#it's Factual that it was rushed. we all know that. i feel like they should have waited before making s2

[nymphus-fan-account]

BYLER FIC RECS

based on your favourite tropes

| part 1 | part 2

– You just finished vol. 2 and don't know what to do with yourself? Nymphy's got you.

🏡 Will stays at Wheelers' house

i'll find myself in the moonlight by beansie | 16.7k words | 1/1 chapters

He looks up at him, eyebrows drawn together. “Do you not love her?”

Mike shrinks back. “What?”

He hadn’t meant to say it. He wouldn’t have, if he’d stopped to think about it for half a second. But it’s too late to take it back, and he can’t breathe until he knows the answer, and he looks at him resolutely and says, “Do you only love her because of what I said?”

Something darkens on Mike’s face, twisting it into a shape Will’s never seen. “Get out.”

It’s not a no.

OR

Mike and Will share a room, and Mike finds out the truth about the painting.

cursing my name, wishing I stayed (look at how my tears ricochet) by mikeslawyer | 32.5k words | 5/7 chapters, updating

"Tell me a secret?"

Mike asks, like he's come to do every day, late at night, when the darkness can swallow the guilt and the regret rushing out of their hearts, when their sides press together, the floor long forgotten, ever since the first Will, please, come up here.

Will is a terrible person.

I'm in love with you. I'm having visions. I'm in love with you. I'm not really having nightmares, Vecna is tempting me with a version of you that loves me back. I'm in love with you.

"I think my death is the easiest solution to everything. The Upside Down will die with me."

Will can hear Mike swallow next to him.

"Will, I would let the world burn down to ashes if it meant keeping you in it."

OR

They're back in Hawkins, everything is the way it's always been, except - yeah, it's still the middle of an apocalypse, Will is having nosebleeds and Mike would sacrifice the world for his best friend but is still losing him.

NOTE: Will had a nightmare and he cried so hard he threw up ☹️ my baby.

(appreciation note) I love mikeslawyer so damn much. She was the first byler blog I followed and till this day this blog takes a special place in my heart. Sky, if you see this, I'm so grateful you're here. You're genuinely such a poetic, sweet and effortlessly funny person.

let me steal this moment from you by smoosnoom (moonsooms) | 13.7k words | 1/1 chapters

Mike moves in his bed, and Will's eyes stay firmly on the ceiling. "I feel like we barely know each other anymore."

And Will can't argue with that, so he replies, "What do you want to know?"

There’s a long lapse of silence, and then –

“Can you come up here?”

OR

In the wreckage, Mike and Will spend a series of nights together.

🖼 "What painting?..."

there is thunder in our hearts by smoosnoom (moonsooms) | 9k words | 1/1 chapters

Mike confronts Will about the painting, and lets a few confessions slip.

running up that road by smoosnoom (moonsooms) | 17.6 k words | 1/1 chapters

“I didn’t want to lie to you.” Will’s voice is quiet and breakable, so different from the defensive, factual tone it should be. He should be meaner. Harsher. Crueler. “I just – I didn’t think it’d matter.”

It feels like Mike’s entire body trembles, shakes like it’s about to burst. “You didn’t think it’d matter if you lied to me?” He hisses, and his voice cracks, just the littlest bit.

OR

Mike Wheeler tries his best to navigate his way through the end of the world, with lots of maybes and misplaced anger.

no end to this want by astrobi | 21.4k | 1/1 chapters

Mike thinks back to the painting Will gave him, rolled up and placed carefully in his dresser drawer, because for some reason it felt too wrong to hang it up on the walls with everything else. Too intimate. Like Will had made it for his eyes only. Or, apparently as everyone else thought, some mystery lover in California. And then he thinks about Will dozing off on his bed, and saying I think I’m in love with you all soft and slowed down from the inertia of sleep, and that’s right about when Mike starts to feel seriously lightheaded. He leans back against his bed and focuses very hard on taking deep, even breaths.

OR

Mike contemplates his feelings for Will Byers, partakes in a concerning amount of swooning, and learns to drive. Sort of.

closeface by miketozier (smallcuts) | 13k words | 1/1 chapters

“You said I was bad at managing my time between my girlfriend and my best friend but you’re basically doing the same thing.”

“Girlfriend?!” Will spits out, thoroughly shell-shocked.

“I don’t get it! You could’ve told me you had a crush on someone, I would’ve—and when did you ever talk to Robin? You move to California and all of a sudden you’ve got all these girls hanging off of you and you’re interested in older girls—“ Mike’s voice embarrassingly cracks. He decides to quit while he’s ahead before he delves into the forbidden.

OR

In the wake of the apocalypse, Mike and Will find their way to each other.

NOTE: Robin and Will interaction + jealous Mike 😱

need, lie, mean, cry by willow_lark | 1k words | 1/1 chapters

Nobody needs Mike Wheeler. He probably wouldn't be so mad about it if Will hadn't lied and made him think otherwise.

/my take on the angsty byler rain fight!

it's a choice (getting swept away) by wiseatom | 9k words | 1/1 chapters

The problem is this: they’ve got a lot of problems right now, and every last one of them is more important than Will and his fragile, bruised heart.

OR

A Season 4 fix-it wherein Will has a lot of feelings, El is the best sister, and Mike Wheeler has emotional intelligence.

NOTE: No fight. Just a sweet and heartfelt dialogue 💕

fight or flight (i’d rather lie than tell you…) by StaticKissed | 5.8 k words | 1/1 chapters

“The painting, Will. The painting,” Mike stresses. He slides the painting across the desk so that it’s lying right in front of Will. “Why’d you do it?”

“Mike, I didn’t—”

“You lied,” he states blatantly. It’s not a question, it’s not something he’s unsure about. It’s a statement, a fact.

Or, Mike confronts Will about the painting.

Pulled him in tighter each time he was drifting away by Wally_Write | 5k words | 2/2 chapters

Mike felt exhausted. He turned his chair around, letting go of the blank page of his notebook, and glanced at Will’s painting, hung just above his bed. His thoughts drifted to his best friend, as they often did. It felt like he hadn’t seen him in ages even though it must have been only a few days, but for them ?

It was a lot. Will wasn't really avoiding him, but it was close, and Mike couldn't blame him. He had been a pretty terrible friend recently. He had been a pretty terrible friend for a long time, probably longer than he realized. As he watched the delicate paint strokes, he remembered Will’s words from that day.

“El, she commissioned it. She basically told me what to draw”

OR

Mike and El discussion about the painting, about their relationship.

🍖 Got Vecna'd 🍖

darling you got to let me know (should I stay or should I go) by andiwriteordie | 11k words | 1/1 chapter

Nobody expects it to be Mike.

Everyone is expecting it to be Max or Nancy, who both have already been targeted. Or maybe El, whose childhood in Hawkins Lab makes her the perfect target. Or Will, who has gone through more than enough trauma in the past three years alone for all of them.

Nobody expects it to be Mike.

OR

the one in which it's Mike, not Will, who Vecna targets.

oh can't you see you belong to me? by andiwriteordie | 6k words | 1/1 chapters

“The end is near, Michael,” One says again, but his voice sounds like Will’s this time. “You have already lost.”

“Get out, get out, get out!” Mike screams, sobbing roughly. His throat feels completely raw, and he covers his ears, desperate to block out the sound of Will’s screams mixed in with One’s distorted, maniacal laughter. “Get out of my head!”

OR

Two years after One's initial defeat, Mike has an encounter with the greatest evil of the Upside Down and learns far more about his plans for Hawkins, for the party, and for Will than he ever expected.

sleepless nights, losing ground, i'm reaching for you by andiwriteordie | 12k words | 1/1 chapters

A clock chimes in the background, and Mike stiffens.

“Shit,” Will whispers, and Mike turns to him, eyes wide.

“Did you hear that?” he demands.

Will nods, clenching his hands into fists nervously. “Yeah,” he says, voice quiet. “I heard it too.”

OR

the one in which Mike and Will both fall victim to Vecna's curse.

Love, Mike by Youngcreature28 | 31k words | 1/1 chapters

“Sorry, Cameron, I have to go,” Will says and Mike's frown increases.

Cameron?

Are you fucking kidding? Why did it have to be him?

“My brother just walked in,” Will rushes out.

Brother?

Brother?

What the fuck. Why would Will lie about that? Mike would never be Will’s brother, that’s just wrong.

OR

the one where Mike is a jealous, clingy, horny little shit the whole time, has to watch as Will is taken by Vecna, twice, and comes to realise that he may have been in love with his best friend the whole time. It sure would explain a few things.

without heart by aceoflanterns | 31.5 k words | 7/7 chapters

“Here we go again,” he murmurs, words pressed thin. Mike hears him, just barely, and bumps Will’s shoulder with his own reassuringly.

“Home, sweet home,” he whispers. “Bet you didn’t think you’d be back so soon, huh?”

Will chuckles. “You could say that.”

At twelve forty-seven, Will Byers makes it back to Hawkins. At twelve forty-eight, a clock chimes.

Welcome home, something sings, voice scraping low and familiar, and he shivers.

OR

will byers, the upside down, and teenage love... sort of.

NOTE: it was written before vol. 2, so it diverges from canon after vol. 1 a bit.

Crescent by disaster_energy | 8.6k words | 2/2 chapters

Blood pours from the gash on his side, the cuts on his legs, the scratches on his palms, the wounds on his chest - feels like the ground is sucking every drop out of him. William, it calls. It’s you.

You’re the-

OR

Vecna wants Will, but the Upside Down needs him.

NOTE: this one is also written before vol. 2

i know, i know, i know by aude_sapere | 32.8k words | 1/1 chapters

“We are more similar than you realize, Will. Both of us were...sensitive children. We were different. Seen as freaks. But we are special. You are special.”

Will takes a shallow breath, tries to swallow his nerves. He speaks flatly. “And?”

Henry blinks, seemingly surprised by Will’s coldness. “I chose you that day, you know.”

And Will sees himself, small and alone, riding his bike through the darkness. He sees the silhouette of something tall and not-human. He sees himself crashing his bike. Running home. But the creature unlocks the door. It follows him into the shed. It gets him.

“It was you,” Will whispers, a hand coming up to the back of his neck. The monster that took him. The possession. The visions. “It’s always been you.”

(or the one where will’s connection to the upside down is a crucial part of season 4 instead of him getting sidelined, and how it changes everything)

🌩️ In The Upside Down 🌩️

i’m caught up in you by wiseatom | 18k words | 1/1 chapters

Mike keeps losing Will, time and time again. Time and time again, he always gets him back.

Or, alternatively:

“Mike and Will’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Night in the Upside Down: and Other Tales” by Mike Wheeler

NOTE: Miscommunication? Will with a gun?? Wound tending??? HELL YEAH! The part where Mike hit his head and started giggling like an idiot-😭 I love love loveeee wiseatom

on the other side by bbbeets | 4.4k words | 1/1 chapters

Mike gets hurt in the Upside Down. Will takes care of him.

