#i understand the material. i just don’t agree with it and never will. deal

[cats-in-the-clouds]

i keep getting stuck being forced to take classes i despise and that have no relevance to me so i’m going to go all malicious compliance on every single assignment and subtly insult the class material and/or professor

[svsss-brainrot-blog]

For a prompt: white lotus LBH and SQQ bonding over books

Luo Binghe startles as a hand comes down on his shoulder, whipping his head up to meet his Shizun’s gaze where it hides behind his fan of the day- a pale green thing with a calm mountain and bamboo theme.

Shizun hasn’t hit him in months.

Part of him is still waiting for the other boot to drop.

“This disciple apologizes to Shizun!” the boy hurries to say, scrambling to arrange himself in a proper position of humility. “He is stupid with his senses, and did not hear Shizun enter!”

“Silly child,” Shen Qingqiu chides. “It is a library. It is meant to be quiet.”

“Of course, of course! Shizun is wise,” Luo Binghe agrees, dropping his voice to a quieter register.

“What’s this?” His master asks, and Luo Binghe freezes in place.

He is lucky to be allowed in the library at all. A stupid thing like him hardly deserves even the most basic of training manuals. He is lucky Shizun’s good spirits extended to his new manual and a few reading lessons from one of the older hallmasters. He should be thankful.

No doubt he will be punished for his greediness today.

“The Histories and Recollections of Guo Enlai? This isn’t part of your class studies.”

“Forgive me!” Luo Binghe burst out, dread clawing at his ribs. “I know it’s not for classes, I just… I just-!”

He halts as the hand comes down. It will do no good. This is it- the final straw to break Shizun’s streak of benevolence. How many strikes of his palm until he calls for Ming Fan to string him up and continue?

Instead, he blinks as gentle hands ruffle his hair before pulling away.

“One can never learn too much,” Shen Qingqiu says, kneeling down at the low reading table with him. “It is important for a Qing Jing disciple to have a wide array of knowledge, that is my job to impart on you. But it is no so uncommon for one to have a specialized interest in something. This, too, is an honorable pursuit among scholars.”

“R-really?” Luo Binghe blinks up at the man, who casually flips through a few pages. “Does… does Shizun have a specialty?”

“This master is captivated by the strange flora and fauna of this world, and has read a great deal about them,” Shen Qingqiu offers. “Does the work of Guo Enlai interest Luo Binghe?”

The boy shifts on his knees slightly. “It… this stupid one finds the work to be interesting, what pieces he is able to understand.”

“Mm,” Shizun hums. “It is a bit of an advanced text. If Binghe is interested in the subject, then this master will arrange for some more intermediate reading to prepare him for the larger scales of knowledge.”

“Shizun would do that?”

“Don’t act so surprised,” Shen Qingqiu said with another pat to his hair. “It is this Master’s responsibility and honor to foster growth in his disciples. Come, tell me more of what in this study holds your interest.”

Something squirmy wiggled in his chest as he hesitantly turned back to the material he’d been attempting to study, and the pair remained there in discussion over the various texts until the dinner bell rang.

[urmirrorbvall]

Glitch I Harry Castillo x fem!reader

Chapter 1: The Date

summary: you don’t believe in love, you just write about it convincingly enough to get paid for it. You agreed to go on these blind dates instead of your heartbroken friend and for the column content and free dinners, never expecting anyone to see through it. But then Harry does, and instead of walking away, he makes you another deal.

masterlist I next

Content warnings: spoilers for materialists, one mention of cheating, comedy (or an attempt of that), none of them believe in "love" at all so it’ll be a ride, reader is truly a MATERIALIST, angst, she’s acting cringe on purpose but there’s that, drinking wine

Word count: 7k

You almost choked on your wine when she finished talking, you got caught up thinking: “There’s no way she just asked me this”. But she did, she fucking did.

“So, let me get this straight” You drank up again, trying to gain liquid courage before setting your elbows on the counter, “you want me to wine and dine with these men, make them dislike me so bad that the matchmaker eventually gives up on you and I never see them again, ever?”

She nodded three times and then drank from her glass of wine as if drowning the anxiousness of waiting for your answer.

It seemed almost too good to be true, free dinners from time to time, material to write for the next columns and maybe even analyze the trends of the appealing market… if you played your cards well, maybe that could get you that promotion that you deeply desired and you could even save enough money from groceries and food.

“Yeah, pretty much” Mia, your friend, replied, opening the fridge to put away the leftovers of the dinner.

You knew that her parents had been insistent —no, insistent would be an understatement— her parents had been going mad since Joseph and her called the wedding off, trying to find the perfect match so the venue and the money didn’t go to waste.

Mia couldn’t evade them, even if she wanted to. She worked in the family's art business, and could be left jobless if she dared to oppose them; they only let her cancel the wedding with him, after she told them she caught him cheating.

Now, she had come over to your plaze so you could catch up, sharing pizza and rosé from the convenience store down the block, laughing about how pathetic and horrid it all was, and yet, she insisted on her wanting to find that true, beautifully-aching, tooth-rothing love, and that’s why you thought about agreeing to go in her place to every date the matchmaking agency her parents hired arranged.

It was a win-win, she was free from the dating world so she could try to find her one-true love, and you’d gain access to your target demographics to write about the neverending love market even better than before. Perhaps, you would even cater to the rejects and the exes after this. You would understand better what they wanted about love and give them that exactly.

“Deal” you replied, looking at her while she closed the dishwasher and threw the cardboard boxes to the bag,

“That’s why I fucking love you so much” she replied, hugging you as if you had just given her the keys to heaven, her eyes widened with hope. “Promise that when I meet the right one… you’ll give a speech about this. No one writes about love like you do” she said seconds after,

Silence flooded the room for a second, then one of you chuckled, or perhaps it was both of you at the same time… it didn’t matter.

“I will” you replied with a smile as you finished up with the second glass of wine and picked the bottle just to find it empty, you walked up to the cabinet then, picked another one from her collection.

“But if you meet the love of your life there…” She started to talk once again as you picked the corkscrew with an almost silent sigh, “...you’ll thank me in your vows”

“Of course I will,” you replied, serving up the liquid in your glass and then filling hers. Making that promise was easy, because after all, you didn’t believe in love or in marriage or in anything romantic.

You worked for MUSE, a magazine all about trends, aesthetics, and the performance of modern culture. It was aspirational, curated, and just a little bit mythic, for the sake of being original, it was the kind of publication where every layout looked like a still from a dream no human being could afford. Each issue featured its 'Monthly Muse', a handpicked B-lister director, model, or actor draped in satin and soft light, giving interviews about their latest project and occasional ornamented advice for the readers. There were different sections that covered almost every topic, from which color was in and out for the summer to pop culture, film and entertainment.

And then there was the EROS section, where you lived. The love and sex column. The honey trap. You didn’t believe in love, but you knew how to write it so well people thought you did. That was your job —to make people ache for something you were pretty sure didn’t exist, and now, Mia had given you a deep-dive to study those subjects and their ridiculous obsession with love just to cater them the exact drug they needed.

What could actually go wrong?

₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆ 4 MONTHS AFTER ₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆

Most times it was easy, wearing no makeup, looking unpolished and talking about marriage as the first conversation starter, other times it had to be specific, talking about cats knowing they preferred dogs, smelling like smoke and chewing too loud and other times, it had to be almost-cruel, like trying to order alcohol after they said they had been months sober, or bringing politics and religion to the conversation.

You had met with different men for months by then, you had met Joshua C, Artem H, Boris B, Michael D… and practically you had crossed enough names to win the category of “man names” when playing scattergories, and had heard every letter of the alphabet at least twice.

But you had also written articles on what you knew they wanted to hear, about the idea of love everyone seemed to believe in and wanted to feel validated for.

You were in the office, listening to the marketing team talk about what items would sell better for Valentine's. The current debate was between the perfumes and the girls in charge of the section:

“Are florals in or out this year? What am I saying florals have always been in!” “But trends change faster with the media… Maybe sweet notes are better… maybe Vanilla. What’s the current trend in our market right now?” “No! That doesn’t matter. Classics are always safer and everyone knows Patchouli is to attract love”

The conversation turned even more boring by the second, as if you could care.

You had been finishing your pages for the magazine: 'Love at first sight: the myths and the truths behind it'

It was bullshit. You knew it. But it was pretty bullshit, and pretty sells, and it sold fast. So you finished up with the writing before sending it to your editor and it would get published later in the day.

People would tag you on social media, saying “She’s at it again” “Where was she when I was still with my ex?” “You made me believe in love” And you would scroll around the comments during lunchtime, chuckling at how easy it was to sell pretty, fake, childish, love,

But your mindless scrolling got interrupted with a message from the only person who seemed to send you any.

Mia: Okay, tomorrow is the last one, I promise.

You: You said that to me five times already… I love you, but I swear I’ll charge you if I have to do what I did with Tom Q again

Mia: Okay, the creep him out with the “Daddy” shit wasn’t my idea

You: Nope, but you told me he disliked nicknames, I just went with the worse one I could think of

Mia: And it worked damn well… Okay, that’s not what I wanted to tell you, my parents are finally giving up. So today is actually the last date ever.

You: Okayyy, that’s good. Will leave me without content ideas, but I’ll manage. So, who will pay for my last free meal?

Mia: The guy’s name is Harry, works in finance from his mom’s company, 45 years old, 6 '0, makes 2 million and hates cheap perfume according to Lucy.

You: Okay, that sounds easy. btw, how does your matchmaker continue to search for that ideal guy for you if all of them hate me?

Mia: Well, they kind of pay her for that… just like they pay you to write.

That last message made you get it —slightly at least—. You didn’t believe in love because the truth was, romance was mainstream dead, people wanted that idea of love, the pretty, cute, love that you see in movies, where every problem is overcome with a piano score and a late night rain confession and finished with a wedding while the credits roll. That’s the love people want, the one that solely exists to sell movies and books and music and candles and ends up becoming another scheme in the capitalistic market.

No one wants the love after that, the fighting and making up, the days that none of the partners want to fuck, the failing, the screwing up, the unsexyness, the compromise and the mere act of actually loving… No one wanted that part of love, so everyone pretended that it didn’t exist, including you, because pretty lies sell better than ugly truths.

So that’s how you ended up typing a quick reply about how you’d make sure to give that man the best worst date ever.

₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆

You had to almost raid your department to find a body mist that smelled like a high-school classroom after p. e. class, all sugary sweet nose-numbing vanilla. You finally did and disposed to wear it as if you had drowned in it, you weren’t even sure why you still had it, but you were sure that the guy was going to hate it.

Mia texted you the address of the restaurant —some fancy place in the Upper East Side— while you were finishing with your makeup, still debating if uneven nail polish was better than lipstick on your teeth to cause a bad impression. You ended up doing both, just for the sake of being safe.

You had decided to wear a dress, not a fancy one, just simple black but classy enough so the hostess would let you inside. You threw a grey oversized blazer over it and wore sunglasses so large they basically covered half of your face.

You wore white sneakers and didn’t mind walking through the puddles in the street, you picked the metro and purposefully arrived seven minutes late to the place, with messy hair and frizz.

He didn’t seem to mind, he looked at the menu and fixed himself a glass of wine, the hostess walked you to the table and Harry stood up, left the cellphone in the pocket of his coat and handed you a small bouquet of flowers he picked to cause a good impresion.

”Harry Castillo,” he introduced himself, passing the bouquet to you, “you must be… Mia G?” The man in front of you asked, you removed the shades from your eyes settling them in your hairline, and looked at him once, at the fine lines in his face, his mustache and the stubble beard, kind brown eyes, didn’t lie about his height. You took the flowers and left them on the edge of the table, not paying attention to them at all.

”Galván” you replied smiling, making sure that the small lipstick stain in your teeth showed, “But you can call me “mine” you know that’s what ‘Mia' means in spanish, right?”

He chuckled, pulled your chair back so you could sit down, you did. You didn’t thank him though, you grabbed the glass of wine and poured yourself a glass almost to the brim, you didn’t drink it yet though.

”So finance… your favorite movie must be ‘the wolf of wall street’ or ‘the godfather’ or let me guess…” you chugged on your glass of wine, crossed your leg not caring if the wet sole of your shoe touched his trousers, “‘American Psycho’”

He chuckled, looked at you for a second and swayed his head from side to side, then there was silence, and you thought you had the upper hand until his lips parted:

”It’s Her” he replied in an almost whisper, your eyes drifting from mindlessly browsing through the menu to look at him, a smile on his lips, you weren’t sure if it was fake or if it was genuine.

