#and i had to make it everyone elses problem too

[lorec-x]

I'm consuming this content[/porn], I think it's super hot and it's great that it exists, and I applaud the aesthetic good sense and the heart and the guts of the people involved in making it.

But even though I get great vibes from this particular production in terms of the makers having the best of intentions wrt working conditions, I can't shake the feeling - with respect to this video in particular - that I'm consuming something that was factory-farmed, or made in a sweatshop. Like too much suffering has to have gone into this. Like maybe the people making this weren't exploiting each other, but they had to have, to some extent, been exploiting themselves.

Because the obesity[/overweight] epidemic just keeps getting worse every year, right. Spreading to more and more geographic areas, higher and higher percentages of the populace.

But somehow the weight-fashion pendulum has swung back around to where it was in the late '90s and '00s - which happens to be more to my taste! - and suddenly once again everyone is having to find actresses with BMIs of, like, 16, to make haute content. And there just aren't very many of those people any more, and they aren't as skinny, and it's harder for them to be skinny than it used to be. And the entertainment industry was a crucible for starlets in the '90s.

I'm not saying there aren't people who can be skinny without "self-exploitative" effort. And I'm not saying that "self-exploitation", itself, must inherently be a problem that warrants outside intervention to interrupt the "self-exploitation" at the expense of whatever else the person valued. I've been falsely involuntarily committed for anorexia [as a minor] myself. I'm not trying to strangle people's pursuit of self-actualization by pretending to "look after their mental health". I know that's unjust.

I'm saying my heart is breaking for the new generation of earnest aspiring artists - who were taught that, if they have to torture themselves to be beautiful and beloved, that's the natural order, and if they fail or fall short of perfection, it's their fault - when, in reality, most of them have crippling lipostat dysfunction that they have been given zero actually appropriate medical tools for dealing with, because the concept of "crippling lipostat dysfunction" has been heterodox to the prevailing medical order since the time of the modernists/Rationalists/Behaviorists, in the 1920s and '30s.

It's rare that kinks get advertised, but the companies that pull it off make some art.

Anoeses in Ukraine put this ad together for their Spring line.

[bokettochild]

What is Legend’s and post-totk Wild’s relationship like? Does it change or is it the same?

Honestly, I keep trying to write an answer but all I have are inexplicable vibes.

It would change. Legend's the same as he was but Wild's grown up. Wild would be either 22 or 23 by the time TotK is over (in game we're told it's been 5 years since BotW) meanwhile Legend is still, at best, 17, but likely 16.

That's a 6-7 year age gap where before they were either the same age or very close.

Legend's still got his experience, but now Wild has the context of years, of knowing what normal looks like. Post BotW Wild has no concept of normal or peace, but post TotK Wild would have spent 5 years just existing and doing People Things. He knows what normal kids are like now. He's a teacher. He's a leader. He's an adult, even if he's still a young one. But he's got that frame of reference that Legend never has had of what life looks like after the adventure, but now also with the understanding that legend does have of the fact that heroes' can be ripped away any time, life uprooted to save the world again at any moment.

Wild has life experience that Legend can't fathom. Wild knows what growing up is like. Wild knows what peace looks like now.

Legend doesn't even know what the word "retirement" means, much less "stop" or "peace". He's used to having only enough time to heal between adventures before heading out again, if that!

I think Wild would come back, thinking he could slip back in, just to realize he can't see his brothers the same anymore. I won't dig in too deep, since you just asked about him and Legend, but for the vet I think he'd just get shocked at how young his brother really is, by how screwed up Legend's outlook on life is, and I think he'd be floundering because the guy he used to look to as a veteran, an expert and a role model, is actually just a teenager with too much responsibility on his shoulders.

I don't think he'd know what to do with that, because that's still his brother, but Legend's no longer his BIG brother, or at least not his peer. Legend's younger than him now, and much as he tries to see the vet the same way he used to, he'd just keep realizing how screwed up everything about Legend really is.

Meanwhile Legend, Mister Abandonment-Issues, would be over here struggling with the feeling of being left behind and out of the know and suddenly feeling small around a hero who used to make him feel so big. Wild's an adult now, but he's not supposed to be. Wild's matured now (but still Wild) and he's not sure what to do with that. Wild is wiser now, knows things, isn't charging in without thought anymore, and Legend has to adjust his whole perception all while wondering if this is even the same guy. All while trying his hardest not to let on that he feels that way because you bet your BUTT this kid has gotten enough grief over the years for not being the same kid people used to know that he has no wish to make anyone else feel that.

Like, adventures change you, a LOT. Legend's had a lot of adventures, ergo; he's changed a ton over the years and it definitely throws off everyone who knows him every single time. it's not his first rodeo, but it is the first time he's not been the one riding the bull that is change.

I think they'd both struggle a lot with this. I think there'd be a lot of frustration and fear on Legend's side and a lot of shock and confusion on Wild's. I think both would grieve, and I know Legend wouldn't be the one to know how to fix it.

Legend fixes problems, but the thing that sets him apart from the rest of the heroes is that he's never had time between adventures to actually process and learn healthy coping mechanisms or ways to express himself. Kid knows how to fix other people's shit, but never his own.

Wild would have to be the one to cross the divide between them, and as the older brother now, I think that would just make it all the weirder for both of them.

Anyways, congrats, I had enough brainrot about this that I wrote a dang fic and then sobbed for a good ten minutes in a public coffee shop T-T

Thanks for the ask!

[cybershock24601]

I'm sure someone else has already thought of this but I'm so convinced that modern Illario would be one those guys that make those thirst trap cooking videos - you know the ones - and starts building a decent following of horny older women (like Zara Renata) only for his fame to be completely eclipsed by some poorly shot and poorly edited video Rook posted of Lucanis cooking going insanely viral out of nowhere.

The video is shot in Rook's kitchen and it's Lucanis from the chin down, sleeves rolled up, and in a goofy apron (because Rook only owns goofy aprons) explaining in his nice soothing voice how to cook some dish and it's got some stupid caption like "when your man is teaching you how to cook so you don't die of malnutrition😍" that was intended just for their friends to see because it's clearly a silly candid video.

Probably no one would have seen it if there weren't some sort of algorithm containment breach that likely came from Ma Harding who wants to know what Lucanis is cooking. Rook answers and then just ignores their phone because they're still getting their cooking lesson and need to pay attention. Rook also doesn't keep notifications on or use social media much because they don't even notice the short little video they posted blowing up out of nowhere where half the comments are about how good the food looks and the other half about how good Lucanis looks.

Illario notices though and absolutely loses it because how come some stupid video of his cousin cooking doing so much better then the many videos Illario puts a ton of time and effort into making?! Illario starts giving Lucanis the cold shoulder and Lucanis is just so confused about what Illario's problem is this time and corners him because he's being ridiculous and Illario just goes "You know exactly what this about" and Lucanis who really, really doesn't know replies "Illario I have no idea what you're talking about" and Illario just shows him the video and Lucanis has no idea why he is so upset until he sees just how many likes and comments on the silly little video Rook took of him the other day. Lucanis is honestly a little disturbed by just how horny the comments are while Illario is telling Lucanis that he is not going to upstage him this time, just wait Lucanis, Illario is going to prove he's the better cooking content creator and dramatically walks away.

At the very least this is explaining those weird comments Taash and Harding had been making for the past week. Lucanis texts Rook about the video after this and Rook is super surprised that so many people had seen it and wants to know if they should take it down but its the internet so it's too late for that. Rook does get super curious about what Illario meant about making his own cooking videos and tracks down his account and almost dies of cringe when they start watching them. Those videos are definitely getting sent to the group chat where everyone proceeds to start roasting Illario over them and Lucanis is left desperately hoping he gets some sudden memory loss because he really wishes he had never seen his cousin try so desperately hard to be sexy or molest food like that.

[crowsofdarkness]

Moment Of Weakness: Chapter Twenty Three

-gif not mine. credit to owner-

Pairings: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Content Warnings: language, 18 + smut, angst, fluff, affair, cheating, violence, kidnapping, faking a pregnancy.

Summary: Reader is the assistant to New York's most feared mob boss, James Buchanan Barnes. He had the picture-perfect life: status in the mob, friends, and beautiful wife. So why can't he keep his mind and eyes off of reader?

Authors Note: I just wanted to remind everyone who reads this, there are heavy moments of cheating/having an affair in this story. You might not agree with the actions of "reader" or Bucky but it does pertain to the storyline. If anyone is interested, tags are open for this! Just send me a message or comment!

Tags: @cjand10 @generalmoonpolice @sapphirebarnes @baw1066 @nameless-ken @minami97

I let out a deep breath while pulling my jacket closer to my chest as I continued the walk down the busy streets of New York City. It was after six in the evening and everyone was rushing to get home to enjoy the rest of their evening while I was trying to make it to the office in time, before he left. 

This wasn’t an easy decision I made, knowing the consequences that could follow. But I didn’t have any other choice. He was the only one that could help me with this.  

The thought of if he would even want to help me did cross my mind a few times, especially with how things ended, but there was a small part of me that hoped his feelings for me were still strong. Strictly to help me with my problem, nothing else. 

I hadn't talked to any of the three men I used to work with, deciding to stay off of social media because I couldn’t bother to see what happened with Bucky and Natasha. By now, he had to have realized that I was right; Natasha was faking the entire pregnancy. 

Yet, I hadn’t heard from him so maybe he still decided to stay with her. 

You told him to stay away. Eight months ago.

Shaking away the thought, I turned the corner and the all too familiar building came into view as with one last deep breath, I pushed through the door and my eyes landed on the person sitting at what used to be my desk. My heart hammered in my chest as his scent filled my senses. 

“Well, it seems like the job isn’t available anymore, huh?” 

He turned around in a haste in the chair, eyes grazing over every inch of me to make sure I had been standing in front of him. 

The last time we talked was a few months ago and we actually hadn’t seen each other since before I quit. He looked the same, hair and beard a bit longer. 

“Hi Steve,” I smiled. 

“Y/N?” 

Steve was quick on his feet to wrap his arms around me and lifted my body off of the ground a few inches. I closed my eyes at the warmth, silently missing him just as much. 

“How have you been?” Steve asked while setting me back onto solid ground. 

I nodded. “Good, I guess. How have things been here?” 

Steve hesitated, his shoulders going stiff. “Have you talked to him at all?” 

This time I shook my head so Steve gently led me to the couch in the main area of the office and we sat next to each other. He scratched at his beard, trying to find the right way to say this. 

“He’s gone rogue the last couple of months. He doesn't need mine or Sam’s help for anything, he takes care of the problems himself.” 

I pointed towards his office. “Is he here?” 

Steve shook his head. “I haven't seen him all day. He called me earlier to say he’s got something to take care of so he’s going to be at Power Brokers tonight.” 

My eyes narrowed. “He hates that club. Why would he go there?” 

“I don’t know,” Steve sighed. “He doesn’t tell Sam or I anything anymore. We only show up here now in case he needs us.” 

“Are he and Nat-?” 

He placed a hand on my knee, stopping the words. “That’s something Bucky has to talk to you about.” 

With a slow nod, I contemplated my next move because I knew that if I went to Power Broker tonight, it would be a disaster from the start. That club was highly known as a black market, people trying to sell you things that you couldn’t buy anywhere else. But if you didn’t agree to it it would be highly unlikely that you would make it back out alive. 

“Are you going to tell me why you showed up tonight?” 

I gave Steve my attention now and shrugged. “Trust me, I would rather go to anyone else with this but Bucky is the only one that can help me.” 

He cupped my cheek. “Please be careful.” 

“Always,” I covered his hand with my own. 

