#from the very big ones to the ones that seem inconsequential

[ambersky0319]

Jumped into writing Not of This World and am I possibly making too short of sections/adding too many chances for decisions on the reader's part to be made?

Poasibly.

But is that also the point that I want to convey with this story?

Yes.

[ickadori]

++ 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐘

[summary] wrio missed his wife, and she missed him just as much. two simps in love.

[cws] fluff. fem reader -> wriothesley’s wife. reader is a mondstadt native. kissing.

Wriothesley’s cup of tea pauses halfway to his mouth as there’s a knock at his office door. His fingers tighten unconsciously around the handle, that incessant throbbing at his temples that had been dying out suddenly tapping into its nth life.

He contemplates ignoring it; pretending he didn’t hear it and indulging in his fresh brew, but he’s never been one to shirk off his work, no matter how inconsequential the task.

He sets the cup down rougher than necessary, and the legs of his chair scrape loudly against the floor as he pushes it back from his desk and stands to his feet. Someone better be dead or on the verge.

It was an unspoken rule that Wriothesley wasn’t to be bothered at this time -a quarter after five until six- because it was official tea time, a very, very important time in his day that let the inhabitants in Meropide see his most agreeable side… although he had heard talk from a few gossipy guards and prisoners that his ‘pissy attitude’ this past month had nothing to do with his interrupted tea times, but rather that his wife had gone back to Mondstadt to visit family.

“You know how he gets when he doesn’t see her after a while—downright scary. I’ve never seen a man look so enraged and distraught at the same time.”

“He put me on pipe restoration duty —don’t laugh, it isn’t funny! Worst job in the whole place, I swear— for the next six months all because my wife dropped by with a bento on my break. Apparently no one can be happy when his missus is away.”

“I caught him staring at her picture the other day, y’know the one he keeps in that chain around his neck, and sighing like some schoolgirl. I nearly thought my daughter had somehow gotten herself arrested and thrown down here when I heard all those lovesick sighs.”

It was all hearsay and speculation, of course. Wriothesley could manage just fine with you away - he was a grown man, a weathered man, a man who could function fully without the company of his wife.

That’s right, he thinks to himself. He’s been doing just fine in your absence, a bit quicker to anger than usual, but with the looming threat of being turned into a big, sopping puddle right below his feet, could you really blame him?

The door is wrenched open, strands of black and gray flying back from where they rested against his forehead due to the strong gust of wind he created.

“What is it now?” He nearly hisses out, but he manages to get a reign on it last minute, the words coming out a bit strained instead. He eyes the guard standing in front of him, their eyes flitting between the crease between his brows and the floor. “Spit it out before I—”

He stops abruptly when he hears a voice that he knows intimately well, and had he possessed any shame when it came publicly displaying the love he harbored for you, he would have been a touch embarrassed at the speed of which his frown smoothed out and the throbbing in his head disappeared, a sparkle in his eyes as his shoulders lose a bit of their tension.

“Oh? He has? Thank you for telling me, Sigewinne. I’ll get right on that.” You come rounding the corner with the small doctor at your side, a knapsack in your hands, and had Wriothesley been any less sane, he would have swore that he could feel the rays of the sunshine beaming down on his skin and fresh air filtering into his lungs when you turned your gaze to him, scornful as it was.

You’re fitted in a dress that’s customary for the women in your homeland to wear, and flowers are weaved into your hair, and the ring on your finger seems to shine a bit brighter.

“Wriothesley.” You march up to him, eyebrows knitted together, and push your finger against his chest. “What is this I hear about you acting like a tyrant?”

“You look beautiful.” He breathes out.

“And going to the Pankration ring? You know those poor people don’t stand a chance against you. That’s just bullying.”

“Let me take your bag, it looks heavy.”

“And you haven’t been eating right, either! Look at your face — you’ve lost weight!” He transfers the bag from your hands to his, and when his fingers brush against yours, he finally lets a smile bloom on his face, being met with a huff. “Don’t smile at me. I’m mad at you.”

“Can’t help it, happy to see you.” You falter a bit, corners of your lips twitching, but you hold strong, choosing to save face in front of the onlookers—always put up a good fight, especially when others are looking, is what he had told you once upon a time. “I’ve missed you so much.” It comes out in a low murmur, eyes locked onto yours and refusing to stray, even when you decide that his gaze is a bit too heavy for the setting and avert your own.

“I-well-you…just get inside your office.”

He’s nice enough to hold back a chuckle, instead stepping to the side so that you can shuffle past him and inside. Before he shuts the door, his gaze turns icy and his smile thins out as he lets his eyes sweep over everyone present. A resounding groan is heard, the unspoken promise loud and clear, and then he’s pushing the door shut and turning on his heel.

You’re on him in a second, arms wrapped around his waist as you bury your face into his chest. He returns the hug just as quick, thick, burly arms circling around your shoulders as his head dips down so he can stuff his nose into your hair and breathe your scent in.

Your voice comes out muffled as you try to speak, and he loosens his hold on you a bit, allowing you to pop your head up so you can look up at him. There’s a halfhearted pout on your lips, and his response is a reflex as he leans down to give you a peck once, twice, three times before moving on to place one on the tip of your nose.

“You were supposed to let me scold you out there, birdie. Now everyone’s gonna know that I let you off easy.”

“Let me off easy? I’d say this is the meanest you’ve ever been to me,” he gives an exaggerated expression of hurt. “You haven’t even told me you missed me, or that you’re happy to see me, or that you’ll never leave again because you couldn’t stand being away from me.”

“You’re so dramatic.” You smile despite yourself, and he kisses you again, scarred hands moving to cradle your cheeks. You part with a gasp for air, and its his turn to smile when you stretch up to reconnect your lips, the lack of air not deterring you in the slightest.

“Breathe, sweetheart…” He rasps against your lips, and you suck in a breath, eyes slowly blinking as you tug at the material of his shirt. There’s a rush of emotions that washes over him at the unspoken confirmation that you missed him just as much as he had missed you, and he lets his hands wander down to settle on your waist, fingers flexing as they squeeze at the flesh there through the material of your dress.

“Well, well, well,” he starts, and you blink out of your stupor to don a guilty expression. “Looks like you haven’t been eating right, either, hypocrite.” He lightly pinches at your side, and you squeal out a laugh as you lightly bat at his hand.

“Have I told you that I missed you, and that I’m sooo happy to see you, and that I’ll never, ever leave again because I can’t stand being away from you?” You flutter your lashes up at him, direct that heart-stopping smile up at him, and for a split second he thinks that the primordial sea has broken the seal and reduced him to nothing but a puddle at your feet.

“Careful now, words like that are liable to kill a man, and this place isn’t fitting for a sweet girl like you.”

“Oh? Then maybe I should leave earlier than I intended t—” He quiets you with a kiss, and you laugh into it, earning a gentle nip on your bottom lip. Your teasing smile settles into something sweeter, tender, vulnerable, and it mirrors him perfectly.

You both speak your next words in unison.

“I missed you.”

[sweetpascal]

𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 — 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞

gif by @iamasaddie

pairing: perv!stepdad!joel x fem!reader

summary: it's the first day under your stepdad's care, and boredom hasn't crept in at all. you suggest having a movie night, and to your surprise, he agrees immediately.

warnings: MINORS DNI. age gap [18/52], pervy thoughts, joel is condescending, sweet nicknames (sweetheart, babydoll), joel calls himself 'daddy', overprotective joel (in a bad way), innocence kink, DUB-CON, NON-CON, sloppy thigh fucking, somnophilia, we're starting out soft

wc: 2.9k

notes: DON'T LOOK AT ME.

series masterlist | next chapter

Waving at your mom from atop the porch, you couldn't help but feel the giddiness bubbling up inside. At last, the house would be peaceful without her snide remarks about what you're, how you're speaking, how you're sitting, and so on. The comfort of relaxing in your own sanctuary was something you've eagerly anticipated since she announced her week-long departure. Although it meant seven days of serenity, your stepdad, Joel, would still be around, which was fine by you. Compared to your mom, Joel was the cool, calm, and collected one, making him the favored parent in your eyes.

As her car disappeared around the corner, you dashed back inside and inadvertently slammed the door with too much force. You winced and clenched your jaw, hastily covering your mouth with your hands as Joel stomped around the corner, his deep frown evident, and large hands planted on his hips in a wide stance.

"What have I told you about slamming doors in this house?" he asks, eyebrows raised, head tilted, waiting for your response. He gestures impatiently when you hesitate. His tone is stern, and his expression suggests he is not in the mood for games.

"Sorry, Joel," you say meekly, your lips curving into a small pout, your heart pounding in your chest while his stern expression remains unchanged. Tears begin to fall before you can hold them back. With a soft sniffle, you turn away, embarrassed, to wipe them off.

You hear him let out a deep sigh from as you try to hold in your little cries. You hear his slow, heavy footsteps as he approaches. Then, you feel his big hands rubbing up and down your arms before turning you around to pull you into his chest. He hushes you softly, tutting quietly when your cries turn into whimpers.

"Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, bending down to kiss your head softly. "No need for tears. I ain't mad at you, silly girl." With a curled forefinger, he gently lifts your chin. He dabs at your tears and plants another kiss on your forehead, the sensation of his scruff against your skin causing you to close your eyes.

"You're not?" you ask shyly, sniffling quietly as you begin to calm down. "But you seemed angry at me, Joel. It was very scary." Fidgeting with the buttons on his flannel shirt, you remain too nervous to meet his gaze, especially given the close proximity.

Joel's lips form into a grin as he realizes the storm of emotions that you're feeling. Now that the two of you will be alone for one whole week, he finally has enough time on his hands to break you down and put you back together repeatedly. He's finally going to be able to mold you into his perfect little dream girl.

"What can Daddy do to help you feel better?" Hm? Tell me," he says softly, urging you to gaze into his eyes, which you did. Hearing what he called himself made you laugh, which made his grin grow wider. "What's so funny, huh?" Poking you in your side, he laughs when you squirm.

"Mom said I shouldn't call you that," you say, releasing a soft sigh and returning to your button fidgeting. "She says that I'm old enough to use your name, and she thinks it's weird." Your voice carries a touch of sadness that Joel picks up on. He clenches his jaw at the thought of your mother's judgment over something so inconsequential to her.

Joel lifts your head gently, placing his finger under your chin. He gazes into your shining eyes, your eyelashes stuck together from the heavy tears that are beginning to dry. His other hand grips your hip, causing you to make a small noise. Being this close to him, looking up like this, felt so wrong. It was an uncomfortable closeness, especially from an outsider's perspective.

"Alright," Joel says with a playful sigh, bringing a smile to your face. "Fortunately, we have the entire house to ourselves for a whole week. I might not be as young as I used to be, but I'll do my best to keep up with whatever you want to do. Does that sound good?"

You hum loudly, swaying your hips from side to side in Joel's embrace while resting your chin on his head and jutting your backside out to gaze up at him more comfortably. He swallows hard, stifling a strained groan. You remain unaware, preoccupied with thoughts about how to kick off your week. Suddenly, as if an invisible light bulb shined brightly atop your head, your expression lights up.

"Movie night! With snacks! Oh, please, Daddy? Pleeeaaase," you whine, stretching out the last word as you pout and make puppy-like noises. Joel rolls his eyes and gives your backside a gentle pat, a familiar gesture from your private moments together. Now, he can express his affection openly, without hiding it from your mother in the same house.

"Get your butt upstairs and get ready," he motions with his head, signaling you to hurry. With a delighted squeal, you leap up, press a kiss on his stubbled cheek, and scamper up the stairs, slamming your bedroom door shut. A muffled apology comes through the door, and he chuckles, shaking his head.

The market was unexpectedly bustling. Each cash register featured a lengthy queue of customers eager to check out. Amidst the commotion, you found yourself drawing nearer to Joel, clutching the back of his shirt as you attempted to match his brisk pace.