“What?” the question left your lips too quick, not because you didn’t know what he was talking about, but because you knew exactly what he was referring to.

“Spike Jonze’s film” he repeated himself, looked at you and filled your glass with some more wine, “You know�� with Joaquin Phoenix”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it —heard from it— I mean” you replied, looking back at the menu, avoiding his eyes and his face for the whole matter, ”Wow, that’s not so financey from you… what do you do either way… cryptocurrency?”

“Private Equity” he replied with a chuckle, concisely and doubtless, you nodded for a second, faking disinterest as you raised the menu to hide slightly your face, his hand reached over, lowering the item with his hand, as if trying to not lose your face in the shadow of it.

“Ah,” the sound of your voice left your lips as your eyebrows raised in amuse, “so you get money by making other people rich or selling their companies.”

“Sometimes both,” he said without blinking, a smirk drawn in his face, it seemed infuriating.

You picked a piece of the complementary bread and placed it over your plate, licked your fingers tasting the excess oil before stabbing a piece of bread with the butter knife, trying to look out of place by eating a piece of bread with a fork, and almost nibbled the piece in your lips before answering with a roll in your eyes. “Sounds very ethical.”

He didn’t flinch. “And fulfilling,” you added, dragging out the sarcasm just enough.

The waiter came to take your order, and you didn’t look at the menu again, you had already found the item you would order.

“I’ll have the… tayg-li-atell-eh? With the bolog-ness,” you said, confidently mispronouncing both. “Extra sauce.”

“Very good,” the waiter said gently. No correction. You were grateful. You wanted Harry to dislike you, not make a total fool of yourself for the sake of being rejected on a fake-date.

Harry ordered next. Smooth and fluent pronouncing some french word as if it was his mother language. You zoned out halfway through and picked up your phone, checking your notifications quickly, there were none, but he didn’t have to know that, he just needed to think you were disinterested or bored, and you needed him to make a comment or remark.

When the waiter left, Harry didn’t mention the phone. He didn’t mention anything.

You kept it face-up on the table, hoping for a weather app or new notification so you could act as if it was more important, but during the whole damn time, the screen remained black and locked.

₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆

The waiter arrived with your dishes while he was telling you a funny story from his childhood with his brother, you tried to seem as if it wasn’t funny, but ended up laughing louder than what you’d meant to.

They placed your pasta on your side, on his there was a steak, he asked for another bottle of wine and you settled back a little, pulled up a keychain from your keys, and feeling that you’d need to do something more drastic to scare this guy, you took it in your hands, pressing it together above the dish of pasta.

“Are you religious?” Harry mumbled, putting his hands together as if he was going to pray, you looked at him,

“No” you whispered, then got close to him a little more, “I just want to cleanse my food from bad vibes… there's a study that says that the emotion under which food was prepared can impact on your health”

“Really?” he asked, intrigued but trying actively to not laugh at all as you quoted something you overheard from an intern down at the wellness department of the magazine.

“Yeah” you replied, trying your best to not laugh from the embarrassment of it all.

The moment felt just one degree off from surreal — you holding a keychain as if it was a quartz or sage, trying to ward off imaginary bad energy from your overpriced pasta. And now here he was, steak in front of him, mirroring you without hesitation, pressing his palms together solemnly over yours, like two kids play-acting a séance at a sleepover.

“Okay, I’ll do the same,” Harry said, and you nearly choked on thin air, not from the words, but the earnestness with which he did it. Hands flat, eyes closed.

You stared at him, not even sure what you were about to answer, you looked sideways no one glanced in your direction.. “You’re not seriously—”

“I’m protecting our dinner,” he said, eyes still closed.

You rolled your eyes so hard your head followed. “This is why billionaires believe in cryotherapy.” you mumbled under your breath and quietly rolled your eyes, but you noticed he smiled with something similar to endearement or amusement

Then you forced his hands to separate from his, he flinched for a second, you looked at him trying to hide the annoyance in your eyes, “Well, bad energy’s gone” you mumbled, he smiled at you.

You took a dramatic bite of your pasta, chewing slowly, trying to pretend to test whether the rite had any effect. It hadn’t. It was just decent pasta. Heavy on the salt. But now he was eating, too, without judgment, and that… that was the problem.

“So,” you said with your mouth half-full, “do you always agree with your dates, or is this some kind of mirroring tactic? Because I read somewhere that serial killers do that. You’re not trying to ’dahmer’ me to your place… right?”

Harry chewed, calm as ever and chuckled softly, the candle in between the distance of you and him only faltered to his side adding warm to his already kind features. “I'm only trying to be respectful”

You sipped from your glass again, watched him carefully, and tried to guess where this was going — because it shouldn’t be going anywhere at all. He didn’t seem fazed by the chaos. Not your sarcasm, not the keychain-crystal show, not even the taygletelle disaster earlier. Not the overdrinking either, or the wet soles of your sneakers or the awful jokes you made.

You glanced down at your pasta, maybe compalining overly could do the trick. “This is too al dente." you said midbite, a drop of the sauce dropped on the table, "Like, I thought this one was one of the best restaurants in all the city”

Harry smirked softly, pulled slightly closer, passing you a napking. “Would you like me to send it back?”

You looked up. “God, no. That would require believing I deserve better.”

He chuckled at that — genuinely — and somehow that made it worse. You weren’t supposed to be charming. You were supposed to be a problem, an annoying person one couldn’t wish but hope there was no second date with.

"You do" he said and for a second your eyes met his and you could feel the facade dissolving and your mind forgetting it was all acting, just for a few seconds. You poured more wine to your glass and remained in silence, with just a faint smile in your lips, product of his words.

"It's fine, I can manage" you said and he nodded in understandment

You reached for your phone again, opened your texts just to look like you were checking something important, then said, “Do you mind if I answer this? It might be something work related”

“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” he replied, already slicing into his steak again.

You texted something irrelevant to Mia, debated on actually clicking the ‘send’ button — this isn’t working, he's too smug, what do I do now??? — then turned your attention back to him, determined to throw the next punch and not hit send, not yet at least.

“So, what do you really do all day?” you asked, leaning your cheek into your palm. “Just look at spreadsheets and ruin people’s health insurance and businesses?”

“That’s mostly Mondays,” he replied smoothly. “Fridays we gather and waltz around wall street to see which business we'll buy next”

You laughed again — louder than you meant to — and caught yourself too late.

“Damn it,” you muttered, stabbing a piece of pasta and hoping that he didn't think you were interested at all in him.

“But, we’ve talked enough about me, tell me Mia,” he said, not looking up, playing with the knife and the side of mashed potatoes and greens. “How’s life treating you?.”

You blinked slowly, looked up from the pasta to face him and then chugged on the wine for a few seconds too long until you emptied your glass again, then looked at him, eyes still expecting an answer from you, truth was, you weren’t even sure what his question had been, —perhaps no, it was the fact that you heard his question but were sure it couldn’t be.

“What?” you whispered, too raw and too real to continue acting as if it was acting. It was the first time that a man had asked you, — Well, Mia— how she was, although there was no difference there, no man asked you how you were either.

Harry was still looking at you — not with pity, not with curiosity, not even with that smug look in his eyes. Just calm. Present.

Your fork paused in midair. For a second, the dining room noise dropped out. The hum of hushed posh conversation, clinks of plates, expensive laughter and soft piano music — all of it felt like a soundstage glitching behind glass.

How’s life treating you?

He’d said it softly, like someone who didn’t need a rehearsed answer. Who wasn’t performing back at you. The past jokes and flirting have been sharp, challenged your ability to come up with an answer. This question, on the other hand, had been human. He wanted to know what you did, the thing was: you didn’t exactly know what an art collector like Mia did.

You blinked again, slower this time. The warmth in your cheeks wasn’t from the wine anymore.

“I—” you started, voice catching somewhere in the back of your throat, then cleared it too fast. “Life’s good. I mean, exhausting, obviously. My assistant forgot to forward me a contract this morning and I almost didn’t acquire this beautiful marble bust”

Harry nodded like he believed you. Like he wasn’t slowly slicing through the lie with each casual glance, of course, you weren’t aware of his antics, you just stared at him as he took a bite out of his steak and you tried to drown the nervousness with more wine.

“And, you know, analyzing art,” you added with a forced sigh, picking up steam in the lie again. “Gotta work eighty hours a week if you want to retire early and disappoint your therapist, am I right?”

He smiled. “Sounds rewarding.”

You took another sip of wine to fill the pause, even though your glass was mostly empty now. The bottle sat between you, still unopened. You didn’t reach for it. You needed your mouth dry this time and your brain a little less foggier.

“So… Lucy told me that you had a beautiful piece by a chicano artist”

Could matchmakers tell such things to their clients? you thought, looking at him oddly strangled for a second, like a kid that got caught rummaging through the kitchen late at night. Which piece? which artist?

”Oh… I actually bought the whole collection, it’s currently at the galleria, could you describe the piece she mentioned?” you asked, looking at him satisfied, thinking for a second that you could deceive him.

He nodded for a second and you felt as if you could breathe again.

“She said you were 5 '6” he continued, and you started to present that you had no longer the upper hand in the conversation, perhaps, you never had.

”I am” you insisted with a kind chuckle, trying to straighten your spine subconsciously and then trying to shrink it, not sure anymore of how he perceived you, you took another sip of the glass of wine,

”She also said you were left-handed” he continued, you almost choked on the liquid and splashed it all over your dress, while he looked all smug and serious, almost finishing his stake.

”I’m ambidextrous” you affirmed, putting down the glass and making a mental note to pick it with your left hand next time.

”No, you’re not.” He sighed, and looked at you, finishing with his own plate, that the waiter jacklyn came to pick from the table, “You’re not Mia G”

”Wow, I look slightly off from what they told you and know you say such things!” you gasped, gave one last bite to the pasta and waited for someone to pick it up, no one came. You looked at him with a fake sadness in your eyes “Ways to hurt a woman”

Silence flooded the table, the waiter came back and took his plate, you looked at him for a second but as he left inside the kitchen your eyes found Harry’s again, brown and lost.

”Is this a joke to you?” he asked finally, his voice breaking the silence, his brown eyes looking at you as if trying to plead and at the same time trying to figure something out.

”No” you said with a quiet laugh, “This is a first date” you continued, your voice still light, “or trying to be one” you added in an almost whisper before lowering your gaze.

Silence once again. He was nice, he was too nice for this, the point was for him to dislike Mia, not to be mean, not to let the hoax go further than the ocasional second-hand embarrasment.

”How long have you known?” you asked, —truly you this time—. No lies, no weirdness or trying to be someone else.

”Since you walked in here” he continued, you met his gaze then, he poured more wine in his glass for the first time in the night and for once your glass stood empty for more seconds, “I’m not mad, I’m just… confused”

You stared at your glass, then back at him, as if trying to calculate how far honesty could get you tonight.

“Mia’s my best friend,” you began, voice quieter now, stripped of the armor of lies you’d built. “Her parents hired the matchmaking service after the wedding was off. She didn’t want to go on these dates, but you can't exactly say no when you’re still dependent on your parent’s money”

You shrugged. “So I go in her place. She skips the awkward dinners, I get free food, and a chance to study the collapse of modern romance from the inside out. I work at a magazine: MUSE.”

Recognition flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I write the love column,” you continued. “So I come here and see what people want to hear, then go home and have an idea on what article to write”

Harry’s face didn’t change, but you could tell he was filing everything away.

”I knew that” he said and searched for something in his pocket, a piece of glossed paper that had been folded and passed around too many times, while you stared in quiet silence and wonder.

He placed it in the table, the bright pink letters found your gaze:

”Love: The only place where knowing nothing means everything” under it your name, one of the first articles you’d ever written, the one that got you your job years ago.

Before you could ask he explained himself.

”The matchmaker gave me this, said it might’ve resonated with me” he explained at first, as you picked up the paper that bent under your fingertips from being read perhaps way too many times.

”And?” you asked, voice almost a whisper, thin like the paper you held in your hands.

”It did,“ he admitted with a smile, looking up at you for a second. “Ended up reading more from you, stumbled with your author picture as well” he continued.