The music of the club vibrated against my bones as I maneuvered my way through the seas of people, who did their best to either dance with me or sell me on their latest project they had hiding in their pocket. I ignored all of them, keeping my focus on finding the one person that I needed. 

When I asked the bouncers outside if they had seen Bucky, they were quick to give him up. 

“He’s been causing problems here all night but refuses to leave. The men we have here isn’t nearly as strong as he is to kick him out.”

I was on high alert, skin tingling with my senses, as I observed the giant open dance floor of the club until some commotion at the bar piqued my interest. I watched as a guy was thrown onto the glass bar top, black and gold fingers wrapped around his throat. 

“Where is she?!” 

The voice was deep, angry, and wanted to know the answers. 

My heart beat intensified as I marveled at how different he looked yet looking exactly the same. The brown leather vest that covered his broad chest was missing a sleeve, his entire vibranium arm on full display.  He didn’t look like a mob boss any longer but more so a soldier. 

The heat pooled between my legs but I squeezed them shut, knowing that now wasn't the time to think about that. 

“I swear, I don’t know where she is! Last I heard, they were in Budapest!” The man struggled for his life under the tight grip around his throat. 

“They were together?” 

The man on the bar nodded, as best he could. “That’s what my guys tell me.” 

As I saw a glimmer of sharp metal emerge from the pocket of the other man's vest, I finally decided to speak up. 

“Bucky.” 

My voice might have been hushed with the background noise of the club but I knew he heard because Bucky looked away from the man he had pinned, his once blue iris now dark stared back at me. The firmness in his body faded with his face softing, as he dropped the man to the floor below. 

“Doll?” 

I swallowed thickly at the old pet name because I couldn't get distracted, I needed to finish what I came for. 

“I need your help,” I admitted with a sigh. 

[alpaca-clouds]

How do gods, vampires and the afterlife work in Castlevania?

Okay, now with Castlevania: Nocturne season 2 I absolutely get to speculate a bit more about how the worldbuilding in the world of this anime actually works.

To catch everyone up with my speculations up until this point, let me quickly get you to speed. So far I assumed the following:

Vampires in this world probably go back to some sort of magic or alchemy, which has to have happened before 1500 BC (given that we know Morana was turned around that time).

There is only one afterlife, where every soul ends up, no matter what they believed in and what they did in life.

At least the "old gods" are real, possibly by some variation of the "clap your hands if you believe" rules. Meaning: It is possible that gods have started to exist, because people believed in them.

So, let me quickly go over the different aspects - on the basis of what we now know from Nocturne season 2.

Vampires

Now, we definitely do not get any answer so far with the question of where vampires come from in this universe. But we got a confirmation for a suspicion that I had all the time: There were not vampires in the Americas before colonial contact. (Though I might note, that this also means that the excuse a variety of people used to make up for the fact that the first four seasons had tomatoes and bell peppers - vampires had already been to America - was also wrong.)

In Nocturne we also do not only see one person being turned into a vampire, but in fact three different people. Tera, Drolta and Mizrak.

From this we can gather that generally speaking the universe works under the established rule of the "baptism of blood", as established in the Dracula novel. Meaning: If a vampire wants to turn someone else into a vampire, that person usually needs to be bitten first, before needing to drink the blood of the vampire. This seems to hold true for Tera and Mizrak at least - though we do not technically see Olrox feed Mizrak his blood, though it seems to be implied.

Drolta in this regard is interesting. Because from the sequence that sees her turned, she does not seem to get bitten. While the vampire injures her, there does not seem to be a bite. She only gets some of his blood and drinks it of her own volition.

I have seen some speculation if there needs to be some will or want involved in the turning of a vampire because of this. Does someone have to want to be a vampire - or at least want to not die? I am not sure, but it is interesting.

We also know with season clearly that whatever we assume a soul is: Vampires have it.

Other than that... We do not know how often vampires need to feed. However, given that we know they can journey over the Atlantic, it is probably not quite as much, given that the travel between Europe and the Americas in the time took about three to four weeks, and if a vampire would need to feed too often, I doubt that would end well. (Vampire feeding for the most part is a very logistical problem - but that is a topic for another day.)

Other than that, it seems that outside of the general inability to go out into direct sunlight, most typical vampire weaknesses do not seem to apply. They can go into churches, they seem to have a reflection in the mirror, and they can cross water no problem.

The Afterlife

So, from the very beginning I have been firm on one thing: While everything the show establishes seems to suggest that there is heaven and hell, I do not believe this. I was very sold on the idea that there is only one afterlife basically since the beginning, but especially since season 3.

The reason are two: Firstly, we know of at least one vampire in this world (Morana) who very much predates the concept of hell, which only came up in the 4th century. Sure, technically you can argue that Hinduism and some other religions also have a hell or a "bad place" to go after death, but generally, hell as known in Abrahamitic believes only came up in the 4th century. Given this is the case and this world does not ignore the fact that the rest of the darn world exists, it would make a lot of sense if hell was not real.

Secondly, we know the stories of two people ending up in hell, that in my understanding should not be there. That is Lisa for once, and also FlysEyes. I am sorry, but for what sin is Lisa supposed to be in hell? And she definitely is in the same place as Dracula, who definitely should be in hell, given the whole genocide and murder hobo thing. The same holds true for FlysEyes. Did he betray his friends? Yes, but he did so under torture. I am sorry, but I am not gonna assume that God really was so darn petty. Isaac also points that out in the dialogue.

However, Nocturne does bring up another possibility. And this possibility is, that this works rather under a varation of the "Clap your Hands" rules, specifically the one that American Gods seems to use. Which is basically: There is tons of different afterlives, and you will end up in whatever afterlife you align with the most. The reason for this obviously is, that we definitely know that the Ancestral Plane (a variation of which is part of a variety of both African and Asian religions) is a thing, as well as the Duat from Egyptian mythology.

And if we go by those "Clap your Hands" rules, it is obviously possible that FlysEyes ended up in what he perceived to be hell, because he felt guilty for betraying his friends, while Lisa might have wanted to go to hell, to meet with her husband again eventually. This would be interesting of course, because it would then mean that Mizrak would indeed have ended up in hell - just because he felt that he should.

The big question is, what this means right now for Forgemastery. We know at the very least that even vampire souls can be called back through it - both Drolta, and the resurrection of Dracula in the end of SV S4 proof this. But do souls for Forgemastery actually have to come from hell, or could forgemastery actually draw them from any hell whatsoever? That would be interesting to know.

Gods

In terms of the gods, Nocturne definitely so far implies some things about them. We definitely know now, that at least some of the "Old Gods" (I kinda love that the terminology used is the same one I keep using - not gonna lie here) are real. Namely we definitely know that Sekhmet, and Ogun exist, as well as Karfu and Papa Legba. If we all are not wrong about Olrox's background, Quetzalcoatl also very much exists or existed at some point. We also absolutely have some implications that at least some of the Christian demons and devils seem to exist to some extent. We already saw those fallen angels escape hell back in season 3, and now we have some more implications for maybe some other devils might exist for real too.

Ironically speaking though, we have so far absolutely no proof in one direction or the other, whether the Abrahamitic God with a capital-G exists in this world or not. Which I kinda understand - it is an iffy question to deal with in writing.

The question is, by which mechanic the gods exist. Does it work by "Clap your Hands if you Believe"? Or is there another mechanic that keeps them existing and presumably immortal? What happens to Gods, if nobody is left to believe in them? What happens if even their names are forgotten?

I talked a lot already about the Gaulic gods, who are a really prime example for this. There is plenty of gods from the Celtic pantheon of whom we found depictions in art, where we do not have the slightest idea how they are named, what their function was and so on. We know: "Someone painted this deity onto some pictures/made some statues" but that's all we know. What would this mean for this world?

It would be an interesting thing to find out. I wonder if we will ever learn this, should there be a season 3 or possibly another Castlevania series.

[hyohaehyuk]

I think a lot of people are not understanding one thing about this show: Louis have an eating disorder caused by his rejections of being a vampire and a queer man. Eating animals and rejecting eating humans is not a normal diet for vampires and is not the same as veganism/vegetarianism like i have seen some keep saying. In the AR' vampire universe is not just the blood but also the hunt and the memories they get from the victims that get them healthy. Even the way Louis eats in present days is weird af (even tho is consumes more human blood provided by his unethically farm) bc he is forcing himself to eat human food too (the whole thing is weird af. watch it again now with the image of him having a eating disorder in mind and you will see what i am saying)

Everything Lestat was doing (especially between ep 2/3) was trying to make Louis eat properly but all his desperate attempts was just pushing Louis away. The reason he brought Antoinette to their house was to recreate their 1st time with Miss Lily (bc if it worked 1 time surely it work another🤦). I think he was hoping that Louis would feed out of Antoinette and maybe even kill her. Same reason (besides the pride and bad communication) of why he opened their relationship. He was hoping that while he was hooking-up with someone he would feed from it but instead Louis chose someone who it had story (maybe to piss Lestat. I think this will be revised in season 3 bc i remember seeing on twitter that Lestat was next to Antoinette but once he he sees Louis talking with Jonah he is in another place far from her). He was already mad that Louis eating disorder was taking a tool on their relationship (which is why he start cheating 💀) but suddenly Louis was in the mood for some sex with someone else and on top of it Lestat also had to watch him hurting dogs (which maybe we will see in season 3 that human lestat loves dogs) instead of feeding on his hook-up human being.

The saddest thing is that there is nothing Lestat could have done to help (if you watched the last season of heartstopper Nick was dealing with a similar situation with Charlie and everyone's attempting to help him was actually making it worse). Things would only start getting better if the person admit to themselves and others they have a problem and seek for professional help which unfortunately for Louis was a thing that didn't exist at the time. Thankfully Louis at the end of season 2 finally accepted himself so on season 3 we will see a completely new Louis and i don't think Lestat will be ready for that Louis 🤭. Tho I hope Louis is not automatically cured in season 3. I think he will still mess it up occasionally until he gets cured for real.

Anyway, i hope they revise this (and a few other things) in season 3 bc it seems that a lot of people still dont get it. There is a chance of them doing that bc depressed Lestat was also feeding out of rats just like Louis was and maybe they could touch on this when doing connections with Nicky depression. i think we will see a lot of connections related how Lestat dealt with Louis and Claudia bc of his relationship with Nicky and his family, particularly his mother. Since Daniel works like the public voice maybe he will be the one doing those connections especially now that Daniel is a vampire and knows more about how it works.

i do think loustat in the show are monogamous, however given the nature of the vampirism they still have to seduce their victims to feed so i can see them hooking up with the victims before killing them but that dont make them non-monogamous in my eyes bc that would involve them actually having feelings for others.