"Make sure to stay close to me, sweetheart. We don't want you to get lost, okay?" Joel had repeatedly told you during the drive and now.

You nearly regret wearing such a pretty outfit on a hectic day. Dressed in a simple summer dress with delicate straps, sheer thigh-highs, and petite wedges, you find yourself wishing you had planned more wisely. But Joel's constant compliments, calling you pretty and ain't you a peach made it worth it.

As minutes passed, you inadvertently drifted away from Joel. You had both wandered through the candy aisle when the array of lollipops, gummy bears, and jellybeans captured your gaze. Standing there, like a child in a candy store, you were practically quivering with excitement at the thought of your stepdad purchasing anything you desired. While reaching for a small bag of gummy worms, you were jostled by someone, prompting a gasp to escape your lips as the bag slipped from your grasp.

A hand reaches down, picks it up, and extends towards you, presenting the bag. You tentatively accept it from the man, turning to face him and feeling a wave of discomfort at his unkempt appearance. He gives you a once-over as he licks his bottom lip. The sight of his thinning hair and prominent belly does little to ease your unease.

"I apologize for that, sweetheart," the term makes you recoil as it feels off when he utters it. When Joel says it, it elicits a sensation of floating and tingling. "I wasn't paying attention where I was going, but you certainly are a pretty sight. Are you here by yourself?" His unsettling stare compels you to want to shield your skin and escape to a distant place.

You sweep the aisle with your eyes, searching desperately for Joel's familiar broad form. Your heart and thoughts are calling out to him, wishing he could sense your distress telepathically and come to your aid against this nasty man. Gripping the candy bag closer to your chest, you watch as he edges nearer, feigning interest in a label just over your shoulder.

"My, uh, my stepdad... he... he, uh..." You couldn't bring yourself to form words as the man's fingers adjusted the fallen strap of your dress. Whimpering quietly, you pressed yourself harder into the shelf, closing your eyes tightly and silently hoping that this man would just go away.

Before the man could approach further, a large shadow loomed over your closed eyelids. As you opened your eyes, you were confronted with Joel's broad back, his masculine scent overwhelming your senses. His hands were balled into fists. Peering around him, you caught sight of the man's eyes, wide with fear, his expression betraying his predatory intentions. As your gazes locked, Joel once again shielded you with his frame.

"I suggest you walk away right now before you find yourself picking up your teeth from the ground," Joel warns in a low, menacing tone that you've never heard before—not even with your mother or step-uncle. It's terrifying to hear him like this, yet there's comfort in knowing he can protect you should things turn violent.

The man dashes out of the aisle, abandoning his basket of groceries without hesitation. Joel remains in front of you briefly, ensuring the man doesn't come back to check if you're alone again. As he turns to face you, the anger in his eyes and the scowl on his face grow more pronounced. He presses you against the shelf, invading your space in an intimidating manner.

"What the hell did I just tell you before we came here?!" he exclaims, almost shouting, his brows furrowed and his voice booming. "I ain't the one you should be playin' games with, little girl." He points a finger at your face, leaning in until his breath skims across your skin. "Repeat it," he commands in a deep, rough voice.

"I… I…" Overwhelmed by the situation, you burst into tears and cling to Joel, burying your face in his chest once more, sobbing uncontrollably. "I'm so sorry, Daddy! I didn't mean to get distracted! And then that man, he wouldn't leave me alone!" Joel struggles to understand you through your sobs, but he hushes you gently, enveloping you in his strong arms and softly patting your back.

Joel pinches the bridge of his nose, a gesture of exasperation at your naivety, so oblivious and innocent to the world around you. As your cries subside to hiccups and faint squeaks, he gently eases you away from his chest, indifferent to the tear stains on his shirt.

"Listen to me, and listen well," he says, his tone stern yet his large palms gently cupping your cheeks. "Men like that are the ones that wanna take you away from me. They wanna keep you locked away and keep you for their own. You're not smart enough to be left alone, sweetheart, because you get put into these situations and you don't know how to act. That's why when Daddy tells you to do something, you do it. Is that understood? Nod your head." He notices your eyes glazing over as you listen to him speak. Mimicking a nod, you snap out of your trance and return the gesture.

"I don't want anyone to take me away from you, Daddy," you whisper, the thought of being separated from Joel filling you with terror, and tears swiftly gather at the edge of your eyes once more. "It's scary."

Joel tuts at you, lowering his head to kiss your tear-stained cheeks. The salty taste of your tears on his tongue had a warmth spreading throughout his lower half. "I know, babydoll. I know," he murmurs, giving your butt a series of gentle pats as he kisses your forehead. "Daddy's here now. Get your snacks so we can leave."

That evening, you change into your sheep-patterned sleep shorts, a light white camisole, and cozy thigh-high socks. As you spin in front of the mirror, Joel's voice faintly calls you downstairs to start the movie. Laughing with excitement at the prospect of a movie night free from your mother's watchful eye, you clutch your beloved stuffed plushie and head out of your room.

Joel lounges on the couch, clad in sweatpants and a casual t-shirt. A bowl of buttered popcorn and assorted snacks are spread out on the coffee table. Beside him, a beer for himself and, thoughtfully, your preferred strawberry kiwi juice. The sound of your footsteps hurrying down the stairs reaches him. He contemplates reprimanding you, yet as you appear, the words dissipate unspoken.

The cool air made your nipples turn into peaks that poke through your thin top. The thigh-highs squeeze your thighs and makes them look extra plushy and grabbable. He takes a deep swallow and sips his beer, his gaze fixed on your appearance. You extend your hands, silently inquiring about your look. Joel scans you from head to toe once more, giving a nod of approval as his jaw tightens.

"You look very pretty, baby doll," he tells you in a strained voice, motioning for you to come closer as he lays out across the couch, his back against it. "Come cuddle so we can start the movie."

Approaching, he could detect the uncertainty in your body language and facial expressions. "Are… Are you sure we should cuddle? Will my mom be upset?" The naive inquiry prompted a rough chuckle from Joel. Your embarrassment was palpable as he laughed openly at your question.

"Oh, honey," he mocks sympathy and stares at you from his sprawled position on the couch. "You seem to keep forgetting in that little head of yours that I'm in charge of this house, and whatever I say, goes. Now, when I tell you to come over here, I expect you to do it without questioning me."

The commanding tone of his voice brooked no argument. To enjoy the week with Joel, you had to push your doubts and hesitations away, instead of fretting over your mother's opinion on the closeness between you two. Joel seemed to understand better; he knew what was best for you, and as he put it, his word was final.

As you approached where he lay, you could just make out him whispering, "That's my girl." The praise made you blush, cherishing the moments when you're told you're doing well and being a good girl for it. Joel consistently offered such verbal reassurance, never hesitating, even in your mother's presence. She, however, often showed her irritation with his way of praising you.

For god's sake, Joel. She's a woman, not a little girl anymore.

You eagerly lay beside him, your back pressed against his chest, as Joel draped a blanket over both of you and started the movie, "The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent." It was a moment you had anticipated ever since you mentioned to Joel how much the character Javi resembled him. Trembling with excitement, you snuggled closer to Joel, your smile buried in the stuffed animal you held, while his arm drew you in even tighter. A pleasant hum vibrated from his chest against your back.

Only thirty minutes into the movie, Joel heard a soft snore beside him. With furrowed brows, he leaned over and saw your closed eyes and parted lips, your arms clutching your stuffed animal to your chest as you hummed sleepily. Shaking his head, he lay back and pulled you closer, smiling to himself as you unconsciously snuggled into him. When Joel makes sure that you're fully asleep, he inches hips back and lowers the blanket off your body. Your sleep shorts had ridden up your thighs, further exposing your lower cheeks and giving him a glimpse of your panties.

"Fuck," he breathes out, feeling his cock beginning to harden and thicken in his sweatpants. With one hand holding onto your hip to keep you steady, Joel begins to grind his cock against your ass, slotting his covered thickness between your cheeks and breathing heavily into the back of your neck. "Goddamn."

You never once stir as you're so deep in your slumber, unaware of the world around you and what Joel is doing to your unconscious body. He can practically feel his tip leaking in his sweats, the gray color darkening as precum stains the fabric. Erratically, but careful enough to not wake you, he lowers his sweatpants and guides his thick cock between your thighs, the tightness of them closed creating a delicious friction that had his mouth dropping. Joel hikes your shorts higher up your waist, forcing the fabric tighter against the shape of your virgin pussy.

He fucks his hips forward and back, sliding his cock deeper between your thighs and further against your covered cunt. Sweat dots at his hairline and the back of his neck as the warmth in his gut coils tighter and tighter. He hears the distinct slick of his precum staining your inner thighs as he abuses them without your knowledge.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he grunts low in his throat, his hand tightening on your hip to position your body in a better way for him to fuck your thighs. "Daddy is such a dirty man, ain't he?" He fucks your thighs faster and faster, his thighs slapping against the back of your own gently. Surprisingly, the movement and noise doesn't wake you.

As he continues muttering to himself, Joel doesn't realize just how close he was. His balls were heavy with cum, waiting to be exploded onto your unexpected skin. The tip of his cock was throbbing with need and dribbling with more precum. His abdomen tightens when you shift and arch your back in your sleep, briefly tightening your thighs and rubbing them together.

The sudden friction had Joel choking on air before he hunches over your body and watches his cum shoot out of his engorged tip and onto the couch. He's biting down on the pillow as his thighs shake. He just won't stop cumming.

"Holy shit," he grunts quietly, falling back against the couch and swiping a hand down his sweaty face. He breathes heavily, wincing and tucking himself back into his sweatpants. He glances over at the tv, and Javi comes onto screen. He scoffs and shakes his head to himself. He doesn't see the resemblance.

taglist:

@yesjazzywazzylove-blog @blueberrypancakesworld @heyhihello-4771 @codenamekitten @chamepagnessimo @idioticcatss @takochansugoi @zjasminelouvre3

!! let me know if you wanna be added to the next chapter !!

[my-cherie]

𝗠𝗢𝗢𝗡 𝗪𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗭♡

pairing ꒱ lucifer x fem reader / warnings ꒱ prey/predator kink + praise kink + pet names: little sheep, lamb, love + blood kink + primal play + dirty talk + oral (f receiving) + very slight breeding kink + dacryphilia + possessive behavior. wc ꒱ 2.2k / thoughts ꒱ no one can tell me that lucifer doesn't have a primal kink. somewhat inspired by the song moon waltz by mio isayama. NOT BETA READ.

You tried to quieten your breathing, your heart racing and breath coming in short, sharp bursts as you tried to hide from him. Heart pounding so loud you were sure he was going to hear, despite your attempts to outrun and outsmart him.

How were you supposed to run away from someone in their own home? How were you supposed to hide from him when he seemed to know exactly were you were before you were even there? It was helpless. Your trembling legs seemed like they were about to give out at any moment, but you couldn't stop running, you had to start up again, now.

It had started out simply enough.

You were sitting in one of Lucifer’s armchairs in his office, waiting for him to finish whatever paperwork he was working on this time and chatting quietly, warmed by the lit fireplace of his private study and fighting off sleep, having shared a bottle of Demonus with him earlier in the day.

By now, it was a rainy night and the office was dark because Lucifer insisted on having only candles lit at this time of the night. The dark clouds that hid the moon also didn’t help.

As you made conversation, your gaze didn’t stray from his person, observing his every reaction to your chitter chatter and your eyes darting to his mouth from time to time when he deemed sensible to retort your silly observations.

Because of the way you were watching him so closely, you saw how, at the same time you made some inconsequential comment about how you and Mammon had to run away yet again from some odd merchant because of the demon’s proclivity for getting scammed, you also noticed how Lucifer’s eyes seemed to sparkle to life, a mischievous glint in them.

“A chase, huh?” He hummed noncommittally, his tone giving nothing away and his fingers barely twitching as he stopped his writing.

