in the role of the child.
He probably shouldn't date anyone in the music industry is my honest opinion, or date someone that's in a completely different field of music than he is.
HAHAHA the person that actually comes to mind is Iwaizumi from Haikyuu because I can't help but see some similarities between Oikawa and Ugetsu. Iwaizumi definitely seems like that type to be able to call people out on their bullshit while also being able to be a bit goofy and fun as well. Yeah I ship it.
Also, Ugetsu needs to spend more time working on building genuine, strong platonic friendships. I think he is actually doing well in that department, replying to Mafuyu's congratulatory message straight away. Ugetsu needs to take risks and put himself out there a bit more and become less codependent and enmeshed with other people's feelings. Harder done than said but I believe in him :)
Good morning everyone I am once again thinking about fire emblem awakening (2012) and I will make it everyone else's problem.
Anyway if you dig real hard and remove all the layers of pretend and coping mechanisms and the likes, Henry is, at his most base self, someone who is defined by a complete and utter inability to understand humans. He does not understand their morals (see: Panne, Ricken, Lissa's supports) he does not understand how they emote (see: Olivia's supports) honestly pick up any of his supports and you'll find Henry baffling others in a way or another. His early life was filled with intense social isolation, what's with "being raised by a wolf" and "abusive magic school of doom," to the point where he finds it easier to understand animals or even plants over people (see: Cherche, Panne, Maribelle's interlude) Even when he grows to like the Shephreds and actually actively tries to connect with them, his attempts are often met with failure (see: summer scramble, kellam's interactions)
But the kicker! What makes Henry truly tasty!! Is that despite everything, no matter how inhuman, monstrous, beastly Henry may be, he is still a human, and "Henry does not understand humans" applies first and foremost to himself. Henry says in his supports with Ricken that he'd be upset if Ricken died, and immediately afterwards admits that he has no idea why he would be. In the Summer Scramble dlc, he mentions that he cares for no god, but he does care for what Libra thinks of him, even though he doesn't know why either. Henry is a hard person to figure out because himself doesn't know what he's feeling or why he does things half of the time!
say what you will about zosan as a ship but you would be fool if you think they hate each other. they are undeniably best friends.
they get on each other's nerves. they wash dishes together. they are baring their teeth at each other every day. they fight together and it feels like a dance. it feels like breathing. it feels like they have known each other forever. they both think the other is the worst person to ever exist on this planet. they trust each other with their lives. every step, every sprint, every fight. they don't have to look back to see if the other is keeping up because of course he is. he is the most infuriating, head strong, insane bastard in the world. of course he's keeping up. how annoying.
it's unspoken, this bond between them. they could be at each other's throats but when the marines or the world government or even the fucking devil is in front of them to bring them down, they're on their feet. legs blazing, swords unsheathed. they know their way around each other like the back of their hand. one call of the other's name and he's already there, ready to bring the whole world down. they are the wings of the pirate king. they are the pillars that hold up the home that their captain built. they are two sides of the same coin. sanji and zoro, zoro and sanji, sanjiandzoro.
plates always filled with food that smells like home. hands always searching, always reaching out to pull him back to the right path with an obscenity or two or a million more. but for all his whining, he still comes to get him, every single time.
i will keep you safe. i won't let you lose your way.
eyes always watching. grin sharp and mad, words puling him out of the hell that is his mind with a taunt. silent nights spent in each other's company. the back of a sword jabbed at his ribs. silent determination. steady, solid, under your hands as you lose consciousness.
i will keep you safe. i won't let you forget your worth.
they've never known love that doesn't tear out of them, snarling, spitting, biting. they've never known tenderness. the crew teaches them love in their strange, gentle, loud ways and it's beautiful, it's confusing, it hurts in the best way possible. but with each other? they don't have to hold back. there's something so intimate about holding someone by their collar, dragging them close and yelling look. look. this is how i love. i will kick your face in and make you the best meal you've ever had. i will spend all my time thinking of stupid names to call you. i won't ever say you matter to me, but i will die for you. i will trust you with all that is important to me. look at this fucking mess. this is how i will always love. with teeth and nails and intent to kill. are you afraid yet? only to have the other lean closer with a grin so feral and say, do your worst, asshole.
they are nakama. they are rivals. they are friends. what they have cannot be put down in one word but in the end, the word will come down to something close to love.
No one:
Tumblr when my WiFi is connected and working perfectly:
I feel that Rapunzel and her Dad's issues relied too heavily on demonizing Varian as their problem. True he kidnapped the Queen, but their was more going on with them before Varian lost it on them. I dislike how defeating Varian is treated as solving the issues between them.