And no, i dont think Louis was in love with Armand (he was attracted at most. i will not go much in depth into their relationship bc i don't want loum*nd shippers annoying the shit out of me. the only thing i am gonna say is that their relationship was all about Lestat: it started bc of him, continued after Paris bc of him and ended bc of him) and Lestat with Antoinette (she was more like his therapist so he could vent about Louis and Claudia. if he had love her he would have told her she could had attached any human' finger to hers after he made her cut her finger. He only keep her 1st bc she was giving him the devotion Louis was refusing to, 2nd bc it still made Louis' jealous which casually he would show it and then bc he needed her to spy on Louis and Claudia. if you guys noticed Louis was quite undecided in going forward Claudia plan of killing Lestat, until he brought Antoinette. It was then (especially when petty Lestat call her "love") when he made up his mind. That was Lestat worst mistake that night bc he knew about their plan and was trying to make Louis not going through it but then does that 🤦)

louis and lestat wouldn’t even hesitate to walk out into the sun if the other ceased to exist and people think they would ever consider polyamory. it’s just not realistic. they invented monogamy and the soul being irrevocably tied to one other soul for eternity and beyond

[insert-random-account-name]

Crappy Character Analysis, part 6

I've been putting off this one, simply because I love Contrarian, everyone loves Contrarian, and I was worried I wouldn't do him justice. BTW, if you haven't read any others, I'd recommend at least reading Cold and Stubborn before this one.

part 1 (Broken)

part 2 (Skeptic)

part 3 (Cold)

part 4 (Paranoid)

part 5 (Stubborn

VOICE OF THE CONTRARIAN

Contrarian is my favorite voice, so let’s just get that out of the way. I’m doing my best to give him a fair analysis, but if there are any flaws, that’s probably why. I’d say a good 40% of Contrarian content was added after the Pristine Cut, probably because the fandom loved him so much. He basically lives up to his name. Any time someone says something, he immediately tries to counter it. Slay the Princess? No thanks. The world beyond yours is beautiful? Eh, it ain’t all that. Take the knife? Only to throw it out the window! In fact, throwing the knife out the window is his MO, seeing as he does it in three separate chapters (Stranger, Razor (No Way Out), and Fury (through Adversary)) and the only reason he doesn’t do it in the other two chapters he shows up in is because there are no windows for the blade to go out of. He also dabbles in bending reality, working together with Stubborn to keep you moving without your muscles. He is also, objectively, kind of a jerk. He calls Hero a baby for being upset at whatever abomination you see in the Stranger, refuses to give the Narrator vital information, antagonizes Stubborn by calling him weak, and then proceeds to manipulate him into throwing away your weapon, and then delivers the line that goes to the affect of “Oh, are we lying? I’m happy to be here, and I like all of you.” Of course, he does turn a new leaf at the end of the Stranger, and if you get the Stranger’s cabin at the end, he seems to have matured since the last time you’ve seen him.Contrarian exists to amuse himself. You get him by not taking the consequences of your actions seriously (not going to the cabin, fighting the Adversary unarmed, not taking the blade/stabbing yourself in the Razor, cutting your throat in the Tower). This attitude makes him careless. He wants to sow chaos, start conflicts, and just have fun. His commitment to the bit helps you survive and fight in the Apotheosis and the Fury. Who cares if you die? You were going to anyway. Contrarian doesn’t fully realize the effects his recklessness has on others until it is far too late. In the Razor, if he throws the knife out the window, he thinks of it as a funny bit. But after he realizes that there will be no getting it back, he admits he might have acted too hastily. Something similar happens in the Stranger. There may be a more deep-seated root to his nature, as well. One that most people miss. Contrarian is a contrarian out of frustration. You tried running away from the problem, and now it got worse. Now you have to face it, and he isn’t happy. If he has to confront his own mistakes, well, he isn’t going to make it easy. If he has to be miserable, so does everyone else. He reminds me of Cold, in a way. One turns to indifference, while the other turns to indignation. This point is accentuated by a line in the Stranger ending, where he confesses that he thinks of himself as the worst part of you. In the Stranger, it takes the entire world collapsing in on itself for Contrarian to fully realize the harm he’s caused. Once he sees the bigger picture, he shows remorse, and suggests that you try and help the Princess. In the Stranger ending, when you return to her cabin, he’s had more time to cool down and reflect, and he shows a surprising maturity, holding back on yeeting the blade. This may be the only voice who got significantly more content in the Pristine Cut, yet whose depth lies in pre-Pristine Cut content.

[genderqueerdykes]

Another weird thing about the TME/TMA thing is that the people who push it often believe that any suffering or bigotry we face for being transmasc is by nature lesser. When like I can list on and on the social alienation and violence we face and have faced myself as a transmasc person.

And also it doesn’t fucking matter what intent a bigot has behind their violence, if they’re pointing their violence at me I’m still a victim of that violence! I had a friend almost got attacked while walking down the street cause he’s a trans dude who was wearing drag. Like aw man sorry you got attacked by violent bigots, it seems however your labels don’t match up with that bigots intent. Guess what happened to u doesn’t mean anything!!!! What a weird concept.

i'm sorry you experience it as well. it sucks ass, i'm so tired of people trying to weigh transmasculine oppression vs. transfeminine oppression on a scale to see which one's heavier. like stop that, why are we trying to compare situations to see who has it worse? why are we telling people who are also oppressed that their struggle is "lesser"? what does that accomplish? all it does is hurt the person being downplayed. it doesn't uplift trans women to put other people down. that's not how this works.

i really don't fucking understand this current mindset of "person who has it The Worst gets to talk all the time forever for as long as they want and be as rude as they want and everyone who has it Less Bad has to shut the fuck up and sit with rapt attention and listen and never speak or comment or have an independent thought of their own on what they got lectured on." those people still have problems even if they're ""less"" bad, why do only certain groups of people get to talk about them? everyone in the queer community has problems, it doesn't matter the "severity," they all deserve to be discussed. and yet.

i'm really sorry that happened to your friend, holy shit. that is terrifying. but it happens. you're dead on the money. it doesn't matter what their intent is. they committed an act of violence. it does NOT matter what was going through the attacker's mind. they chose to commit an act of violence. sitting there on your petty ass high horse going "well akshually, i have a transfem friend who got attacked by TWO bigots and it was way worse so be grateful and shut up," isn't helping a goddamn soul. please stop shutting people up when they talk about their pain and trauma.

i don't know how else to tell every other transfem and trans woman on this website that we are not the only trans people who suffer. like i really need every single one of us to step down off the damn horse already and admit that we aren't the only fucking queers that suffer because we're not. we can't keep controlling the narrative like this. that's what we're doing at this stage. we are COMPLETELY controlling the narrative, making it ENTIRELY about us and our suffering and how we have it bad. we DO have it bad. but other people do, too. y'all GOTTA accept that other people suffer. y'all GOTTA accept that trans men are assaulted and killed every single day for being trans men. y'all GOTTA accept that most trans men don't and will never benefit from patriarchy. y'all GOTTA accept that transmascs and trans men have it really, really damn bad too.

i am honestly just so sick of the victim complex already. can we finally discuss how these currently emerging transfeminine and trans woman victim complexes are just out of fucking control at this point. i've wanted to talk about this forever and it's just getting worse right in front of my damn eyes. i've been in transfeminine spaces for a long time, but lately i just don't have a single desire to spend time in them. way too much arguing. way too much hostility. way too much anger directed at the wrong people. yes we are miserable, yes we suffer, yes we are heavily oppressed, yes we ARE very much victims. but so many transfems and trans women make that their entire ass personality and it's gotta stop.

womanhood isn't about being a victim. i don't know if i like the idea of making "woman" and "victim" synonymous. that's not empowering. that's not feminist. if you only see yourself as a victim, that's what you'll be. you will never progress to being a survivor if you keep thinking like that. you can't turn being a victim into a personality. it's a state of being, but it's not an identity. you are relinquishing power when you voluntarily identify as a victim. you are surrendering your control voluntarily if you keep throwing your hands up in the air and giving up like this.

someone else talking about their suffering doesn't diminish ours. someone else talking about their pain is not somehow an attack on you. trans men and transmascs talking is not an attack on you or transfemininity or trans womanhood. trans men existing are not an attack on you! stop with the victim complex already! it's not empowering! not everything is an attack! the world sucks but not everything is an attack on trans women and transfems!!!

i don't fucking care how much it offends you that people other than you suffer, but they're not talking about their suffering to make you feel like yours is lesser.

so why are you doing it to them?

[dreamwavesexploringreality]

Unfinished business (pt 2):

Chishiya x Reader

Read the first part to understand

----

Sweat ran cold down her forehead as she struggled to focus on the task in front of her. Problems and options, numbers and equations... the more levels she cleared, the harder it became to maintain her concentration. Especially with that man staring at her from across the room. "Doesn’t he have his own issues to solve?"

Y/N hastily scribbled down the answer she had just calculated, and while the response was being processed, she dared to look up. Sure enough, he was watching her. Kai. She locked eyes with him, trying to appear intimidating, indifferent, and self-assured. A familiar smirk spread across his face—a crooked smile she had seen before, one that promised nothing but trouble. She felt her screen vibrate in front of her.

"49. Focus."

She turned her head slightly. Chishiya was still working, focused and seemingly absorbed in solving his problems. But she knew him too well, and the faint furrow between his brows was a clear sign that something was bothering him. Y/N typed the number into her console without even bothering to read the problem. "Correct."

Just as a new question popped up, the voice in her earpiece announced there were ten minutes left in the game. A surge of adrenaline coursed through her veins, and as she became engrossed in solving the problem, she didn’t notice the way the man’s expression darkened.

A soft melody flooded the room, accompanied by the creak of a door. Someone had finished. Y/N watched as the door to a player’s cubicle opened, granting them freedom. The game was over for them. He bolted out of his glass enclosure and approached the central console in the room. He stared at it for a few seconds, deep in thought. Whatever had crossed his mind was dismissed quickly, and with one last glance at the group, he walked to the exit, opened the door with ease, and disappeared.

Y/N glanced at Chishiya. He seemed to be calculating something internally—or so it appeared. It was inconceivable to her that someone could finish this test before he did. Chishiya looked at her from within his transparent cubicle, arms crossed over his chest. "What are you doing?" she tried to convey through her gaze. He just stared at her. His expression was fixed, inscrutable, as though he could see right through her. She sighed and refocused on her console.

"Seven points. I just need three more," she muttered to herself.

"Five minutes left in the game," the robotic voice blared in her ears, louder than before, reverberating through the glass and making it tremble.

A sharp, harsh sound was followed by a scream. A woman was trying to force open her door, her cries filled with desperation. Y/N covered her ears, trying to block out the panicked wails. That woman wouldn’t achieve anything by forcing the lock, and even if she succeeded, she’d be met with a deadly laser aimed straight at her forehead.

With trembling hands, Y/N solved two more problems. "Three minutes," her screen displayed. "One more problem."

Beside her, she didn’t notice Chishiya reclining in his cubicle, adopting an apparently relaxed posture. His white hoodie now covered his head, partially hiding his face and concealing his worry. He would never admit it, but yes, he was worried. He knew Y/N was more than capable of solving all the problems, but he also knew she wasn’t entirely focused. That man hadn’t stopped staring at her, and his mere presence at the start of the game had set off every alarm in Chishiya’s mind. A bad feeling settled in his gut as he deciphered, through body language, that the man already had his final answer but had chosen not to submit it, deciding instead to stay in the game—just like Chishiya.

Of course, he had finished the game before anyone else; he’d solved all the problems in just twenty minutes, leaving him time to study his surroundings. It was clear that not everyone would leave that room. There were players too panicked to answer correctly, their faces twisting in agony every time their consoles spat out a bitter "Incorrect." And then there was that man. He had finished about ten minutes after Chishiya. It was obvious from the way his posture had relaxed, and his eyes had locked onto Y/N. Chishiya had expected to hear the man’s door open and watch him leave, like any sane person fleeing imminent death would. But he hadn’t. Instead, the man leaned against the glass, glaring at Y/N as if he wanted to burn her with his gaze.

"Well, Y/N. You have a type," Chishiya muttered to himself, immediately regretting the thought. No, he was nothing like that man. He glanced at his console, where his final answer had been paused for the last twenty minutes. The "Submit" button glowed green, tempting him like candy to a child. He looked up. The man was still staring, trying to intimidate her. From the corner of his eye, he saw Y/N shift uncomfortably, struggling to focus.

"One minute."

Chishiya sighed under his hood, fixing his gaze on Y/N. She was definitely grappling with the last problem. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and typed into his console. One last hint… He could already hear her complaining on their way back to The Beach, hanging onto his arm, telling him she could have done it on her own and didn’t need his help. He would smile and agree, with that signature smug look of his.