“Yeah,” you had said, unsure if you had somehow pissed the demon off. “It was fun, really. Got my blood pumping. The adrenaline you get from being chased is no joke.”

This time, you didn’t notice the twinkle in the man’s eyes, nor how his lips formed a brief smirk for a beat. You didn’t notice any of that, which is why you were completely blindsided by Lucifer’s next words.

“Run, then, little sheep.” He got up from his seat, rounding the desk in long strides and pausing briefly when you didn’t move instantaneously.

“W-What?”

“Run.” He pounced suddenly and you didn’t have to be told a third time to understand that you needed to get out of his office now before you were caught.

Racing up the stairs to the door that led to the house’s library, you yanked the door open, barely having time to slam it closed before you were sprinting down the hallways of the House of Lamentation, the sound of his hastening steps hot on your heels, too close for your liking.

At first, you tried to lose him in the many hallways and doors of the big mansion, going up multiple staircases and almost entering some of the brothers rooms in your desperation. But no matter what you did, you could still hear the beating of his wings as if he was only toying with you, always one step ahead.

At some point, when entering the dining room, his silhouette seemed to appear from outside the windows, as if he was looking at you from above, observing his prey in smug amusement. Lucifer was relentless in his pursuit. No matter what room you entered or what way you went, he was there.

It was when his fingers touched your shirt briefly while he followed you that your body experienced a true fight or flight response, having to decide between running away or accepting defeat. At that time, running until your thighs burned and your lungs couldn’t take it anymore seemed like the best option.

Eventually stopping briefly to catch what little breath you could, you strained your ears to listen for any indication of Lucifer’s presence, but couldn’t help closing your eyes for a short while to rest. Your body was giving up on you, tired beyond limits from the amount of running you did in so little time.

You didn’t hear him coming. Suddenly, a strong hand closed around your left arm, tossing your back to the wall you were closest to. Your eyes opened up abruptly, gasping in surprise at the sudden motion and in slight pain at the hit. In front of you, caging you in between himself and the wall, his arms spread, blocking whatever escape plan you could try to muster up, breathing nearly as ragged as yours, disheveled hair and in his demon form, was Lucifer.

“Got you, little sheep.” It was a low croon against your ear, his hands just as quickly adjusting so he was holding your waist and neck, teeth rasping under your jaw.

His tongue was hot as he dragged it across your neck and then to your lips—his kiss bruising and passionate—that has you unwittingly shivering against him. As he devours your lips, teeth nibbling on your lower lip and nicking it hard enough for it to bleed, your eyelids close in a daze and you melt into his rough touch.

It’s when he pulls away from you that you realize that you were not into the hallway anymore, but in Lucifer’s bedroom, his sharp teeth stretching into a prideful grin at your amazed reaction. You notice that they are stained with red and shiver. Stained with your blood.

Once again, Lucifer moved quickly before you could react, shoving the sharp blade of his nose to your cheek and licking the drops of of sweat off your face that had formed after his hunt for you. He inhaled deeply, engraving your scent in his memories: fear, excitement, longing.

“You’re mine, lamb,” he growls, “I won our chase fair and square. Let me have you all to myself. Let me claim you.”

You nod your head quickly, still short on air and disorientated from his kiss. It’s not good enough for the first born.

“Say it. Say you’re mine, give yourself to me.” His grip moves to your throat, tightening faintly and strangling a short whine from you.

“I’m yours, Lucifer!” Looking into his crimson eyes, your own glimmered faintly with tears. “You won. Take me, please.”

Your begging seemed to be what did it for him, as he buried his face in your neck again and his teeth sunk into you, marking your unmarred skin possessively. A choked whimper escaped your lips as you felt sharp pain in your neck. Blood trickled down willingly into his mouth, once again staining his teeth red and letting him savor the metallic taste of you. He drank and sucked at your neck as the bleeding came to a stop.

“Good girl.” He praises you as he distances himself from your throat and rips your shirt off unceremoniously.

It's addicting how pitiful you look right now. He can't get enough.

Taking off his gloves in one motion, one of his hands cups your boobs, thumbs exploring your nipples and tweaking them ’til stiff while the other takes care of your jeans, jerking them off unceremoniously so he can have access to your soaked folds. He hums appreciatively once his fingers find your cunt, already wet for him.

“Already soaking wet for me and we’ve barely done anything, little lamb.” He laughed as he stood upright again, his wings letting wind flicker at your bare arms as you shivered because of the cold air. He sank to his knees suddenly and you were sure that you were the only one to have ever seen the Avatar of Pride like this, his hands spreading your legs more and making space for his head between your thighs.

As his tongue first laps at your clit, then drags across your pussy, you keen lowly, eagerly trying to raise your hips and grinding against his mouth for more friction. As he groans straight into your pussy, he continues to eat you out eagerly, lapping at your juices and raising his palm to press against you as two of his fingers slid inside you with little to no preparation.

“Taste so good, love, do you make a mess of yourself for everyone like this? Or is this just for me?”

“Mmmm…no, just you, Lucifer.” You whined, begging him to keep going. “Please, give me more.”

You could only continue moaning at every action of his, especially when he continued sucking your clit while he stroked inside of you, looking for your g-spot. It was when he finally found that spongy spot he was looking for that your hands came down to his hair, holding onto him tightly and making Lucifer groan as you rutted against his mouth, adding another finger to prepare you for him later.

“Luci, ‘m close, ‘m close!” You whimpered as you neared your orgasm, tightening your hold onto him, begging him to keep going and sobbing in pleasure.

Yet, as you were close to falling off that precipice, you felt Lucifer stop everything. As he broke free of the hold your tights had on him, he grinned up at you in a wild manner, his mouth stained with you. And as he rose to his feet, he took your arms in his hands once again, guiding you gently towards the bed so you both could lay down, careful to not let you fall because of your trembling legs.

The contrast of his earlier vicious actions and his now tender touch made you pliable to him as he placed you down and took care of his own clothing fairly quickly, his pupils still clearly dilated and his palms eager to have you.

Seeing as you were already fully naked, you could watch as every piece of clothing got torn off Lucifer’s body, your eyes memorizing every detail of him as your fingers trailed down to your soaked pussy to touch yourself, desperate for any pleasure after he left you hanging so close to your orgasm.

Mercifully, he didn’t take long at all, leaning over you in the bed, taking your hands in one of his and pushing your legs against your chest, putting his whole body weight onto you in a mating press. His hand caged both of yours for but a moment before he released them, lowering his head to you and kissing you desperately again.

“Such a sweet thing,” he murmured, “so pretty underneath me. Were you so needy to have me that you couldn’t even wait until I finished undressing?”

His words had you humming in soft encouragement as his cock pressed against your slick folds. “You want this, don't you?” he says, his voice ragged with lust. “Say it. Say it and I’ll give it to you."

“I want you, Luci, wan’ you so bad,” your body trembling in anticipation, you try to grind against him, your hips rolling down to feel his tip. “Please give me your cock.”

You’ve barely stopped speaking when his hips pull back and he pushes inside of you in one thrust, your cunt squeezing his cock as he bullies his way into you, his tip touching your cervix and his balls against your folds.

He doesn’t wait for you to adjust to his size, fucking you like a man starved, caught up in the push and pull of your body, in the way your pussy practically begged him to stay inside you, clenching around him so sweetly and squeezing his dick. Your pleading whines were like the finest classical music for him and the way your moans mingled with his groans and the slaps of his hips on your ass made him feel like he was back in Heaven again. You felt like perfection.

You drop your head back, whining at how full you feel with him deep inside you like this, his thrusts relentless and with an intensity you can’t help but want to run away from, taking your breath away once again. However, your head doesn’t stay like that for long before Lucifer is pulling you to him once again, grabbing your hair and staring deeply into your eyes.

"Look at me," he commands, his eyes dark and intense. "I want to see your face. I want to see how much you're enjoying this, little lamb."

He reaches down, one hand on your hip and the other going in between your legs, rubbing your clit in quick, irregular circles. The sensation is overwhelming, pushing you closer to the edge as you wrap your legs around his waist, your fingers digging into his back as he picks up the pace, driving into you with increasing ferocity as his thrusts get faster and deeper, overwhelming you both.

You can feel your orgasm building once again, your body on the verge of exploding with pleasure. Each time he pushes into you, you gasp, your body responding to his touch with a fierce hunger. You're lost in the sensation of him fucking you.

"Come with me, Luci, please," you moan into his ear as you finally get sent over the edge, clenching around him, your body convulsing with pleasure as you release yourself around him. Lucifer follows closely, thrusting as deep as he can and releasing his seed deep inside you, marking you as his, finally.

As you both come down from the rush, your bodies calming down and your breathing going back to normal, Lucifer kisses you softly on the lips, his touch gentle now, before detaching himself from you and climbing out of bed to get you a warm towel from the bathroom, very softly cleaning you both up.

“I hope that wasn’t too rough, love, I fear I may have gotten a bit carried away today.” He whispers in your hair, Lucifer’s arms wrapping around you so that you can both cuddle on the bed. As you assured him that it was all good, he sighed sweetly. “Good night lamb, sweet dreams.” He kissed you once more, before you both drifted off to sleep.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

gojo always seems to be off in a world of his own.

a little detached, you think. awkwardly long limbs constantly on the move, eyes stuck in a direction no one else can follow, a trajectory you don’t think even he knows. one blink and he's gone, just like that. too far ahead, too far above, even on the occasions he slows down and lets you catch up.

flimsy, maybe. like he’ll get carried away by the breeze when spring rolls around. like he’d turn into seafoam if you reached out and touched him.

satoru gojo is an anomaly, a blurry cluster of stars. or maybe more like a planet, big and blue, spinning around its own orbit, out of reach for every single star in the sky. high and mighty, cocky and cool, silly and bright — but there's a softness to him when he's alone. something that almost seems fragile, under the light of the moon, when the dark sky casts a shadow to obscure the contours of his face — and no one’s around to notice if his smile isn't as big as it should be.

no one except for you, anyhow.

(you wonder if your presence is really that inconsequential to him.)

the beach is entirely empty, save for you and gojo. and summer’s ending, burning into little cinders, sputtering out before your very eyes.

tokyo is just beginning to dip its toes into autumn, the frost and chill, the hiss of the biting wind. the rusting of leaves, contaminated by a muddy hue, turned orange and brown and red beneath your heavy feet; littering the murky, empty streets of the rainy towns you cross. smelling of rotten apples and cinnamon, old books and burning wood.

it’s dark out. painted a thick gray, the sky is blanketed by heavy clouds, the entire world hidden behind that coating of wool. not a single sliver of starlight slips through, but there's a comfort to it, that feeling of being cocooned — safe and warm. a feeling cruelly stripped away by the nipping of the wind at your bare skin, but you digress.

everything smells of saltwater. a little like rotten fish. every breath you exhale turns into a flurry of vapour, mingling with the breezy seasalt of the open air; scattering away into the thin layer of mist all around you, until you can’t tell which is which. 

and a sense of foreboding sinks into your veins.

(you look out at the jagged rocks piercing the surface of the sea, and dully wonder how they’d feel piercing your skin.)

something shivers, to your right. a flicker of movement, a barely audible chatter of teeth. and then, a white puff of vapour.

”man, it’s cold.”

gojo looks displeased. 

only vaguely, a little crease between his eyebrows as he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his puffy baseball jacket. moving his feet a little, to warm up, snowy tufts of white hair tousled by the ocean breeze. his shoes are muddied by the wet sand, but he doesn't seem to mind.  

a soft scoff leaves your lips, mostly harmless. maybe just a little smug. ”told you,” you click your tongue. 

gojo whines. his sunglasses are starting to fog up, you notice. ”it’s still summer!” he pouts. ”i thought the sea would be nice and breezy!”

an unimpressed look smooths over your features. gracing him with a raise of your brow, you don’t fully manage to bite back the soft smile that follows. don’t even really attempt to.

it’s been a long day. evidently not long enough for gojo, seeing as he dragged you down here — even though he knew it meant missing the train you were supposed to board after successfully finishing your mission. he just had to get a closer look at the sea. just for a moment or two. 

and he was insistent, persuasive. awfully whiny. assuring you that he’d be quick, that you wouldn’t miss the next one. 