Honestly, all of Frederic’s shortcomings are too easily explained away because the show uses Varian as a scapegoat. Frederic hiding the knowledge of the black rocks until they are literally starting to destroy the captial? Somehow he convinces the angry townspeople to turn against the one person actually working on stopping the rocks. Frederic sending disguised guards to harass Varian in his already destroyed home? Completely overlooked in favor of Rapunzel just being angry about being lied to. Even Rapunzel uses Varian as an excuse to lesson Frederic’s actions when Frederic even dared to try to take responsibility for his mistakes.
Varian didn’t cause the rift between Frederic and Rapunzel. It was Frederic’s lies that caused that rift. It’s Rapunzel’s inaction until she literally couldn’t not ignore the black rocks that’s part of the problem. The townspeoples’ rage about the black rocks destroying their homes and livelihoods shouldn’t have been “solved” by directing that anger on a single teen. Frederic was WAY more responsible for the conflict in S1 than Varian was. All Varian did was allow his sorrow turn into rage, borned from the desperation that was forged by Frederic and Rapunzel actions and inaction.
Also, Frederic and Rapunzel has had their issues with each other before Varian was even induced to the series. Frederic was already understandably overprotective of Rapunzel, while Rapunzel felt like the kingdom of Corona just became a larger tower for hun to hide her away. Rapunzel comparing Frederic to Gothel for that brief moment was the true conflict between the two of them. Varian was just a boy who wanted to help when it was clear to him that no one else was trying to stop the rocks. Whatever weird obsession the show has in portraying Frederic as this “poor and misunderstood, soft-hearted” father just makes his character suffer due to not letting him develop.
I think Donella’s base/orphanage is an abandoned prison for a number of reasons.
It’s ironic, and they’re all criminals so it fits the theme
who would look for a mob boss in a prison? Just a good hiding place.
really helps build the idea of uniformity and compliance in the thieves. She treats them very regimented, getting up at the same time every day and having very strict rules. If you don’t want to follow them, you’re back out on the street.
it helps communicate how trapped hugo feels in his current situation, and how he thinks that he is inherently bad. He sees himself as a criminal who can’t get better, and the fact that he lives in a prison cell really adds to that.
Of course, none of the cells have doors, and the ones that do have broken locks. The place is very old. Most of the cells have blankets and tarps up so you cant see into the cell, with some things here and there. Very visually messy, unlike a prison, but literally very clean and organized.
Hugo’s room is especially very clean and organized compared to everyone else’s, if not cluttered. The most luxurious thing he has in there is a big pile of pillows instead of a bed (Based on one of the concept drawings where hes all lounged out in a pillow nest), and his nice furniture. He has nice things, better than the other kids because of his status, but everything nice in his room has to be too big to steal, or nailed down. Its very tidy, as luxurious as it can be, and very obviously still a prison cell- a good representation of Hugo himself. Donella does not like to be bothered, so unless it’s an emergency, you deal with the other children yourself. Hugo is not very popular among the other orphans- hes seen as a suck up, and only ever spends his time around Donella.
the idea of public restrooms as "women's spaces" continues to confound me. you know who I hope is in a public bathroom when I go in?? no one. I would prefer no one else be in the bathroom. and if someone else is in the bathroom I am going to ignore them as much as possible. I did not go into the bathroom to connect with other women. I went into the bathroom to piss and/or shit. it's a toilet's space, not a women's space. shut the fuck up and let trans people piss and shit in peace. let's all continue to avoid eye contact with each other and any and all interaction in the toilet's space.
I enjoy the Two Cakes Philosophy and I believe it deserves its place enshrined in fandom culture.
Forgive me for the extended metaphor but I also want to simultaneously celebrate what I’m calling Bakery Display Case Philosophy. You know when you walk into a bakery and the display case is full of beautiful treats? And there’s a variety of different colors, textures, and flavors to discover? And that’s so deeply exciting?
You might say to yourself, “No one is going to want to read this pairing. No one is going to want to want a character study of that character. No one wants genfic in this fandom, only shipfic.”
And you might use that to discourage yourself from writing a certain fic.
Fandoms, like bakeries, need cakes and cookies and éclairs and cream puffs and shortbread and brownies and pies and tarts and petit fours and turnovers and cinnamon rolls and madeleines and meringues—and so many other things—to survive.
Write your dark chocolate pistachio croissant fic. Your fandom needs it actually.