"Send hint."

Then everything happened very fast. A flashing red light illuminated Y/N’s cubicle, accompanied by a loud alarm that reverberated through the glass. Chishiya flinched at the sight of her curled up in the corner, hands over her ears, eyes shut tight.

"The hint cannot be sent," his screen announced. Chishiya looked up. There, in the middle of the room, Kai stood tall and proud, his hand firmly pressed against a red button with bold letters: "Sabotage."

Chishiya didn’t hesitate. As if driven by an unseen force, he submitted his final answer and didn’t wait for his cubicle door to fully open before sprinting toward the central console. His hood fell back, revealing his face, and by the time he reached the console, Kai was already retreating, slowly, waving mockingly at Y/N, who was still curled up in her cubicle, teary-eyed, hands over her ears.

The burning rage in Chishiya’s chest demanded he go after the man, but his fear of losing her clouded his mind, forcing him to focus on the console before him. The word "Sabotage" glowed on the button, surrounded by neon red lights flashing in sync with the ones in Y/N’s cubicle. Below the button, a screen displayed: "Console 4 locked. To unlock, answer correctly..."

Chishiya took a deep breath, his eyes glued to the console. Thirty seconds. The problem was simple—at least for him. He typed quickly, entered the answer, and waited. One second, two seconds...

"Correct answer. Console 4 unlocked."

Chishiya’s head snapped up so fast he felt a sharp pain in his neck. He’d worry about that later.

"Y/N! Answer the final question!" he shouted, his voice raw and tearing at his throat.

Terror gripped him when she didn’t move, still huddled in the corner, her head buried between her knees, hands covering her ears, despite the alarm having ceased.

"Fifteen seconds."

Chishiya pounded on the glass of her cubicle.

"Y/N! Listen to me. Just listen. Enter the answer—‘white.’ It’s ‘white.’"

His voice was desperate, unrecognizable even to himself. But at that moment, all he could think about was a life without her. For the first time in his existence, he was truly afraid—terrified. He felt as though he was losing control, the reins of his life slipping from his grasp, leaving a painful scar he knew he would never recover from.

"Y/N," he whispered. Her name escaped him like a final breath, a last shred of hope. And then he collapsed, falling to his knees.

He felt a hand on his arm, pulling at him urgently. Chishiya’s body refused to respond. No, it refused to move. If that cubicle was going to explode, he would stay there. His survival instinct had been relegated to second place by something much stronger—something he dared not name. Giving his life for someone, staying by their side regardless of the cost... Ideas that had once seemed stupid, absurd, and incoherent had suddenly taken shape, transforming into the only thing that made sense.

Another tug.

"Move!"

That robotic voice.

"Five seconds.”

And then he saw her.

Her tear-streaked face, pulling at his lifeless body.

“Four, three..."

"Chishiya, move!"

Automatically, he stood, gripping her arm tightly. His calculations were quick—they wouldn’t make it to the door. Instead, Chishiya ran, dragging her toward the farthest corner of the room, away from the cubicles. He used the momentum to press her body against the wall, caging her in with his arms. Her face buried in his chest, he rested his head atop hers. He shut his eyes tightly and tensed every muscle in his body.

The explosion shattered the cubicles, sending shards of glass flying across the room. The ground shook violently, and the air grew unbearably hot for a few seconds, making it hard to breathe.

When he lifted his head, the air still buzzed with energy. His ears rang from the blast, but the silence that followed was equally overwhelming. He looked down, and his heart clenched in his chest.

"Y/N," he murmured, running his fingers through her hair, ignoring the shards embedded in the back of his hand.

She lifted her head.

"Chishiya," she croaked, her voice broken from crying. Her cold hands cupped his face, sending a shiver down his spine—not from the icy touch against his warm skin, but from the fact that she was there. Intact, as far as he could see.

A cloud of dust rose around them. The pair remained in that position for several minutes, just staring at each other, silently acknowledging the fatal consequences the game could have had.

"I... I knew the answer. I knew the last answer..." she said.

Chishiya felt himself tremble, slowly returning to his senses. She didn’t need to justify herself or prove her worth to him. He didn’t care whether she knew the answer or not because he was there, ready to help her. It had all been that other player’s fault.

He felt no need to ask her about the man. What he had seen and witnessed was enough to know that he had tried to kill her. Shaking his head, he rested his chin on her head one last time before rising carefully and offering her his hand. Ignoring the sting in his arms from the numerous cuts, he intertwined his fingers with hers without a word, leading her out of the room filled with debris.

He dismissed Y/N’s worried voice when she noticed the blood running down his arms, shaking his head in indifference.

Deadly silence and at a slow and steady pace, he led them to The Beach. He needed to treat his wounds and ensure she was alright, that there were no aftereffects from the explosion—though there were bound to be from the experience. He would take care of her. He would heal the physical and emotional scars that had undoubtedly torn at her soul. He would wash her hair that night and tuck her into bed, lying beside her to make sure no ghosts haunted her sleep. And he would kill that man.

Borderland changed people. He had seen it, and now he had lived it. After that incident, he knew he would never find peace while that person continued to breathe the same air as his girlfriend. No. Chishiya wouldn’t allow it. They would leave that place together, and he would ensure that no one—absolutely no one—stood in their way.

© 2025 [@dreamwavesexploringreality]

----

Hey everyone!

The long-awaited Part 2 of The Unfinished Business is finally here!

I really hope you enjoy it and that the wait was worth it. Let me know what you think—I’d love to hear your feedback!

Your support means the world to me. ✨

[femme-masculine]

Wow, so I really wanted to have a civil discussion regarding this topic but it seems hopeless.

I didn't say it never happens; like you I was sharing my experiences with tirfs, which seem to differ a lot from yours. I am genuinely curious who would be saying that, and like you, I would be disagreeing with them.

this is my blog where i share my opinions, if you don’t like or agree with them, move the fuck along.

Your blog is public. Besides, how do we expect women's rights to advance if we completely ignore what people have to say? If people just moved along all the time, nothing would progress.

a feminine straight guy being mistaken as gay is literally in no way comparable to the male skinwalkers who try to pretend they’re women, and you yourself know why- because that straight man isn’t PRETENDING to be gay, or EXPECTING OTHERS to perceive him as or treat him as if he were gay. trans identified males literally do both. what the fuck is your point.

This ignores the context for which I was making the comparison. In no way was I saying trans women actually experience the hardship of those who are female, I was saying they can't "larp" abuse they receive for looking like one. I too completely disagree with the idea that we have the same experiences. We don't.

and thank you for the condescension, but i’m not actually stupid; i know that men who are perceived as feminine can experience homophobia or sometimes even misdirected misogyny. but why the fuck is that feminism’s or women’s problem?? you are literally no better than libfems screeching ‘intersectionality’ at the top of your lungs, meaning women have to solve everyone else’s problems before we’re even allowed to think about our own.

? I don't think it's feminism's problem either. I was just explaining what I personally observed from tirfs, which was exactly challenging the idea they actually believe cis women and trans women face the same experiences.

Men. Don’t. Belong. In. Feminism. End of. I say once again, for the slow ones in the back, there is no nuance to be had here. Males are male, no matter how efeminate, gay or otherwise, and their concerns, whatever they may be, ARE NOT THE CONCERNS OF WOMEN OR FEMINISM.

Males don't belong in feminism at all, I agree with this. My "nuance" comes from how I think we should treat gender dysphoric individuals, many of them which are female.

you think you’re coming off as ‘nuanced’ or very intelligent, but you’re just coming off as libfem stupid, someone who can’t grasp the basic fucking terminology involved- which is exactly what i said in my original comment about ‘tirfs’ so way to prove my point how none of this ever happens.

I am honestly not sure what this is in reference to.

‘radical’ means ‘the root of’. as in feminism that addresses the root cause of patriarchy, which is MALES HATING AND OPPRESSING FEMALES. take your watered down bullshit and get out of here, you don’t belong here.

So, we agree?

You are trying to push away women from radfem spaces who share the same basic opinions about radical feminism: wanting to eradicate male oppression of females.

There is not at a single point in my original post where I said, or even implied, that males of any kind belong in radical feminism.

I've just realised the influx of 'tirfs' on here is bcs of Tiktok. They're so smarmy about having the "correct, nuancefem" opinion because they were raised (so to speak) on the clock app. Lol. Lmao, even. Good luck ig 🤗

[shroomkore]

just realized that everyone who has the worst takes on nosferatu are basing all of their information on the idea that Ellen never wanted any of this and she's just an "innocent clueless poor girl" as if SHE wasn't the one who invoked a death entity and dreamt of all she knew as dead to her marriage with her true love, and was HAPPY about it and deep down truly had NO problem letting everyone die bc they all mistreated her and never once listened to her or anything, just treating her like a hysterical unruly child.

its like these people are completely missing the point that while she tries to cling to this childlike innocence society expects her to have well into adulthood where a woman must be subservient and quiet, she is DESPERATE to release her darkness, her urges, her humanity, but bc she is a woman (an autistic woman at that), its seen as something so dastardly. that's why she married thomas, she wanted to be seen as "correct" in her society and is essentially hoping that Thomas is the cure to all her ailments in life and everything will magically get better. and there is romance between them for sure, but thomas and ellen struggle a lot to see eye to eye. he still treats her as "burdened" and is more dismissive than anything, refuses to listen to her and just assumes things on top of having this mindset of "i need to do whats best for us and what'll make me successful" WHEN LITERALLY ALL SHE WANTS IS HIM AND HIS LOVE AND INTIMACY AND SEX. My husband made a wonderful comment about how it didn't matter that thomas didn't know what the contract orlok gave him said. the moment he chose his work over Ellen, he sold her away for that pouch of gold before knowing it.

ellen has a darkness inside her she keeps trying to fight, fighting her own mortality, her own nature. she keeps denying herself her true feelings and emotions, which Orlok wouldn't understand and be angry over this because "ew wtf why are you restraining your own wants and needs for the approvement of others" because purity culture tends to strip a human of all the things that make us human for the idea of "being closer to God and becoming more Holy". Which is idiocy in itself. thats why she's constantly trying to push orlok away and is tryin everything to let him know she "hates" him, because she's just fighing against herself and self sabotaging herself and he KNOWS this.

anyways if you think a woman isn't capable of having dark urges or doing anything "evil" or actually wanting "bad" things, you're weird af and kinda misogynistic tbh!

and before ANYONE comes for me, let me state this. Movies can have more than one interpretation and be correct in both or more. I fully embrace all interpretations of the movie, but if you try to tell me or other that only ONE is correct, you should step back and reflect on yourself to see why you think that other people having a different opinion is bad. Also, ✨️Law of Paradox✨️

ellen may be depicted as a damsel in distress, but that's because EVERYONE ELSE IS FORCING HER INTO THIS ROLE AND IGNORING HER COMPLETELY. SHE IS POWERFUL SPIRITUALLY.

as a CSA and childhood trauma survivor, i wish death upon all my abusers, rapists, and every instigator in my life who did nothing and/or told me to keep quiet about it to not "tear everything apart" and "ruin other peoples' lives", and i hope it is gruesome and brutal and it is painful the entire time, and i too would love to see their mangled corpses in my happiest moment when im marrying my soulmate who is not only everything ive dreamed of, but who also truly loves me and wants me in their life as i want them.

[bigmoon-is-bigwife]

So Red Faction did manage to get their kill in this week with Coy but the factions NEED to end with in the next week or two. Or at least the killing requirement because it was a bad idea from the start and is blatantly unfair. The idea of requiring kills was never a bad idea but it was just so clearly not thought out and how they went about it was bad. I can understand creative kills in the sense that it wouldn't be that fun to have people just team up and murder some random weaker person to get it over with but I think there could have also been more communication and rules about it. Like lean into the roleplay aspect and trust that people would make it fun and not be cruel about it.