💌

Have a good read!

my jealous Mike fic recs

people who broke into my house and stole my funko pop collection: @miwiromantics @bylercertainty @ode-to-berlermo @mikewheelerscleric @rainebasillovesbyler @luttyloot @soursquare68

[rebelliousstories]

Jasmines and Vanilla

Relationship: Spencer Reid x Reader

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Request: No

Warnings: Fluff

Word Count: 2,869

Main Masterlist: Here

Criminal Minds Masterlist: Here

Summary: A certain smell catches Reid’s attention in the bullpen.

American poet Diane Ackerman once said, “Nothing is more memorable than a smell. One scent can be unexpected, momentary and fleeting, yet conjure up a childhood summer beside a lake in the mountains.”

There was absolutely nothing remarkable about today. It was a paperwork day, which meant staying in the office. No flying on the jet to go stop an unsub in some other part of the country, or hopping in their government issued SUVs to find them on their home turf. The whole BAU team was stuck in the office and it was glorious. Having just come home from a case the day prior; everyone was excited about having a paperwork day to relax.

“Ugh, don’t get me wrong, I love these days where were not jet-setting across the country. But why do they always feel like they pass by slower than when we are going all over on the governments dime to stop bad guys?” The bored voice of Emily Prentiss called throughout the bullpen.

“An increased dopamine rush to your brain increases your internal perception of time. But dopamine and adrenaline cause such similar reactions inside your brain, it has the same effect leading to you feeling like time passes much faster when we’re in the field and-” Spencer was quickly cut off by the aforementioned agent.

“I really should know better than to ask after all these years.” Reid cast his eyes back down to his paperwork and felt embarrassment creep up his neck. In all honesty, he should be used to that after all these years but it still never got any easier to have someone shut him down. Turning back to his paperwork, he ignored the scoffed chuckle from JJ and tried to recenter himself.

There was no unusual sounds from the area heard for a while after that. Or maybe there was, but Spencer chose to bury himself in his work so that he would be less likely to go on an embarrassing factual rant. He did not know how long he kept his nose buried in the case files on his desk, but he knew what drew them out of it. A collective confused noise from the women around him, and perfume.

It was unlike anything he had smelled around the office, and it caused his head to perk up. In walked a woman around his age, yet much smaller than him, even with the heels she had worn. Her hair was curled up and out of her face, reminding him of the victory rolls worn during World War II by the working women of the era. In fact, her entire look reminded him of that era. She wore a type of secretary’s uniform from the era, had on red lipstick that complemented her features nicely and a winged eyeliner that drew attention to them.

A visitor’s pass dangled from on of the lapels. She was obviously here on purpose, but for what purpose, no one knew. But what drew him in, was that smell; the smell of her perfume. It was intoxicating to him. How he was this way about a woman he had never met before, let alone knew the name of? All he knew was that she had enraptured his senses in less than a minute, fifty-six seconds to be exact.

Heels clicked into the bullpen, and a tidal wave of color followed. It was almost comical seeing Penelope standing next to Derek, who had opted for all black for his relaxing day in his office. The clicking stopped shortly after the pair locked their eyes on to the new woman out in the middle of the floor.

“Who is that?” Garcia squeaked out, unable to pull her eyes from the mystery woman. Morgan’s eyes were glued to the same place, but he went to go introduce himself to her.

“Haven’t got a clue, baby girl. One sec.” He made his way down the stairs to where everyone was confused. But before he made it to her, Derek’s eyes caught on to something even more interesting than the visitor. It was the look on the resident genius’ face. With a smirk, he strutted to where the other man sat and placed his hand on his shoulder. Spencer jumped in his seat and looked to who had startled him out of his own thoughts.

“You should go introduce yourself, pretty boy. She looks a little lost.” The younger man pursed his lips and shook his head in defeat.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” While Spencer tried to turn back to the case files, his eyes kept flickering up to the young woman.

“Well, I think I’m gonna go introduce myself to her then.” And with that, Reid was forced to watch the spectacle of the enigma that was Derek Morgan in action.

“Hello, miss. Is there something I can help you with?” He stuck out his hand and waited for her to notice him. She looked down at his hand and offered a wave instead of reaching for it.

“Hi. I’m looking for Aaron Hotchner. Do you happen to know where he could be?” Her voice flowed like honey and Spencer was in heaven. He really needed to get a grip on his senses.

“Um, yes. I do. He’s up there, but you know Dr. Reid here could show where he is exactly. I’m running late for a meeting but I’ll be around if you need anything else.” Said Dr. Reid was starting to panic. Morgan was walking her towards his desk. Was his hair acceptable? Was his perpetually crooked tie still crooked? Was he slouching? She was getting closer and closer, and he could smell her perfume more heavily.

“This is Dr. Spencer Reid. Reid, this is… I didn’t actually get a name but I’m sure you’ll introduce yourself.” And with that, the suave agent left the two youngsters alone with each other. But they were not alone. Eyes stared at them from women all around the bullpen who were treating this like a mid day spa opera.

“Hi. I’m Reid, um Dr. Spencer Reid.” He raised his hand in a wave as he stood to greet the woman.

“Hi, I’m,” cut off from her introduction, was a deep voice sounding through the pen.

“Honey, is that you?” Mystery woman turned, and let out a bright smile at Aaron Hotchner who stood at the top of the stairs right outside his office.

“Hey. I was looking for you. I’ll be right there.” She turned back to the young doctor before her.

“It was nice meeting you Dr. Reid.” She turned to leave, but there was a moment that she hesitated. Spencer saw this, and without warning, or the ability to stop himself, he spoke.

“Did you know that in the Middle East Jasmine is typically called, ’Queen of the Night’ because the cooler temperatures and darkness allow the blossoms to emit a greater concentration of their scent? Also, the buds of the Jasmine plant are far more fragrant than the fully bloomed flowers?” As soon as he finished, Spencer cringed. He could not believe himself. Here he was trying not to make himself look like a fool in front of this mysteriously pretty woman, but that flew out with window with his big mouth and infinitely bigger brain.

“I did not know that. I’m quite shocked you picked up on that note. Everyone always smells vanilla.” With her body turned, Reid could not help but to profile her. Her shoulders were relaxed. One foot pointed towards Hotch and the other one him indicating that she wanted to keep her conversation going yet needed to turn and leave him. A soft smile let him know that she was genuinely interested in the conversation and her eyes sparkled at the knowledge that someone took the time with her.

“That’s because jasmine is not incredibly common in the perfume world, nor the botanical world. It’s a member of the olive family, although no one associates the two. Vanilla however is a far more common scent and is easier to use in bulk quantities to mask other fragrances.” He rambled. However unlike his colleagues, friends, family, and other women he had been interested in, she really seemed to appreciate his knowledge.

“Well, Dr. Reid, I always love learning new fun facts. Hopefully you’ll have some more for me when I come back out?” She looked towards him hopefully, and slowly turned to leave, keeping her eyes on him till the last second.

“Yeah. Definitely.” Spencer felt himself get giddy at the thought that she wanted to hear more fun facts when she came back. She wanted to come back. It almost felt to good to be true. He watched her ascend the stairs and get pulled into Hotch’s office before he returned to his paperwork. But the women of the bullpen and his team refused to let him forget that. Reid turned his face to where he felt the stares coming from and confusion twisted his features.

“What?” He was genuinely confused at their shocked faces. Emily’s jaw was on the floor, and JJ stared at him like he grew a second head. Penelope on the other hand just looked plain dumbfounded.

“What? What do you mean ‘what?’” Prentiss was the first to speak up.

“You talked with her.” Garcia spoke softly, trying to get over her shock.

“Well, she was nice and Morgan did kind of place her at my desk.” He tried to find himself lost within the papers on his desk, but it was in vain. Garcia marched her way over to his desk, and took the report out of Spencer’s hands to stare at him dead in the eye. He let out a noise of protest but that was overridden by the colorful woman’s own statement.

“Oh, you are smitten.” She stated so plainly.

“No! No, I’m not. Give me my report.” Spencer tried to take it from her hands but she stepped out of his way before he could take them back.

“His voice went up! 187 has got a crush on the mystery woman!” Her giddy tempo made the agent in front of her purse his lips in frustration. Reid stood up and tried once more to swipe the file, but was unsuccessful yet again.

“Garcia, give it back. I am not smitten nor do I have a crush.” He tried to protest, but even to him, his words sounded false.

“Oh, you are, my dear boy wonder. You’re blushing. I haven’t seen you blush in ages!” Penelope turned back to her female agents to gauge their reactions on her revelation. Spencer took this opportunity to take back his file with a snatch and go back to his desk.

“Spence, it’s fine to think she’s attractive. There’s nothing wrong with that.” JJ tried to reassure him in her motherly tone, but he still squirmed in his seat under the attention.

“I’m fine. There’s nothing going on. Sure, she’s pretty. But that’s it.” And with that, Spencer stuck his nose quite literally in the file that he was holding to get away from the scrutiny before him. However, he was unable to get away from it long, before he smelled jasmine’s again.

“I really appreciate you doing this dad. It means a lot to me.” Her voice carried through in the same way it had before. But now he was confused. Why was she calling Hotch dad? He only had one child, Jack.

“Anytime, honey. You need to come over for dinner at some point. Jack misses you, you know?” Now, everyone else’s attention was on the pair before them. Aaron’s hand helped her down the stairs and across the stair from her shoulders. He seemed to notice everyone’s eyes on them and turned before they made it out of the glass doors.

“Oh and this is, at least some of, my team that I was telling you about.” Everyone stood up to greet the woman standing near their unit chief.

“This is Emily Prentiss, Jennifer Jareau, Penelope Garcia, our tech analyst, and Dr. Spencer Reid.” Aaron introduced them one by one. And in that order, everyone shook her hands and greeted her with warm smiles and kind words.

“Doctor? What kind?” Her words held genuine intrigue, and Spencer could not help his smile from taking over his face.

“Um, the academic kind. I have three PhD’s.” A smile on her face overtook it in the same way it had his. Their eyes stayed locked onto each others, and neither felt the awkwardness of maintaining direct eye contact for that long.

“Everyone, this is my daughter.” He said her name, but everyone stopped for a moment and could not process this information. That hit everyone like a freight train.

“But, you don’t have any children other than Jack?” Garcia said so slowly that everyone could tell she was trying to wrap her head around the information before her.

“Well, when Haley and I were around seventeen, we got pregnant. But, realized that we were not in any capacity to take care of a child before we were out of high school or into adulthood. So we gave our daughter to a lovely couple that couldn’t conceive. We kept in contact and got regular updates throughout her life.” Aaron looked at his daughter with such adoration, everyone could see it.

“Now, she is about to finish up her second degree, and wants to go into law enforcement. Specifically, she’s thinking about joining the bureau and needed a letter of recommendation.” The words his boss said piqued Spencer’s interest.

“Second degree? What are the in?” He asked, trying to keep his voice level, but everyone could hear that tinge in it.

“My first was a PhD in criminal psychology, after getting a minor in psychology. Now I’m working on a BA in religious studies.” Reid was liking this girl more and more the more she talked.