(what made you agree was simply the thought of spending some more time with him. not like you could ever tell him that, though.)

so there you stand. two juveniles, shivering and shifting from foot to foot, on the brink of nightfall, the edge of summertime. watching the sea stretch out into infinity, across the gap between this world and the next. a murky blue. easy on the eyes.

the noise of the sea fills your ears; waves crashing into sand, the whistling of the wind, seagulls crying out in the distance. and faraway, the chatter of a rattling train. a cacophony of sounds, buzzing and crackling, melting together. scattered across the beach are countless tiny white seashells, and the occasional green glimmer of drift glass — mermaids’ tears, shed for lost sailors, or so you’ve heard.

you wonder if the mermaids ever shed tears for lost sorcerers. probably not.

a shiver runs through your body, down to your cold hands, the tips of your fingers. reddish and itching for warmth. you tuck them into your pockets with a breathless exhale, still shaking a little. 

in truth, you and gojo aren’t very close. you’d like to call him a friend, but it's kind of hard; when he's so enamored with suguru, so animated around shoko. with you, he always seems kind of —

stiff? 

or maybe more like bored.

he doesn't laugh as loudly, doesn’t act as cocky. doesn't flaunt his knowledge on sorcery, and isn't as clingy as he is with the other two.

(you've never liked people touching you. it's not hard for others to discern, with how you flinch away when they get close.

still, you can't help but feel a little jealous when you see him tugging suguru and shoko around.)

deep within your chest, like a stunted seaweed, sprouts a tiny pang of disappointment. it’d be nice if you could grow closer, you think.

just a little would be fine. 

”i like the sea.”

you turn your head.

gojo looks a little lost in thought. gaze trained on that expanding ocean before you, those splotches of blue and gray, the waves that bruise the edge of the sand. forlorn, maybe.

a hum buzzes in your dry throat. ”do you?”

”mm.” little white breaths slip from his lips. you wonder if they’d taste as salty as the air. ”’ts nice.”

a silence stretches out before you. delicate, like a sheet of glass. gojo picks at a piece of lint on his sleeve, and you shift from foot to foot. then he closes his eyes — a flutter of his dewy eyelashes.

”kinda makes you feel like everything’s about to end, huh?”

you look at him, but don’t see anything. a single glimpse of his closed eyes is all you gain from the glance you cast his way, but it’s not enough. not enough blue to fall into, no expression to savour. he looks the same as always.

but you’ve never heard his voice sound like this before.

”… end?”

and with that, they flicker open. there it is, you think. that vibrant blue. only to be obscured once more, when he turns to you fully, a smile playing at his glossy lips. ”don’t think so?”

a second passes. you look forward.

what you see is as follows: waves upon waves upon waves. the same blue and gray, as far as the eye can see. a sea big enough to drown each and every one of your worries. 

something comes over you. a sensation of loneliness, something close to longing. a feeling of being rather lost. searching for something. your heart feels heavy, an anchor sunk to the bottom of your gut. little fish nipping at your ribcage. your eyes trail over those jagged rocks, again; the mermaids’ tears, that all-consuming sea, right in front of you. like it could open its maw and devour the world.

you think of the lost sailors.

(one jump and it’s all over.)

a breath. salty on your tongue. ”… i guess i get it,” you whisper. a soft murmur, mingling with the mist. 

silence.

out of the corner of your eye, you see gojo shift. one moment he’s looking at you, the next he’s staring at the sea. in tandem, the two of you, stuck within that shade of blue. and you think he looks a little mesmerized, like he’s seeing something not even he can fully comprehend.

(maybe he just hasn’t had many chances to go to the beach before. something to do with being a clan kid, maybe?)

but then he clears his throat, hands moving to brush some sand off his puffy jacket and jeans. turning on his heel, hair ruffled by the breeze. he tries to sound chipper, but there’s something else there. you don’t know what it is, but…

”anyway,” he chirps. ”let’s go. we can still make it to the next train if we hurry.”

you look at him. his retreating figure, a head of white hair, surrounded by mist. a little like an apparition. then you turn towards the sea.

”… nah, that’s fine.”

a pause.

gojo stills, just about to take the first step forward. but you stay rooted in place; unmoving, staring at the blue before you, a deep longing reflected in your eyes. 

”let’s stay a little longer,” you hum, unsure of where the words came from. but you know you aren’t ready for the moment to end, just yet. that you aren’t quite ready for summer to pass.

…

all he does is stare, for a second or two. attempting to find some humour in your voice, you assume, any signs that you might just be joking. but he doesn’t find it. uncharacterstically silent, gojo stays frozen in place. 

then he puffs out a breath — amused. 

”you wanna freeze to death?” he grins, and you can hear it in his voice. you turn to face him, almost smiling. a little cheeky.

”you’ll warm me up, no?”

the words fall from your lips before you can think to reel them in. meant to sound a little snarky, you think, something akin to a chuckle — but instead come out sounding a little too much like an honest request. 

the tips of your ears feel a little warm, suddenly.

a sense of surprise smooths over the contours of gojo’s face, and his grin falters. you can’t see his eyes, can’t tell if they widen or not, but his lips part, and you note that they look soft. 

and it’s back. that grin. toothy, boyish. his cheeks are rosy, from the chill of the air, or so you assume. then he’s taking a couple strides forward, broaching the distance between you.

he throws an arm over your shoulder. a heavy weight against you, grounding, causing you to stumble. friendly, tugging you close. into his orbit.

(no infinity, you note. you can feel his body heat seeping through the fabric.)

it's nice. he's tall, and he's warm. cozy, protecting you from the bitter cold, like your own personal furnace. no wonder suguru never catches any colds, with someone like this draped over him all the time.

gojo speaks. there’s a sweetness to his voice, a mellow kind of contentment; bubbling up like seafoam, spilling from his glossy lips. you can feel his warm breath on your skin.

”well, duh.”

when your gaze falls on him, he's already looking at you. leaning closer, sunglasses slipping a little further down the bridge of his nose — enough to expose the blue of his eyes, the tiny splotches of white scattered across his aquamarine iris. like a cracked marble. or a summer sea.

he’s speaking again, and you almost don't hear it. distracted by those cracked marbles, the strawberry red of his cheeks, the warmth shared between you. the pitter patter of your heartbeat, like waves crashing against the sand. mesmerized. not daring to look away. almost like you’d cease to exist, were he to close his eyes. like your existence hinges entirely on the blue of those eyes.

(and maybe it does.)

he nods towards the sea, and grins. a mischievous glint in his eyes. ”wanna take a dip?” he asks, and you can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

it makes you laugh, either way.

”do you want to freeze to death?” you raise a brow, exhaling amusedly. subtly angling your body closer to his, hoping he won’t notice.

gojo honest to god giggles, at that, and you fear your knees might give out beneath your weight. fuck, has he always had dimples? why are you only noticing them now? 

”hehe. i just think it'd be fun!” he chirps, still draped over you like an overgrown cat, and you almost find yourself saying yes. just to keep the summer from ending, keep him from being swept away by the breeze.

but summer is ending. slipping away, second by second, like two juveniles drowned by an ocean wave. never to be found. and in comes autumn, the smell of rotting apples, the crunch of sand beneath your feet; an arm over your shoulder, an intake of breath. the taste of nice, crispy air on your tongue. 

a chuckle flows from your lips. all you see before you is blue, a murky shade, a vibrant hue. you think you could drown in it. you’re not sure you’d mind.

”maybe next time,” you whisper.

gojo’s eyes widen. ever so slightly, barely enough to even notice, until they bloom — with a kind of bubbly excitement. unconcealed giddiness. there’s something awfully precious about it, like a child buying cotton candy at their first fair. it makes you want to tuck him into your pocket. keep him safe.

you like him, unfortunately. inevitably. you think you may even like him a lot, a little more than you should. a little more than he could reciprocate. 

satoru gojo. high and mighty, cocky and cool. silly and bright. a seaborne boy with his very own orbit, born to carry the weight of the world, spinning so close that you can almost delude yourself into thinking he feels the same. 

almost.

(gojo glances at your lips. he wonders if they’d taste as salty as the air.)

[leehallfae]

the devil in the dark is a great episode for sooooo many reasons but something i particularly love is its characterization of kirk & spock, especially how the story juxtaposes their initial attitudes vs. their actions as well as juxtaposing them against one another. for most of the episode, kirk is very firmly situated in the command role: he’s laser-focused on his goal of eliminating whatever has been killing the miners. he has a plan & he sticks to it. he can’t afford to entertain ideas about capturing the creature for scientific study rather than killing it, because that introduces more risk to his crew. his mission is to protect as many lives as possible, full stop.

however, when he sees the horta in that cave, his first instinct isn’t to shoot. he’s wary of course, brandishing a phaser for his own safety, but he’s also curious & gentle. he studies her with wonder shining in his eyes. his movements mirror her own—he immediately picks up on the fact that she isn’t necessarily hostile towards him, & in response, he slowly, carefully, sets aside his own hostility as well. he speaks to her, makes little jokes. he watches her in perpetual amazement & intrigue, very cautiously extending a metaphorical hand to say, i don’t want to hurt you. it’s a big leap from “your orders are shoot to kill,” & that reveals a lot about kirk. he’s a good commander, he knows how to handle a dangerous situation while minimizing risk to his crew, but he’s also curious. kind. optimistic. gentle. in the heat of the moment, when he’s the only one at risk, his basic instinct doesn’t say fight, it says listen.

meanwhile, spock is immensely intrigued by the horta; he regrets that it will most likely be necessary to kill her in order to protect themselves. he spends most of the episode speculating on the fascinating science of a silicone-based life form. he even (very subtly) challenges kirk’s order by telling the security team to capture the creature if possible. he isn’t eager to use force, because he simply isn’t that kind of person—he’s curious by nature, like kirk. so it seems a great shift when, upon hearing that the horta is near kirk, he shouts through the communicator, “kill it, captain! kill it!”

realizing that kirk is in danger is like flipping a switch. the way he carries himself changes in an instant. urgency flares to life in his eyes & voice. as wild with it as a vulcan can get. freezing in place, then breaking into a run, calling out, forgetting rank. to him, the most preferable—the most logical—course of action is not to explore why the horta has not attacked the captain yet; rather, it is to eliminate the threat to kirk as soon as possible.

in a way, they represent both a reversal & a mirror of each other in this episode. kirk is a decisive & capable fighter, but his instincts steer him towards gentler things. spock prioritizes scientific inquiry & discovery, but it all appears inconsequential when his friend’s life is on the line. they balance each other, complement each other. it’s why they’re such a good command team. it’s why they fall so easily into such a deep bond. both of them, ultimately, act from a place of love.