The main problem though, that hasn't been addressed for some reason, is that the Red Faction was doomed from the start by just being newer to a grindy server. Everyone they were meant to kill had weeks to get established and get far ahead and the levels differences on The Realm matter SO much. It's nearly impossible to kill someone who's higher level than you. Not to mention most of the people they chose to be on Red Faction are people who don't play a lot of minecraft and were never going to be that active. When you pair that with the fact they would have to spend hours and hours grinding to even catch up, that's going to be super intimidating and they're just going to give up and not log on. I don't blame the vast majority of them for not wanting to even touch the killing quest, that was an absurd expectation and very daunting.

If it was not for Pili the Red Faction would just die. Like full stop. They were lucky they happened to invite Pili who took up the challenge and was willing to put in the work to fight that uphill battle when no one else was. There is also credit to give to Bad who was one of the only people to immediately see that this was going to be unfair and try and help them out. The newer people they just invited seem more willing to try and help out but there is still that massive disadvantage of being new and the amount of grinding it takes to catch up. So it still falls to Pili and it's starting to bleed into out of character frustration because that is so unfair. It's to the point where I have heard people from every faction agree that it's not fair for Red Faction. I have a feeling Pili is just going to refuse to be the one to do it this week and I don't blame him. I think this is my only real complaint with the server and I love it a lot but I cannot fathom why the admins are not seeing a problem here. I'm hoping some of the other players from other factions start speaking up more about it because I think most of the active players have seen and agreed that the kill thing has too many problems.

[scoutofmymind]

Mama scout mi Reina! Would you be open to writing an AU of Luigi? A little supernatural ish perhaps 👀

Saw You in a Dream — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW— MINORS DNI dream-kissing lol, yearning, some pining I suppose, reader is an uninspired artist, Luigi is a figment of her imagination.

Wc: 4,153

Notes: ONEIRIX™ is a dream enhancement supplement designed to intensify and prolong REM sleep experiences.

AN: I DO plan on continuing this if requests for it are abundant. I have many, many ideas for how this story could go, but I will tell you, it’s a lil…. Twisted hehe. Also, my darling anon, I know this isn’t really “supernatural” but in hopes of not writing 10k again and learning when to stop, I must note that more supernatural elements will be tied in if this is requested enough for a continuation. Love you xox

"What's wrong with old-fashioned, regular dreams?" You stare across the table at Bailey, who leans forward with an almost evangelical intensity, her blue eyes gleaming with the same fervor as when she pitched her start-up ideas or insisted everyone try CrossFit. "Is nothing sacred anymore? Do we have to optimize and upgrade every last human experience?"

"No," Bailey says, drumming her fingers against the table, her half-eaten omelette growing cold. She keeps shaking her head as if your resistance personally offends her. "These are revolutionary — they're going to change the way we think, bitch." The words come out with practiced casualness, like everything else about her these days.

She flicks a small pink baggie across the table, four obsidian-black pills rattling inside like tiny meteorites hurtling straight toward your earth.

"No." You slide the baggie back with a single finger, as if even touching it too long might leave a stain. "I don't need another vice."

"It's non-addictive." Bailey leans in, her voice dropping to that silky-smooth pitch she used to use selling timeshares in Miami. Despite her earlier promise that she wasn't working for them, you catch that familiar gleam in her eye — the one that surfaced with every pyramid scheme and side hustle she'd dragged you into. "I just need you to experience it. Just once."

The baggie sits between you like a dare, its pink sheen catching the diner's fluorescent lights, making the black pills inside gleam like wet ink.

"It could really inspire your art." She slides a journal across the table — black, unmarked, expensive-looking. "I've filled this thing with ideas already. It’s only been a week.”

She's found your weak spot now.

Those late-night calls, the wine-soaked confessions about your creative drought, the mounting pressure from your agent — it's all ammunition. "This could be your saving grace," she adds, and the words sink their hooks in deep. Your fingers twitch toward the baggie, career desperation beginning to outweigh your better judgment. “I’m dead serious.”

"Fine." You snatch the baggie and shove it deep into your purse, somewhere between old receipts and forgotten lipliner, secretly hoping it'll vanish into that void where hair ties and spare change go to die. "Give me the pamphlet. You clearly don't need it." You thrust out your hand, and Bailey practically glows as she slides over the sleek Oneirix packet, its metallic lettering catching the light like a sign you're choosing to ignore.

The pills had disappeared into your purse's black hole until Bailey's FaceTime lit up your phone the next afternoon. There she was, sleep mask pushed up like a crown, her face dewy with her latest hundred-dollar moisturizer. "So, did you try it?" Her grin was expectant, eager — the same look she'd worn pushing juice cleanses and crystal healing.

You glance at your desk, where half-finished canvases gather dust and untouched notebooks mock your creative drought.

Last night had been your usual routine; an hour-long shower where you'd solved all of life's problems and remembered none of them, three episodes of that show you're still trying to convince yourself you enjoy, and quality time with your artistic inadequacy.

"Not yet." You mumble around a spoonful of ice cream, your attention split between Bailey's glowing face and whatever's playing on Netflix — neither getting your full focus.

"Girl," she clicks her tongue, and you can hear the judgment dripping through your phone speaker. "Go get them — are you scared?" The question hangs there, pointed and precise, like she's daring you.

You hate how well she knows you, how easily she can press that particular button.

Being called scared has always been your kryptonite, ever since she first met you at that high school gallery opening where you'd been too anxious to mingle.

"No." Your face twists into a scowl at her accusation. "I just forgot." You hit pause, abandoning both your show and melting ice cream to dig through your purse.

You find the baggie too easily, the pamphlet's glossy surface catching the light as you unfold it, its clinical text stark against the dark background.

ONEIRIX

DREAM ENHANCEMENT SUPPLEMENT

FOR INTENSIFIED & PROLONGED REM SLEEP EXPERIENCES

The instructions read like any over-the-counter medication.

One tablet, 30 minutes before bed, standard warnings about machinery and other medications.

"Okay." The pamphlet lands on your counter, its unread warnings fanning out like discarded playing cards. "Will it make me tired, or do I already have to be—"

"Oh, it knocks your ass out." Bailey's voice drifts from your abandoned phone, tinny and distant. You wrestle with the baggie's seal, the plastic refusing to cooperate until it suddenly gives, spilling one glossy black pill into your palm. "It works a hell of a lot faster than thirty minutes, too," she adds through a yawn.

You swallow the pill, and before you can even contemplate moving from the kitchen to your bed, a heaviness seeps into your limbs like honey dripping down glass.

Bailey's already drifted off on FaceTime, her gentle snores creating a strange duet with your own as consciousness slips away once you make it to the couch faster than falling.

The transition is jarring — not the usual soft fade into nonsensical dreams, but a sharp snap into awareness. You know you're dreaming, the way you know your own name, the way you know the sky is blue. It's like someone's turned up the saturation on reality, made everything clearer and brighter than it has any right to be.

This isn't the usual dream-fog where your brain accepts that your childhood home has suddenly sprouted wings or that your teeth are falling out at a gallery show.

This is different.

This is aware.

You wiggle your toes in the grass — actual, individual blades tickling your feet, not the vague suggestion of grass that usually populates dreams. Your manicure catches the sunlight, that specific shade of dusty rose you picked last Tuesday, tiny chips and all.

The rings on your fingers still catch when you twist them, that familiar nervous habit following you even here. Everything about you is preserved with photograph precision, dropped into this impossible elsewhere.

"Jesus," escapes your lips, the word carried away by a breeze that feels too perfectly warm to be real. The butterflies dance overhead like confetti caught in reverse, their wings painted in colors that might not exist in the waking world. You watch one land on a nearby flower, and you can see every detail of its wings, every tiny pattern — the kind of detail your sleeping mind has never bothered with before. "This is fucking-"

“Hey.”

The voice cuts through your wonder, and you spin, heart somehow racing in this dream-that's-not-quite-a-dream.

He's there, solid as the ground beneath your feet — no dream-logic shimmer or fade around the edges. Tall, with shoulders that could carry atlas's burden, and features that seem carved rather than grown. His smile plays at the corners of his mouth like he knows a secret you don't, but it's not threatening. If anything, it pulls at something in your chest, a curiosity that feels dangerous in its intensity.

"Hey," you echo, the word coming out softer than intended. Your eyes sweep the meadow, searching for other dreamers or figures or whatever they might be called here. But it's just him, just you, just this perfect pocket of perpetual summer afternoon stretching out in all directions.

"S'just me." His hand extends between you like a bridge, and you notice how the sunlight catches on his knuckles, creating shadows you could count. No name follows, just that smile deepening into dimples.

"Your name?” You tilt your chin down, adopting the pose of someone who's seen too many crime documentaries to trust a nameless stranger, even in a dream. Your eyebrows arch high enough to feel the stretch — another impossible sensation that feels too real.

"Seems you haven't decided yet."

"I haven't decided?"

He shrugs, the gesture rippling across those shoulders like a wave, and something flickers in his expression - like a TV losing signal for just a moment. "Yeah." He blinks, and you can see him searching his own mind, coming up empty. "Haven't decided yet."

Your eyes travel his form like you're memorizing a sculpture. The elegant taper from broad shoulders to narrow waist, the careful strength in his forearms, the way he holds himself — somehow both completely at ease and coiled with potential energy. His eyes meet yours with that puppy-dog hopefulness that seems at odds with his imposing frame, that half-smile still playing on his lips.

"Lu—ee-" The sound stretches between you, and you can taste the wrongness of it. Your head tilts, and suddenly it clicks. "Luigi."

Luigi nods, a slow, knowing motion, and reaches behind him. The wallet arcs through the air, and when you catch it, the leather feels warm, like it's been sitting in summer sunshine. It falls open in your hands, and there it is — Luigi Mangione, printed in stark bureaucratic certainty. "I thought you'd say that."

The urge to gasp, to stumble back in shock, rises and falls like a wave. Reality — or whatever version of it this is — reasserts itself with the gentle persistence of tide coming in. Of course you knew his name. Of course you did. Just like you knew the exact shade of his eyes, the precise angle of his jaw, the way his right dimple is slightly deeper than his left.

There’s a reason he feels familiar.

You made him.

"Well, Luigi," The name feels like syrup on your tongue as you pivot, bare feet finding their path through grass as the sun drapes over your shoulders like a tailored shawl, warming without burning, perfect in that way only dreams can manage. "I'm sure you know who I am."

Luigi falls into step beside you, a flag leaf dancing between his lips as he walks.

His presence feels as natural as your shadow, a complement to your movement rather than an intrusion. "Of course," he says, and his voice carries the same gentle warmth as the sunlight, the same easy invitation as the wind that plays with your hair.

The grass gives way to reveal a pond that looks like liquid mercury in the sunlight. "I've been waiting awhile for you — seemed to have run out of ways to pass the time."

You stand at the water's edge, watching swans carve elegant paths across the surface, their reflections perfect mirrors in the still water, and in the distance, ducks conduct their quiet conversations. "Are you saying you're bored of everything here?"

"No," Luigi's fingers brush your sleeve, gentle but insistent, like a breeze that knows where it's going. As he steps forward, wildflowers burst into existence beneath his feet — first violets, then daisies, then flowers you've never seen before, in colors that shouldn't exist. "I'm saying it gets lonely doing the same thing everyday on your own."

Luigi continues forward, leaving his galaxy of flowers behind, but you find yourself frozen, watching the way the light catches his silhouette.

"How many times?" The question escapes before you can catch it. "How many times have I been here and left?"