You looked at him for a second while you grazed the paper, stumbled upon the words that were once yours, read them once, then twice, until you tried to evoke the time when they belonged to you and you meant them:

"Love´s the only place we're allowed to feel stupid, nobody gets love, not even science understands love, but it has existed for centuries and it continues to exist now, and maybe that's the key to love, not understanding anything but being with someone that you don't care if knowing that little matters at all..."

“I think love’s the most difficult thing in the world…” he started to say, interrupting your mindless reading to find his haze, where you found something else, something that told you more of him than whatever physical aspect the matchmaker mentioned Mia and she said to you.

”It is,” you replied, pouring wine once again but this time you drank it slowly, savoring the moment “That’s why everyone’s so obsessed with it. Nobody understands love”

”But you do —you write about it” he confessed, as if he knew something you didn’t, a smile on his lips as if he had figured out something.

”I don’t,” you replied with a soft smile and a laugh, that for once in one of these dates, wasn’t fake “I just write pretty words and lie to people”

He nodded as if he could understand it and went back to sip his wine for a second. You were a good liar, on and off paper, that's why you were there after all —in front of him.

“I think love is stupid” you whispered for a second, then he caught your gaze and smiled,

“So do I” he said back, and you raised your eyes to meet his gaze,

“If you think that, what are you doing here?” you asked then, not fully understanding what he had going on, “I have an excuse: I’m covering for a friend. What 's yours?”

He let go of his breath for a few seconds as he composed the string of words in his mind before answering, “Someone told me that when I meet the right person, I wouldn’t care if it’s stupid and…”

“That’s bullshit” you interrupted him with a laugh, a laugh that elicited a similar one from him, “That’s a lie, I know well because I get paid to write them” you continued,

The waiter arrived almost interrupting your conversation, Harry asked if you wanted dessert, you smiled, replied saying “only if you want to” there was no point in pretending anymore, not when he had stayed despite it all, you'd figure a way to solve the damage that could be done if the hoax Mia and you pulled went wrong. But for the moment, you weren’t sure on what he ordered at all since he pointed at the menu instead of speaking out loud. Almost as if he was trying to surprise you, he looked at you after the waiter wrote down the order.

Silence flooded the table as both of you sipped on your wine, “And?” you finally asked, remembering that he was about to add something to the conversation before you interrupted.

“And my brother got married in June, through Adore and Lucy… and my mom has been insisting on getting me married since ages ago, but my last girlfriend broke up with me, so now I’m here” he stated all of the sentences with that same smug smile that hid more than what he told

“But you had a girlfriend," you said, "love can’t be that stupid then”

“I don’t think I loved her… not like she deserved to be loved at least. She went back with her ex-boyfriend.” He drank as if he understood and swallowed the wine as to drown the feelings, “They’re getting married” he whispered and for a mere second you understood what secrecy hid behind his eyes moments ago.

“I’m sorry” you said with a soft voice, even when you didn’t fully understand his feelings, you saw his gaze, similar to your mother's that day, you knew.

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say stuff like this on a date” He chuckled at his own expense, looked at you with a smile and all charm but his eyes didn’t lie, there was something hidden there.

“Well, I’m not Mia G, this is technically not a date” you said nonchalantly, even when you didn’t believe in love, you could see that he did and after the awfulness he discovered from the lies you performed, the least you could do was listen.

The dessert arrived to the table before he could answer, in front of you a chocolate torte with poached pears, he was the first one to take a piece of it, and you followed his steps.

“I know” he said with a smile in the silence, pouring more wine in your glass and in his. "The wine pairs well with this, you should try it" he added, almost as if he avoided everything else.

“You can tell me” you replied, a pause in the air while your spoon and his clashed while trying to pick the same pear, both of your eyes met for a second, “It’s not as if we’re seeing each other again” you chuckled with a bittersweet edge to your voice that he caught in a similar chuckle.

“We aren’t?” he smirked, a tone of something close to flirting adorned his words, you didn’t catch it at first.

“Why would we?” you asked estranged and sipped your wine

He chuckled and for a second he thought that he had finally put you together, “I take it as in you’re not searching for love”

“I don’t believe in it” you replied with a similar smile to the one he was wearing

“You don’t?” he asked stranged, looked at you with those confused brown eyes and then poured himself and you more wine

“No, I don’t” you replied with easiness before mouthing a 'thank you' and a smile to him and picked your glass

“Why?” he asked confused, looking at you once again and noticing he hadn't figured you out at all.

“Because it’s fake. Marriage is transactional, people search for their soulmate because they’re alone… love by itself is attraction, lust, oxytocin and psychology, —it’s fucking pavlovian conditioning—. It 's not real.”

“That’s why you sell it so well,” he murmured as if he had finally understood the hidden puzzle of your antics, he picked the piece of paper and stared at it for some seconds then shoved it in his pocket “you write it like fiction.” he stated.

“Yeah” you affirmed, finished on your glass of wine once again, searched for his eyes with a depth of honesty that perhaps was a consequence of the neverending wine that you’d been drinking involuntarily the whole evening. “Everything’s a con or a deal” you whispered and he nodded.

You understood love and the way people revolved around it the same way an atheist understood God and its followers —you knew its effects on the people who followed it, the people who depended on it like a drug they needed desperately, and for that exact reason you didn’t believe in it. Maybe it was real for people but you felt so far away from it that it didn't matter.

Harry smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. He looked down at the table, then back at you slowly, and something in his gaze had shifted — less guarded, more curious. His eyes dropped for a second, not dramatically, just enough to flicker toward your mouth.

“You, uh…” he said, tapping the side of his own chin with two fingers. “You’ve got something. Just here.”

You blinked, mid-sip, and wiped your face with the back of your hand — the wrong side.

“Other side,” he said with a small smile.

You tried again, but still missed. He didn’t laugh — not out loud — but the corners of his mouth pulled upward like he was waiting for something, or maybe enjoying it more than he should.

“Want me to—?” he asked, picking up a napkin in his hand

You cut him off with a quiet, deadpan: “I’m not a toddler.”

He held up his hands in surrender but didn’t lean back. “Didn’t say you were.”

You stared at him for another second, then went back to your glass, unconcerned, clearly thinking you had wiped away everything, you hadn't.

But he moved anyway.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached out, and with the side of his thumb, wiped the smudge of chocolate from your chin. His hand was warm. Steady. The touch barely lasted a moment, but it lingered in the space between you like a held breath.

“There,” he said softly, not smug, not teasing—just... aware. Like he knew exactly what he was doing, and didn’t care if you pretended not to notice.

You looked at him. Really looked.

He was handsome — obviously. Smart, quick, decent enough to still be sitting here. And kind, in that subtle, observant way that some people mistake for flirting. But it wasn’t his charm that caught your attention right then — it was the fact that he didn’t break the gaze after touching you. He just let the silence stretch, gave you the space to say something. Anything.

But you didn’t.

You picked up your napkin and dabbed the same spot, even though there was nothing left to clean.

“Would you look at that? Chivalry's not dead after all” you murmured, eyes back on your wine glass, trying to hide the fact that your cheeks felt hotter and your breath faltered.

He let out a quiet laugh, full of something you couldn’t name.

��Well,” he said, leaning back with his glass in hand, “this is supposed to be a date, isn’t it?”

You looked at him then — really looked — and shook your head with a faint smile.

“No, if Mia were here it would be one” you replied simply. “It was a deal. Between Mia and me.”

He watched you for a second longer, then nodded slowly, like he was filing that answer somewhere behind his eyes.

“Okay then,” he said, voice lowering just slightly. “So you believe in deals?”

You met his gaze again, this time without flinching. “Yeah.”

“Then, let me make you deal.”

You blinked, tilting your head.

“I won’t tell the matchmaker what’s going on—won’t say a word about you or Mia, I will tell her that the date went awful so she can be free. But in exchange…” he paused, looking at you as if to measure how far you’d let him push this.

You narrowed your eyes, of course everything would have a price, even his silence. “In exchange?” you asked, hoping for the worse.

He held up a finger. “Just one thing. Just one day.”

You raised a brow waiting for his answer, for his request.

“Be my date.” he explained, and then, quickly added, “No kissing. No strings. Just show up. Pretend to be my girlfriend.”

You stared at him, oblivious to it all.

“Fake girlfriend,” he repeated. “For one day. You wear something pretty, pretend you like me”

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossing loosely over your chest. “You want me to do what?” It seemed that since that proposition Mia made you, your life had been slowly turning stupidier by the second, you couldn’t believe what you just heard

“I’ll even pay for the dress,” he added with a shrug, sipping his wine like he hadn’t just flipped the entire night on its head. “And I promise to keep the romance to a minimum. Just smile. Laugh at a few jokes. Lie a little. Shouldn’t be too hard—you’ve had plenty of practice.”

The comment about lying landed like a flick of cold water. You laughed, short and automatic, but the edge in his voice lingered. You stared at him, unsure if he meant it as a jab or a joke. For a moment, the whole scene felt almost dreamlike.

“What do I get in return? Besides the secrecy,” you asked.

He flinched as if he was giving it too much thought, “Whatever you want” he said quick, no additional rhetoric

“Macbook pro,” you said quickly, seeing a chance that you could take quickly “silver, 16 inches, 1 terabyte, the best chip, best screen, best everything”

“A computer?” he asked in a quiet laugh, taking another bite of dessert,

“You think they pay me enough to buy a good one? I’ve survived long enough with one that crashes everytime I try to save a doc” you confessed and poured the last drops of wine in your glass while picking the last pear on the plate, he raised his hand and asked for the bill. “You want me to act lovey-dovey for 24 hours? I want a computer in return. Easy as that.”

“Okay, deal” He said simply, as if he was closing any other business deal, “I’ll send you the receipt this night, give you the computer the day of the date”

“And when is this date taking place?” you asked, staring at him for a few more seconds while the waiter came and cleaned the table, dropping the bill in the middle, he didn’t even let you pick it up.

“I’ll call you” he stated, put his card, and signed the bill, all nonchalantly that it almost threw you off.

“So, I don’t even know when or where this date takes place? How can I be sure you’re not planning on kidnapping me?”

He raised an eyebrow, leaned back in his chair, and tilted his glass toward you in a mock toast. “If I were kidnapping you, I wouldn’t be negotiating laptop prices.”

You let out a dry chuckle despite yourself. “Not reassuring.”

“I’ll send you the details,” he said smoothly. “Time, place. I can even arrange a car service if that makes you feel better.”

“You still haven’t told me what kind of event this is.” You narrowed your eyes. “What am I pretending to be dragged into?”

Harry hesitated—just for a second. Then he exhaled through his nose and said it so casually you almost missed it. “It’s a wedding.” he mumbled, you could barely hear his voice

“A what?” you asked out of true wonder, you couldn’t understand what he said before and he seemed to notice that, his lips parted then closed, he looked at you and you looked back

“A wedding” he repeated himself. You blinked, stared at him for a few seconds, then blinked again, nothing made sense at all anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you said slowly, voice flat. “You want me to be a fake date to a wedding?”

“Yeah” he replied, as if it wasn't the biggest thing someone could casually drop while eating out.

You blinked. “Whose wedding?”

He paused for exactly one beat, as if he was trying to find the correct way to put it into words then figuring out there was no correct way to say what he needed to say, “My ex’s.”

You stared at him, eyes open and mouth dropping in awe and surprise, “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was,” he said, leaning back into his seat. His fingers tapped absently against the stem of his wine glass.

“The one that went back with her ex-boyfriend?” you asked with a flinch

“Technically I’m her ex-boyfriend now, he’s the boyfriend —well, fiancee—” he clarified,

“And she’s inviting you to the wedding?”

“She’s friends with my brother and his wife, plans on inviting me to pity-try and match me with someone sitting at the singles table”

“You know you can just not go, right?”

“Yeah, that’s what I had planned but…”

“But you don’t want to be pitied, yeah I get it” you whispered and he looked at you as if for a second you both were speaking in the same language, “So you’re planning on making her jealous?”

“I’m planning on surviving it,” he replied. “But yeah, a little jealousy wouldn’t hurt.”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing again. “Let me get this straight. You want me to play your doting, beautiful, brilliant girlfriend… just for the day. I smile at the people, pretend I’m in love with you, and help you prove that you’re the best guy she could ever lose”

“Yes.” he replied, sighing in relief at the way you had named the entire evening, even if that meant also listening how stupid it all sounded.

“In return, I get a MacBook Pro?” you continued, until that moment, the device was the only prize that you had in mind for doing such things for a stranger.