“Oh, I could totally help with getting you into the bureau. I’ll give you my number and you just let me know when you put in your application. I can totally make sure you get into whatever department you want.” Garcia offered, her bubbly personality shining through her bright smile and fast hand movements.

“Garcia.” Hotch warned her with his tone.

“Totally legally, of course. I’m not doing anything that would jeopardize either one of our jobs. Nothing illegal, sir. Just want to help.” She stepped back just a little bit and held her hands in front of her to calm herself down.

“Well, I’ve gotta get going. I’ve still got work to do at home, but I’m hoping that I can see everyone here again.” She waved at everyone again, but stopped when she turned to the doctor in the room. Walking over, Spencer’s hands got all clams no matter how often he wiped them on his trousers. He could feel his heart beat out of his chest. Smelled her perfume getting closer. Jasmines and vanilla never seemed so enticing to him.

“I really want to continue our conversation from earlier. Maybe we can talk PhD’s or something similar. Here,” she handed a small card to him, “this is my number. Maybe we can meet for coffee sometime?” Hope laced her words, and Spencer felt giddy as he took the card from her hand. Their fingers brushed against each other and chose not to draw attention to the spark that flew.

“I’d really like that. Thank you.” He smiled at her, and ran his fingers over the ink on the business card in his hands. Aaron led her out of the glass doors afterwards, and everyone appeared to resume their work. Except, they did not. In fact, they watched Spencer return to his desk and set the card down within view.

“Pretty boy. My man!” Derek returned from where he watched the interaction with glee from the sidelines, and clapped the young agent on the back. This was now the second time today that he had done that.

“Spence got himself a date.” JJ sounded impressed and amused, and Morgan was eating it up. Beaming from ear to ear, he returned his attention to the man who just wanted to get some work done.

“Shut up.” Reid dismissed them quickly and it appeared to work. Although that may have also been because Hotch had just walked through the glass doors once more and no one wanted to be reprimanded today. All the agents dispersed, leaving the young doctor alone with his paperwork and thoughts.

However, his thoughts were overtaken when he could still smell that same perfume she had been wearing earlier. Spencer’s eyes drifted over to where that card laid perfectly against his desk. Bringing the card to his nose, he smelled perfume on it. It was still as intoxicating as when she was here. Setting it down, Reid turned back to his paperwork, and worked for the rest of the day in blissful silence. He knew that he would be smelling that perfume yet again, and soon.

“Scent is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived.” Helen Keller

[ambreiiigns]

ok so the thing is This

i hate jujutsu kaisen i wish i'd never watched it. i have to watch more of it tonight w my brother.

[itiswormtimebaby]

Time

You're beginning to question why Bucky won't sleep with you, but you ask the wrong person

Pairing: Biker!Bucky and Bug (+Brother’s best friend Bucky, Plus sized fem reader) (Steve is reader’s adopted brother) CW: Friend’s calling each other “bitch”, references to sexual acts

“I don’t know if I should call you a stupid bitch, a dirty bitch, or a lucky bitch.” Cilla, the platonic love of your life, stares at you from the passenger seat of your car. “Straight out the gate and he’s already hitting it raw, I guess I’ll go with all three you stupid, dirty, lucky, beautiful” she tacks on the end to soften the blow, “Bitch.” Stupid was probably fair, dirty was a compliment, and lucky was factual so you let the comment ride without protest. There was one thing that was bothering you about her statement though, “I don’t think it’s fair to say he hi-”

“Bitch,” She cuts you off, “be so fucking for real.” 

“He turned you into his own twinkie- cream filled.” The voice comes from the backseat where McKenna, the third member of your friendship trio is devouring a nerds filled grape slush. Cilla groans in disgust at the bad joke while you pull a face in the rearview mirror, refusing to break eye contact with the man until he cracks first, slowly lowering his plastic spoon back into the sticky purple treat; “I, uh, I really regret saying that.” “Good! That was fucking weird, and now we all have to live with it. Sit in your shame.” Despite your admonishing tone there’s no real upset behind you words as you carry on;

“But as I was SAYING, it was just the tip so I don’t- like it doesn’t feel like that counts. Don’t get me wrong, it was amazing, I just…” The silence sits heavy in your ears but you can’t find it in yourself to continue, suddenly embarrassed despite being in the presence of the two people you’ve trusted with damn near every dirty little secret you possess; why hadn’t it progressed past that?

“Fuck it! Who wants to lose their virginity on a Monday, anyway?” McKenna’s outburst breaks the silence and blessedly removes the spotlight from you, “Yeah,” you acquiescent with a half-hearted chuckle, “you’re probably right.” The conversation moves on quickly enough, though the thought is persistent in your mind- why hadn’t it progressed past that? 

Hours later, McKenna returned home to his husband, sun dropped beyond the horizon, you pull to a stop outside of Cilla’s house, the dark-haired woman making no move to exit the vehicle; “How are you actually feeling about it?” There’s clearly only one situation she could be referencing but in truth you’re not sure how to answer. She was the first call you’d made after coming down from your chocolate-brownie-hell-high, after Bucky finally showed back up in the aftermath, after dates one through four, and especially after five, she’d heard details even McKenna hadn’t, every salacious little tidbit. But you hesitate now, a bond forged in college deadlines, all nighters, stress induced coffee comas, movie marathons and evening walks had blossomed into a beautiful friendship with two main tenets; you burn I burn, and no bullshit. You knew she would listen and take it all in without judgment, but part of you hesitated, worried that her honest take, because she would be incredibly honest, wasn’t something you were ready to hear. 

“I’m confused,” You finally settle on. She doesn’t offer acknowledgement besides a small hum, no pushing, no rushing. “Everything has felt so good.” At that Cilla does let out a little snort, raising her eyebrows suggestively, though makes no other move to interrupt; “I wasn’t actually talking about that, though he does make me feel amazing. I just mean…Bucky’s been in my life since I was pre-pubescent, he may actually be what jump started puberty for me,” Cilla’s eyes roll at your joke as you pause again to gather your thoughts. “He was this larger-than-life presence, cocksure, the muscle to Steve’s mouth and I just- oh my god I was so in love with him. I’m sure there’s still notebooks floating around where I waxed poetic about his eyes, wrote Mrs. James Buchanan Barnes over and over again in the margins…”

You peter off before taking a steadying breath, suddenly thirteen again and trailing along behind Steve and Bucky, the latter of which was the epicenter of every girlish daydream you had. “He had this girlfriend when we were in High School, Dot? I was so fucking jealous of her, she had everything I wanted because she had him. I know Bucky cared about me, in some way, but it wasn’t the same as he cared about her and it broke my heart.”  You can still picture her; pretty red curls, shy smile, hand wrapped in Bucky’s anytime he was within arms reach. 

“Once he enlisted, once there was some space between us, I realized there was a lot of naivety I needed to tear through-” You hesitate, fearing the explanation will be muddy but push on anyway, “like, the love I felt was real- but I also built it up a lot in my head? In a way I think it was probably unfair to him, projections from a kid who was newly navigating the difference between romantic and platonic love, but everything just felt so big and all encompassing.”

“He was your first love.” 

“He was,” You nod in agreement, picturing  Bucky at fifteen, knuckles bloody, Steve behind him with a bruised eye and busted lip, the body of your latest would-be-bully crumpled on the floor, “but that’s not- that’s not how he felt about me.The romantic love, or infatuation, or whatever- it was one sided, very obviously so. I used to wish it was different, dream of a day where he’d drop Dot’s hand and reach for mine but then I realized-” You squeeze your eyes shut, thankful for Cilla allowing you to set the pace of the conversation as you ruminate over the relationship, “I realized after he’d left how shitty that was, just because he wasn’t in love with me didn’t mean he didn’t care, what we did have wasn’t a consolation prize.” 

Your friend rests her hand gently on your forearm, nodding her understanding; “Life went on, he and Steve were deployed, I was in school, they came home, they joined the club, he dated other girls, I dated…But I never really got over that feeling of first love, it just- deepened?” You nodded your head at that, happy enough with the explanation, “It sprouted new roots, more substantial ones, I fell in love with him all over again, a different version of him in a way.” 

You were getting to the part you didn’t want to say, the part that worried you most, “Like I said what we had wasn’t a consolation prize, Bucky’s always been one of the best people in my life, even when I probably annoyed the hell out of him. I’d made peace with knowing that how we felt about each other didn’t line up and then, well…” 

“Then he showed up on your doorstep with flowers begging for a date?” 

“He showed up with flowers after I accosted him with my feelings.”

“Don’t forget the FINALLY.” She prods you pointedly at that, having been driven half mad over your analytical obsession with the word, when I FINALLY fuck you, “he clearly had thought about it, and he even said that’s not all he wanted, don’t go where I think you’re about to go.”

“Where am I about to go?” You ask her. 

“Questioning his intentions, whether he really likes you, wants to be with you…HE asked YOU out, that means something. Just because y'all aren’t having sex doesn’t take away from everything else.” 

Everything else. Cilla was right of course, it’s not like Bucky was running around acting disinterested; he brought you flowers, took you on dates, kept you fed, ran errands with you just for some extra time together, gave you mind blowing orgasms, made you laugh. But then why…

“But then why won’t he sleep with me? He clearly cares about me, thinks about me, but why not- his body count is high, why not one more?” You deliver the last line like a joke, but no part of it feels funny. “I know he cares about me, truly I do. But I guess I just worry- like he’s cared about me since we were kids, so maybe he doesn’t want to sleep with me because he’s figuring out that romance isn’t what he really wants between us and that’d be harder to walk back having-”

“Don’t,” Cilla cuts you off, “do that.” You look at her a bit helplessly as she pushes on, “Has he actually given you any indication he doesn’t want to date you? Aside from not sticking it in?” 

It was crude but she had a point, and you knew Bucky, knew he wasn’t one to string people along. 

“No.”

“Exactly, it’s just dick, don’t let it ruin something special.” 

“I just- I’m all in, so why is he holding back?”

“It’s still a new relationship-”

“I’ve known him forever-”

“But not like this. This is new. He may not be exactly where you’re at but clearly he has feelings for you. My advice would be to hop out of your head and just enjoy things as they progress.”

You nod once in acknowledgement, still not quite ready to move on from the topic;  “Should I just ask him why?” 

Cilla mulls it over for a minute, “I… wouldn’t, not yet. Give it some time.” 

Time, right.

But you couldn't help the worry that persisted, what would Bucky be figuring out in that time?

All things Bucky and Bug found here: to be loved Main masterlist: here

[wolven91]

Drifting - Part 4

Casper felt *strong*.

He felt like until now, there had been a fear in the back of his mind. A fear that one day his body would fail him.

But as he reached for the metal shutter door, several meters wide and taller than him, his muscles pulled without hesitation. There was no pain, no pressure as his arms engaged and tore the metal upwards with the ease of lifting a single petal that had fallen from a delicate flower.

Once the shutter was mostly up, it stopped and dented, jammed at an angle, Casper considered it for a moment and mentally shrugged, his arms not being able to make that gesture at the moment.