[shunnedmorlock]

you know what's something i realized? rhaenyra talks on and on about how just furious she is about blood and cheese, and then she just... doesn't do anything about it. like, she has this whole dramatic confrontation with daemon about it and it's supposed to be this big turning point and then she just... lets him leave.

if she's so incensed by what he's done and wants justice for alicent and her family, why not call for her guards to arrest daemon for his actions? if she wants peace, why not come to alicent with daemon's head in a sack? the whole scene is supposed to show us that rhaenyra is not the monster the greens paint her as, yet in actuality it shows us that rhaenyra merely tacitly accepts the support of monsters. it doesn't matter if she personally didn't do it. by refusing to punish daemon, she condoned his actions.

and this isn't necessarily a bad thing, character-wise! rhaenyra being someone who recoils from brutal violence on paper, but tacitly condones it when done in her name, would be very interesting! but the issue is that no one calls her out on it! alicent just takes it as a given that rhaenyra wasn't responsible, and then doesn't seem to take any interest in which of her allies was responsible, and the show carefully elides the very fact that rhaenyra has made a decision by letting daemon go. the show takes pains to present it as if daemon is a force of nature, as if rhaenyra can no more stop him than she can stop the rain, because to do otherwise might make her a more complex figure.

and this really goes to the root of the problem with rhaenyra. in the books, rhaenyra is a character who makes a lot of decisions that reveal uncomfortable or unsavory aspects to her character. but the show wants rhaenyra to be a Good Guy. yet they can't replace her bad decisions with good decisions, because then they'd be completely changing the plot. so instead, they replace her bad (or even just mean) decisions with indecision. she doesn't decide to kill Vaemond - Daemon decides for her. she doesn't decide to do Blood and Cheese - Daemon decides for her. she doesn't decide to condone Blood and Cheese - Daemon (somehow) decides for her. she doesn't decide to go to war - Alicent decides for her.

the end result of all of this is that Rhaenyra's character flaws get removed, but they aren't replaced with anything notably or impressively good. because the show can't be a story about a good and honorable Queen unjustly overthrown by ungrateful lords. so instead, she's bland. a character who is supposed to be unique in that she Decides things on such a great scale is only allowed to make the smallest and most inconsequential decisions, lest she make a mistake.

[bylrlve]

Warning! Potential Spoilers for Stranger Things 5!

A compilation of recent tweets made by Alex and others about the mileven ‘making out in a field’ leak. Alex is insisting that this scene is separate from the sequence involving them talking on the rooftop, the scene which was leaked as a video back in January. According to 011scenes this scene happens ‘at the beginning’ aka in episode one.

The issue? Alex’s sources are people who speak to paps (which she lied about in answering a cc question; either that or she’s clueless), and who deliberately feed her inconsequential things production dgaf abiut because it distracts from the juicy shit e.g., what Mike and Will are doing. She was told ‘Robin and Will have a scene’ and that morphed into ‘Will is in his unrequited mopey Steve era, Jonathan and Robin don’t share scenes’, etc. The source said nothing about Byler being finished or about passionate makeouts.

I’m suspicious of the second anon’s claim about Finn, as Noah is straight-up went on TikTok live right before filming commenced in January to read out byler endgame and Byler kiss comments lmao. The bit about the love triangle being kept under wraps seems accurate enough - they’re openly passing out scraps of mileven to leakers to pass onto Alex, and it’s pretty clear they didn’t care about that mileven video hitting national news website in the Uk (daily mail). Byler? On lockdown. The only thing we know is the hospital stuff and that’s due to specific leakers, and even then it’s not that much. It is clearly a big question going into s5 for the GA, so it being kept tightly guarded is unsurprising.

The context of the kiss will be interesting, regardless of if it’s pro-mileven or somehow anti-. Alex indicates that it’s only them present in the field - BUT she’s also said that she outright leaves Will out of ‘leaks’ and gave the example of Max, Lucas, and Will having a scene but her only reporting Lumax having a scene, so… S4 mileven was a concerted effort to show that the characters had matured from s3, and that their fight was more serious. They only kissed once, and that briefly, and were… unaffectionate at the end of the season, to say the very least. The reversion to kissing in broad daylight, in an apocalyptic setting when El will be mostly hiding with Hopper from the military, feels a little out of character - and will certainly be jarring tonally and thematically.

Alex received this dm ^ back in February (discussed in my first leak post), which stated that hopper is annoyed by mike’s continuing presence around el. I and many others (including Alex iirc) dismissed it, as Hopper and Mike are on good terms at the end of s4. If Mike and El are still doing reckless things in s4, and if the old pattern of isolating El from others just to kiss re-emerges, though… The veracity of this is very shaky: the time skip occurs gradually over episode one, not in between episodes 1 and 2.

It’s important to note that many leaks are undoubtedly missing context. Just today, Alex brought up how she was right about Mike ignoring Will at the airport, about their fight, and about the airport kiss. Yes, she was, but she lacked the tonal subtext of the scene itself, which portrayed Mike’s behaviour as inexplicably phony - and of course, she lacked the lynchpin of this plot, which is that Will is in romantic love with Mike. She completely missed that, and it meant she missed every important aspect of this plotline.

Byrhop, a highly reliable st acc who’s closely following filming, was able to ascertain that Vickie is at the farm.

Lastly, I want to go over everything I know to try and map a trajectory. The Byers are living in the radio station before it’s overrun by military and they flee to the Turnbow farm - I personally am not sure of when exactly this occurs. There is a leaked hospital file showing that Karen Wheeler is attacked by a demogorgan. The file is dated as 1/1987 but it could be a prop error, as I’ve seen claims that she’s attacked when Holly is taken..

As we know, according to the leaked episode 2 title, Holly Wheeler goes missing. This likely occurs at the end of episode one, but the chronology is unclear. Karen being attacked could happen here, and I’ve seen claims that it happens in episode 2. Mike and El kiss in episode one, and as I’ve said this has been overblown greatly by Alex. The chronology of this is also unclear. At some point in episode one, Mike and Dustin are at the high school and interact with the jocks. Mike is wearing the same outfit he wears on the rooftop - dark trousers, blue and black shirt with a yellow collar, etc. As this is what he wore in the official pic released by Ross of him in his room, I am speculating that this is the first outfit he wears in the story proper, after the last time jump to November 1987, and that he may wear it throughout episode 2 as well

In episode 2, Mike, Nancy, and Karen have a plotline at the hospital. From official BTS pics, we know Robin and Vickie are there as well. The above anon does not mention Mike being injured, and its description of Karen’s mindset does not tally either with her having being attacked by a demogorgan prior or with Holly being abducted. It’s likely that they have partially but not totally accurate information; or else it’s a point in favour of Holly being taken and Karen being attacked after this happens, at the end of episode 2. I have confirmation that Mike is injured in episode 2, as are several other people - I discussed this in a post a few days ago - please discount the forehead kiss anon section of that post. This was confirmed by an extra who played a nurse on the scheme and by a different source later. The second source confirms that Will shows up last, and is crying and blaming himself for what happened. - I also have confirmation that El doesn’t show up to the hospital at all. The nurse extra also confirmed that Mike and Will ‘share scenes’ although he was not present for those so can’t speak as to what happened in them - I don’t have an image of that text so didn’t include it yesterday.

The forehead kiss anon is definitely not real (check @will80sbyers) but the rest seems to be.

Lastly, Atlanta-filming insinuates that the m*leven rooftop scene occurs after the hospital subplot. It’s unknown how they came to this conclusion.

To summarise: m*leven kiss in episode one, potentially during one of the staggered time jumps (my speculation) and the short rooftop conversation between them likely in either episode one or two immediately before something involving Hopper and Joyce occurs down in the field that alarms El. I’ve seen conflicting into on when Holly is abducted - either episode one or episode two. In episode 2 Mike, Karen, and Nancy go to the hospital for plot reasons. If this occurs after Holly goes missing, it is likely to be related to that. I am speculating that Holly vanishing, whenever it happens, accelerates the byler plotline, as Mike will more-than-likely seek out Will for advice, reassurance, information. In episode 2, Mike gets injured somehow at the hospital, along with several other people in a small-scale mass-casualty event, and ends up being admitted to the hospital. As I’ve said, it seems to be rock-solid that Will arrives and is crying and blaming himself for what happened, and Will stays with him but El is nowhere to be found in this plotline. We know from BTS pics that Robin and vickie are also there, and I’ve seen claims that Jonathan shows up to be with Nancy, but have no proof or knowledge of the providence of such claims, so… take that for what it is. It is pretty certain, as far as I know, that El is not there.

One possibility is that Will is possessed at least temporarily in 501-2. Perhaps there’s another superspy, ‘it’s a trap’ situation? Will Byers would never be reckless with the safety of Mike Wheeler or his family… but I bet Vecna and the mindflayer are just itching to attack the one salvation standing between them and Will. Something to muse on.

The timing of the rooftop scene is very important. El not showing up at the hospital is unlikely to happen after it. The scene is very clearly about affirming their relationship- whether as lovers or as friends. It’s likely that she’s distracted by Max, who is her main plot, but this is a narrative. El not being present for Mike, while Will is there and crying and staying by his side? That is telling of a potential rift that opens up in their relationship between episode one and two. There is a pattern of problems arising in their relationship in episode twos. In s2 El reached out to Mike during his call but he walked away while an ominous stinger played. In s3 they broke up at the end of episode 2. In s4 they had their disastrous roller rink date.

A few days ago, I gif’d the rooftop scene, and speculated that they’re discussing being friends, and that El apologises for not being there and Mike says ‘No. You should have been.’ before basically saying that he’s okay because Will was and “you’re all friends to me.” The ending of s4, to me, potentially marks a shift in Mike’s attitude to El, as much as it does for hers to him. In the hospital she seeks him out by resting a head on his shoulder, and she did speak briefly with him prior about Brenner, but he offers her no comfort beyond a stiff arm around her. When they arrive at the cabin, he walks in with the other boys instead of staying with her - as shes’s clearly very nervous and emotional about reentering the cabin. Finally, as we have all observed, she directs an almost angry look at Will and Mike before stomping into her room and slamming the door - a parallel to s3 after the phone call with Mike where she knew he was lying. When it pans back to Mike, and Will asks if they’ve talked? He rolls his eyes. Unlike in 403, he does not seek her out and push through her self-isolation. He leaves her be. This, coming from Mike the Paladin, suggests that he’s kind of done with trying.

El’s attitude has been convincingly dismissed by M*levens as simple grief over Max causing her to retreat as she always does. It is bizarre, however, that the monologue did nothing at all to make her feel she could rely on Mike, and much more so that he’s very apathetic.

I posit that they might, maybe, fall into old habits of passivity and inertia and string the relationship along over the time jump. Perhaps the kiss is from one of the interim jumps between March 1986 and November 1987? I could see El having too much on her plate to really address it, and feeling that she doesn’t want to push him away - after all, he did give the big damn speech. The kiss could be a parallel to Boyce and Stancy. If that Hopper leak is accurate (doubtful), perhaps they fall back into habits of clinginess and immaturity while still being deeply unhappy. Nurse extra stated that Mike is no longer trying to be normal, and that he’s discovering himself, being himself again, and being the support he once was - the wording rather implies that it means being the support to Will.

Of course, I could be wrong, and it could be that they’re doing very well, and that the kiss is indeed as happy and loving as Alex paints it out to be… but I am skeptical bc of the hospital, and because of El the brave protector not rushing to her boyfriend’s side. It’s simply too early to say. If my musing on whether Will was possessed and effectively set Mike up (against his will ofc) is correct, and if my lip-reading is correct, Mike speaking affectionately of Will here could be due to the fact that he’s intimately witnessed Will being possessed, and he knows Will would never do something like that on purpose.

Finally, definitely worth noting that there have been no signs of any NPC love interests. Will’s storylines are being protected well from leakers, so people could be missing something, but there has been no indication of it. What we are getting, though, is a focus on Will’s love of Mike, and his selfless devotion.

All of this is incredibly shaky, and I’m interested to hear your guys’ opinions on alternate sequences of events. Whatever the truth, clearly m*leven is inconsequential to the production, as it’s being deliberately leaked to distract from the real juicy stuff.

Oh, and I just want to wrap up by mentioning this bit of idiocy. Someone in Alex’s inbox sincerely thought that the production actually kills fields they want to look dead-looking, rather than editing it. And Alex agreed.