“Yes.” he agreed once again.

You exhaled slowly. “You do realize how fucked up this is, right?”

“I do.” His smile came easy, sad. “But I think you might be the only person who wouldn’t judge me for doing it.”

You stared at him. Really stared. Not at the stubble or the smile or the expensive watch and ring on his right hand— but the raw vulnerability just barely visible underneath all of that.

You could’ve said no. Should have. But something about the situation, something about him being part of it, was pulling at your curiosity like a loose thread on a too-perfect couture dress.

Besides, your job was to write about love even when you didn’t believe in it, and you were good at that. This? This was the same thing, except you’d do improv instead of rewriting the same sentence thirty times until it felt it had been pulled from a best-selling novel.

“Deal” you stated, a smile adorning his lips in satisfaction as he sighed, “What’s the dress code?”

“What’s your size?” he asked in return, looking at you from neck to hairline to eyes, “I’ll bring you the whole thing”

“What? you don’t trust my styling choices?” you asked in a chuckle, remembering that you were dressed in what could be considered the worst outfit to a first date, besides the fact you were smelling like rubbing alcohol and vanilla.

“I don’t think you should worry about what to wear on a fake date” he settled for saying, and you wondered for a second if it was true or not, but remembering how direct he had been on his remark about your lying, you settled for this comment to be an honest one.

You nodded as if you believed him at all, he pulled a card from his coat and gave it to you.

“It’s my number” he explained as you touched the thick cardboard with engraved letters, even in that piece of paper he seemed expensive.

“I don’t have a card” you replied, as you placed his card in the pocket of your blazer.

He asked the waiter for a pen and handed it to you, you wrote your name, shoe, clothing size and number in a napkin, he picked it and analyzed it for a couple of seconds before he folded it and guarded it in his pocket.

You leaned back in your chair again. “Alright. You bring the dress, I´ll reserve the right to hate it.”

“Deal.” he replied

“And I want the laptop before the event.” you added almost as a commodification on your agreement

He laughed kindly, “Already said yes to that.”

You let the silence stretch for a moment. The candle between you had burned low — barely a stub now, wax crusted along the edges of the holder. The cast flickering shadows across his face, the soft kind that made everything look less calculated, less put-together, less like a hoax.

“You know this isn’t going to fix anything,” you said eventually. “Your ex still gets married. Both of us remain single”

“I know,” he replied. His tone didn’t shift, but something behind it did. “It’s not about fixing it. It’s just about getting through it and not being pitied”

You nodded slowly, lips pressing together, considering.

“I can do that” you said at last,

His eyes softened into a smile — not amused, not flirty, just… tired. Honest.

“Works for me.” he added with a soft smile,

You reached for your phone and stood. “Text me the details. And the receipt.”

Harry looked up. “I will.”

You hesitated for half a second, then: “And just so we’re clear: I’m not playing love. I’ll play like. I’ll play interest. I’ll play warm hand on your arm. I’ll even try to play a kiss on the cheek. But love? I don’t do that”

His smile this time was faint. Almost invisible. He picked the forgotten bouquet from the table and handed it to you as a quiet agreement that settled the contract.

“Deal.” he said.

You nodded once, tucked your phone into your pocket, grabbed the flowers closer to your chest, and walked with him following close behind. It wasn’t a plan. It was a patch. A sharp, careful, transactional agreement built by two people who had their own interests. What could possibly go wrong this time?

“Nice meeting you, not-Mia G” he whispered at you while you sat in the reception calling an uber.

“Nice meeting you, Harry” you said back at him as he left the place, your eyes lingering on his back for a second too long until you stopped looking.

In that moment, he glanced back—just for a second—as if trying to commit your face to memory, like something stronger than his own will told him you’d matter to him, more than he could ever know.

[windvexer]

I just saw your post on banishing and manifesting and I totally agree, but I have a question. Does every spell require a ‘sacrifice’ and what actually counts? I don’t think a single book I’ve read on witchcraft has mentioned giving up something, other than maybe a small warning on unintentional effects from spell work. Are the materials used the cost? Or have I been doing things wrong because I never feed my spells right? Thanks in advance!

We're in reference to this.

We can make a pile of magical techniques which are required for spells to 'work.' Maybe this pile would include things like:

Raising energy

Intent, programming

Targeting, taglocks

Where I stand right now, I do not believe that this pile would ever include 'sacrifice.'

In common situations and everyday magic, I do not believe that 'sacrifice' is a magical mechanism that is required for a magical machine to operate, the way that we might think fuel or intent is required for a spell to operate.

Although I used flowery language to describe the 'blood' of a sacrifice feeding what is to come, I did not mean this in the same sense that we can use food offerings or energy raising to feed spells.

Instead, I currently perceive this kind of sacrifice (as described in the linked post) to be a part of the craft of the Witch that deals with fate.

I guess my best metaphor at this time is that fate working is like understanding magical laws, like the laws of physics. It's not a law because an authority decided it and is enforcing their will on you. It's a law because operating as if it's true will always get you closer to the bullseye than if you operated as if it was false.

The 'law' is this: when you banish, you leave a hole. When you conjure, that thing needs space to fit in. This is something I just personally believe to be true.

Fatewise, but not necessarily magically, when you mow down a field in your life and plow the harvest into the earth, it provides an open and fertile field for whatever you plant next.

If you want to use magic to fill up that empty space, you still need to raise energy, use intent, and so on. 'Sacrifice' is not a mechanism in these kinds of spells.

It might be better to think of sacrifice as terraforming, and spells as machines you place on the space to build your next structures.

In a more micro sense, we can say that sure, maybe the cost of materials, time, and energy you use to cast spells is a sort of sacrifice. Fatewise, this would seem to be true: you are making space for the spell to exist within your life because you are sacrificing time/focus/energy in order for that spell to have room to take root in your current timespace.

But magically, someone taking the time and energy to do a spell, yet completely skipping the steps of raising energy or powering the spell, is not 'feeding' the spell just because they took the time to perform some of the steps.

For myself, I worry about the idea of sacrifice when I want to make permanent changes. Not, "I'll feed everyone a magic cake for a good mood in the house ^-^" or "wouldn't a lot of new followers be fun this week?" But rather, "you know... time for the status quo to change. The path we're on is going to take a left turn."

[misstycloud]

How to stop your husband from being weird: situation one- digging in the middle of the night.

One of the things that I have noticed about my dear husband, Arlo (bless his soul), is the constant digging in our backyard; he leaves in the middle of the night and when I dare glance out the window, I see him. His back is always facing towards me, so I can’t get a good look at his face. He is a very expressive person and I can tell what he thinks from simply looking at his face, hence why this is somewhat concerning.

Had I known that my dearest would wake up during ungodly hours of the night, get dressed, fetch the garden tools from the shed, and then proceed to dig a massive hole, then maybe I would have hesitated to say ‘yes’. (Do not be worried, I love my husband deeply and this was just a little joke.)

Joke aside, it is still very annoying. Does he not know this will keep me awake too? I have work to do and I can’t keep on going if my sleep is this disturbed. I would have to be some sort of abomination- a vampire perhaps?

That is not all; I find dirt particles inside our house; I clean for nothing apparently.

I have tried bringing this up(somewhat hard to ask your spouse why they are leaving you all cold and lonely in the middle of the night) with Arlo, but every time he changed the subject. The audacity! He even asks me if I’m ill and is in need of a doctor. I tell him ‘I am quite fine thank you very much!’ and remind him my eyesight is good, I’m not imagining things and I know he’s been up to something in the yard. I also know he’s not preparing to pot new plants for summer so he better not try that with me.

Last time I tried prying the answer out of him, he finally relented and gave me what I wanted.

His explanation: I have been finding a lot of roadkill and other deceased animals lately. I didn’t want you to have to see it. You know I work so many hours, I don’t have time during the day, that’s why I bury them at night. It’s horrible, but understandable since they’re rebuilding the library and trucks loaded with materials drive by often.

Whether I believe this explanation or not doesn’t matter. There is factor agreeing with his explanation and there are ones that goes agaisnt it.

Those vouching for him: it is true that trucks drive by often these days since the library really did catch on fire recently. It was an unfortunate accident casued(according to the police) by some teenagers. They played around with a lighter and things escalated beyond their control. The saddest part is that I can’t go to the library anymore, I suppose I’ll have to find new hobbies to entertain myself until the library is rebuilt and restocked with books. Another thing is that I do like animals and it definitively wouldn’t be fun to see a run-over one in real life. My husband is very caring and wouldn’t expose me to something he knows I hate, therefore it makes sense for him to bury them in secret. Besides, his job is demanding and he actually wouldn’t be able to do so in the day.

All of this form one solution that is: burying the dead animals in secret from his wife(me) during nighttime as to not disturb me or his work hours. (If we look away from the fact I wake when he does)

Factors indicating he’s lying: how come I have never found a roadkill if they are so common nowadays? It’s unusual for him to come home before me, and if he’s that busy with work, it wouldn’t make sense for him to find all of them before I’ve even caught a whiff of something foul nearby. You see what I mean? Secondly, there is not reason why he should be the one doing all this work. Surely there are professionals dealing with here things? In that case then he should call them instead and tell those truck-drivers to be more careful.

Ultimately this is very suspicious, but what else can I do? Statistically, there is a high chance(I believe?) that your husband will have at least one weird hobby. I will have to live with that and I have said to him ‘I love you more than anything and if this is something you wish to do then o won’t question you.’

He was almost in tears, it was adorable. He said, ‘Yes, my love, thank you. I also love you more than anything in this world and I would be damned if something came between us.’

Afterwards I lectured him on not bringing in dirt in the house again, though. This was his answer: of course not, my darling!

To summarise this incident: my husband still visits the outdoors at night, however not as often as before. I warned him, too, of being careful because a bunch of men have been going missing lately and I’d be devastated if his name came up on of of those reports. I shouldn’t say this- but I will- I’m kind of happy those men are gone. I recognised their names and/or faces from the papers, you see. It turns out that all of them were ones I’d met previously. I won’t bore you with the details, but they weren’t pleasant encounters.

Everyday I have checked the floor for dirt and have found none. This is very good news for my ‘cleaning-spirit’. Whenever I feel Arlo leaving the bed I have decided to relax my mind and go back to sleep again. Then, if I’m still half-awake, I will feel him laying down beside me once more and together we drift off to dreamland.

The lesson I learned from this is that you don’t have to ‘fix’ everything about your partner, and they are allowed to have their special hobbies. There is a difference if you’re being harmed in the process, though. If that’s the case then you should immediately speak up about it and you compromise. Remember, communication is key!

———

Written by: (Y/n) (L/n)

[hylemorph]

(These observations are only based on my reading of the two available scripts, since I’ve been sick recently and don’t want to be one of Orlok’s plague rats, so I’m avoiding movie theaters for the time being.)

I 100% see where the CSA/Abuse interpretation is coming from, but I feel that I’ve seen many comments from that perspective flat out deny any part of the film deals with female repression, which, based on the scripts, just isn’t true.

Mainly I’m thinking of Friedrich, the loving father of two daughters (who nonetheless repeatedly manifests for his unborn child to finally be a son, named after him), two daughters (little girls Ellen is seen playing with repeatedly—in the 2016 script she plays with them at the beach before talking to Anna) who repeatedly mention a ‘monster’ that their doting parents laugh off as childish play—a monster that is very real, to Ellen, who is initially not treated seriously either until the arrival of Von Franz. She also scandalizes Friedrich when she says she would confront Knock herself, and in general he seems bothered by her more “forward” behavior which is at odds with how ladies “should” behave.

There is also a moment from Anna in the shooting script (not sure if it’s in the film) that stuck out to me: after Ellen says “He says I am promised to him!” (something to that effect) Anna cuts in to insist “She means her husband!” No, she’s obviously talking about Orlok—so why would it have been important to write Anna saying that, if female sexuality and its suppression is not intended as a clear theme?

Also, something else that stuck out to me from the scripts is a clear written attraction to Orlok/Death/the “other side” etc. that I feel also gets explained away by that crowd as only being a product of his abuse of her, but I don’t think that’s quite correct either; I think it’s an important element of the film for her to have, at least once, felt genuine (not trauma based) attraction towards Orlok—alongside her deep love and attraction for her husband, Thomas.

These are great points, I completely agree that looking at Friedrich and Anna's behaviour is key to understanding Ellen's battle with her "gifts" and how acceptance is very conditional for her, even among her closest friends who want to help her.