Ducking under and through the shutter door, the man looked out across a great landscape. Turning to peer left and right, the building he had been in was a featureless concrete slab that showed signs of scorch marks and lumps of the solid material broken and pitted as if shot with a gun.

There were no windows or doors all along the space with the exception of the series of hanger bay doors. But Casper had no interest in those, he was staring at the odd shapes and objects in the distance partially hidden by huge rolling hills and dunes.

Who could stop him now from taking a quick look? He felt *free*. What would have caused him pause before was no longer a concern.

The moment he stepped from the safety of the shutter door, he felt his foot sink into the earth, unsteadying him, making him look down. Casper watched as great mounds of dirt built up around his metal foot, as if he was far heavier than normal. He *was* heavier. Why was he..?

It came rushing back. He was piloting a mech. It was an odd sensation to remember such an important and obvious concept. How could he forget such a thing?

The man straightened and took a breath.

Breathing in the alien world's clean air it satisfied him. It was cool and rich with untainted oxygen. He could taste that there were very few particulates to damage him. He knew information this on a factual level.

The young man breathed in again; he could feel his lungs fill and his heart sing for it. He touched a hand to his chest over his heart, only for a 'clang' to draw his head down.

A metal hand, against a metal chest.

If he could frown, he would have. He settled for his optics to click shut, clean themselves, then click open again.

Why was it so hard to remember who he was inside the machine?

"Casper! You having fun there?" Demanded Zeet inside Casper's head.

[I think I broke the door. Sorry about that.]

A moment's pause.

"Ha! Break all the doors you like, it appears like you're already, ready to go for a stroll?" He sounded completely unfazed by the human's destruction; almost giddy even.

[The air out here is... I don't know how to describe it. Cleaner?]

"Your generator needs oxygen to burn, the one in your chest is only a basic model. Barely enough power to run your current rig, although I have tinkered with it, so it should suffice for what we have planned." Came a smug response from Zeet.

"I suspect the air out there is a better quality than the hanger, what with the enclosed space and multiple generators running." The head engineer explained, again, unbothered by the idea of generators running without significant air flow in an enclosed space.

[I think you're right.]

Casper took another step, for the second time finding his footing unstable. Zeet seemed to anticipate Casper's next question.

"We deliberately use loose dirt in the starting area, the idea is to force new pilots to learn how to adjust and fall without fear of being at the top of a hill or a distance away from rescue."

[I think I'm alright.]

As Casper took more steps, they became more confident. He stopped looking down and looked up, to the horizon where the strange square shapes peeked over the hills.

[What's that?] The human asked, while the mech briefly lifted one of its arms and pointed at the structures before dropping it back down to its side. Why did it move so organically?

"An assault course of sorts, although this would be far into your future as a pilot before you'd go over there. That said, I feel that it would be rather pointless to have you make such progress without letting you find your limits. Why not head over and see what you do?" Suggested the voice.

"This is ill advised. We haven't got nearly enough sensors or monitors to keep track of the relevant information." Came Wren's voice, quiet until now.

"You're telling me you don't have his readouts?"

"Not nearly as many as I'd like or choose! This was meant to be a proof of concept! Not a full-scale exercise!"

"Then you will take a page out of our books and plan for any eventuality in future. Casper! Onwards!" Zeet demanded, dismissing the doctor's comments with an almost audible flick of his hand.

Casper urged himself out into the open fields and over the green grass covered dunes. He wandered over to the distant objects without issue, merely walking up then down the rough terrain without delay. By the time he began to near the objects, the human inside the towering machine had long forgotten that he existed once more. Once he arrived at the strange shapes, the young man discovered that he found that they made up a replica of a large town, or centre of a city.

As he walking amongst the buildings, choosing the centre of a street, he noted there were no vehicles, the shop fronts weren't hollow and the buildings themselves; solid blocks without features. It was strange to be reminded of what the world was supposed to somewhat look like now, as he strolled down the main road of the faux town.

[I thought you said this was an assault course?] Casper sent back to the hanger, not seeing the drones overhead, watching his every move. He gingerly laid a hand on the top of what could have been a low corner shop as he reached a intersection of four roads.

"Well we can certainly put you through your paces if you like?" Came a flat tone. Gone was the confidence or giddy vibe to his words. Casper's optics clicked as he felt a strange sensation of danger creep over him. He looked down at one of his hands and made a fist before relaxing. Unlike his own hands, that had a constant tremble since the loss of Earth, these metal hands were perfectly still. Casper never noticed this however.

Casper had done assault courses on Earth. 'Team building' exercises. He wasn't brawny or even particularly fast. He was clever, but powerful wasn't a word he'd use in any self description.

Until today...

He *felt* powerful. He could trust his legs, trust his arms.

To the camera drones overhead, the basic mech, one that was designed to take punishment, but not excel at much else, tilted its reconnaissance unit that sat atop its shoulders as if to crack it's neck. If it were organic, of course.

[Go for it.]

"Understood." Came the immediate reply before Casper got the profound feeling that his next words were not address to the human. "Qik? You're up."

[Qik?]

"Defend yourself Casper." Came a dispassionate response.

[Wait, what? I thought this was an assault course?]

"Defeat the aggressor. No further communication will be acknowledged or sent." Zeet stated, before the human felt whatever connection that was within Casper's head, closedoff.

'Defend' himself? 'Defeat the aggressor'?!

Was he expected to fight? Casper couldn't fight! He'd never been in anymore more than a scuffle when he was twelve! He stepped away from the corner building and into the centre of the intersection, looking around himself for a threat. There were alleys and smaller roads he could duck down to break line of sight, but he need to know *where* the 'aggressor' was coming from!

Casper blinked, and in his panic, his need to find the threat, he felt his mind suddenly expand past what he could see.

It was as if a new sense had just opened up to him. Like he'd lived his life with his eyes closed and was blind, only to discover now; that he could see. This new sensation was not sight, but Casper could *feel* movement of something large and fast approaching him from the hangers to the south, where he had been only a few minutes before.

Whatever it was, it was big and fast. He could sense it was as big as he was. Nothing like the tiny dots that floated harmlessly above.

Aware of the direction of the threat, Casper ducked, dropping his head low and ensuring he himself couldn't be seen over the tops of any of the lower buildings. Quickly shuffling, the man got off the street and ducked down a side road, scooting further down, almost leaning against the building with his back. He paid no attention to the scrapes and loose concrete dust the metal of his back scratched off the structures.

{What idiot did that moron trick into this game this time?}

It was a genderless statement, devoid of emotion. It wasn't talking, like Zeet over the radio. It was text, and an image of a command line and the words filled in at the front of Casper's mind. The man could feel that he could respond.

[I'm the new guy.]

{Cute. Come out and I'll make this quick.}

[Sure, where are you?]

{Finally, a smart one, I'm coming up the main ingress.}

The young man had no interest in revealing himself. Just because the words carried no tone or emotion did not mean that he was a fool. He could sense the threat, it had crossed the distance from the hangers to the fake-town in a matter of less than a minute, whereas it took him substantially longer. Now though, he could see the pulsing 'blip' in his mind's eye. It was slowly making its way up the centre of the town, truthfully being exactly where it had told him it would be.

{I'm starting to suspect you're thinking you're clever...}

[Why's that?]

{You're hiding.}

[I'm struggling to work the controls. Only just started piloting.]

{I don't like liars 'new guy'}

As he crept around the main road, quickly tip toing across the intersecting main road, and using the alleys and smaller side roads to move around, Casper caught his first glimpse of the threat. It was a mech, but unlike his own; blocky, thick with exposed metal, pistons and wires. This one was sleek, designed for speed, but no less deadly. It reminded him of a sword. The sharp angles, the pointed feet that stabbed into the ground. It had a series of spikes along it's back like boney wings.

The whole thing screamed 'professional', all wrapped up in a red and silver paint job. It was the mech of a main character to Casper's eyes.

It didnt so much as walk or move either, the word that sprang to Casper's mind was 'stalking'. It stalked forwards, it's 'head' a pointed eagle-like structure, turning left to right, obviously scanning for him.

[What makes you think I'm a liar?]

{This is just getting insulting now. I'm the final test 'new guy'. You think they'd put you against me? Before you can even move?}

[Stranger things have happened.]

Casper got no response to his last message, but watched as the pointed head, ducked low and out of sight. He was positioned behind her now, closer to the south, nearer the hangers where she had entered, but he now lost track of her. Casper wasn't a fighter, he had no intention of getting into a brawl and made his way to the edge of the town fully intending on running back to the hangers.

The young man wasn't without some knowledge of how to throw a punch. After a physical altercation in his younger school years, his overly dramatic mother had sent him to self defence classes to stand up to the bullies. Instead of being beaten up in just a school setting, he was summarily beaten up in an official setting instead.

All he'd learnt was howto roll with the punches, literally. Casper never stayed on the ground, that was where 'bad' always ended up 'worse'.

Still crouched, sometimes using his hands against the hardtop of the fake roads to help him move, Casper finally made it to the edge of the town and learnt that it wasn't going to be that easy.

The second part of his mech broke the edge boundary of the faux town, a klaxon sounded along with one of the annoying drones swooping down with a red, flashing light directly over his head.

Casper bolted across the road and practically dived into an alleyway, into the town and away from the alarm, which remained in place. His head poked out from around a corner further into the town to see if the mysterious mech had approached to investigate.

The pointed leg that swung at Casper's head missed by what felt like mere inches, saved only because he flinched at something moving fast and fell backwards, deeper into the alleyway. The assaulting red and silver mech obliterated the plain wall with its kick in a shower of destroyed concrete and rebar; bent and demolished at the sheer force of its strike.

{You're fast.} Came a message.

Casper was up, his fists raised, elbows in. He was in his pocket and ready to protect his head.

The heel kick to his solar plexus sent him backwards, arms outstretched by the sheer force as he flew out of the other end of the alleyway and rolling head over heels into the main road again.

{Not fast enough.}

Casper backward rolled onto his feet, one of the buildings arresting his movement in a jarring thud that stuttered his vision. He didn't think, merely moved as he dived to his left down the main road. The besieged building that he'd lent against only moments ago was already buckled, but the rocket propelled mech that slammed into it with its shoulder, destroyed it in a shower of crumbling dust and materials.

The assaulting mech stomped from the cloud of debris and glared down the main road; its own optic sensors scanning for the new pilot.

The road was empty.

{You know I would have already won this right?} The red and silver mech taunted, stalking forwards, looking left and right, clearing buildings. It was sending the message over an open band, so anyone with ears on could hear it.

[I'm still standing.] Came a similar open frequency message. Qik snarled. She couldn't track or know where the new pilot was, she was working on visuals only.

{They disable my tracking system. To give you the tinest of a chance.}

She was crouched low, clearing corners, making sure the 'new guy' didn't try what she had and kick her recon unit in. Without eyes, it was an automatic win for whoever could see.

[If it's any consolation, I don't think this has a tracking system.]

Qik smirked, cocky son of a bitch. She was going to enjoy breaking him down, bit by-

[Heads up!]