He pauses mid-step, and for a moment, the whole dreamscape seems to hold its breath — the swans pause their gliding, the breeze stills, even the wildflowers stop their eager blooming. When he turns to face you, his smile carries a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

"It’s been so long, but — " he pauses, and somehow the words don't sound like an accusation. "Sometimes for seconds, sometimes for hours. Sometimes you remember me, sometimes you don't. But you always come back eventually. And I'm always here."

You swallow, “How long has it been?"

His laugh drifts through the air, light and melodic. "Long enough that I've watched these trees grow from saplings." His bare feet shift in the grass, toes curling against the earth. "Long enough that I've named every swan on this pond, then named their children, and then their children's children."

The wildflowers continue once again their blooming beneath his steps — first soft pinks, then deep purples, then blues that seem to glow from within. Each petal unfolds with deliberate precision, creating a trail that marks his path across the meadow.

You notice how he holds himself, the way his shoulders stay perfectly squared, his posture too fluid, too precise for someone who's supposed to be just a figment of your dreams. "So I looked different last time?" you wonder, trailing behind him again, catching the slight nod.

"We were both younger then." Luigi turns back to you and grins, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “I’ve really missed you."

His voice carries the warmth of old sunlight, that rare sincerity that can't be fabricated — something in his presence that felt secure, anchoring, his nature as gentle as summer rain.

But the look in his eyes betrayed what his smile tried to hide — he knew you didn't remember him, and that knowledge lived somewhere deep and wounded inside him.

You could see it now, in the careful way he held himself back, how his initial greeting carried just enough warmth to be kind but not enough to overwhelm. Your memory of him had been burning away like lit matches with each passing year, while he'd been trapped here, holding onto every detail of who you used to be.

Luigi lead you further into the meadow, another pond materializing somewhere further into the deep but Luigi seemed far too familiar with this terrain, and you trusted each turn, “Have I given you different names?”

He shakes his head with a laugh, soft and bittersweet, almost as if he couldn't imagine wearing any other name than your Luigi. "No." He scrunches his nose, a gesture so achingly familiar it feels like déjà vu. "One time I almost thought you were going to, but — nope. Always some variation of Luigi."

The questions dance at the edges of your consciousness like autumn leaves in a wind, but somehow the answers are already there, settled in your bones like old truths. Why he lets you choose, how he knows when recognition lights your eyes and when they stay dark with forgetting — it's all written in a language your mind has forgotten but your heart still speaks fluently.

"I saw you for a minute somewhere near the streams last winter." His voice softens, eyes distant as if watching memories drift past like leaves on water. "It was only for a split moment — but I knew it was you, even though you'd changed."

Your heart twists with a horrible dread, sharp and cold as winter frost, weighed down by the certainty that he'll slip through your fingers like morning mist the moment you wake. "How do I make myself remember?" The words fall soft as prayer between you both, your knees brushing as you sit beside him.

He turns to you with that gentle patience that speaks of having heard this same desperate question from your lips a hundred times before, in a hundred different dreams.

He draws your hand into his lap with practiced ease, his fingertips ghosting over yours like butterfly wings — a gesture so deeply ingrained it speaks of countless similar moments, his soul remembering the map of your hands better than your own mind does. It doesn't feel strange to fall back into these rhythms with Luigi; everything has felt as natural as breathing since you landed here, like slipping into a dance your feet never truly forgot. "I know parts of me remember you," you whisper into the space between heartbeats, watching his fingers trace invisible patterns across your skin. "I know you feel familiar.”

Luigi nods slowly, pressing your palm to his cheek with a gentle sigh that carries the weight of a thousand forgotten moments. "We never learned how to make you remember," he murmurs, his voice wrapped in forced lightness that can't quite mask the undertow of grief beneath. "Always a toss up."

You swing your feet from the mossy ledge where Luigi sits, the ancient stone cool beneath you both.

He leans back on his palms, wearing a smile that's equal parts joy and resignation — a man who's learned to find peace in fleeting moments.

There's something heartbreaking in how he's already accepted that this too will slip through the sieve of your memory, but still treasures your presence like water in a desert, grateful just to have you here at all.

"I'll remember this time." The words spill out like a vow, fragile as spun glass but burning with conviction. Even as you speak them, you know they might shatter come morning, but something feels different here — each detail crystalline and alive, from the whisper of wind in the leaves to the warmth of his shoulder against yours.

This doesn't feel like the usual gossamer threads of dreams; it feels like stepping through a door into somewhere achingly real.

"Mm." Luigi's shoulder brushes yours, a gentle pendulum of contact, and though his hum carries years of gentle disbelief, he can't suppress the smile that softens his features. "All that matters is that you're here now, I think."

You nod slowly, watching your legs paint pendulum shadows against the water below. "Is there anyone else here?" The whisper slips out conspiratorial and soft, your eyes scanning the peaceful landscape as if its emptiness might be deceiving.

"No." Luigi shrugs, tossing a stone into the pond where it breaks the surface in perfect ripples. "You thought up a couple weird little-“ he scrunches his nose, lost in the memory of your previous creations — specifically those tiny Trojan warriors you'd accidentally willed into existence, who'd turned the peaceful fields into their own private battlefield. "It's just never worked out." He turns to you with a glimmer of fond exasperation, pressing a knuckle into your thigh. "You've got a rather dangerous imagination."

You swallow the question rising in your throat, deciding some doors are better left closed — for the sake of whatever fragments of sanity you still possess.

If there are any left to guard.

"Dangerous," you echo in a whisper, fighting back a bubble of laughter that threatens to spill over. "Well, scratch that, then.”

"It's always been you and me here." Luigi nods slowly, his voice taking on that particular texture of someone guarding something precious. "Outsiders make me nervous."

From that careful admission, you piece together a history of well-intentioned mistakes — multiple attempts at populating this sanctuary that ended in ways that left shadows in Luigi's voice. Each failure seems etched in the spaces between his words, a collection of experiments gone wrong. "That's fair," you murmur, reaching for his hand with gentle curiosity. He surrenders it without hesitation, letting you trace the lines of his palm like a map of all your shared disasters.

There's something profoundly real in the way his skin warms yours, in the faint calluses and subtle creases — too detailed, too imperfect to be mere imagination, yet too perfect in its imperfection to be anything else.

"How is the gallery stuff going?" His question floats between you, and for a heartbeat, confusion sparks — how could he know about the gallery?

But the answer settles over you like dawn breaking.

Of course he knows.

He knows the way your hands shake before each opening, the doubt that pools in your stomach when you face a blank canvas, the elation of a perfect brushstroke. He knows your fears dressed in their Sunday best and your dreams in their rawest form.

You made him.

Crafted him from stardust and loneliness, shaped him from the clay of your subconscious until he became more real than reality itself — your most perfect creation, yet the one you can never quite remember come morning.

"I haven't been inspired in — god," you trail off, turning to truly see him, and the dormant artist in you awakens with a sudden, fierce hunger. The sunlight plays architect with his features, gilding each detail you'd unconsciously perfected; those midnight curls catching light like cut obsidian, the almost-symmetrical beauty marks dotting his cheeks like carefully placed stars, the classical slope of his nose that Renaissance masters would have wept to capture.

Your fingers twitch with phantom muscle memory, aching to translate him from this dream-reality to paper, to make permanent what feels so ethereal. "So long." The words fall soft and wondering, as if you've suddenly remembered how to speak a forgotten language — the language of creation, of beauty, of art itself.

Luigi hums softly, nuzzling your shoulder with a familiarity that sends your thoughts spiraling backward through time. "Well, let's get you inspired," he murmurs, his breath warm against your neck, and suddenly you're wrestling with questions you've been too afraid to examine.

The intimacy of the gesture opens a door to memories of your teenage self — those raw, lonely years when you were all sharp edges and desperate yearning, underwhelmed by fumbling high school romances and overwhelmed by feelings.

You created him then, in those twilight hours between childhood and adulthood. A friend first, undoubtedly — a sanctuary in human form when the real world felt too abrasive to bear.

But now, feeling the casual tenderness of his touch, you wonder about the blurred lines in your shared history. If perhaps you'd written more than friendship into his DNA during those hormone-soaked nights, those moments when loneliness wore your resistance thin.

You melt into his warmth, drawn by a gravity as familiar as breathing, like a desperate moth to a flame you've danced with a thousand times before. "How do we do that?" The question hangs deliberately innocent, though electricity already hums beneath your skin with anticipated answers.

Luigi's response is immediate and devastating — the warm, wet slide of his tongue painting a deliberate path up your neck. Time stretches as he savors you, the gesture somehow both predatory and reverent.

"Maybe we could jog your memory, too." His voice drops to that particular octave that makes your bones liquid, left hand claiming your chin while his right arm becomes a band of heat around your waist, orchestrating your body until you're straddling his lap. "I remember exactly the things you like the most," teeth graze your pulse point as his hands span your back, fingertips pressing into your spine like he's playing music only he knows the notes to, "and the things you hate."

"How do you know those things haven't changed, Lu?" Your fingers find sanctuary in his curls, each strand impossibly soft, and the breeze carries the essence of August - sun-warmed grass, distant thunderstorms, ripening fruit. The scent of endless summer, bottled in this perfect moment.

"I guess there's only one way to find out, don't you think?" The question unfolds like a flower between you as Luigi tilts his head back, studying you through heavy-lidded eyes.

His lips part, pink and promising, an unspoken dare wrapped in velvet invitation. And you — you who have always been more poet than pragmatist — surrender to the gravitational pull of him. You lean in like a sunset chasing the horizon, drawn to the heat of his mouth, the shared breath between you becoming sacred thing.

His tongue moves against yours with practiced poetry, his lips a tender geography you're rediscovering. Every nip of teeth is precisely timed, a choreography written in muscle memory and want. Just as his hands find the warm skin beneath your shirt, reality fractures — a void tears through the dream like ink spilled across a watercolor.

The darkness swallows everything, sudden and absolute.

You jolt awake with violence, heart thundering against your ribs. The familiar couch cushions press against your cheek, mundane and mocking. The real world crashes back into focus with brutal clarity; the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the wall clock, the morning light cutting through back scatter.

Each detail feels like a betrayal, a reminder that Luigi exists only in that liminal space between sleeping and waking, where longing takes shape and wears a face you crafted from starlight and need.

"No." The word escapes as a soft, desperate plea. Your hand reaches for the sketchbook and pen with the urgency of someone grasping at smoke, at fragments of a dream determined to dissolve.

And there he is — Luigi materializing before you like a miracle answering desperate prayers, your artist's eye already translating the divine geometry of his face onto paper before memory can steal him away.

You are the faithful at the altar, he the vision you're determined to make tangible.

The alarm screams again, reality's insistent hammer against your temple. "Fuck off!" you snarl, jabbing at the screen with unnecessary force, brows knitted with the particular fury reserved for things that dare interrupt worship.

The real world can wait.

Right now, there are curves of ink to capture, beauty marks to map, and the precise angle of summer sunlight in black curls to remember.

Hey, I think you were right about the pills

You text Bailey after lunch.

Holy shit

[mattnickchrisfan]

the games we play - m.s

warnings: pure fluff, tension, dirty talk (not in a sexual way just like flirty banter)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"The Games We Play"

Matt Sturniolo had never been the type to chase people. It wasn’t his style—he was chill, laid-back, and let things come naturally. But then… you walked into his life.

It started innocently enough. You were a part of their usual group of friends, someone who everyone liked and who always seemed to be the center of attention. Matt would catch glimpses of you during hangouts, never thinking much of it. You had that reputation, after all—flirty, charming, and the kind of person who never stayed too long in one place. You didn’t get too attached to anyone.

And then, one day, his world shifted.