I don't think that "I am promised to him" part did make it to the finished film, I'm very interested in the context surrounding that - was it when Ellen was explaining her dreams/trances to Von Franz?

I totally agree that Ellen's attraction to Orlok is real, and I don't think it's based on victimhood or a feeling that she can never escape the urge to subject herself to repeated trauma, even though Orlok represents her trauma, among many other complex feelings in her psyche. I think that sexual desire for Orlok represents a deep, primal desire to claim her own darkness and power and everything that freaks her friends out. The tagline of all the promotional material is "succumb to the darkness" and that's really the whole deal, lots of people just immediately assume that darkness is evil and pain and powerlessness.

[afictionalwhor3]

Possessive

Mob!Ari Levinson x Reader

Summary: Some guy tries to take what's his, and Ari doesn't like to share.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Smut. Unprotected p in v. Some guy being a creep towards the reader. Mentions of alcohol. Allusions to violence (not against reader)

Divider by @cafekitsune

You loved to tease Ari about his possessive tendencies when it came to you. During playful arguments, he would always rebut with the fact that he was just not good at sharing. And when you are one of the leaders of the biggest mob on the East Coast, you didn’t have to share. He hated sharing you most of all, but he loved showing you off. 

You were rarely one to go out, but Ari had convinced you to make an appearance with him tonight. It was the two-year anniversary of the boys’ first club, “Serum”, and he wanted you to be there with him. Ari aided his argument by saying he needed you there, to quote, “show everyone what a power couple you were.” Which is how you ended up in one of the most beautiful red dresses you had ever seen. The material was soft against your skin, accentuating the curves of your body perfectly. It fit too well to have come off the rack, which is how you felt about everything Ari bought you. Despite never giving him your measurements, he knew them exactly. Everything was always perfect and made you look absolutely stunning. Before you could admire yourself any longer, you heard a long and low whistle behind you. You turn around and smile as you catch Ari with a hand over his heart. 

“You are tryna kill me babygirl. I’m convinced,” he says, walking over to you and placing his hands on your hips, “or maybe you really don’t want us to go at all,” he whispers seductively. Ari leans in to try to kiss you, but you stop him with a finger to his lips. His brows furrow together as he looks at you, confused. 

“You are not messing up my lip combo, Ari Levinson. You bought me this amazing dress, I look sexy as hell, we will be going,” you state, sternly. Ari starts grumbling incoherently, and you raise an eyebrow, quickly silencing him. One of the most feared men on the eastern seaboard just shut up because you raised your eyebrow. You wouldn’t lie about the power trip this sent you on. 

“Fine. But at least one kiss,” he grumbles, obviously still mad, while also trying to give you his best puppy dog eyes. You smile, giving in quickly.

“Fine. Just one,” you giggle, pulling him in. 

A few hours later, you found yourself sitting in Ari’s lap at their VIP booth, which overlooked the whole club. It was the best seat in the house. Theo and Jesse, his partners, sat up there with the two of you, looking over one of their best ideas. You sipped casually on your drink until you felt Ari’s warm lips on your neck. “Hey, sweet girl, can you go get me another drink? And grab whatever you want for yourself,” he tells you, nipping at your ear. You giggle when he does until you notice the men walking over. That meant that they had business to do, and this was Ari’s way of getting you to disappear for a little bit. 

At your request, Ari had begun to involve you more in the business. It is what paid your bills and allowed you to live the lifestyle you did. You didn’t want to be the girlfriend who sat in the background and simply enjoyed the wealth. You had plenty of talents and strengths that you knew could be an asset to the business. After some negotiations, Ari agreed to slowly let you in on the business. Part of the deal was that you would not be involved in anything he deemed dangerous or could get you in trouble. Who knew where this fell on the spectrum, but you trusted Ari’s judgement. You nodded in understanding, starting to stand up and walk away. Ari continued to hold your hand and kiss your knuckles until he couldn’t anymore. 

Downstairs, the bar was one of the focal points of the club. Circular in shape, it was placed in the center of the room. The shape allowed the bartenders to serve people from all angles, and it was one of the boys' favorite parts of the club. They were able to serve more people and quicker than anywhere else, which means they had some of the shortest wait times in the city. That, combined with the A-list lineup of DJ’s, made Serum one of the hottest clubs in the city. There was concern at first about whether they could find bartenders willing to deal with the seemingly overwhelming task. But the boys had a well above-average base pay, and the bartenders made so much in tips in a night, they never had a shortage of people willing to work for them. 

You did your best to move your way through the crowded dance floor, trying to spot somewhere that looked less busy than the rest. Serum was packed even more than usual tonight for the anniversary celebration. There were celebrities throughout the VIP sections, and it was hard to find a piece of flooring that wasn’t being danced on. You didn’t mind the occasional sweaty body rubbing against you. You weren’t in a rush, knowing the boys would need their time to get business down. Plus, you knew the second someone locked eyes on you, they would drop everything to come serve you. Everyone on staff knew you were Ari’s girl, which meant you were akin to royalty, and the service you received was nothing less than exceptional. Whether that was out of fear of Ari or respect for you, you didn’t know. It could be both, but you never minded either way. 

When you finally got to the front of the bar, you leaned on the laminated wood surface and looked for the closest bartender. You locked eyes with Natalie almost immediately and felt the grin overtake your face. Nat was Theo’s girl. She was one of the first bartenders hired, which is how the two of them met. A year later, she and Theo were serious and living together, so she mostly only came in if they needed an extra hand. It kept her busy, and everyone loved it because she didn’t take tips. Theo took well enough care of her that she didn’t want to take from the staff. She texted you earlier about a couple of people calling out, and she was helping for a few hours. You were more than ecstatic when Theo finally introduced her as his girl. The two of you hit it off immediately, both of you finding solace in the only other woman who could understand the situations you were in. Within a few weeks, she became one of your closest friends. 

Once she was done with the customer in front of her, she rushed over to you, “Hey y/n, which boss man wants a refill?" she asked. Nat leans into you to prevent either of you from having to yell to be heard. 

“Mine. And my usual, please,” you request, with a smile, and she nods her head in understanding. She turns her back to get started on you and Ari’s typical drinks, while you stand there and wait. You strum your nails across the bar and rock side to side, a small dance for the song playing. A few moments later, you feel a hand rest on your waist. You had no reason to assume it wasn’t Ari. It didn’t occur to you in the moment that another man would even attempt to touch you in that way. With this mentality you went back to dancing, that is, until the hand squeezed your waist too hard. Ari was always intentional about the way he touched you and would never do something like that, even if it were an accident. You quickly looked over your shoulder and jumped as you found a strange man behind you. He smiles at you, but it has the opposite effect of what he intends. It sends a cold shiver down your spine as you move his hand away. He doesn’t get the hint and puts his hand right back and pulls you close so he can whisper in your ear, 

“You look too good to be here alone, gorgeous.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, you feel nauseous. The man wasn’t unattractive, but you could tell immediately that something about him was off. When Ari whispered something in your ear, it was a thrill. A secret promise that only the two of you knew about. Bubbling anticipation always found its way to your stomach as you tried to predict what would come next. This man’s breath reeked of alcohol and was eerily hot against the shell of your ear. You use all of your power to push him off you, which does wonders in his inebriated state. People grumble as he stumbles into them, returning the favor and pushing him as well.

“I’m not alone. Trust me.” You speak, courtly, glaring at him and turning around. Natalie is looking at you, confused about what just happened, but you just roll your eyes, ready to be done with it. Natalie looks like she is about to tell you something, but the words get lost on her tongue when you feel a hand wrap harshly around the back of your neck. You gasp in both shock and slight pain as you feel his lip by your ear again. 

“Hey! Get the fuck away from her!” Natalie yells, causing the people nearby to look over, trying to catch a glimpse of what is going on.  

“Bitch this doesn’t concern you,” he spits out, taking both of you by surprise. In your temporary daze he turns his attention back onto you, “Whatever sorry fucking scrub brought you here is shit out of luck tonight. You’re fucking leaving with me,” he says, smiling to himself at the thought while letting his hand find your ass. Before you can react to the gross intrusion, he is gone. You turn around, confused, and you find Ari holding him in the air by the collar. Theo and Jesse stand only a step behind him. When Theo’s eyes land on Nat, he runs over to the bar to check on her. You watched as the creep physically recoiled into himself while he hung pathetically in the air. The people closest to the altercation took a step back, having enough sense to distance themselves from whatever was going on. As if Ari were a human radiator, except instead of heat, there was anger rolling off of him in waves. 

Despite all the love and softness he showed you, you knew Ari’s reputation preceded him. Getting on the bad side of Ari Levinson was almost always a ticket to the hospital, or worse. No one had ever been stupid enough to put their hands on you, even those outside of your organization knew what you meant to Ari. Only a man with a death wish would touch you, let alone talk to you the way this man just did. You watch as Ari growls something incoherent before dropping the man. He scurries his way through the crowd, beelining for the exit. You watch the subtle nod Ari gives to Jesse before he disappears as well. Ari takes a deep breath as his ocean blue eyes immediately begin to look for you. Once he does, you can tell all the anger from moments ago has vanished. It was instead replaced by concern for you as he closed the short distance between you in one stride. Even though he needed you to go, Ari always kept tabs on his girl. As soon as he noticed the commotion below, and you in the middle of it, he was up in an instant. He didn’t care who he disrespected by cutting the meeting short or who would be mad. You were the most important thing in his life. And he would be damned if anyone hurt what was his. 

“Are you okay baby girl? He didn’t hurt you, did he? Fuck I should’ve never sent you away,” Ari says, in quick succession. He uses his large hands to cup your face and look for any signs of distress or injury. Despite how unsettled you feel, you want nothing more than to reassure Ari. So, you smile and turn your head to kiss his palm.  

“I’m okay, Ari. He just creeped me out. That’s it, I promise.” He sees right through you and pulls you into his chest for a hug. Ari looks at Theo, “Free round of shots. On the house. We will be back,” he states matter-of-factly. Theo nods and relays the information to Natalie, who stands on top of the bar. 

“Free round of shots. On the house!” She yells as people erupt into cheers. You didn’t notice the music stopped, but it starts again now. It is like everyone forgot the scene that unfolded only moments ago. Meanwhile, Ari held your hand tightly and led you through the crowd of people towards the offices in the back.

Ari ushers you into his office, his hand on the small of your back. You turn around when you hear the door click, and before you can say anything his lips are on yours. You immediately melt into his arms, wrapping your own around his neck. With practiced ease, he lifts you up and carries you over to the desk. Resting you on top of it, he pulls away to rest his forehead against yours. You both are still for a moment, your breaths intermingling with the proximity. Ari is the first one to break the silence,

“Now that it is just us, I need you to tell me how you are feeling. You don’t have to lie, I want to know everything,” he says. You look at him and in those beautiful pools of blue, vulnerability clouds his irises. Concern that you weren’t okay, and guilt that it was all his fault. The man that gave you the life of your dreams, that has made you feel safer than you ever, feels guilty because one pervert made you uncomfortable. 

“Ari I am fine,” you voice honestly, running your fingers through his hair. “I need you to believe that. I’m shaken up, yes, the guy was a creep. But he didn’t hurt me physically. I will be okay, I promise.” You can tell Ari is not entirely convinced and you place a soft kiss to the tip of his nose, which causes the crease in between his brows to dissolve, “This is not your fault Ari. I know you won’t believe it no matter how much I tell you, but it isn’t. No one blames you, and I definitely don’t blame you,” you tell him. He presses a sweet kiss to your lips and brings his hands up to your face. His thumb gently strokes over the apple of your cheek, 

“Is there anything I can do? Any way I can help right now?” he asks, searching your eyes for the answer. You smirk when you once again turn your head to the side to kiss his palm. 

“I mean I have a few ideas. I definitely knows some ways you could help me relax and probably get rid of some stress,” you voice, and now it is Ari’s turn to smirk. Finally, you watch his body relax as his hands begin to travel slowly down your body.

“Oh yeah baby? And what is that?” he questions, pretending to be oblivious.

“I think you know,” you reply, with a smile as you stare at Ari. He gives you one last look before leaning in to press another searing kiss to your lips. The kiss quickly becomes messy and passionate, all teeth and tongue. Your lips finding each others like magnets.