A shadow flickered across the street and Qik span on one foot, swinging her leg round in a perfect roundhouse kick that would cut any mech that was in range behind her in half.

But despite her aiming high, looking to destroy an arm or even knock off the head of the opponent, her kick was too low.

From atop a building, the new mech was halfway through a jump and falling rapidly towards Qik. It was a terrible, stupid idea. Gravity was not friendly with anything as big and heavy as a mech. Only those rigs with jump packs and boosters could consider leaving the ground. But this idiot had climbed a building and had launched itself at her?!

So shocked was she, that this idiot would try such an insane and self-destructive move, Qik couldn't decide how to react. She had literally never seen this before.

That delay was enough.

On his way past, Casper grabbed a hold of the eagle-esque head and held on tight, his metal fingers denting the recon unit casing.

Gravity grabbed him and threw him against her, flipping him over her while he hurtled towards the ground in a mulit-ton mech that landed squarely on its recon unit, destroying into a million tiny, expensive pieces. Qik landed on her back, but immediately lost all visual read outs as her own unit was partislly torn from its housing.

{*What?!*} Qik demanded, unbelieving this idiot could succeed in such a stupid move! This was squidgit-shit!

"What?!" Blurted Zeet, blinking as the human had just defeated, the undefeated mercenary; Qik on his very first jaunt within a single hour of his first mech startup.

[What?] Asked Casper, also blinded and unable to move, but wholly unaware of the shitstorm he had just started.

[r/WolvensStories]

[Ko-Fi]

[magnusbae]

I mean, I can't NOT prompt "Emotions are a luxury I don't have time for." with Dreamling 👀

🤘 five-and-dimes

OKAY ADMITTEDLY it does fit Dreamling very well doesn't it—? I was going to give half an hour per piece and accidently digressed way too much with this one..... whoops...? Thank you for the prompt dear 🥰💖

Dreamling || 1,174w || lowkey hurt/comfort but with ~hope

▾▾▾

“Don’t you feel anythi— fuck.” Hob stops, forcing the words back down with a thick swallow. He cannot afford himself to speak in anger, no matter how badly it burns in his veins, no matter how scourged by Dream’s aloofness he is. It doesn’t matter that he should have the right for anger. Dream is simply not a being you could, or should, be angry with if you hope to keep him in your life.

Angry or not, justified or not. Hob wants him in his life, very much.

“Dream, listen.” Hob starts, running a hand over his own face, nails scratching uncomfortably over the side of his cheek. “I get it, okay.” He really doesn’t but this is not the point “but seriously, you do have feelings, I know that you have…” his voice wavers and he gestures at the space between them, unable to voice it lest Dream would flee again. “Please.” his voice strains with the burden of it all. Wanting so much, needing so much—being forbidden from even voicing it, let alone having it.

"Emotions are a luxury I don't have time for.” Dream’s voice is deep, booming, as aloof as it could possibly get. He sounds like he’s reading a ready-made script, like he’s following the lines long since prepared.

Hob recoils, physically takes a step back, wants a distance between himself and Dream’s rejection. He should have expected it, in fact, he assumed he might get worse and yet— “Bulshit.” The short silence that follows is pregnant with tension, both momentarily silenced by Hob’s boldness. Hob is as surprised by it as Dream, apparently is.

Dream comes around first, eyebrows knotting, storms cracking in the depths of his eyes. His lips thin, the corners tug down and then he opens his mouth to deliver what Hob is sure would be either a really bad reprimand or his final words to him.

He cannot have it. If only for the simple fact that he doesn’t only want Dream in his life, but factually needs him. He doesn’t know what’s life would be worth without knowing that in the end of every story there will be Dream to share it with, a confidant, a keeper of his journey.

“I think that you’re afraid—” the words rush out without a thought, he steps forward, hurrying to finish before this would blow out of proportion “—because I know that I am petrified.” The words burn true on his tongue, there’s a dull ache in his chest, his lungs feel too full and empty of air. “I am horrified that you might leave, I am terrified that you might not lo— accept this, I am…” he swallows, his throat is closing with the emotion of it all. He cannot stop, not now that he had finally started. “I get it Dream, I know that you are, that we are… different but…. “ His hand falls by his side, no amount of gesturing would express what he feels.

He runs out of words. He was so certain he had them all when this conversation started, now he can hardly even remember what brought it about. He didn’t prepare for it as well as he thought, he doesn’t know how to word it, how to phrase it in a way that would convince Dream to give this, them, a chance. Damn.

His chin drops and he stares at the ground, burning disappointment makes his hand tremor. He closes his fist.

He is no poet, no storyteller, no writer. He is no Dream to pick and choose the right words. He’s only a man. Only a man who loves a being beyond his comprehension, very, very much.

Fuck, fuck it all. Fuck. He is about to lose him, isn’t he?

The pain in his gut is a twisting thing, like a knife slicing through the guts. Shitty death, he’d know. He dares to glance up when Dream doesn’t speak, half expecting to see him gone. Instead, there’s something softer in Dream’s eyes when he meets them. For the first time, Hob’s attention is drawn to the unnatural void in those eyes, the glint of distant stats. This is…

“Am I…” his mind struggles through the spell of dizziness, his consciousness readjusting its grasp of the surroundings. The shadows are longer, the shapes are bent a little too far, the colors are not quite right.

“I am dreaming.” He understands when he finally sees the landscape for what it is, Dream, for who he is. “Oh shit.” His cheeks color red, he is aware of the incredibly uncomfortable material of the shirt he used to wear some few hundreds years ago.

“I yanked you into my dream, haven’t I.” This is, even more than before, not how he had hoped to confess. Not even close.

“Hob,” Dream’s voice bleeds to every fiber of the dream-scape, infusing it with power, making it feel tangible, more clear, in focus. “You dream very loudly.” There’s an odd note to his voice, if Hob was to attempt and pinpoint it, he’d have to admit it sounds like astonishment.

“Sorry,” he answers, abashed. “I, uh, suppose you can’t just…” he gestures at his own head with a motion that resembles wiping chalk off of a board. “Maybe…?” he adds, hopefully.

He doesn’t regrets his feelings. He would, though, like to at least be awake when Dream rejects him, It feels only proper.

The idea of simply not raising it up at all is one that had crossed his mind frequently, and yet he knows that sooner or later he’d slip again, that he wouldn’t be able to to continue pretending like this isn’t an integral part of who he is, like this isn’t something that he feels.

Sooner or later, he’d tell Dream of The Endless that he is helplessly, hopelessly, truly and deeply— in lov…

A finger again his lips distracts him from his thoughts. “Very loudly.” Dream scolds quietly, wistfully. He sighs then, the weight of it almost buckles Hob’s knees. Dream seems to ready himself, like he is expecting a great deal of suffering and is braving himself for it. He looks exhausted. Worn down. Won over.

Hob immediately dislikes that look, it speaks too much of Dream’s past. Too much of what had made Dream as closed off as he is. Too much of what hurt him so badly. Hob wants him to be…

“Very well, Hob Gadling.” Dream’s words distract Hob from his thoughts again “We shall speak of it further in the waking world, according to your wishes.” Dream looks away into the distance, his finger lingering on Hob’s lower lip, it’s cool. “I must go now, so long.”

He does not sat farewell. Hob’s mind centers around it. Between one eye blink and another, Dream is gone, golden sand scattering behind.

“What…?” Hob’s mind is already fuzzing into an incoherent haze of shapes and shadows, only distantly concerned with what just transpired.

Only vaguely he wonders if he should feel loss, or…not?

[hooked-on-elvis]

"IF I CAN DREAM" SONG | REMEMBERING MARTIN LUTHER KING JR. ON HIS BIRTHDAY 🤍

TODAY IS MARTIN LUTHER KING'S 95TH BIRTHDAY. PHOTO: 1964.

☆ Born on January 15th, 1929 in Atlanta, Georgia † Died on April 4th, 1968, in Memphis, Tennessee.

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A few days ago, I don't remember how, I ended up for about an hour or so, probably more, reading a few of Martin Luther King's speeches. I prefer reading factual documental writings (newspapers and articles about the world's history, even poetry) out loud, in a way to better understand and feel, using intonation, the words. As you can imagine, I got very emotional that day and today I am now in the same solemn mood.

If you at least once have heard or read to the 'I've Been to the Mountaintop' Martin Luther King's speech, you feel your heart sink from the words Dr. King spoke by end of it. I'm gonna share an excerpt from that one speech [I hope you all can read it], which is gonna remind you what happened to Dr. King the very next day those touching, meaningful and resonant words were addressed to the population in Memphis, Tennessee. Take your time to reflect and permit yourself feeling inspired by Dr. King's words.

As the article goes on, I'll share how the mood around the filming set of 'Live A Little, Love a Little', the movie Elvis was filming, when they heard the news about Dr King was murder, and what Elvis did with that feeling.

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Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.:

You know, several years ago, I was in New York City autographing the first book that I had written. And while sitting there autographing books, a demented black woman came up. The only question I heard from her was, "Are you Martin Luther King?" And I was looking down writing, and I said, "Yes." And the next minute I felt something beating on my chest. Before I knew it I had been stabbed by this demented woman. I was rushed to Harlem Hospital. It was a dark Saturday afternoon. And that blade had gone through, and the X-rays revealed that the tip of the blade was on the edge of my aorta, the main artery. And once that's punctured, your drowned in your own blood -- that's the end of you. It came out in the New York Times the next morning, that if I had merely sneezed, I would have died. Well, about four days later, they allowed me, after the operation, after my chest had been opened, and the blade had been taken out, to move around in the wheel chair in the hospital. They allowed me to read some of the mail that came in, and from all over the states and the world, kind letters came in. I read a few, but one of them I will never forget. I had received one from the President and the Vice-President. I've forgotten what those telegrams said. I'd received a visit and a letter from the Governor of New York, but I've forgotten what that letter said. But there was another letter that came from a little girl, a young girl who was a student at the White Plains High School. And I looked at that letter, and I'll never forget it. It said simply, "Dear Dr. King, I am a ninth-grade student at the White Plains High School." And she said, "While it should not matter, I would like to mention that I'm a white girl. I read in the paper of your misfortune, and of your suffering. And I read that if you had sneezed, you would have died. And I'm simply writing you to say that I'm so happy that you didn't sneeze." (...) If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been in Memphis to see a community rally around those brothers and sisters who are suffering. I'm so happy that I didn't sneeze.* And they were telling me --. Now, it doesn't matter, now. It really doesn't matter what happens now. I left Atlanta this morning, and as we got started on the plane, there were six of us. The pilot said over the public address system, "We are sorry for the delay, but we have Dr. Martin Luther King on the plane. And to be sure that all of the bags were checked, and to be sure that nothing would be wrong with on the plane, we had to check out everything carefully. And we've had the plane protected and guarded all night." And then I got into Memphis. And some began to say the threats, or talk about the threats that were out. What would happen to me from some of our sick white brothers? Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it really doesn't matter with me now, because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land! And so I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man! Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!! — Excerpt from "I've Been to the Mountaintop" speech by Martin Luther King Jr. (April 3rd, 1968, Memphis, Tennessee) | source: americanrhetoric.com READ/LISTEN THE FULL SPEECH HERE

* [1958] KNIFE ATTACK: On September 20, 1958, King was signing copies of his book 'Stride Toward Freedom', in Blumstein's department store in Harlem when Izola Curry — a mentally ill black woman who thought that King was conspiring against her with communists — stabbed him in the chest with a letter opener, which nearly impinged on the aorta. Thankfully, Dr. King survived that attempt of murder. That is the incident Dr. King refers to in his 'Mountaintop' speech from 1968.