It was a typical Friday night at Nick’s place, the usual mix of friends piled up on the couch, chatting, laughing, the room filled with comfortable chaos. Matt was at the far end, trying his best to focus on a game, but every time he looked up, there you were—talking to someone, laughing, throwing that playful look around the room, as if you had the power to make everyone hang on your every word.

But when your eyes landed on him, the air shifted. The playful glint in your eyes held something else—a challenge, maybe. You leaned back against the couch, your attention now fixed solely on Matt.

“Hey, Matt,” you said, voice low, teasing. “You seem awfully quiet tonight. Something on your mind?”

Matt’s heart skipped, and he nearly choked on the soda he was sipping. He wasn’t sure if it was your tone or the way you were looking at him, but it made his stomach tighten in ways he didn’t want to acknowledge.

“Nah, just focusing on the game,” he muttered, immediately regretting how awkward he sounded. He could feel his face heating up.

“Uh-huh,” you drawled, clearly unconvinced. “You always look so... serious when you play.”

Matt shrugged, forcing his gaze back down at the game in front of him, but the problem was, he couldn’t focus. Not when you were so close, looking at him like you were trying to figure him out. He hated that feeling—that feeling of being under a microscope, like you could see right through him.

“I’m not serious,” he replied, his voice quieter than usual.

You tilted your head slightly, studying him, and a small smirk tugged at your lips. “Mmm, you sure? You seem kind of... intense tonight.”

You were doing that thing again—making him feel like he was in a game he didn’t know the rules for. The way you spoke to him was different from how you talked to everyone else. There was something almost dangerous in it, a challenge that Matt wasn’t sure he was ready to accept.

But despite the way his stomach fluttered nervously, he didn’t back down. “Not intense,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just... trying to win.”

“Is that so?” You leaned in a little closer, dropping your voice to a teasing whisper. “Well, you should know—I’m the one who always wins.”

And just like that, the tension shot through the room like an electric current. Matt’s heart was racing, but he didn’t want to show it. He knew you were just playing with him, messing around as you always did with everyone, but there was something about the way you said it—something that made Matt’s breath hitch in his throat.

“Yeah?” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping an octave. “What if I told you I wasn’t afraid of losing?”

Your eyes sparkled with mischief, and for a moment, the whole room seemed to fade away. It was just the two of you now, locked in this little battle, your words dancing around each other like a slow-burning fire.

“You sure about that?” you whispered, barely an inch away now. The scent of your perfume—sweet but spicy—was making Matt’s head spin. “Because I don’t lose, Matt. And I’m not sure you’re ready to play my game.”

Oh, God.

Matt felt his heart rate spike, but he refused to look away, even though everything inside him screamed to look down, to break the intensity that was building between the two of you.

He was already in deep, though. You had him, and you knew it. But for once, he wasn’t pulling back.

“I’m not sure you know how to play a fair game,” he muttered, unable to hide the smile creeping on his lips.

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curving upward into that infuriatingly perfect smirk of yours. “I don’t play fair. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”

The words were a challenge, a dare. And as much as Matt wanted to hold his ground, he couldn’t help but be drawn in by your confidence, by that ever-present allure that seemed to surround you.

He glanced over at Chris and Nick, who were blissfully oblivious to the silent war happening between you and him. The world seemed to have narrowed down to just the two of you. The air was thick, like you were both holding your breath, waiting for someone to make the next move.

It was a moment that lasted forever.

“Maybe that’s why I like you,” Matt said suddenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

You blinked, caught off guard, your smirk faltering just a little. “You like me?” You said the words slowly, as though testing them on your tongue.

“Yeah,” Matt replied, his voice quieter now, almost shy in contrast to his usual cocky demeanor. “I like the game you play. Even if I’m not sure I know how to win.”

The moment hung between you, thick with unspoken feelings. You stared at him for a long time, and Matt thought maybe he’d messed it all up. Maybe he’d pushed you too far. But then, slowly, your expression softened.

“You’re cute, Sturniolo,” you murmured, voice surprisingly tender. “You know that?”

Matt felt his breath catch in his throat. Was this... was this happening?

He cleared his throat, trying to mask the sudden rush of emotions flooding through him. “So, what now? Do I just keep playing and hope I’m not losing?”

You leaned closer again, so close he could feel the warmth of your breath against his skin. His heart pounded, his hands twitching at his sides, desperate to do something—anything—to break the tension. But you held his gaze, not backing down.

“No,” you said softly, just before your lips brushed against his ear. “Now, you stop pretending like you don’t care... and admit that you’re already in way deeper than you ever thought.”

Matt’s breath hitched as your words settled into him, every nerve ending buzzing with the realization that this wasn’t just some playful back-and-forth. This was real. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t want to run from it.

“You’re playing with fire,” Matt whispered, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You looked at him with that same, daring spark in your eye. “I know,” you said, grinning. “And I think you like it.”

And for the first time, Matt didn’t bother denying it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a/n: woah why is fluff lowkey so fun to write? hope you guys enjoyyyyy

[sansaorgana]

— WELCOME HOME, DADDY

🚨 This fanfic is a repost from 22 Apr 2022 from my different blog. I kept the Author's Note and everything from the fic the same as it was back then.

PAIRING — Jack Nelson x fem!Reader

SUMMARY — Little Maggie Nelson can’t wait for her daddy to come back home from his business London trip.

AUTHOR’S NOTE [22 Apr 2022] — Maggie Nelson is absolutely made up by me and she absolutely lives in my head rent free, I have like 100 headcanons with her at this point and I’m going to make it everybody else’s problem! Here's a smutty one-shot that can be treated as Part Two!

WORD COUNT — 2,160

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

WELCOME HOME, DADDY

It was no secret that Jack wanted a boy. When you were pregnant, he was often patting your belly and smirking while commenting on the fact that it had been his son growing there. He seemed to be so fixated on the idea of having a male heir that you started to believe it would be a boy as well – you didn’t even want to imagine not having a son.

When you were giving birth, Jack was in another room, drinking whiskey nervously in an old-fashioned manner while your screams and groans filled the whole house. And then you pushed the baby out and one more voice joined your cries. You sighed with relief when…

“Go tell Mr. Nelson that he’s got a daughter,” the Doctor told the midwife. She nodded and left the room.

You were petrified. He handed you a crying baby still covered in blood and put her on your chest. You looked down with widened eyes and swallowed thickly. She was beautiful – she was your baby girl and you already knew you would die to protect her but… But the sound of Jack’s footsteps made you flinch.

He stormed inside the room rapidly as his eyes immediately found yours. It was difficult to read his facial expression but he was even paler than usual.

“I-I-I’m so sorry, Jack,” you sobbed, instinctively pressing the baby closer to your chest and staining your nightgown even further with blood.

But he looked like he wasn’t even listening to you. Instead, he approached the bed and leaned over your shoulder to take a look at his crying daughter.

“Aw, baby, don’t you cry, daddy’s gotcha,” he cooed to her and his big hands reached out for her. You let him do that, watching him carefully. His steel eyes were set on the newborn girl, though, and on her only. He was mesmerized, didn’t even care about getting his suit dirty.

And she stopped crying the moment she was set in his arms. The midwife approached him to show him how to hold her properly and he adjusted his hands without looking away even for a second.

“Jack, the next one will be a boy,” you whispered.

“Look at you, so beautiful,” he ignored you and cooed to the baby. “My little Princess. Daddy will give you a world, I promise, my little lady.”

You shut your mouth and sighed. That was the day when you lost your husband but you weren't even mad about it.

For now, there wasn’t any other yet, there was still only her – four years old Margaret but everyone called her Maggie. Little Maggie Nelson was a sensation all over Boston and anywhere she’d go, really.

Spoiled but sweet, in her neat dresses and pretty bows in her hair, she looked like a real-life doll. Jack was not the type who would spend all his days at home but whenever he was there, she would occupy his lap. She was so charming that all his business partners adored her and Jack was of course taking advantage of it.

But he hadn’t taken you two to London. He had gone there to buy import licenses but also to do a job for President Roosevelt himself. A job you had no idea of but you didn’t really want to know either. You stayed in Boston with Maggie and waited for your husband’s return, hoping he wouldn’t catch anything contagious while fucking all the whores in London.

That was the way Jack had been but you loved him nevertheless. And you knew that he had loved you, too. When you’re married to a man like Jack, there are some things you just have to accept.

“Mrs. Nelson,” the maid walked inside the living room where you had been laying on the sofa and reading a magazine.

“Yes?” you didn’t even look up.

“It’s about Miss Nelson… She’s throwing a tantrum over the color of the bow in her hair,” she sighed and you chuckled before putting the magazine down and standing up.

“She’s just excited. Jack comes back today,” you reminded the maid with a smile.

“She doesn’t know which color Mr. Nelson would like the most.”

“Oh, silly little Maggie,” you shook your head and went upstairs to her room.

Maggie was sitting on the edge of her bed, her little legs dangling above the floor cutely. Her arms were crossed and she was pouting.

“Maggie, Maggie, Maggie…” you started with a chuckle while leaning on the doorway and she huffed. “Don’t you know, my little dollie, that daddy would love every color on you?”

“And what are you wearing for daddy’s return, mommy?” she asked and raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing special, to be honest…” you admitted and looked down at the dress you were wearing. “Just it, I think.”

“But daddy’s coming back home today!” Maggie gasped. “You have to dress up for him real nice!”

“Alright then, I will,” you smiled kindly and approached the wardrobe to take out the box with all her ribbons. “I’ll wear a blue one, okay?” you handed her a blue ribbon.

“No, not that one,” she shook her head.

“Pink?” you handed her another.

“You’ll wear a pink dress for daddy?”

“Well, if I have to,” you chuckled. “Pink is a pretty color and before you were born I used to wear it more often.”

“Why not anymore?” Maggie asked out of curiosity as the maid approached you to take the pink ribbon out of your hand.

“Because it’s your color now, Maggie.”

“Oh, mommy, I can share!” she gasped and you chuckled before leaning in to peck her cheek.

“Alright, dollie, we will share.”

You left her alone with the maid again and went to your own bedroom to change the dress as you had promised.

Jack was back right before dinner. You were waiting in the hall, squeezing your little girl’s hand. For her those two weeks were like two years and when she heard the sound of Jack’s car parking on the driveway, she ran out of the house.

“Maggie, be careful!” you rushed after her.

She was running and jumping at the same time to be faster, which had been a terrible idea to do while going down the stairs. Thankfully, her daddy’s arms saved her from a spectacular fall.

“Easy, Princess, daddy’s gotcha,” Jack chuckled and you sighed with relief.

“Daddy! Daddy! I missed you! I missed you so much!” she screamed and literally jumped into his arms. Jack laughed at that and put his arms around her.

“Welcome home, Jack,” you greeted him more nonchalantly than your daughter and you leaned in for a kiss. The corners of your mouths touched while giving each other a peck on the cheek.

“My girls all in pink today?” he teased with a grin.

“Oh, daddy, it’s for you!” Maggie cupped his face and started kissing it all over.

“Maggie, that’s enough, daddy’s tired,” you sighed and tried to take her from him but she protested.

“It’s fine,” he nodded and went inside the house. A butler nodded at him and took his car keys to park the car and take the bags out of the trunk. You followed your husband and a daughter.

“The dinner will be served soon,” you told Jack and put your hand on his arm after he had placed Maggie on the floor.

“Good, I’m starving,” he leaned in to kiss your cheek once again. “I bought you lots of pretty things in London,” he whispered into your ear and you chuckled. Then he looked down on Maggie. “Daddy bought you lots of things, too, Princess.”

“Oh, daddy, you didn’t have to!” her eyes widened.

“So… I can send them back to London then?” he teased.

“I didn’t say that!” she huffed and crossed her arms. Jack laughed.