“Fuck baby. You’re fucking mine,” Ari says gruffly. He pulls away to begin his assault on your neck. Leaving kisses and bites wherever his lips could reach. Instinctively, you wrap your legs around his waist, meanwhile your hands were restless. They were in his hair, down his back, in his beard, squeezing his biceps. When Ari pulls away to get a look at you, your focus has shifted to getting Ari’s pants off.  

“Need you,” is all you mumble, not paying attention to his as you get his bely undone. You wiggle his dress pants down just enough to reach his cock. You moan when you pull it out. “So pretty,” you mumble again, starting to stroke it in your hand. His tip was an angry red color and leaking as you teased it with his thumb. You smirked when you felt Ari shudder, and finally looked up at him. You began to stroke your way up and down his length, watching the way Ari tried to keep himself together. The quiet pants that left his perfectly pink lips, there were a little swollen from the kiss. The way his hands squeezed at your hips, desperate not to hurt you, but also needing an anchor. Before long he is pushing you onto your back, and hiking your dress up. 

“Any longer and I would’ve came in your hand,” he whispers when he leans down to kiss your face. “And you’re lucky I have to go back to this damn party. Cause I’d rip this damn dress in half,” he growls at the end. You laugh softly and pull him in for another passionate kiss. Ari moves his hand between your legs, finger teasing your slit. 

“Slutty girl. No fucking panties on. You were waiting for me, huh?” he asks, and you nod desperately. Ari slips a finger inside of you, slowly dragging it in and out of you. Your heels dig gently into his back while you close your eyes. Before long, Ari slips another finger inside of you and is curling it against your walls. You gasp and squeeze his arms, your hips begining to grind against his hand. As soon as you find your rhythm, Ari is removing his fingers from you and bringing them to his lips. You glare at him and he is smirking back. 

“Can’t wait to taste you properly later,” he says, connecting your lips yet again and slipping his tongue into your mouth. You put your hands in his hair, gripping at the long blonde strands when you feel him slip into you. The deeper Ari gets, the more your whimper and Ari lets out a shaky moan. Once he is fully inside of you, you both take a second to look at each other, and you are thankful for the chance to stretch around his girth. Once you gave him the small nod of approval, he began moving in and out of you.

“So big baby. Always stretching me,” you whine, trying to claw at Ari’s muscles through his button-up shirt. His pace started to speed up, both of you chasing a quick high.

“So fucking beautiful. I love you, baby girl,” he moans confidently now as he fucks you. The desk scrapes against the floor from the harshness of his thrusts, but your noises are well drowned out by the sounds of the party. Ari spreads your legs wider, and grips your thighs for leverage. The pleasure crescendos, and you feel yourself getting close to your peak. 

“Love you too baby. Don’t stop please, ‘m so close,” you beg, and the two of you lock eyes. As if that was enough to send you over the edge, you feel a jolt go up your spine and the pleasure spike. A few strokes later, Ari finds your g-spot and pounds relentless at it. Your heels dig harder in his back, and your hands are desperately gripping his hair strands. Your back arches up, and your eyes roll back. 

“Fuck I’m cumming. Ari!” you moan loudly, as you fall off the edge. You can feel Ari reach between the two of you to play with your clit. Your pussy has him in a vice grip, and he knows he isn’t far behind you. With a squeeze of your hips, and few more pumps, he is moaning while filling you up. Ari leans onto his forearms, both caging you in and so he doesn’t crush you. He presses kisses to your temple before slowly pulling out of you. He watches the way his loads spills out of you while you come down from your high. He stands up and walks behind his desk where he keeps wipes, specifically for moments like this. 

“You know if you had panties on, it wouldn’t leak?” he states matter of factly. You sit up on your forearms and flip him off. He laughs and walks back over to clean you up. When he is done, he takes your hand to help you stand up. Ari steadies you with a hand on your waist, and straightens out your dress for you. He grumbles when you wipe the makeup off his face, and try to fix his hair. He leans down to give you one more kiss, obsessed with the taste of you. 

“You really look gorgeous tonight baby girl,” he says. You smile and take his hand so you can walk out in front of him. 

“Lets go before you find a reason for round two,” you reply, and Ari answers with a slap to your ass that makes you laugh.

The two of you return to the VIP booth, hopefully not looking as fucked out as you felt. Theo has his arm around Natalie who is laughing with Jesse. The three of them perk up when they see you and Ari walking over.

“And where did you love birds go?” Natalie asks curiously, and you both smirk. You wait for Ari to sit down first so you can sit in his lap once again. Theo tries to subtly tell him to wipe his face, you are confused until you look at Ari see you missed a spot. On his nose and the top of his lip, some of your makeup remains. Everyone around busts out laughing, even you giggle with the group as you wipe it was. Ari shrugs, never taking his eyes off you.

[emlovslennon]

Ok so for your Paul stuff… y/n has been dating Paul since the cavern club days, now it’s set during get back, and Paul has gotten a lot more dominant….

Good LORD i have been lacking smh. But woohoo ft Paul McCartney for the first time on my account ‼️

Era: 1969

-

it’s been 8 years since you and Paul have gotten together, you guys met early 1961, back when The Beatles were still performing at the infamous Cavern Club. You showed up to every show and ultimately got the attention of the handsome bassist, after that night, you and him have been pretty much inseparable. At the beginning of your relationship, Paul was very shy, and would let you take the reigns when it came to bedroom activities. But, something changed, to say the least. As the Beatles grew bigger and more popular, the more confident Paul grew. And it wasn’t just an egocentric kinda thing, he started to really push himself when it came to sex as well. Especially now, with how stressed he is with the band seemingly falling apart, even though he doesn’t want to admit it, and obviously you don’t either. And the numerous moments in between when John hit on you when drunk and apologizing in the morning after Paul’s scolding.

“I just don’t understand it, y/n.” Paul sighed, looking at the copious amounts of song writing material on the table. You looked at him, with nothing but sympathy, you know that Paul is truly trying his best and how passionate he is about the band, it truly is exceptional.

“Paul, I promise, everything will be fine.” You say softly, bringing your hands to his shoulders and slowly massage them. You felt him groan as his head laid against your chest. This went on for a minute or so until he turned around and gave you a soft kiss, Paul was always such a passionate lover, he usually was never too rough, even though he sure tried.

“Y/n, I want to try something, I heard it helps with stress, at least, something to do with what John was rambling about earlier, but, I wanted to ask you if you want me to be… rougher, in bed.” You blushed as he explained, you’ve never done that before, but as much stress he’s been dealing with lately, you couldn’t help but not give in to what he wants.

“Of course, we can try. That’s fine with me.” You said, you smiled as Paul’s eyes grew wide and giggled, he honestly didn’t think you’d agree to it. Paul picked up bridal style and took you to the bedroom and threw you on the bed. You pulled yourself up by your elbows to see the look Paul’s eyes change, they looked darker than usual, and filled with lust. Your breath hitched as he slowly unbuttoned his vest and the white button up he had underneath. Today was a very stressful day for him, whether it be him and George bickering or John completing spacing out or having pda with Yoko.

“Strip for me, love.” He demanded. His voice deeper than usual. You immediately got on your knees on the bed and unbuttoned your blue cardigan along with your white top, along with your black, lacy bra you had been wearing. Paul seemed to be impatient as he grabbed your knees and pulled from under them so you fell on your back, as he nearly ripped off your black skirt and panties. This was definitely not the norm for him. He spent no time slipping a finger into you without warning, causing you to arch your back and moan loudly. He immediately shoved a second one in, causing you to gasp, he’s usually very slow in mid movements, but this definitely is different, he’s wasting no time. His fingers always manage to hit your sweet spot as his fingers curled. Causing your legs to shake as you continued to moan.

“Never noticed how needy you are, love. I think I’m gonna need some convincing if you want me to do more than this.” He said, kissing your forehead, although his fingers felt ethereal, you did wish he was actually inside you, especially at such a fast and deep pace he was going.

“P-Paul, please, I need you.” You moaned out shakily, a huge grin painted his face, as he slowly unbuttoned his pants in a excruciatingly slow pace, which made your thighs clench.

“Paul, come on, please I need-“ you stopped dead in your tracks as Paul shoved his entire length into you at one go, causing you to yelp out. Paul gave you no time to adjust, which he usually does, and just immediately started a hard pace.

“Come on, you asked for this, what you get for rushing me.” Paul grunted, you cried out as he hit all the right spots, you have no idea where this type of Paul has been all your life, well, the last 8 years, but you weren’t complaining. You have never felt yourself so close to the edge before, it never came this fast. You could feel the warm feeling in your stomach growing, you felt as if you were a ticking time bomb.

“P-Paul-“ you gasped

“Already? I don’t know, should I let you cum?” He says, in a very breathy tone as he lets out groan after groan. He never made you beg before.

“P-please Paul! Please let me cum, please!” You cried out, Paul spent no time rubbing your clit before you felt the feeling in your stomach snap and you let go all over him. Paul didn’t stop, though. You felt yourself started to get overstimulated, tears started to brim your eyes and the shakiness you were feeling wouldn’t subside.

“I know, I know, I’m almost there, love.” He moaned, after about three more thrusts, he came inside you with a loud groan. Which is probably the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. His long, dark brown hair disheveled, and his face was flushed. He looked so darkly beautiful. He laid next to you and kissed your face all over, no matter how rough he was, he will always be the same boy you fell in love with in Liverpool.

-

THIS WAS KINDA BAD BUT WE NEEDED PAUL CONTENT IT NEEDED TO HAPPEN

[musette22]

It's been 15 years!! When will Marvel right it’s error and finally give Bucky/Seb proper screen time? At this point I don’t believe it’s going to happen anymore bc Marvel keeps showing that they’re just wasting potential in general let alone with Bucky.

I just don’t get what their problem is bc even with the scraps that were giving Bucky/Seb became fan favs which speaks for the character and especially for Seb as an actor. Imagine if they actually gave him good material. How great it could be! They have one of the best actors of his generation working for them and they’re barely using him. At this point it’s not only ridiculous it’s also outrageous!!

They need to get comic authors who actually like and know these characters to write for them like Ed Brubaker for example. Not only would the plot be better the characterization would be so much better. Most of the writers they have it seems have apparently never read any comics or just read some summaries online with the way they often are writing these characters.

I miss phase 1 and 2 which were not perfect by any means but you could see they were trying and it had heart. At this point it’s not just stupid it’s disappointing considering all the material they have.

Yeah... You're right about them wasting Bucky & Sebastian's potential and how ridiculous that is, that's for sure. Personally, though (and I know you probably won't agree with me on this, I'm sorry), I don't want there to be more new Bucky content in the MCU anyway, so I actually hope they won't give him a solo movie or more screentime in other movies. I think they're never going to do him justice, because they never have after TWS and that definitely is a crying shame.

But also, Endgame completely ruined things, as far as I'm concerned. I know the comics are a different story, and I understand what you're saying about those (though I haven't read them), but within the MCU, Steve and Bucky are a package deal and to me, they just don't make sense without the other. That's one reason I stopped watching marvel after EG, and one of the reasons I will not be watching any future content anyway. So yeah, for me personally, I just want them to leave Bucky be already (I've been wanting that for years though, and no luck so far, so yeah 🙃)

Let them leave Bucky to the people who really love and appreciate him (us), and let Sebastian explore other things! That's what I would prefer to happen.

[simslegacy5083]

Today's (4/18/2025) Episode: Family Planning

When they got home from Sulani Skye let Candor know that they needed some privacy for a sensitive conversation. Candor shrugged. “No problem, I was just on my way to meet Shelly anyway. The house is all yours; I hopefully won’t be home for a quite some time.”

With the house to themselves, xe settled on the couch next to Elyse, suddenly worried about spooking her back into silence. “So… um…”

“Its OK” she told xem “I had a good talk with mom. Hearing that I won’t be able to carry our baby was devastating, but I want to figure out how we are going to start our family.”

“I’m so sorry,” Skye said “truly, but I’m more than happy to get pregnant for us instead.”

“The doctor said that you likely had some viable eggs we could use to make an embryo. The baby would still be ours biologically, I’d just be the one to carry it. That seems like the simplest solution, and we always planned to do that eventually anyway. What do you think?”

“I…” Elyse frowned as she pictured first the surgical procedure the doctor had briefly described would be needed to harvest her genetic material and then, almost as troubling, her handsome Skye’s stomach swelling grotesquely as xe grew heavy with child….