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Gladly, from that one attack Dr. King survived.

He could've let that 1958 incident take the best of him. He could've chose a safe life if he led fear win him over. But he said himself why he didn't on the 'I've Been to the Mountaintop' speech:

"Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will." — Martin Luther King Jr.

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Let's recall that after that 1958 near-death incident, as before that too, King was arrested many times, he was put down and lashed out by people who wanted him to remain in silence. But he chose to fear not.

PHOTO 1: King was arrested in 1963 for protesting the treatment of blacks in Birmingham. His 13th arrest out of 29. (29!) | PHOTO 2: Copy of King’s letter from Birmingham jail (Samford University Special Collections) Martin Luther King.

Excerpt from King's 1963 letter:

"…I must make two honest confessions to you, my Christian and Jewish brothers. First, I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: “I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action”; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a “more convenient season.” Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection." Excerpted from Martin Luther King, Jr., Letter from Birmingham Jail (1963). READ THE FULL LETTER HERE [via University of Pennsylvania]

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Martin Luther King never failed to give us the right questions to ponder.

As this humble post comes to an end, let's read a few other of Dr. King's inspiring words as spoke in his most famous and praised speech, the one who Elvis Presley sang about in 1968, the same year Dr. King was murder.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. [...] This is the faith that I go back to the South with. With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling disco rds of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day. On August 8th, 1963, at the Lincoln Memorial, Washington D.C.: "I HAVE A DREAM" SPEECH. READ/LISTEN FULL SPEECH HERE.

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I should mention the following story because it is part of how a tribute song to Martin Luther King's life and efforts to make the world a better place, came to be.

A young Southerner, who's been commonly, unfairly, called racist over the years after his passing, fell in deep grief hearing the news about Dr. King's assassination.

On April 4th, 1968, the day Dr. King was shot dead while he was standing by the window on his hotel suite, just like the rest of the world, when Elvis Presley heard the news, he grieved.

Presley was filming 'Live a Little, Love a Little' on the day that Dr. King died. He and everybody on the crew heard the news with sorrow. Elvis was heartbroken, as the rest of the world (at least the human portion of society). It's said by different people that were there with him on set how sad and deeply bothered by that Elvis was.

His leading lady for this movie, Michele Carey, shared her accounts on how Elvis reacted to the sorrowful news.

Actors Michele Carey and Elvis Presley. Scene and photo shoot for 'Live a Little, Love a Little' (1968).

Michele Carey played the guitar but the piano was her favorite! In this scene, she's actually strumming those first few chords of the song. The guitar in the scene belonged to Elvis. He often played it while singing songs on the set. He was preparing for an upcoming Christmas special that later turned into the well-known 68 Comeback TV show. At the end of this scene, one of the last filmed, just 10 days after the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King. Elvis signed the guitar and gave it to Michele as a gift of appreciation for what she did to console him on the day of MLK's funeral. We have covered that fateful day when the cast and crew learned he had been shot and killed in Memphis. Production of the film had been temporarily suspended over the weekend. On the day of the funeral which was televised, the cast gathered around one TV in the studio. As Elvis and cast members watched in silence, and as Elvis and others wept openly...Michele sat at a box piano and began playing softly. Within minutes, Elvis sat beside her and as she played the Beatles song All We Need Is Love, Elvis and cast members sang the lyrics. They sang the song over and over for nearly 20 minutes, hugging and crying with one another. As violent as 1968 had been, the assassinations of MLK and RFK, the Vietnam War, the clashing of protesters and police, at least for one short period on April 9th of that year, a small group of people came together in song to show their love and respect. — Published on Michele Carey Facebook fanpage, on October 12, 2023

During 'Live a Little, Love a Little' production, Elvis was preparing for his '68 Comeback Special and, it turns out, they included a song called 'If I Can Dream' on the setlist, a song written by Walter Earl Brown, recorded by Presley in June 1968, just two months after Dr. King's assassination, and also a short time after Robert Kennedy's assassination.

The song was composed, inspired by this feeling of sorrow but also gratitude and, above all, hope. The song was soulfully performed by Elvis, and until today its one of the most important and touching recognized performance of his music career.

The song was sang soulfully because Elvis meant every single word in it. One of Elvis' certainties about life was that we must live in equality.

“Everybody comes from the same source. If you hate another human being, you’re hating part of yourself.” — Elvis Presley

Today, o Martin Luther King's day, on his birthday, we remember his life with gratitude for all the good he had done for the world, for bringing awareness that changes needed to be done, for inspiring people to get together, to live in equality, peace and union.

Most importantly, today we remember the fight isn't over.

King was a vital force, a powerful asset to the Civil Rights Movement, but as much as his dedication came to blossom in positive sociological changes while he had us walking at lengthen steps towards a better world for all of us to live together in peace, it doesn't make his murder any less painful as we remember him with a great sorrow, yet hearts filled with gratitude, today. His assassination, and many things following it, even in this modern world, remind us the world isn't the place Dr. King dreamed about just yet. Not all of us, certainly, will have to give our lives to help others in need, but even so we shouldn't be afraid to do what's right whenever we need to.

Dr. King made us reflect upon when, on both his letter from 1963 and the 'I've Seen the Mountaintop' 1968 speech, his inspired words recalled us about the Good Samaritan parable, about doing what we can with what we have, and also brought questions to our mind about how damaging it can be living in denial, for that's worse than acting against the ones in need, because those acting in denial are majority.

Are we gonna be the ones to walk on by and turn our faces the other way, letting be somebody else's problem as we leave a brother or sister left to their own devices? Are gonna be the ones who'll be moderate? Who'll see injustice right before our eyes and choose ignorance, social irresponsibility, selfishness? Dr. King certainly expect us not to. Let's be the ones that, even against all odds, even when there's nobody looking or when we find ourselves without great resources, let's be the ones who will stop and reach out our hands to the ones in need. Be kind and supportive.

So let's keep honoring Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.' memory — and many others who came before and after him, who died or spent their whole lives trying to make the world a safer and fair place for all human kind.

Towards Martin Luther King's dreamland we shall march.

Happy birthday, Martin Luther King Jr. ♥

May your righteous, courageous soul, rest in peace.

[scarletlilyy]

This whole Diddy situation is absolutely disgusting I hope everyone involved in the committing the horrible crimes truly suffer a painful death

what's especially sad is that people are making a joke out of this situation and just using this as an opportunity to cancel celebrities they don't already like instead of acknowledging the victims and expressing sympathy towards them I feel 8000 800 bad for the women that fell victim to that disgusting piece of shit

And the whole canceling celebrities thing isn't being done well at all.

because the thing with Diddy's parties is that he had private & public parties

public parties which were usually taped for an audience every known public figure had to be at, while the private parties were where the sex trafficking and all the other weird shit happened.

Not everyone attended these private parties and at these point ppl r just throwing random accusations at people who just seemed to even glance at Diddy once which sometimes the assumptions are justified

like for public figure like naomi campbell, drake and trump who r known not only to be VERY Problematic but most likely pedophiles themselves

keep in mind naomi and trump were both very close with eipstein, so if I had to guess they were definitely in on this.

But some other accusations/assumptions are just absurd, I'm not here to blindly defend any celebrities or anything but considering that some of the celebrity event attendees were VICTIMS while should we be assuming their perpetuators without knowing the full story? Like look at Justin Bieber, I have a feeling people would have assumed he was in on it too if someone didn't speak up for him and if he wasn't a minor at that time

and that's another thing, it's not just the minors that were even affected (it gets more disgusting)

Terry Crews a 240 POUND man got sexually assaulted at one of these big Hollywood parties, if he hadn't came out as a victim a very long time ago ppl would have easily assumed he was part of those pedophiles

so what I'm tryna say here is ppl really take their time and understand the situation before throwing at accusations, like I said something attendees are very much clearly affiliated with Diddy and should probably be investigated as soon as possible!!!

I'm not saying idolize the others who have seen like angels their whole lives, just don't idolize any celebrities at this moment and also don't rush to "cancel" them without much factual proof to it or confession from a victim

Once again my hearts out to the victims, they truly deserve better.

[writing-for-life]

Thank you for this a million times.

As someone who is very familiar with both The Sandman and Tales from the Flat Earth, I agree with absolutely everything you wrote.

I’m still mulling over the fact whether I should write about this myself (edit: I finally did), but I fear the horse has bolted. I’ve already spent far too much time over the past days to shed some light on this someplace else (with a few other people who also read both, but they are few and far between), and I don’t know if I have further time, patience and energy left to keep on trying. But at the same time, I think it is important that more people who know both works give their views. Because at the moment, we get posts with over 25,000 notes who are mostly accepted as “truth”—by people who often haven’t read either, or just one of these works. At least read both The Sandman and Tales from the Flat Earth to come to your own conclusions before you add to the spreading of what is (in my view at least) misinformation.

These works are nothing alike bar some superficial similarities and literary archetypes. The FB post by Matthew Boroson is a bad faith take that’s also factually wrong in many, many places. So I’m still thinking about taking each of his claims and showing people, with screenshots etc, how factually wrong they actually are. I just don’t know if it still makes a difference at this point, because many people have made up their minds anyway, and it’s an opportune message.

And the fanart he shared that’s also in your post—yeah, it’s fanart. If you look at the actual artwork especially inside the first edition of e.g. Night’s Master, and also if you read the physical description of Azhrarn in the books, they are probably less alike than people think, bar the superficial similarities of “pale skin, black hair, dark garments.” Which was essentially what 8/10 male protagonists in the dark fantasy genre looked like at the time, but that just as an aside… Minds fill in blanks, you know?

This does nothing—neither for Tanith Lee, who absolutely deserves a larger audience, nor for a much larger problem at hand:

It detracts from what really matters here. Boroson’s not even thinly veiled, “You should believe the victims because I know—I KNOW—he also did this,” is problematic for so many reasons, I don’t even know where to start.

Even if we assumed “heavy borrowing without credit” (he never said it was plagiarised—that mostly came to fruition after a friend of Tanith claimed NG plagiarised whole paragraphs of one of her works, but that she never disclosed which one it was), which it honestly isn’t:

The slant of, “Believe his SA victims because I’m telling you he’s also not crediting for inspiration” (which isn’t a crime btw, it’s only bad style. Plagiarism is obviously different) is hugely problematic. It’s also not as if we need your blessing to believe something, Matthew. These two things shouldn’t even be mentioned in the same sentence. It’s not like one gives the other more credibility.