[intimidatingpuffinstudios]

Oh, please, dear author, how could we not love our little cutie patootie? Our babygirl did nothing wrong. <3

Beside that i always wondered why Mornie did that. (Sorry if you already answered this and i missed it!) I think i read one side story (which was from the second book i think?) from where i got the impresion that Mornie and Manny go waay back. So it always confused me why she suddenly decided to go against his orders. Not only that but why she then went to him after she failed him. Surely she must have known that nothing good awaited her? (And also, she doesn't seem to be too scarred from that bite, which should have been a horrific experience for her... Not that i am calling for blood ... or anything... haha... just you know... a nightmare or two cant hurt~)

Manerkol is forever babygirl ❤️☺️✌️

So uhh... Dis be a bit spoilery, but since it will never be explicitly touched upon in the books...

Mornie is kind of...in love...with him. Like, big time.

She is always trying to prove herself, have him look at her for just a moment longer.

But she was starting to realize that nothing she did ever made an impression on him.

Then, when he told her not to harm the MC, she was shocked to her core.

There was no strategic advantage to extending extra effort to ensure the MC's safety.

But what hurt the most was how Manerkol delivered the order.

His eyes had momentarily flashed with smoldering heat before he glanced to the side.

To anyone other than her, it would have seemed as something so small and unnoticeable that it was rendered inconsequential.

His voice got just a breath huskier, raspier. The sound of it alone was enough to shatter her concentration.

All her dreams, condensed to this one, fragile moment.

But the name that fell from his lips was not Mornie's.

And then he was walking away in a soft swiss of robes and the scent of jasmine left in the air.

So you will excuse her if she got a bit jealous. You will excuse her if she got a bit upset.

The way she saw it was:

1) Get the MC trussed up like a chicken, terrify them, make them feel as ugly as she was.

2) Bring them back to Manerkol as swiftly as possible and finally get the recognition she deserved. The attention.

3) Why wait for months to achieve what could be done in a couple of weeks with the right approach?

3) She was running out of time.

And then when she failed... She went back to him dreading what he would say to her, but she did not think for a moment he would actually hurt her.

She thought she was different from everyone else.

She knew he would forgive her.

As for the bite uh...she remembers that it happened. She understands what it means.

But she does actively remember it. She cannot recall images, sounds, nor a single detail.

Just a clinging, toxic black. As for her nonchalant behavior afterwards...

Trauma is a very peculiar thing, and suppression and disassociation can override everything else.

So, for those of you thirsty for her blood, I hope you can take some comfort in knowing that Manerkol did a stellar job punishing her...

That's not to say you may not get a chance to deal with her personally in the game lol!

Sorry if the answer got a bit heavy 😅

[enqmind]

Well, this took a while. But we're here now and that's all that's important.

Ghost/Female Reader WC: 1.1k 18+ content

Warnings: Suicide attempt by reader, gaslighting, manipulation, Local Manc has worst possible reaction to a suicide attempt, ~*self indulgence*~

Reader notes: Thin enough to fit into a standard bathtub, light enough to be lifted from a standard bathtub by Ghost, mentally ill, pale enough for noticable blushing (feel free to ignore), atheist (ffti)

One Man's Treasure II

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 He didn’t turn the big light on when he carried her into his living room. He didn’t need to, the floor clear of any clutter to trip him up.

 He didn’t turn it on after he lay her on the sofa and went to grab a towel. The light of his own bathroom spilling into the room was enough, he thought.

 Enough to wrap her in one of his big, barely used, towels.

 Enough to clean and bandage her wounds.

 Enough to blot the blood and water from her hair.

 She huddled into him for warmth and comfort and he did not deny her.

 How could he? For now he was her shepherd, guiding her until she went to the hereafter.

 In the dim and dinge, it would be easier for her to accept the reality of her situation.

 So he kept her in the dark.

---

 She stirred against him a few hours later. Wincing against the low light and putting a hand to her head.

 “Head hurt?” he rumbled.

 She froze and peered up at him. Blinking in confusion.

 “You’re… no. There’s no way.” She pulled away from him and rubbed at her face. “I keep fucking it up, there’s no way it worked this time.”

 “How many times?”

 “Four or five.” She looked ashamed, wrapping herself up in her arms, like she’d done in the bath. “Skill issue, I guess.”

 He watched her. He could see that forlorn hope dancing in her eyes that he was real. That she’d actually managed it this time.

 He put a hand on her shoulder.

 I am real.

 “I thought if I did it in the bath, maybe I’d drown if I fucked up again.”

 He tilted his head at her.

 She looked at him, eyes widening.

 Relief played on her face again, battling with misery.

 “I drowned?”

 “Was the bottle full when you started?”

 Relief won, a smile breaking out on her face.

 “I did it,” she whispered, a hand reaching out and grasping his jumper. “It’s over.”

 On some level he felt like he should be angry at that, like he’d been trained to be by an uncaring world, but it was hard when she started crying.

 “Thank you,” she sniffled, “I know it’s your… job? Or whatever, but thank you.” A watery smile. “I feel a lot better not being alone right now.”

 She removed her hand and pulled the towel tighter around herself, covering up her skin.

 Her head must still be throbbing from her hangover.

 He stood.

 “I’ll get you some water. Drink it, then sleep.”

 She nodded, resigned.

 “Some last solid rest before my trip to hell. That’s very kind of you.”

 Ghost turned to stare at her.

 “What?” he barked. “You're not going to hell.”

 Why would she? What could this small, sad looking woman possibly have done to deserve that.

 She frowned, “are you sure? I’m an atheist and I killed myself. You have to admit that it’s not looking good for me.”

 Both of those things were so desperately inconsequential that he found himself chuckling.

 “You’re not going to hell,” he repeated. A sly smile formed under his mask. “It’s so much worse. You’re stuck with me.”

 She stared back at him with wide eyes and a gently agape mouth.

 “Oh.”

 He turned away and went to the kitchen, leaving her to stew in that horror for a moment.

 It seemed to sink in as she took the glass from him and drank from it.

 He sat next to her again, arm stretched out on the back behind her. Watching her mouth as she drank.

 She had a pretty mouth.

 To her credit, she didn’t flinch away from him. Instead staring blankly into the middle distance as she drank.

 It was as she neared the end of the glass that the silence was broken.

 “Is- is that your face?”

 “It’s a mask. What people expect.”

 She nodded and finished her drink.

 “Okay.”

 He pulled the glass from her hands and put it on the floor.

 “Sleep now?” she asked, eyes wide as she looked at him. The towel pulled tightly around her again.

 He slipped his arms beneath her and pulled her up against his chest as he stood.

 Her eyes widened even more.

 Oh, he must be sc-

 “Gosh. You’re really strong.” She looked awed, mouth pulling up into a cute smile.

 Ghost found himself taken aback.

 “You’re not that heavy.”

 “At that angle I am.” She stared at her fingers, weaving them together, and was that a blush? “The mechanics being what they are, and all.”

 “You like strong men, huh?” he murmured as he carried her to the bedroom.

 Her blush deepened.

 “I admire the hard work and discipline.” A quiet protest, as she was placed on the bed.

 “‘Course you do.”

 “I do!”

 He dug around in his drawers, pulling out two sets of pyjamas. One with long bottoms and one with drawstring shorts.

 He put the shorts set on the bed.

 “Sure. You change into those and get under the duvet. I’ll be right back.”

 “Um.” Her meek call stopped him in the doorway.

 “Yeah?”

 “Are we going to share the bed?”

 Of course they were. There was only one in the flat.

 “Yeah.”

 “I could sleep on the sofa,” she offered.

 That was a stupid idea.

 “No. You need a proper night’s sleep.”

 Her nervous expression intensified.

 “It’s just, um-”

 “Sleep.” He walked over to her and crouched so they were eye to eye. “You need sleep, and that’s what you’ll get. Nothing else.”

 She searched his eyes in the dinge.

 “Okay.”

 He nodded.

 He found her curled up under the duvet when he got back. Towel neatly folded on top of the chets of drawers, bra and knickers on top of it. She must have believed him.

 A gentle touch on her shoulder earned him nothing.

 Out like a light. Good.

 He moved to the other side of the bed and climbed in.

 Sharing a bed with another person wasn’t something he’d done in a long time. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to sleep. That would be annoying, but he’d cope.

 He turned onto his side and looked at his bedmate’s sleeping face.

 She was smashing her face into the pillow, mouth locked in a grim line and eyebrows slightly furrowed.

 There was no way she was dreaming yet, her eyes remained stationary under their lids.

 Soon they’d start dancing, and he’d watch. Just in case she needed him again.

---

 Movement against his skin woke him.

 His eyes snapped open, hand reaching for a weapon.

 A head of messy hair filled his vision, and an arm around his chest stymied his reach.

 The light creeping under his blind illuminated the situation, his neighbour pressed up against him.

 It felt… quite nice, actually.

 She tilted her head to look up at him, the words on her lips falling away with shock.

 He looked curiously at her, placing his hand on her shoulder.

 “What’s the matter?”

 “You… look just like my neighbour.”

 Shit.

[thatbadadvice]

Help! Death is inconvenient!

Dear Prudence, Slate, 6 December 2022:

Q. Bothersome Burials: Is it appropriate to hold a funeral on a Saturday? I have recently noticed that funerals are more frequently being held on Saturdays instead of weekdays and I think it is bad etiquette. On most Saturdays, we already have plans for weddings, baby showers, birthday parties, ski trips, softball tournaments, etc. and I am perturbed when we are expected to change those plans to attend funerals. It seems to me that when you lose someone very close to you that you should be taking time off of work anyway rather than waiting until your scheduled day off to have a funeral and grieve. When you lose an acquaintance, or perhaps do not know the deceased but still want to support your friends and family, you should be able to limit it to a few hours during the week and not give up your weekend plans. Also, it seems inconsiderate to make the funeral home and cemetery staff work on a Saturday. I believe that Saturdays should be off-limits, am I mistaken about this?

Dear Bothersome Burials,

Funerals should absolutely never be held on Saturdays, for all of the excellent reasons you describe. It is inconsiderate in the extreme to interrupt people's ski trips even for legitimate reasons (whatever they may be — nothing immediately springs to mind, but the Bad Advisor is sure someone somewhere will be able to drudge up an example). To derail a romp on the slopes for something as inconsequential as a community gathering to grieve the departure of a beloved friend or family member from the plane of existence as we know it frankly defies comprehension. For the snuffing out of one's mortal lamplight to cause scheduling conflicts around more minor commitments such as weddings and baby showers is naturally a lesser infraction — attendees can always simply RSVP to the next one, or the one after that — but nevertheless impolite. Of course, few will share your deep concern for the wellbeing of those death professionals who work on Saturdays despite undoubtedly being, as you are, shocked by and entirely unprepared to accommodate the customs and traditions surrounding the inevitable fate, old as life itself, that awaits all of us. But your selflessness is noted here nonetheless.

If you are mistaken about anything, it is in failing to interrogate the cause of these breaches of etiquette. There was a time when people treated each other with just a little more consideration — when we left our doors unlocked, our unvaccinated children played together barefoot in the streets until dawn, and we dropped dead when and only when it was convenient for people's busy weekend schedules. My mother would have rather died than shuffle off the mortal coil just before Little Maydelayne's big softball tournament! Sadly, people these days think only of themselves, their own needs, and their own petty concerns — to say nothing of their unwillingness to sacrifice a day of fun and fulfilling work to attend the final celebration of life for some douchebag who had the gall to kick the bucket without checking their second cousin's day-off calendar first. Grief is already experienced for only those fleeting moments we spend attending funeral services; it is unseemly to defer our limited 40- to 90-minute mourning periods until such a time as we can gather together in meaningful community.

Alas, that's the world we live in today! We can lay much of the blame on the obvious culprits — video games, reefer, and heavy metal music — but we would be doing ourselves a disservice if we did not admit that we are responsible for making time for what matters. The next time a cherished friend, loved one, or colleague sets off on that long, mysterious journey to the undiscovered country, we must prioritize the apres-ski reservations at the lodge bar.