“Of course I won’t, dollie. Now, what have I missed?” He put his hands into his pockets.

“I was writing you letters every day, daddy!” Maggie made puppy eyes. “Mommy said that sending them would be a waste because it’s been only two weeks and you wouldn’t get some of them. But I will give them to you now!” She decided and went upstairs.

“She can write now?” Jack scratched the back of his head.

“She’s slowly learning how to. I was the hand,” you chuckled and led him to the living room. “How was the business?”

“Good. I got licenses, “ he nodded and sat down on the sofa in a lazy manner.

“And… And the job for The President?” you lowered your voice nervously.

“It’s done, don’t you worry, doll. Told you not to worry about anything.”

“I’m sorry… I… I seem to worry even more now…” you sighed and sat down next to him.

“That’s bad. You don’t have to worry at all anymore, (Y/N),” he put his arm around you and kissed your temple. “You hear me? Worrying days are over for you, baby.”

“Yes, Jack, I understand,” you nodded. “Did Gina have fun?” you rolled your eyes. You didn’t like his niece much.

“Gina’s always having fun,” he chuckled. “She was all over the society. Upper class, you know.”

“Oh.”

“Next time I’ll take you with me,” he caressed your cheek and you hugged him tight. “You’ll show them bastards some class.”

“Me? Class?!” you laughed.

“Baby, once you’ll meet their ladies, you’ll understand that you’re a real class indeed.”

“Jack, you’re being too sweet! Makes me want to eat you up!” you teased.

“You gotta wait for the evening with that, doll.”

“Daddy!” Maggie ran inside the living room with a small box in her hand. You smiled at the sight and moved away to let her sit on her father’s lap.

“What is it?” Jack asked.

“My letters!” she reminded him.

“Ah, yes,” he nodded and opened the box. There were 14 pastel pink envelopes, all tied with a red thread.

“They’re all addressed to you! Mommy helped me with that,” Maggie added and grabbed Jack’s pinky finger to play with his ring.

“Should I read them all now?” Jack tried to sound enthusiastic.

“Mr. and Mrs. Nelson,” the maid walked in with a smile, “I’m about to serve dinner.”

“Excellent!” you stood up and moved the magazine away to put the box down on the table. “Maggie, we will read the letters to daddy after dinner. He’s hungry after the trip and he must eat.”

“Alright then,” she sighed and left Jack’s lap to hold your hand. “But after we read letters, we will also show daddy the new song I have learnt, okay?”

“Of course,” you nodded and caressed her head. She ran out of the living room to follow the maid.

You smiled to yourself and turned around but then you froze at the sight of Jack. He suddenly had a very serious expression on his face.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

“What is this?” he handed you a familiar card and you swallowed thickly. “It was laying on the carpet. Fell out of your magazine.”

“It’s a card… With a doctor’s name,” you approached him to take the card from him.

“I don’t know this doctor,” he pointed out and squinted his eyes at the printed name once again. “What’s going on?”

“Jack, I just wanted a new doctor, that’s it.”

“What did you need one for?” He kept being suspicious.

“I needed a checkup,” you sighed and then you hung your head. “Fuck, you ruined it.”

“Ruined what?”

“A surprise. I wanted to tell you when we’d be alone in the evening… I’m pregnant,” you muttered and put the card back into the magazine. It was your bookmark.

“Wait, you’re… You really are?” Jack’s eyes sparkled and you looked up to meet his gaze. You nodded.

“Got my blood test’s results over the phone two days ago. I am,” you nodded.

“Does Maggie know?”

“For God’s sake, of course she doesn’t! She’d tell you straight away!” you chuckled. “But… I’m also scared.”

“Scared of what, doll?” Jack furrowed his brow and approached you to put his hands around your waist.

“That she’s gonna be jealous. You know what she’s like.”

“Yeah, I know what she’s like. She’s just like her mommy,” Jack teased. “Adorable, beautiful, smart and very fucking jealous,” he leaned in to kiss you but once again you got interrupted by the irritated voice of your daughter.

“Are you two coming or not?!”

“We’re coming,” you chuckled and turned around to face her. “The faster we eat, the faster we get our presents, am I right, Maggie?”

“Oh, mommy, unbelievable!” she exclaimed. “You’re sooooo spoiled! Daddy, you should do something about it!”

MASTERLIST

[moth-ink]

I feel like they'd have such varying reactions but it'd all boil down to just not understanding how to handle emotions properly, not only because they literally aren't HUMAN but also because they've all bottled up things for so long, I mean there's only so much you can bitch and moan about what you are when you know it isn't going to change (AHEM, Edward, AHEM)

I think Bella might be a little mad at Edward for leaving her, but as I said before she'd have an easier time forgiving Edward because he was at least trying to have her interest in mind even if he was wrong.

And I mean he literally tried to delete himself when he heard Bella died, so I think she'd just be happy he's still even on earth to come back to her.

Huge yap fest about the rest of the Cullens under the line

Alice as her supposed 'best friend' probably was only forgiven in that time during New Moon because she was slapped in the face with her coming back and then kicked in the ass at the fear of Edward oofing that she didn't really have time to be upset at Alice, but after everything calms down, she might start to be a little bitter.

I think Alice would go back to normal, I wouldn't be surprised if her visions affected her emotional intelligence (she started loving Jasper before she even met him, so clearly visions affect her present feelings) since she's seen everything be okay again, she's seen herself already forgiven.

It might take her a lil bit to realize that everything isn't entirely okay, maybe even triggering a vision of Bella getting upset at her, prompting her to act but not exactly in the right way.

Lots of gifts, I think she'd kind of think that money will solve this problem because shopping and buying outfits makes her feel better, she thinks she's showing Bella that she does care, look at all the pretty things she got for her! Don't you feel better?

Although I don't think you'll get this soft, heartfelt apology from Alice, a serious conversation might get her to pump the brakes and try to think more in the present instead of just thinking about presents, although that'd be unlikely since Bella isn't exactly that confrontational so Alice most likely would have to receive guidance from someone else.

Jasper wasn't particularly close to Bella, but he'd harbour some guilt as he is the reason they even left in the first place.

He wouldn't try to act like everything was normal as he can literally sense that everything is definitely not normal, but he's a bit too awkward to outwardly do anything about it.

Although he does care about Bella to some degree, he'd mostly just be worried about Alice, he could sense how she'd get progressively more and more distraught the longer her love bombing doesn't fix anything.

He wouldn't like to use his gift to lighten the situation, but he might use it to coax Bella into talking about it, since she has a tendency to shut down instead of discussing her feelings (theres a possibilityyyy)

Mostly he's just worried about Alice and the other family members who are more affected by her distance.

Surprisingly I think Emmett would be one of the first to actually get to the root of the problem, he's a bit of a meathead I know I know, and at first I think he'd also try to pretend like everythings okay, going back to that sort of big brother type but maybe upping it a bit more to try and win her back.

Lots of bear hugs, noogies and general big bro shenanigans.

HOWEVERRRR as I stated before, he had a little sister growing up, and since he's not as ancient as everyone else he still has some connection to his emotions as a human, especially ones that come from a lil sis.

He was the breadwinner of his family, when he was turned he was worried sick about them, hence the huge donation Carlisle made to them, but I still do think he worries that they think he abandoned him.

Although he's not really good with words, and might come off as kind of an awkward dad, he'd empathize with Bella and her feelings quicker than the others would, protecting her from anyone who dares to say anything negative.

Rosalie would not care, she might even think that Bella is being a bit overdramatic about her feelings, I think it stems from the fact it takes Rose awhile to build a strong relationship with someone, so she treats it as less of a deal since Bella hasn't known them for that long.

If anything she might be a little happy that Bella is distancing herself, that maybe being more seperate from the family would deter her from wanting to be a vampire.

HOWEVER, this could potentially bond them a bit better, one thing that I think will connect them is abandonment issues.

Think about it, Bella's parents divorced and her father didn't even fight for any custody of her, and then her mother got remarried and gave Bella the ultimatum to leave and let them travel or stay and tie them down.

Of course you could say 'Bella chose that!! Renee didn't want her to leave!!' but Renee knows how much Bella cares about her, she's always put Renee's needs before her own (*cough* parentification *cough*)

You can't argue that Renee didn't know that Bella would choose to leave, even if it made her miserable, she was the parent and easily could've said no, put Bella before her new husband and waited until she grew up enough to be on her own.

Bella's always been the one chasing, never the one being chased.

The Cullens leaving would only reinforce that, part of her clinginess to Edward would probably stem from the fact she's been taught that she needs to hold on with two hands or they'll leave her.

How would Rosalie relate to this? well look at her backstory, not only did her fiancee abandon her (among other terrible things that happened that night) and left her to die on the streets, imagine someone you love throwing you away so easily.

And her family wasn't that much better, Rosalie only stayed with Carlisle because she didn't want to be alone, even if she resented Carlisle for what he'd made her into.

She could've easily rejected him, go back to her family, but she didn't, maybe it was because she didn't want them to see what she'd become but it could also easily be because she'd already been abandoned.

Maybe they never tried to figure out what happened to her, her fiancé was a powerful man from a powerful family, and Royce never faced any consequences, it could be because he'd paid off her family to not kick up a fuss about her disapearance.

This could be a moment of relating to each other, the feeling of being left or forgotten in some way could bring them a little closer, although I doubt Rosalie would go all soft she might be more receptive to listening to Bella, granted that Bella listens as well.

It isn't much, but they might be able to have a stable conversation for once.

Esme, oh Esme, she'd be so guilty, even if Bella wasn't mad, she'd probably still be distraught, but she'd feel 100x worse since Bella IS upset.

Although she wouldn't dream of disagreeing with her feelings, I think she'd overcompensate so hard she'd miss the point of why Bella is upset in the first place.

Home cooked meals, presents, constant invites over to family activities, anything to include her back in the family.

If there was a discussion about it, Esme would break and probably beg her for forgiveness, if vampires could cry she'd be red faced and bawling, there might be a smidge of guilt tripping and accidentally making it about herself, oh Bella, she never wanted to leave you! she'd wanted to call so many times, it'd just break her heart if you kept her at arms length.

While Carlisle wasn't super close to Bella, his empathetic nature would leave him feeling terribly guilty, especially when he see's how distraught his wife is.

While he does have some grip on his emotions, he'd also lean a bit more into the buying gifts side of things, however I think he'd target the things that Bella likes and use that to sort of weasel his way back in.

Oh, Bella likes reading? why doesn't she come over to his very extensive library with only the plushest reading chairs then, and he just so happens to be taking a break from his paperwork when she's in there.

Although he would probably apologize in that adorable soft voice of his, he would try to ease back into acting normal however he'd probably be a lot more gentle and attentive.

The last thing he wants is for her to leave, however it stems more from caring about Edward than about her specifically, he doesn't want to lose the one thing that brings his son joy.

He would care a lot about her feelings, but I also think he'd register that she's not really one to talk about them, a bit of his doctor training would come out and he might gently coax her into talking more about it.

He might unintentionally treat her like a bit of a younger kid, but more in a way of being attentive than condescending, always there to help, to listen, to fix up any boo boo's no matter how minor they are.

I also think he'd fund things that brought her joy, like she wants to re-pick up her ballet skills, well it just so happens he's invested in a new dance studio being built for Forks.

He'll deny having anything to do with it, but when it eventually gets revealed to be named Bell Studio there might be a little suspicion.

But that's between him and the new car (that Rosalie is fixing up) for Bella in his garage :)

Bella distancing herself from the Cullens after New Moon because they up and left her (She had an easier time forgiving Edward because he actually had a REASON) and they desperately try to win her back (esp Alice, Esme and Carlisle) but don't know how because they're emotionally constipated vampires is an idea i'm normal about