“Skye… I just…I can’t do that. I don’t want anyone operating on me.” she began “The thought of surgery, of being cut into…” she shuddered “I’d love for our child to be our biological offspring, but that’s just too much for me to handle.”

Xe forced down xir disappointment and refrained from mentioning that if Elyse had gotten pregnant, she might have needed a C-Section, which was much more invasive than egg retrieval. “I understand how much you hate doctors and hospitals.” xe agreed instead “If you don’t want to donate there’s plenty of anonymous donor samples available. Isn’t that how your grandpar got pregnant with your mom?”

Elyse nodded “It is… but Skye, watching you carry our child when I’ll never be able to…” she started to cry softly. “I know you want to have a baby; I just don’t think I can handle that right now, I’m sorry!”

Despite her tears Skye had to tamp down a flare of anger as xir wife rejected xir request to get pregnant… again.

She’s hurting. Xe rationalized, taking a deep breath to calm xir temper before answering. I guess if I went to Peppino’s clinic and they told me I couldn’t ever bear my own child it would be incredibly difficult for me to watch her carrying our baby. I’m sure when everything isn’t so fresh… anyway, we both agreed we want more than one; I know I’ll have plenty more chances and I won’t let her put me off forever.

“I see how that could be hard for you right now,” xe finally agreed “How about we ask one of our friends or relatives to be a surrogate instead?”

“Actually,” Elyse countered “I was thinking of your family, but not as surrogates. That foundation they run might be a great place to adopt a child.”

“Adoption…” Skye sat back, mulling over the idea.

Since xe and Elyse both desired to carry their baby, xe had never considered adopting, but now that she had brought it up xe could see how providing a home for a child in need could be the perfect solution for them. Even if Elyse didn’t see their surrogate, she would have to deal with the knowledge that some other sim was carrying out the task she had so desperately wanted to do herself, but any baby they adopted would already have been born.

“I think that sounds like a great idea!” xe finally agreed. “I’ll call my Uncle Hunter right away and setup a screening appointment. We’ll still have to apply and get approved but its my families foundation, so I can’t see that being a problem.”

“Great!” she smiled, putting her hand over Skye’s to stop xem from pulling out xir phone right then and there. “Before you do that though, there’s one other thing I needed to talk to you about.”

“I know I haven’t been very affectionate lately.” she began “Woohoo has never been my favorite thing and once I knew we wouldn’t even be able to get pregnant that way the thought of doing it just felt pointless and made me remember everything I’d lost. That’s not fair to you though, and I’m sorry. I’d love to make it up to you now, if you’re willing.”

Skye was momentarily torn, but finally decided that their uncle wasn’t going anywhere, whereas their wife might change her mind if xe didn’t act fast. “I’d love that” xe finally said “I’ll call the foundation right after. You know, I had a really interesting shower dream the other night…”

Elyse liked the idea of staying clean while they did the dirty, and sometime later the pair emerged, feeling quite good about the new experience. “That was nice” she said “The warm water, the soapy bubbles… I wouldn’t mind trying it again sometime.”

“Your wish is my command” Skye mocked bowed before blowing her a kiss, spinning back into xir clothes, and heading into the bedroom to call xir Uncle and begin the adoption process.

View The Full Story of My Not So Berry Challenge Here

[byclairs]

Lucas's arc seemed like he deserved to be put in his place and recognize that he was wrong for believing he could hope for better? And they did not even focus in his character that much. Most people say Mike has a spectacular forced conformity storyline waiting for s5 when we had a forced conformity storyline for Lucas but it was so sloppily written. I thought the forced conformity narrative is suppposed to be written good in any case for poc too, not just for your white character that you send a message with.

it feels like the duffers just don’t care enough to convey a cohesive message for lucas’ arc and/or don’t know how because on the one hand they’ve acknowledged several times the racism he faces both on and outside the show so they can’t even play dumb and yet they then constantly downplay what he goes through and so you end up with scenes like the end of s4 where he basically learns to know his place or whatever like..lucas is not in same boat as someone like mike who’s mainly bullied for being a nerd. he’s ostracized in a way that mike and dustin will literally never understand but the show almost never makes any attempt to show how he deals with that yet it’s explicitly talked about in an official book from his perspective (and i know lucas on the line is not technically canon but it’s still tied to netflix/st and if they had someone in the writer’s room who could’ve incorporated even part of the type of material from the book into the show i think it would’ve done wonders to flesh out his story) like i’m sorry if you’re gonna acknowledge that his situation is different than the rest of the party’s then you need to put more care into following through with that because the whole “i thought i wanted to be like you—popular, normal” scene was just..it felt like they were insinuating his main reason for joining basketball was just to be cool when we know it’s a lot more complex than that; he was trying to protect not only himself but his friends too even though they don’t face the same shit he does. and possibly even enjoy something new in the process god forbid. and you would think that he was ditching his friends and other interests for the basketball team when that’s not what happened at all? like he never started acting aloof with them or ignoring them, he was still very much in hellfire and he never turned his back on them he even used his status on the team to lure them away from where eddie was hiding even though everyone was saying he killed chrissy and lucas didn’t know what was going on yet. he never let his desire to fit in turn him into someone unrecognizable who needed to be taught a lesson and that’s why it pisses me off so bad that he was made to feel this deep regret in the end as if he made some huge mistake that he learned from because in reality he’s never been anything short of a loyal friend or strayed from his morals. and to top it all off mike and dustin get off the hook without having reflect on how they hurt lucas because apparently you should never support your friends unless you fully understand and agree with the things they want 👍🏼 idk.

i also think his conflicting feelings about helping his (ex) girlfriend deal with her grief for her canonically racist brother who traumatized and literally almost killed him would’ve been really interesting and important to explore especially since that most likely relates to the reasons he started feeling like it was urgent to fit in more in the first place but. none of that because this boy’s feelings are never taken into account

i also think everyone should read all of this

[jaw-writes]

A Letter to My Coat

I write this as a letter to you, my most frequently used coat. I remember when I found you at the department store. To everyone else, you were just like any simple button up, but I could tell there was something valuable about you. Not in the monetary sense; you weren't made of interesting parts or decadent materials, but you were rich in character. There were a couple like you on the clearance rack but I knew you were the one I wanted. 

So I took you home with me and slipped you on. You were a bit too tight at first and it was a struggle to remove your tag, but my goodness was it worth it. The fabric that lines you is so soft and warm, then the outer layer, the part everyone sees, is so simple yet perfect in that simplicity. I would take you everywhere with me and I would never get comments about you being out of place. Over the years you’ve taken some damage a couple of loose threads and stains, though that’s not a complaint I think it makes you far more desirable. 

The grit contrasts with your overall plush making you even more comfortable to have on. The only problem is when you try to behave like you’re another piece of clothing, or worse something not meant to be worn. There have been a couple of instances, especially over the past few months, where you’ve tried to convince yourself you’re something you’re not. You’ll be stubbornly holding onto the coat rack. Make it hard for me to wear you, try to roll off me, and worst of all, attempt to patch yourself up when you know you can't do that without me.

Which is why I’m writing this letter that I’ll put in your pocket tomorrow. I implore you to stop this nonsense for your sake, I know we don’t always agree but this is much more damaging to you than me. I don’t understand how you don’t know your purpose after I’ve been here so long and explained it to you a plethora of times. You are my wonderful, pecan-colored, coffee-stained, patch-covered, formfitting coat. Your existence is a wonderful thing it greatly improves my life and I get frequent compliments when I wear you. I don’t know why you keep craving for something you’re incapable of having in every sense.

In all honesty, it's getting frustrating to deal with, and I fear you’ll destroy yourself if you continue. You don’t have as much autonomy as you seem to believe. All these attempts to get away from me, to ruin our symbiotic relationship will always result in you coming back. It's in the fabric of your nature to want to be worn by me, no matter your attempts to deny it. To show you how this is causing you harm, I’ll discuss the most recent incident. 

I was on one of my nighttime hunts with you accompanying me as you often do. I had just cornered my prey and prepared to strike when you intervened. As I lifted my weapon, you stiffened around the joints of my arm forcing me to stop. I ran after my target regardless, but my inability to move my arm greatly hindered me. With each step I took you’re hold got tighter. My skin grew a bluish hue the longer you held until I had no choice but to rip you in a lengthy struggle. It was one of the most painful things I’d experienced in months and what should have been an easy win was ruined.

You were completely out of line by trying to stop me. The level of entitlement you displayed is almost unbelievable. You are my coat, you are here to keep me warm and move with me. I’m wearing you, not the other way around. You’re lucky I bothered stitching you up when I got home. The only plus to that whole ordeal is that your scars are alluring. Even then, you complained about my skills in repairing you. 

“Oh God, it looks so unnatural, everyone will notice!” you whined like that wasn't my intention. You already know that I like the damage you take to be visible, and if you wanted to avoid this you shouldn't have held me back. 

I can always take you off and move onto another coat, but without me, you’re an even more useless, bruised shell. You’re not expensive, historically important, detailed, or artistic enough to stand on your own. A bland brown layer of fabric would not survive without someone to slip it over them, and while I love the imperfections you hold, most don’t. I’m fully aware that I am possessive but it’s necessary for me to be when you’re an object. 

Besides, I don’t know why after three years of taking you with me on my hunts, you’re now deciding it's something that needs to end. Just last year you’d complain about the morally dubious nature, but you wouldn’t get in my way. If there’s something I’ve done during those activities that deeply rubbed you the wrong way I’m genuinely sorry. I know that it can get quite gruesome. But if that’s the case you need to communicate what it is. Is it that I’ve gotten so messy that I can’t trust taking you to a public washer? Am I too rough when I scrub you by hand in a hurry? Something else?

I promise whatever it is I can fix it. Even if it's about you being unable to handle the violence. As I said before, I get why it's hard for you. You have to wrap yourself around me as I wrangle and put the long pigs out of their misery, but I must remind you that what I’m doing is necessary. The things I kill aren't like you or me, they’re not warm or logical. All they do is tear one another apart for the smallest differences in perception or appearance. 

Unlike me, they hate any type of flaw, doing everything they can to cover it up. Color matching each patch and stitch, desperately hoping no one will discover the damage. They are far past their expiration date, I’m doing their entire species a favor whenever I take one out of their misery. It may appear brutal, especially considering how I repurpose their hide but it's truly for the best. 

I truly love you and after all the time we’ve spent together, I’d hate to have to trash you. However, it seems like an increasingly likely possibility. So I plead with you to stop these attempts to get away, to interrupt the system that’s been working so well for us. Cause as much as I care for you, I don’t need you, but you need me. Allow these words to seep through the fibers of your fabric, and consider your next actions thoroughly. As I can destroy you just as easily as I can repair you.

Every thread that makes you can be ripped in an instant by just one of my thread cutters. The fluff that lines your insides plucked off you like the feathers of a sickly chicken. The patches I’ve attached to you, easily removable with nothing but my teeth and nails. The material that you’re made from, can be frayed, stained, and bleached one after the other within an hour. 

With that being said, I would not find pleasure in tearing you apart. I enjoy scaring you but I want it to stem from more natural causes. Torture is boring because it’s expected, the wounds you have are entrancing since I can’t predict the situation that’ll lead to them. Anyway, I’ve made my point I sincerely hope you go back to cooperating with me after this.

With Love, Your Owner

[gingergofastboatsmojito]

Perspective

Back to my musings for FF purposes.

Let's compare self-esteem to capital (emotional capital) and let's say that capital is dollars, just for the sake of this example. OK?

So if you have low self-esteem issues, you may have say $2 and if you have regular healthy self-esteem you may have around $1000, ok? Being the average: $800 to $1200, for instance.

BTW: There's no right or wrong amount of self-esteem, there's only wellness/fulfillment levels that vary throughout our lives. So what truly matters is how fulfilled we feel. If we feel quite unfulfilled that is a clear indication that our self-esteem is compromised.

Back to the example: What those $1000 may look like from the low self-esteem folk's perspective is like a fortune, but in truth, they are just $1000. Average. Now from the perspective of those who only have $2 in their pocket... is understandable that the perception is "different", those $1000 may seem like a lot. They are not. Let's not even mention those who have say $3000, which would hardly be a synonym for fortune but for those with only $2 may seem Forbes material and quite frankly, they may even envy them, which is sad, yet fathomable.