[theflyindutchwoman]

The Tim Tests -- those don't make me like him. I know. You're nothing like him. I… Come here. You're nothing like him.

| ANATOMY OF A SCENE - CHENFORD EDITION 4.09 - Breakdown

The symbolism of Lucy helping Tim remove walls in his childhood home, of all places, is incredibly poetic. When she met him, he had built so many - metaphorical - walls around him, they were practically a fortress… But that didn't stop her from seeing through them and find a way in. And since then, she has been by his side, helping him lower them. So it's only natural that she would be there for him, when his last walls are tumbling down. When he confronts the person who made those walls necessary in the first place.

The level of vulnerability and honesty he displays here is astonishing. He doesn't try to downplay what he's feeling, and considering how painful this chapter of his life is, it says a lot on how much he trusts Lucy to be here and see him like this. This may seem inconsequential but this is huge for someone who had to learn to hide his emotions very young to avoid setting off his abusive father or to shield his younger sister from what was truly happening. Only here, he can't hide behind a mask. Not after talking to his father. It's the confirmation that the latter protected his mistress all along, even on his death bed, when he never did any of that for his own family, when he was the monster they needed protection from, that breaks Tim. His feelings of disappointment, betrayal and anger are so raw. So visceral. And this ultimately explains why he's always amazed when Lucy fiercely defends and protects him.

Which is also why her previous comment about the Tim Tests struck a chord. To be fair, I don't think she ever meant to imply he was anything like his father. It rather sounded like she had found the final pieces of a puzzle, the answer as to where these tests came from since Tim was the only TO doing them. I'm not even sure she realised she was saying it aloud until it was too late. Nevertheless, her remark dug deep… even more so since it piled up with his sister's who at times sounded almost dismissive towards his feelings and his own boundaries on the topic. It was important for Tim to address this. He needed the reassurance that he wasn't anything like his father. But most of all, he needed to hear it from Lucy specifically, and not just because of that remark. Her opinion matters to him a lot. She knows him the best, met him at one of his lowest point, saw his demons, has never been afraid to call him out… and she's also someone who sees the best in everyone. Just the thought that she - of all people - could think that he might be like his dad is too much already. There's a moment where he instinctively steps back, as if he's bracing himself for the worst. Tim looks so much like a lost kid in that moment, all teary-eyed. But Lucy is right there to reassure and comfort him. She wasn't going to let him entertain the thought any longer. The way he sinks into her embrace, the big breath he takes when she repeats adamantly that he's nothing like his father, the swaying… This is exactly why he wanted her by his side in the first place, why he invited her. She is the person with whom he can drop his mask and not be self-conscious about it because he feels safe with her. She is his safe space. And the hug is the perfect embodiment of this.

[stilljuststardust]

Two questions today!

1: how do you force yourself to believe? With Loa you have to truly believe something but no matter how much I affirm I can’t *make* myself truly believe it without some sort of proof. How can I fix this? I *want* to believe, but it isn’t easy.

2: why hasn’t everyone manifested a better world? If manifestation is truly limitless, how come people haven’t already manifested things like global warming being not a thing or cool magic powers in the world or something like that.

Thanks for reading! :3

Answer "why can't I force myself to believe in my manifestation":

Hello again lovely to see you! I hope you're well. I added something bonus at the end I hope it's helpful.

Question one:

Your problem seems to be a reliance on the 3D for validation. LOA is not forcing yourself to believe something that isn't true. It's the knowledge that your 4D is in alignment with your desires.

If you rely on what exists in the 3D (the physical world) for validation you will manifest the exact same 3D. It'll be a reality loop, if you refuse to believe anything outside of it it will repeat what you've already been shown. Aka a manifesting Orobourus (snake eating its own tail)

IF deep down you don't believe the 4D to be real, you will only seek validation from the 3D, entering your very own reality loop because you're just manifesting what you already have.

At its core LOA is asking you to take your 4D as evidence and reassurance.

I cannot force you to realize your potential or to believe in yourself, only you can choose that.

A more hands on approach:

If you want to build confidence manifest something small and inconsequential. Like seeing a butterfly, someone wearing green nail polish, something you can believe in. Understand that the signs you see were put there by you through your own will.

ALLOW yourself to hold faith in it. What harm will it do you to truly believe in a butterfly or some nail polish? Is it so bad to trust yourself?

You can only find fulfilment within yourself. That's where it comes from. Go within yourself.

Question two:

How do you know they haven't?

This is YOUR 3D. You are limitless. What you see is not all that is.

People HAVE manifested away global warming or superpowers for themselves, but because their 3D conflicts with yours you do not experience it.

This is your 3D.

There is more to the universe than this. You cannot base your knowledge of all that ever could be on the small percentage that you have personally witnessed.

Hobo stew:

I was rewatching star vs the forces of evil and one scene is a metaphor I think would help you.

I have rephrased it to fit LOA because originally they're talking about something else:

"Imagine the multiverse is this big cauldron and reality is the bubbly stew inside, your senses are the spoon.

The spoon can only skim the surface of the hobo gravy, watery and brown, but if you want to get to the chunks you've got to dip down."

The surface being the 3D or the physical, it's only the surface of all reality. If you want the "chunks" or your desires you have to dip into the 4D. The spoon (your senses) don't go that deep, but it's where the chunks are.

There is so much more to reality than what you can see, touch, hear, or taste. Dip down.

Here's the YouTube link, it was the closest I found to an isolated clip, "dip down" is at timestamp 3:47

[deathsbestgirl]

So Never Again. Just saw this post and the way she looks up at him there is on a level with Mulder’s famous Fallen Angel eyes and his reaction to her? He doesn't melt? He chooses violence and being a dick? Please tell me why.

i LOVE this question because it is so easy to see it from scully's perspective. it's her episode. but you really have to think about mulder's perspective.

for mulder, this seems out of nowhere, and in his mind she was extremely inattentive with his informant on a case he's taking seriously. he doesn't understand what she's really asking or what the problem is, and a big part of that is she doesn't exactly either. it's almost like she's blaming him for the stand still in her life, but at the same time wants to be seen & appreciated (in a way that she understands, can feel, can see). and i don't think she could have figured it out the way she needed to with mulder. she needed the safety of talking to a stranger, someone inconsequential to her life. (like there's no way she could have that "other fathers" conversation with him lol) so ed jerse is the one to give her that. (she does with ed what she can't yet do with mulder. something neither of them are ready for and she isn't brave enough to do yet. and like. idk i just think she needed this! regardless of mulder lol)

like: "this isn't about you. or maybe it is, indirectly. i don't know." the one thing she got right is "i don't know" lol so of course mulder is confused!!

if you place leonard betts first, she's contemplating what she's leaving behind. has she had any impact working on the x files? on mulder? who is going to remember her? what evidence of her life will be left? in that office...it looks like she's had very little effect. (but i do not subscribe to this one.)

if never again is first, which i like better lollll (it makes more sense to me. i understand why people like lb first, it's more clear cut. it puts a reason behind her behavior. but i just don't think it quite fits. scully literally doesn't know what's wrong. if she was already worried about cancer, i think it would come across differently. but she's frustrated & confused and she wants for something she can't admit, express, pinpoint, articulate? idk what word i'm looking for lol) scully's just hit that point in her pattern again, her cycle...it took her four years, and after some rough cases (paper hearts – she couldn't help mulder despite how she tried, el mundo gira – a dead end. and idk, so many of their cases. and she's always wrong, he always does the crazy thing, he's always hurt)...well anyway, at the end he's still asking "all because i didn't get you a desk?" he still isn't quite understanding, until she says it's her life and he almost says "yes but it's become mine." he doesn't say it, they sit in silence, and in leonard betts, he tells her she did a good job & should be proud. all his little jokes like he's trying to make her laugh, to get back to their usual banter. because he wants to make her smile. so he understood at least a little by leonard betts. but they also come to a silent understanding. i just love the way kae talks about it. and i think the end is kind of the explanation for the beginning. the end is the real answer to the whole episode, and what it took to get there...and this post here, kae just understands him and talks about him in a way that i feel. it's exactly what i see in a way i could never articulate. (and she does my favorite thing!!! connects different moments. the characterization is so good.) and she has such a special insight to both of them, different patterns, but to me two sides of the same coin.

and so, either way, at the beginning of never again, he's completely thrown because he doesn't know. this is when their bad verbal communication and personal issues/insecurities/fears take hold. they're both so good at taking too much responsibility.

we're seeing into scully's mind a bit, but we aren't really seeing into his. but he's afraid, he doesn't want her to leave (something he's feared for a long time), he thinks space is the answer to whatever's going on. but he's also kinda needy and he can't just say that. so he calls her and they misunderstand each other again and she makes a date. he isn't trying to be an ass but he's scared & defensive, and he gets like that when she makes him nervous. like whenever she believes (beyond the sea, revelations, all souls, en ami). it feels like that to me. he's afraid, but this time he thinks he's the problem, their work is the problem. and he kinda said the worst thing he could say to her at that moment. "you were just assigned" — he has no idea how she understood that, how it hurts her. (and she's not thinking about how he means it, what he thinks/feels/fears.) and really, it's because she sucks at just saying the thing as much as he does. it takes them a long time to work out their direct communication. their unspoken communication, the way they work on their cases doesn't translate to their personal relationship. as intimate as their partnership is, working through their own issues takes time and it's those things that hinder them moving forward for so long. ya know?

i think @randomfoggytiger talks about it beautifully here — in depth essay on never again. here they touch on mulder's fear/walls & scully's insecurities/needs. it's a journey!! which they talk about here. and i forget what this one was (lol) but i'm sure i saved it for a reason: a little master post. i love the way foggy breaks things down, especially visually. it's something i could never do.

i also reblogged some other never again posts. not completely on topic but it's all connected!! (you can definitely go through my never again tag to see more probably too!)

[jamiesfootball]

Augusnippets Day 18

Prompt: self administered medicine

cw: drug use, injuries, implied/referenced child abuse

Summary:

Roy flipped through the pages. Stopping at a blank one, he held the pen at the ready. “What do you want me to write down?" Jamie chewed on his lip. Roy was on the verge of repeating himself when he said quietly, “Summer 2009. Broken arm.”

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Once Roy got Jamie settled on the sofa, he diverted to the kitchen to grab the necessary supplies. Pill bottle from his bag and a glass of water, and because Roy was supposed to be trying to ‘embrace his instincts when it came to showing people he cared’, a sandwich appeared alongside the water. So did two mugs of tea.

Roy stared down at the tray and grimaced at how low he had sunk. Jamie was supposed to eat something with the painkillers, sure, but the Roy of before would’ve been content throwing a protein bar at his head and sending him home in an Uber. Instead he’d brought him back to his own house and broken out the good bread – the stuff that definitely wasn’t part of the nutrition plan.

He took a deep breath and braced himself for some mocking.

But there was no mocking to be found. Jamie was the same as he’d been since they’d left the doctors. With his face screwed up in pain, he dug the heel of his hand into the muscle above his knee, trying desperately to massage the pain away. Roy was familiar with the struggle. Knee injuries could be a bitch like that, the big nerves and tendons squeezed tightly between ligaments and bones. Rupture any part of the system and the rest became collateral, the inevitable victims of being too close to the scene of the crime. The pain was for sharing, and in spite of the localised anaesthetic, even smaller, inconsequential actions found a way of compounding into a larger toll.

Suddenly the sandwich didn’t seem like a bad idea. Even if it didn’t stay down, Jamie would need the energy. He certainly wasn’t going to want to eat when the numbing agents wore off.

“Here,” said Roy, setting the tray on the table. He grabbed the painkillers and shook out two pills. “Take these and a few bites of the sandwich, then you can pass out. There’s also tea.”

He tipped the pills into Jamie’s hand. Handed him the glass of water. Jamie swallowed the pills in one gulp, and a strange look crossed his face. Roy considered grabbing the waste bin, but the expression passed just as quickly as it came, and then Jamie waved for the sandwich to move closer.

Roy waited for Jamie to take a few bites before he finally sat down. He settled back on the sofa with a cup of tea in hand and switched on the TV.