We should believe SA victims. Full stop.

As for the other excellent points you make: I also agree, and I think many people are struggling with the cognitive dissonance brought up by “shitty people can create good art”. So their minds start reaching for something that gets rid of that discomfort.

And it’s obviously easier to say, “I liked this work by a terrible person, but they were always a hack anyway and didn’t even really create it,” than to say, “I need to find a way to recontextualise a work, and that’s maybe uncomfortable and, above all, takes time.”

Because people don’t want to take that time. They feel they immediately need to rush to a public statement, an action, an opinion piece to disassociate themselves.

Anyway: More people reading Tanith Lee is the most positive outcome of this. I just wish more people had cared about her before this, because for some, reading her works will now be a performative activity that is still all about NG and not about her. And that quite frankly stinks in its own right…

I have a friend whose ex, a minor celebrity in some circles, was abusive.

Shortly after she and some other women went public about it, there were some people who chimed in talking about other misdeeds of his.

Her ex was, and is, a loathsome waste of oxygen, and the words, "...who deserves every accusation leveled at him" would almost escape my lips...

...Except that some of the accusations people began throwing around because they (understandably) hated this guy weren't true.

This did not help my friend at all! It muddied the waters, and gave her awful ex ammunition for his claims that people were just out to get him, and were willing to make stuff up to smear him.

Switching gears: there's been a lot of discussion recently about how some brilliant and influential art has been created by objectively terrible people. Part of that discussion has been calling out people saying, "Their work always sucked," or "I never liked it." Not only are statements like this unhelpful, they provide cover for predators. If you insist that your tastes reflect your morality, you're giving yourself a huge blind spot, and making it easy to dismiss evidence of harm done by creators you happen to like.

This is one reason why I think exhibits like this one are important: they help teach that lesson.

Three notes on this: 1. by the time of that exhibition, Gill was long dead and therefore unable to profit from it.

2. This kind of thing isn't necessary for every artist, because not every creator does heinous things.

3. My friend's ex is nowhere near the artistic league of Eric Gill or any of the other creators I'll discuss.

Switching gears again...

If someone mentions a bespectacled British boy wizard with an owl familiar, in a modern setting with "secret world" magic, the name that springs to mind is most likely "Harry Potter", right?

But Timothy Hunter, from The Books of Magic, was published a full seven years before that. I was working in a bookstore when the novelizations for the BoM comics came out, and had to tell kids that no, this was not a HP rip-off.

I don't think the reverse was true, either: for one thing, The Books of Magic is set in the DC Universe, and I've never heard of JKR reading superhero comics. But also... sometimes completely separate creators will come up with strikingly similar ideas, utterly by coincidence. It's one reason why most authors tell fans NOT to send them ideas or fanfiction based on their work: there is rarely any good way to prove that you didn't steal a concept.

Now, obviously every creator is influenced by other people's works, and I completely agree that it's good to acknowledge that and to point fans towards your influences!

When Rowling began channeling her resources into making life worse for trans folk, I saw a lot of people saying, "Well, Harry Potter was just a mediocre rip-off of The Worst Witch anyway."

While I haven't read that series, I strongly doubt this claim. The idea of magic schools is older and more widespread than either of those series, and "British boarding school hijinks, but it's a magic school" was bound to be written more than once.

Now, some of you already know, and others have looked up, who originally wrote Tim Hunter. And... yeah, it's Neil Gaiman. *sigh*

In the last few days, I've seen some people saying, "The Sandman ripped off Tanith Lee's Tales from the Flat Earth." They cite a number of similarities: Azhrarn, the Lord of Darkness, is a pale-skinned, raven-haired Byronic figure with a sibling-like relationship to the Lord of Death and the Lord of Madness. Like the Endless, these beings are god-like, but specifically not gods. Apparently some people have mistaken fanart of Azhrarn for Morpheus. And Chuz, Prince Madness, has a bisected appearance, half his face horribly messed up, like the demoness Mazikeen.

But speaking as someone who was a fan of the late Tanith Lee years before I picked up an issue of The Sandman: I don't believe the latter was stolen from the former. Are there similarities? Yes, but they're superficial. If you've read both series, as I have, you'll know that the stories, settings, and characters are very different!

It's possible Gaiman was influenced by Lee's writing, and if so, I agree he should have acknowledged that. But it's also entirely possible that these two authors independently came up with similar ideas.

When it comes right down to it, I think that statements like this -- "their best work was just a rip-off of something else" -- are just another variant of "their work always sucked".

It's often an easier accusation than "they've always been crap", because, as I said, writers come up with strikingly similar concepts all the time, and it's very hard to prove you didn't steal an idea. But it has the same problems, so -- barring the kind of case you could make with a college-level plagiarism-catching program -- I think it's best avoided.

Now, telling people, "Hey, are you sad about this creator turning out to be an awful person to whom you don't want to give any more money? Try this other person's work instead!" This is good! Let's have more of it!

[drownindreams]

headspace

i've been feeling inspired lately. In a way i haven't been in awhile.

Love is an incredible emotion. It is quite a bewildering concept. The depths capable of a tiny body is a concept that i haven't quite grasped. The world is a tough place, and i am incredibly blessed if never again, to have felt that once in my life. But once is enough, for love, as incredible, as awe-inspiring, as adrenaline rushing as it is, it's pitfalls are just too much for well, the same small body to bear.

I've always thought that this tiny body of mine was capable of a huge depth of love, that love was a concept many wanted to hold, few could grasp, and a lucky few were born with. When i was younger, someone i looked up to once told me i wasn't capable of greatness in life, but she did say that i had one gift, and that was my gift for loving. That i was capable of love few could comprehend, and by extension, those who were loved by me were incredibly lucky. Bear with me here, i know this sounds like i'm tooting my own horn, but this is nowhere near that.

When i was 19, i met someone in a way i've never known anyone before. Now, i met her i was 14 but, i only truly knew her when i turned 19. It was a beginning of an incredible love story, one that if the commoners knew about, they would plead at the feet of gods to have a taste of what we had. I know that because i knew i would have done the same too. That incredible paradoxical love that felt like the realms of the universe couldn't contain it, that we were the world's orbit and a love so out of this stratosphere even the universe couldn't contain it. I've been finding the words to put what i once felt when i was 19 into words, i never could before, but in retrospect things somehow make much more sense. It was a drug and i was high off of life. I found inspiration in every corner, from the rays of sunlight, to the fall of leaves, to the beauty of the universe - i saw the world in a light i never did before. The touch of her skin, the sound of her breath, the twinkle in her eye, the lightness of her touch, the weightlessness of her every move. I was so incredibly lucky to have ever had that in my life. For that I will forever thank the universe, for bringing us together.

As with all relationships, even the best ones, it all dwindles, the harder you fall, the harder the crash. I loved her deeply, more than words could ever describe it. But i'm losing myself and i go through the motions of losing her every single day, over and over and over and over again, and sometimes, even this is too much to bear for a heart that was once named a model, for a body this small, and for a love that transcended time and space, to bear.

As time goes on, the simple yet complex foundations of bonds, of souls joining, seems to get overthrown by the complications of life - of values, of dreams, of hearts, of cities, of lives, of the difference in needs. This complexity which our love just doesn't capable of tiding over, of overcoming together, is a foreign language to me. Because love is simple, it's 2 people who made the choice to be together, through all the toughest times, and forever is a word that should never be used lightly, but somehow our love just isn't capable of doing that. Maybe, you've always been a little more factual, a little more practical, i've always been a dreamer, and that's who i was and who i am today. We haven't changed not one bit, the practicalities of life is what have changed and the chemicals upon which our bonds were founded are no longer viable driving forces because two is better than one and it's like an engine that has lost it's power and there's no way we can pull through over it because there's not enough torque.

I thank you. And i'm not ready to let go yet, so i write this here as my unsaid piece, of hurting every single day from losing you every single day, i write this with an incredible amount of pain i never knew a tiny body could hold, i write this with a longing heart, i write this with an angry heart, i write this with a forgiving heart, and i write this with a hopeful heart, non-begrudging, i write this with a heart that doesn't ask you to stay, but longs deep inside, that you might possibly find it within you to fall in love with me again, the same way i have been with you, since day one. - words i will never say to you, for love never wishes to burden, never wishes to guilt, but only wishes for the truest feelings, and the most genuine emotions, anything less would be a disservice to it's name, and anything less the universe would lose all it's meaning.

[my-strange-attraction]

>call yourself a label anarchist

>use incorrect pronouns for someone every chance you get

yeah that checks out. the act of degendering by using they/them is transphobic and is radfem rhetoric. You call other people TERFs without proof and yet you are the FIRST IN LINE to misgender someone and defend yourself with “oh but it’s gender neutral”. It is not when a person has specific pronouns!!! use👏 correct👏 pronouns👏 idiot👏

"every chance you get" Factually incorrect I did use he/him in my response to the ask that mentioned it, and I apologized! I messed up, I admit it. I am a human being! Mispronouning somebody once by accident does not a transphobe make, I should hope anyone if the queer community at all is aware of that, otherwise a lot more of us are transphobes than we thought (even actual trans people!).

Also factually incorrect that I called him a terf. I specifically said he wasn't one, and I honestly don't think he's even likely to be one in the future. He seems very genuinely supportive of trans people, which made me feel better when I first clicked on his profile. I was just pointing out that this is the kind of exclusionist thinking that terfs will absolutely latch onto to start a conversation and convince you that using the label of trans is hurting regular old queer people. That's why I called it a pipeline, not a terf dogwhistle.

I'm assuming because of the timing that you're also the person who called me a straight up liar for saying how queer my school is. I don't know why anyone would lie about that, I mean just being at any college you're going to be surrounded by queer people, especially if you are queer yourself. I wouldn't need to make up a fake number about my school to say I'm in college and my friends are all queer except for like five people.

It just happens to be one of the main selling points of my school that there is a majority queer population, so the percentage is higher (although I do want to reiterate that 70% is on the higher end of the figure, rather than the lower end like I implied in my first post where I mentioned it before I looked up the figures). Also my school is quite small so it's not as difficult to attain a higher percentage as it would be at a state school or ivy.

I would be happy to tell you all about my school in the spring after I graduate and get out of this place, but I was raised to be very wary of putting any information on the internet. I know it may surprise you, but cloudy is in fact just my screen name and not my real name. I'm really careful about this stuff.

Also it's just wild to me how many people have questioned my intelligence or called me stupid in this whole thing. I have never done that! I would never do that! It's one of the meanest things you can call somebody imo. Is it just that you get a rush from saying it? Does it make you feel morally superior? Or is it like a confirmation bias thing, like me being stupid confirms that my disagreeing with you is not due to something you should actually think about and consider but just because I'm obviously not very good at thinking things through?

Idk, I know it's the internet, I just think for a bunch of people who claim to be arguing for the liberation of queer people, you sure put down other queers a lot.

Although maybe you're not fighting for queer liberation, seeing as you want to police what words other people use to describe only themselves...