It's important not to confuse ego with self-esteem, though. Again, for someone with self-esteem issues, a person with a healthy level of self-esteem may seem flat-out egotistical. That is why toxic people tend to reject healthy people unless they can feed off of them. Because the healthy ones bring to the surface by contrast that which they deny or hate about themselves. That which they can't overcome. If they did, they would probably gravitate toward those with healthy levels of self-esteem, and not feel rejection.

It's more important to understand that none of us will always have $1000 in our pockets at all times. The logical and expected scenario is that our "emotional capital" may vary, maybe not significantly, but surely and constantly.

It's also crucial to understand that those with healthy levels of self-esteem are not necessarily trauma/trouble-free people, they're just people who in spite of their challenges, maintain a healthy self-esteem all along or most of the time, even in times of crisis. And it's OK not to be in that group at all times like I said. It's actually expected at a certain age or during certain phases, like mourning, when dealing with addiction, etc. But even in those cases, it is 100% possible to have a healthy amount of emotional capital. It's certainly not unattainable.

Last but not least, those with only $2 in their pockets may pretend to have a black CC to mask their real "emotional bankruptcy". Only those with a healthy level of "emotional capital" notice the difference between a fake black card holder and a real one, because when you are bankrupted you may feel anyone who has more than 2 dollars is rich and it’s obvious for those who don’t feel that way that you are acting “off” with ppl who just have more $ than you, whereas for you, with your $2 in your pocket, you’re acting just fine. Someone with $900 may find it laughable, but you find it fine and maybe even someone else with only $2, would totally agree with you, and also think that ppl with more money are rich. They are not, but you are bankrupted, so maybe working on your finances and getting back on your feet is a better idea than comparing yourself and others to those who have a healthy amount of capital. Then again, it's an idea that someone with only $2 may never think of, of course. But that can't be held against them, because they only have $2.

[kingedmundsroyalmurder]

Extra cw for racism and ableism. It is quite bad in this chapter.

“No, I don’t, Master. I might think it of some men, but never of you. I don’t for a minute think that you would do her or any woman any wilful wrong. But you may do her great harm for all that. I want you to stop and think about it. I guess you haven’t thought. Kilmeny can’t know anything about the world or about men, and she may get to thinking too much of you. That might break her heart, because you couldn’t ever marry a dumb girl like her. So I don’t think you ought to be meeting her so often in this fashion. It isn’t right, Master. Don’t go to the orchard again.”

You know, this speech of Mrs. Williamson started off so well. Because she's right! Even in a world where Eric is a better person and doesn't have any of his issues towards women, he is at risk of harming Kilmeny. If this passage had ended, 'I know you're going to go home and marry an heiress like your father wants you to' it would be fine! But no, we veer hard back into ableism, with the clearly stated belief that Kilmeny's muteness means that of course Eric can't marry her.

And look. This was written in 1910 and possibly set earlier, since it was cobbled together from an earlier short story. Eric meeting Kilmeny alone without her guardians knowing about it could absolutely ruin her if anyone found out. That is the material harm he is doing here. But Mrs. Williamson's concern is not, 'you could lead her on and destroy her' it's 'if you do lead her on there is no way you could marry her because she's disabled.'

And Mrs. Williamson is framing this as a favor to Kilmeny's mother. Once again, Kilmeny exists only as an extension of her mother. Her own desires aren't even discounted, they are not even considered to exist.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Williamson's warning has made Eric realize that he is in love with Kilmeny. Sure. Fine. If you say so. But, unlike Mrs. Williamson, Eric does not think that Kilmeny's muteness is a reason he shouldn't marry her. What he says instead is,“If I can win Kilmeny’s love I shall ask her to be my wife." Which is possibly the most agency anyone has granted this woman to date! It's not, 'I shall ask her immediately,' it's 'if she should love me back then I shall ask her.'

Look, the bar for people granting Kilmeny agency is so low it may as well be a buried sewer pipe.

So Eric agrees to teach school in Lindsay next year so that he can stay close to Kilmeny and woo her. He is weird and gross about it, as is his wont: "It will be my sweet task to teach her what love means, and no man has ever had a lovelier, purer, pupil.”

You know, when most people say they're going to 'teach someone what love means' they generally mean it as a euphemism for sex. Please do not have sex with Kilmeny, Eric. I don't think she knows anything about contraception and how to protect herself.

Anyway, Eric goes back to Mrs. Williamson and says that he intends to marry Kilmeny if she'll have him. She thinks he is committing himself to a great folly. I don't genuinely understand why Kilmeny being mute is such a big deal to everyone. As far as disabilities go, hers is fairly mild. She has no trouble communicating with anyone. Is speech making really so required for a society wife?

He does agree to go speak to Kilmeny's guardians about it, and thank heavens for that. He even admits that he should have done it earlier, and was just so caught up in things he didn't think of it.

Mrs. Williamson then says something interesting, which is that in her opinion Kilmeny has also not told her aunt and uncle about their meetings, because if she had they would have forbidden them. According to Kilmeny her isolation was mostly her mother's doing, but very clearly Thomas and Janet agreed with it and maintained strict control over her after Margaret's death.

I do not think I like Thomas and Janet Gordon very much.

Mrs. Williamson is also racist about Neil, because of course she is. Neil is ~Foreign~, a word which in this context means Not One Of Us rather than its more conventional meaning of Born Elsewhere. Again, remember, Neil Gordon was born in Lindsay and raised by the Gordon family. He's no more Italian than the Williamsons. But his parents were Italian (and Lord knows if they were actually from Italy or if they too were born in Canada) and so he is forever tainted.

And we finish with Mrs. Williamson thinking to herself that Kilmeny must be very beautiful indeed to have so captivated Eric. Never mind if she's nice or funny or clever or anything else. Clearly she is beautiful, because that's the only thing that matters in the end.

Gods the philosophical and thematic underpinnings of this book are gross.

[freneticphoneticfanatic]

My experience with nonmonogamy has cracked my brain open in a way I don’t think I could turn away from if I wanted to. You can’t promise someone you’ll love them the same way forever, as the two of you grow and change. You can’t promise you’ll never want to pursue a connection outside of the two of you. Why should you? And if you choose to pursue a new connection as “just friends,” why should that relationship have a cap on how much you allow yourselves to deepen it? I feel like when I talk about this stuff, people’s minds go immediately to sexual intimacy, because that’s what our culture is obsessed with. But seriously, why are monogamous relationships held up on this pedestal above all our other relationships? Why is your capital-P Partner supposed to be the most important person in your life? Why do so many people expect ourselves to have just one “most-important” person in our lives?

I take issue with exclusivity, jealousy, and possessiveness. If I spend the majority of my time with one person, and one or both of us decides to start spending more of our time with other people, that ought to enrich our interactions, not take away from them. If these experiences are a net negative for a relationship, take a look at the people involved, including yourself, and their actions. In my experience, shallowness, dishonesty, cruelty, and entitlement are the issues, not un-exclusivity. If you care about someone, you should give them the respect of understanding them as wholly human… that includes respecting their right to be messy and have connections with other people.

I understand the fear that comes with letting go of exclusivity, of a traditional relationship narrative. People like security. But shouldn’t that security come from trusting your partner to be kind, dependable, and trustworthy, even when they’re not “bound” to you? To me, it’s the social equivalent of training a dog with treats vs. without. I can tell my partner I don’t want them to be intimate with other people, and if we agree on that and they’re trustworthy, they won’t do it. I see the value there. But it’s far more interesting to me and builds more trust and a stronger bond to see how my partner interacts with people they’re interested in outside of our relationship. If they treat someone else like shit, or start treating me like shit after connecting with someone else, I consider that a win because that’s clarity on their character. But if they don’t, if they still show up for me and make it known that they value me AND handle other relationships well… wow. What a beautiful thing that is, that I never would have experienced if I hadn’t given them that trust.

To briefly address the sexual aspect, SO WHAT? If the sex is positive and safe, and your partner is kind, honest, and dependable, is there any harm actually done? Or is it mainly an ego blow accompanied by insecurity—fear of a perceived threat to a relationship you value? In other words, a “you” problem that you have to decide whether or not you want to deal with. (Frankly, I think either decision is morally neutral. Just don’t be an asshole, that’s the bottom line.) If you’re going to be with someone, you should trust each other to make good decisions. And because we’re human and therefore flawed, you should also be prepared to be there to support each other if something blows up in your face.

I think the reason people act so different, “not themselves,” and irrational when it comes to capital-L Love, the reason people “struggle to differentiate” between platonic and romantic love, is because most people buy into a fucked up, broken framework for human relationships that’s fake as hell and ultimately rooted in men’s exploitation of women. That’s the standard. Marriage wasn’t even culturally associated with romance until the 18th century. And I only know that because I read a lot of feminist material. It’s not exactly common knowledge, and for good reason.

I recommend checking out Lesbian Ethics by Sarah Hoagland and A Passion For Friends by Janice Raymond. They both challenge our notions of what we consider “real” and valuable relationships. Sarah Hoagland wrote about relationships in Lesbian Ethics in a way that was eye-opening for me at the time. (I need to re-read.) I encourage everyone to let yourself and your relationships be messy. Following a script is easy but often unfulfilling. Trust yourself and your loved ones to create your own structures that work for you.

[hellsvestibule]

I’m there for romancing and humanizing the monster tropes but some tropes I still like. Largely view as horror, and I don’t reblog the “uwu (horrific thing) = love” posts bc. That’s not the intent w which I write or draw horror. My aim isn’t to conflate violence with affection but to contrast them. I’ve had enough shitty relationships in my life and known enough domestic abuse survivors where I like, I just don’t want to advertise myself this way. I like to use violence and horror and exploring the nuance of toxicity as an outlet but when I see it being normalized like it’s quirky and cute 100k post material sometimes I want to pull back and focus on things people aren’t just going to misinterpret as romantic bc they’re the horror trope of the week people on tumblr finds cute. This is also why sometimes if something I draw is particularly disturbing I don’t tag the character bc I don’t think appreciators of that character necessarily would want to see it.

It’s not to say I never play into this and am above a joking “god I wish that were Me” in response to something grusome and messed up. Or into sexualizing pretty horrifying stuff or focusing on toxic relationships having a silver lining like I’m specifically and obviously into these things. but also a lot of time I actually want the horror in my stuff to repulse you and make your skin crawl and be hard to look at or read. I Want to delve into toxicity and horror but I want it to actually feel weighty and consequential, and if not, at least the lack of weight and consequence has its own disturbing implications that nothing matters within this context (chain of occurrence is about ironic detachment from violence and horror, the hyper violence becomes so normalized that it effectively loses meaning and it’s in many ways why the characters are fucked up and can’t understand or take their own brutalization seriously)

And I just think there is a sort of. Blurry line between where I find romantic horror obnoxious and trivializing bc my brain kind of just goes. Well. like you might as well just write normal romance bc you don’t treat horror with any real sense of gravity or consequence! That’s not what horror is fucking For. But also I realize I’m not some perfect arbiter on where that line is drawn either so it’s v easy to point out where I’m a hypocrite, I get horny about the grossest shit I just like, idk, im still capable of admitting it’s gross and upsetting and not inflicting it on people who would find it unsettling as if it’s normal (it’s not! That’s the Point of horror! To be unsettling and weird!) I just feel like, I want to write and draw horror where at least you see it and get the message that it’s wrong and disturbing even if some facet of it tries to be alluring or funny or what have you. Bc violence is still. Real. It still has real world consequences.

I think part of the problem is it’s way different to share a sentiment ironically when it’s within an enclosed space, but once it reaches a certain point of being shared and agreed with you will reach people who do not have a shred of irony, decency, or ability to self reflect and it’s like no, actually, some people make me deeply uncomfortable bc I’m not sure they know what they’re writing or drawing is “bad” and I do think it matters if not in the immediate sense of having direct 1 to 1 consequences, then in some vague sense at least, I find it annoying and unpleasant to be around people who can’t Ever take disturbing things seriously and seem to think murder, domestic violence, and things like that, can’t possibly happen to/be upsetting and thus unsexy to a lot of real people. And in a sense “that would never happen to me” is spoken from a place of privilege.

It’s different when you’re dealing exclusively with horror monsters that are beyond real world parallels, it’s another thing entirely when you Are dealing with real things that still happen to real people. Brutalization of bodies, treating people as expendable meat props, again it’s not even to say you Always need a guilty self aware conscious when engaging with horror but that a refusal to engage with why these things are upsetting, often makes your “horror”. Silly at best, and obnoxious and insulting at worst.