That should’ve been that.

Halfway through an episode of Murdoch Mysteries, Roy was sure that Jamie should have passed out by now.

He’d stopped rubbing at his thigh a bit ago. Hours of pained tension had melted away, leaving him boneless against the cushions. He’d also fallen for the lure of the strategically thrown blanket over the back of the soft and was now cocooned in fleece up to his chin. The pale tint of nausea had faded — though Roy still had the waste bin nearby just in case — and the half sandwich he’d eaten had brought some colour back. He’d be the very picture of cosy if it weren’t for the knot of confusion screwed up tight between his stupid, styled eyebrows.

For someone who’d just taken a fairly high dose of painkillers, he was stubbornly holding on to consciousness, and worse than that he only seemed to be growing more agitated the more they kicked in.

After a few more minutes of restless shifting, Jamie broke the silence to ask, “Can… can you… grab something for me?”

At least the medicine was working, if the slurred words were any indication.

“Sure,” said Roy. “What do you need? The bin’s right there,” he reminded him.

He did not want to help Jamie with the bin.

The knot of confusion turned into a knot of annoyance. “Not sick, ‘s… need my bag. Could you… the notebook in it… can you?”

Roy got up. This week’s tiny bag came in a burnt orange and teal striped combo that made Roy’s eyes water. By comparison, the notebook he found inside was small and nondescript: a simple black flip-over with a Richmond-branded pen tucked through the spirals.

It took two attempts for Jamie to take hold of the notebook. His movements were clumsy, his hands shaking as he struggled to untangle the pen.

Once again, Roy was struck with the stupid urge to take care of people.

He exhaled. “Here, give me that. I can write whatever it is down for you.”

Jamie hesitated. After a moment, he held the notebook up, his expression schooled in feign disinterest. Roy took it back, and Jamie listed unsteadily after it like a fish tugged forward on a hook. Roy had to brace by the shoulder to keep him from tipping over.

He flipped through the pages. Stopping at a blank one, he held the pen at the ready. “What do you want me to write down?”

Jamie chewed his lip. Roy was on the verge of repeating himself when he said quietly, “Summer 2009. Broken arm.”

Roy froze. In the raging quiet, he carefully transcribed the words, the pen creaking under the pressure.

“It’s for Dr Sharon,” Jamie explained.

Roy swallowed back a painful lump in his throat and shook his head. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I know, but in case I forget. I want… I need to…,” Jamie trailed off, argument lost. He stared at Roy with a wretchedly sad expression.

Roy capped the pen. It wasn’t like he would need to write this down to remember it later. Despite the short list of facts he’d been given, Roy hardly needed a calculator to figure out why Jamie might need to tell Sharon about a broken arm.

For a man Roy had only ever seen once, for about three minutes, James Tartt Sr left a visceral impression – and nothing he’d learned since then had weakened it.

He gestured for Jamie to get on with it then.

Jamie pushed himself upright against the cushions. He shook his head, scrunching up his face and blinking hard like he was trying to wake himself up. When he spoke, he sounded more clear-headed, but the words came out chopped, a staccato listing of facts that gave the impression that somewhere underneath a dog whistle screeched at full volume.

“It’s for learning my boundaries. Idea is to write down memories from when I was a kid, stuff that didn’t make any sense or that I don’t…can’t remember. Then I’m supposed to see if there’s a pattern. Especially if it involved…if I were angry or scared or anything like that.”

He stared vacantly at the tray where it still lay on the coffee table. Most of the sandwich was gone; the glass, empty. Only a half-drunk mug of tea and the bottle of pills remained.

A half-formed suspicion slithered into Roy’s gut, nesting into a quiet ache.

“All right,” Roy nodded encouragingly. The atmosphere in the room had turned into a fragile thing, hairline fractures ready to crack if he stepped too hard. “That makes sense.”

Jamie’s head dipped against his chest. “When I was twelve or thirteen or whatever, I don’t remember which, I broke my arm. Nothing that serious, I was just being dumb at training. Bet the team ten quid I could do a backflip on the first try.”

Roy snorted. The pressure in his chest released so abruptly he felt almost dizzy with it. “So you were always a cartwheeling troublemaker?”

“Yeah.” A small grin quirked at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I really took to the gymnastics part of training. D’you know I can do a full splits?”

Roy scoffed, amused. “Fuck off.”

“Well, I could do it when I was seventeen. Could probably still manage it if I warmed up properly.”

The smile faded. “But I broke my arm, yeah? And mummy was essentially working two jobs at the time because she’d finally decided she wanted to stop waitressing. She’d started taking night classes, so I didn’t see her all that much. And dad was in his superdad phase, and he’d said he was cutting back on the drinking, so it was usually him that picked me up from training anyways. So when I broke my arm, that’s who they called to come get me.”

Jamie swerved from thought to thought, some of them not quite connecting but all of them on a horrible forward trajectory. It was like staring at a bus crash that Roy knew was coming. He just couldn’t see the death toll yet.

“I remember the hospital in pieces.” Jamie started to massage his thigh again; absently, like he didn’t realise he was doing it. “I remember them letting me pick the colour for my cast – City blue, of course. Had to prove to my old man I was still as dedicated as ever. It worked, too. In fact, in fact he wasn’t even mad I broke my arm that time,” Jamie said wonderingly. “He thought it was funny. Not like I need an arm to play football, right?”

Fucking Christ.

The smile slipped from Jamie’s face. He rubbed his thigh harder. “I remember… the doctors sent me home with some pills? I remember them telling me my arm would probably hurt for a week or two, and after that I could switch to paracetamol if it still hurt. But I remember seeing the pills. We went back to my dad’s flat. He gave me the pills, crushed ‘em up in my tea for me to help hide the taste. But that’s where it gets–“

He let out a ragged breath, his eyes screwing up tightly.

“Roy,” he whined. “Roy, this is the same stuff they gave me back then, but I don’t remember it feeling this way.”

“What do you remember?” Roy asked, trying to sound calm even as panic, dull and rusted, throbbed in his chest. It happened over ten years ago. They’d just come from the hospital. Jamie was alive in front of him. None of that stopped the foreboding from growing like a seed.

Twelve. He would’ve been twelve. That was a fucking kid.

Jamie shook his head. “I don’t know. But they didn’t taste chalky. They didn’t do this.” He gestured weakly at himself. “It didn’t make me numb. Didn’t make me tired. I had a headache the whole time, and my arm hurt so bad I kept being sick. I kept waiting for the pills to kick in. The stuff they gave me in hospital, that seemed to work fine. But when I got home the pain just kept getting worse. I couldn’t even get to sleep. Everything hurt.”

The more Roy heard, the more an ugly thought began to take shape in his head.

“Next day my mum comes to pick me up, and I tell her I don’t think the medication is working like it’s supposed to. She takes me back to the hospital; they figure I must have thrown it up in the night. They give me something there, and I fall asleep. I don’t remember anything after that. I don’t even remember going home. Next memory I’ve got is showing my cast off to the team and arguing with the coaches that I should still be allowed to train ‘cause who needs an arm to play football anyways?”

His hands lifted in a shrug, the blanket flapping up and down as if to say, ‘there you go.’

“That it?” asked Roy. He wanted to confirm he had all the pieces before he said anything.

“Yeah,” said Jamie, falling limp against the sofa. “That’s it.”

“Can I ask something?”

Jamie shrugged. Whatever reserves of energy he’d had, they were gone now, completely burned through with nothing left to stoke the fire in his wake.

But Roy still had an ember, and it pulsed hot and angry in his chest.

“What did your dad say?” he demanded. “When you were up all night, sick from pain and unable to sleep? What did he fucking say to that?”

“He didn’t say anything,” said Jamie. “He was asleep the whole time. I tried to wake him up during the night, but it didn’t work. Out like a light straight through ‘til mummy picked me up the next afternoon. I couldn’t wake him up.”

And there it was.

“Oh.”

Jamie snorted, a hysterically unfunny noise, wet and clogged and full of pain and disappointment and numb, numb resignation.

“Yeah,” he agreed. ”Oh.”

[ducktracy]

The Ducktators is a fascinating little cartoon, though not a particularly enjoyable one. It’s very hard to watch nowadays but your review makes its strengths as animated propaganda very clear. As always, a very nice review. Also, sorry to bring him up, but I always thought the racist stereotype Japanese duck was supposed to be Hideki Tojo (Hi-duck-i Tojo?).

THANK YOU FOR THE KIND WORDS!!! that really means a lot! absolutely, it's not a short i revisit for obvious reasons, but i'm almost glad for that "fresh pair of eyes" point of view because it definitely allowed me to view its directorial strengths much more clearly. in terms of pure cinematography and directing alone, it really shows that Norm McCabe had a lot of potential to be a great director if he wasn't bogged down so much by shoehorning topical references (ie propaganda) into his cartoons! like, this is a crazy shot

it is an extremely fascinating watch to see how they play on the psyche and psychology of the audience. cartoons are manipulative! i know this from working in them! i don't mean that in a bad way, but objectively: cartoons manipulate emotions of the audience and inspire them to laugh, to cry, to be scared, to be triumphant, they manipulate where you're supposed to look or how you're supposed to ingest--or NOT ingest--the information. it's almost comparable to a magic trick. even the most inconsequential, silly, stupid, "nothing" cartoon you can imagine has some sort of subliminality in it dictating how you are interpreting the information on screen. i'm being hyperbolic with my wording and i swear i don't mean this in a Dale Gribble conspiracy theory way LOL. it's just a fact! and it's so fascinating to me! and propaganda cartoons are really at the zenith of seeing how these subliminalities and playing on the psychology of the audience works. obviously, not always (and really, seldom) for the better, but it's very neat to study and see how that is accomplished. it makes for a very fascinating deep dive

I HAD ASSUMED FOR THE LONGEST TIME IT WAS A TOJO CARICATURE TOO.. i've gotten some conflicting information. cartoon wise, i plucked the voice credits from Keith Scott's book, who bills him as a Hirohito caricature, Jerry Beck and Will Friedwald's book just labels him as "a Japanese duck"--i've been getting a bunch of conflicting research, and it evidently seems that historians themselves are in conflict as to the extent of Hirohito's role in the war. i assumed that for the purposes of the cartoon, the duck was Hirohito since it seems he was considered one of the leaders of the Axis Powers, which is of course what the short hinges on. that, and that he was Emperor, whereas Tojo just reported to him. the general consensus seems to be that Tojo took the majority of the blame (obviously, given that he was hanged)--the website of the National WWII Museum points out that Douglas McArthur and Harry Truman seemed hesitant to charge Hirohito with war crimes since they were scared of a retaliatory uprising, given that he was the Emperor, and so publicity instead fell on Tojo.

I TYPED ALL OF THIS OUT BUT I SEEM TO BE PROVING YOUR POINT LOL Tojo seemed to be much more active on the militant side and received more publicity, so i guess that technically would make him a candidate... but given that Hirohito was at the very tip top and considered the reigning Axis leader for Japan, my assumption was that it was him for the purposes served by the cartoon. it'd probably make more sense for it to be Tojo though if he was more directly involved on the military side... that, and it's clear there's a little bit of a divide in power between the Tojo/Hirohito duck and the Hitler and Mussolini duck, but i also assumed that was a byproduct of the clear resentment directed towards Japan, and was just them jumping at any chance they could to belittle and humiliate them. riding on the catharsis of making such a big figurehead seem small and weak and easy to pummel and all that. (it also doesn’t help that the extent of caricaturing is “uhhhhh Japanese people have squinted eyes and big teeth right?”, both Tojo and Hirohito wore glasses and so that’s really the only visual clue… but i guess the duck also has a military cap that probably would be most associated with Tojo)

any historians who are obviously much more equipped to answer this, i welcome any corrections! it's obviously been a bit since my last World History class and i am genuinely embarrassed i can't give a more concise answer :')