[13thpythagoras]

🫠😭😂 omg I hear it, my best friend struggles with anxiety .... why don't I?... 😆 my wisdom is, thinking is overrated, there is awareness, understanding, reflection, meditation, planning, but simply thinking is so idle... like is it a thought experiment? I mean, I could be accused of having had some big thoughts, some nice thought experiments, but still, that's not just thinking aimlessly that's reading and researching and visualizing and experimenting, thoughts aren't bad but overthinking can be ... staying self aware, the whole body, whole aura is our biggest mind. Thinking with just the brain doesn't utilize all of our potential. Thoughts sometimes process best like food does, among our gut, which has 10% of the neurons in our body.

We used to think we only used 10% of our brains.

Turns out, that's like, at any given nanosecond, and from millisecond to millisecond, we're using like, a different 10% of our brain every millisecond or something, and it comes out to using much more than 10% when you look at a person's day or month, rather than just the time they're asked to perform simple tasks in a lab. But still, we really used to think we only used 10% of our brain, and now, we understand that 10% of our brain is literally in our digestive tract.

Gut feel, thinking with your gut, these are phrases with real factual basis.

I definitely honed my mental focus as a youngster playing sports, shotmaking sports, where you have to silence your mind. I'm good at that, making the mind go quiet so you can simply react and then maybe drain a jump shot, or ice a backhand, as hoops and tennis are my favorite sports but I love them all. I'm a jock on some level, and in athletics there is a zen to be found.

Maybe if it's hard to focus, if it's hard to quiet the mind, that could be the body's subtle way of begging to be used, you need some PE time maybe, I invite physical activity, I invite cardio, I invite elevated heart rate and body temp, and in the endorphin rush that comes with that, there is a zen, there is a quietness to the mind which can later be learned and summoned at will, regardless of immediacy of exertion...I'm not perfect either, maybe I should be more anxious I dunno, I know I've had family suffer a panic attack, like it's not like it hasn't affected my friends and fam, and if I could fix this easily I would have with them already, but ehh if this helps even one person a little bit then I'm more than happy with the result. Best of luck and fuck da haters!!!! Hating is invalid!!!!

looks up at post

oh yeah i clearly don't overthink anything at all

proceeds to think about most things more than most people

do you overthink every situation??? 🥺 🥺 🥺🥺🥺 🥺🥺🥺 🥺 🥺 🥺 🥺 🥺 🥺🥺🥺 🥺🥺🥺 🥺 🥺 🥺 🥺 🥺🥺🥺 🥺🥺🥺

[talldarkandroguesome]

11th of Last Seed, Fredas

It has not been until this morning, when I came to training directly from a bath, that Luayl noticed the scaring I have from my battle with the dragon. I still think it will heal up, but he saw the slashes across my back that seemed to drive home the factual reality of facing a dragon for him.

I do not know what the House has told him, but it seems as though, despite the evidence, none of them fully believe that I fought an actual dragon, let alone two of them. They are, after all, the sort of creature one reads about and knows to not be a worry in our world today.

And yet, there they were.

His hands felt so good tracing the three long strokes of claws across my back. To be honest, I do not even know when exactly it happened in that final battle. Everything was moving so very fast. In a battle with a dragon, you have to be moving fast.

Still, I was glad to have his soothing touch and words of concern. Then his comforting.

I do not know how much training we did today, but I am hardly upset by the time we spent together. In fact, to have someone who I could just let hold me and tell me it was alright, without any emotions attached, that was a near meditative state.

And then he looked me in my eyes and I felt that rush of warmth to my cheeks that I have not felt since I was young. Those feelings I do not want to remain, still do. A part of me, despite all the changes, all the time and distance, still loves him.

I hate that. I hate being emotionally bound to someone. Especially someone who is only here temporarily. He is only here to teach. He has made that clear. This is just a part of our dynamic, but there is no feelings involved for him.

If only I could feel the same way. If only I did not want him to love me. It was so much simpler when I was young and we just met for our private lessons and then stayed the rest of the night together, enjoying the feel of one another. That pure sensation of someone just loving you regardless of who you were or what anyone else felt like.

Perhaps it is selfish to word it so. Avon gives me so much love and dedication to me and Sildras and my family and House. Yet I do not feel the same for him. And there is always that guilt over it. That maybe I am just leading him on and not allowing him to move on emotionally from me, even though he says that he has. Even though we say that we love one another purely as brothers and that sharing our bed together is just that same expression of love and lust we have always had. I am not so blind as to not see just how much he longs for more. That playing family has brought much love and joy to him and I know that he is more parent to my son than Urtisa could have ever been.

Yet for all of our ability to be honest with one another, I have to hold back. Our relationship is inherently unfair to him. I know it. I hate myself for it sometimes, just knowing that in some small way, as happy as I am with things the way they are, it will always hurt him to be with me. If he had any option that did not mean marrying and bedding a woman, I would suggest that he do so. Yet his family will force him into marriage the moment he is released from his duties here. They have been trying to get him to do his prospect meetings already and he has had his duties as excuse.

I do not know what to do about it. I may not be able to protect him from that for long. The House, even now, even with everything else going on, continue to try and push me to select a mistress and father more heirs. They treat me like a stallion in need of a mare. I am breeding stock for them and little more of value.

As soon as I have even one more heir reach the age of nine, they are likely to begin commissioning for my assassination. At least those who were long loyal to uncle Tanval. I have already seen their attempts. I do not know if their impatience may encourage them to start working on it sooner.

Well, at least I have some letters to write today. That should get my head off of these less pleasant topics.

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

Hey 👋

I swear I'm addicted to your writing😁 Thank you for the amazing post❤

Can I request a usually calm reader coming home to Hanni and Wil with n bruise on their cheek and/or blue knuckles from n fight. And when they question reader they find out reader defended their relationship.

Or

Them reacting to reader with cigarette burn scars from childhood or self harm scars.

Sorry if it's specific I had a dream about the first one and I'm insecure about my scars😅 Also if it makes you uncomfy ignore me🤣

Have a wonderful day/night/afternoon💕

Hey anon, sorry it took me a hot minute to get to this. Hope you enjoy!

Gender neutral y/n comes home covered in bruises. Their lovers Hannibal and Will need to know why.

trigger warnings: blood, threats of violence, mention of firearms, stalking

You spit a mouthful of blood into the snow before you even thought about turning the doorknob. Any random passerby would look at you and think you were attempting to rob the place. You couldn't say you disagreed, though: your hood was pulled over your head and you held a tire iron in your singular non-bleeding hand.

You knew it wasn't wise to let the old-money Baltimore socialites catch you in such a compromising position, but you had to double-check your mental map of the house one more time. Hannibal would undoubtedly be cooking; hopefully so in his element that he wouldn't notice you slipping by. Will was the one you had to worry about. When it came to you, he'd become as alert as a German shepherd with protective instincts to match. Where he was in the house was anyone's guess, so you needed to be on guard.

You removed your heavy boots and opted to leave them outside. You then tossed the tire iron behind a nearby planter and slowly, quietly turned the knob. The door creaked as it opened, making you cringe. The sight of neither of your partners immediately running up on you was a bit of a relief; you hadn't been discovered quite yet.

You just needed to make it upstairs so you could barricade yourself in the master bathroom and use that oh-so-rare sliver of privacy to cover up your bruises. Then you could climb down the trellis, grab your shoes and make a proper entrance with hello kisses and whatnot.

"[F/N]?" Hannibal called out before you could even breach the threshold.

With no thought on your mind other than "fuck", you turned your head away from the direction you heard him. "Yeah, I'm home."

"I'd rush to give you a kiss, but I'm a little tied up at the moment." He said, undoubtedly grinning to himself as he trussed a chicken with sturdy cooking wire. "So you'll have to come to me."

"Oh, yeah." You called back. "Let me just get cleaned up first."

"If you insist." He said with a dramatic dip in his voice. "But hurry right back. Dinner is almost ready."

Hurdle one was cleared. Now all you had to do was clear the second, much higher hurdle.

You ascended the stairs, but forgot to skip that one consistently creaky step that always alerted the dogs. A small army of dogs came pouring into the upstairs hallway, blocked only by the baby gate Hannibal had installed as a compromise. Enthusiastic barks filled the foyer as you desperately tried to calm them down from the top step.

"Winston! Max! Harley!" You rattled off as many names as you could remember. "Hush, please!"

"[F/N]?" Will said, turning the corner.

You momentarily considered throwing yourself down the stairs. It would be easier to explain the bruises and you could still soak up that sweet, sweet throuple affection without having to tell a story that even you didn't entirely believe. Common sense, however, kept your feet firmly on the ground.

Will appeared in your line of sight. You pulled the brim of your hat down and stuffed your hands into your pockets. "I, uh- forgot how to open the gate again."

The dogs parted in Will's path and he looked at you with suspicion as he effortlessly opened the gate. "Is everything okay?"

You turned your head to the side. "I'm fine. It's just really cold outside."

"I'm sure those wet clothes aren't helping." Will cocked his head. "We can start by throwing that hoodie in the dryer-"

Before you could pull away, he pushed your hood and your hat off in one fluid motion. He knew what was going on.

"I'm no doctor, but I don’t think busted noses and black eyes are side effects of low body temperature." He said, folding his arms.

You put your hand up, unintentionally revealing the bruises on your knuckles. "You learn something new every day."

You tried to scoot past him, but he grabbed your hand and pulled you back.

"[F/N]--" Will said, a blistering fury beginning to percolate in his chest. "Who did this to you?"

"I ran into a bus stop." You lied, not even trying to make it sound believable.

"That bus wouldn't have happened to be headed to Dacula, would it?"

Your silence spoke louder than any excuse you could think of.

Will sighed. "Right. I think I know what happened."

"Will, I-" you protested.

"Save it for dinner." He scolded. "I'm sure Hannibal would love to hear this."

You'd been found out it was much worse than anticipated. You felt like you were on trial, which, given the circumstances, you could have actually been on trial in a real court of law on the charge of aggravated assault. However, that didn’t make you feel any better.

Hannibal demanded an explanation and couldn't wait until dinner. He was willing to let one of his culinary masterpieces burn in the oven, knowing of course that a much rarer delicacy was in the cards once you gave him a name.

He brushed his finger over an open cut under your eye. A light click of his tongue reached your ears as he examined your face.

"Give us a name, love." Hannibal probed, holding your jaw between his fingers and following the trail of bruises down your neck. "Who did this to you?"

"It's not a big deal, really." You assured him, squirming against his grip. "I started it."

"Now that, I find hard to believe." Hannibal contested. "You're not a preemptive strikes kind of person."

"Nor would you go all the way to Dacula to throw a few punches." Will added, approaching you with an ice pack.

"Okay, so maybe I finished it." You corrected.

Hannibal smiled proudly to himself. "That's more like it."

"What exactly did you finish?" Will asked, gently placing the ice against your bruised knuckles.

You sighed. You mentioned Dacula once and they already knew the answer. They were just waiting to hear you say it.

"My ex-boyfriend, Sidney." You leaned back on your one good wrist. "He was a being a completely irredeemable shit, as usual-"

"Details, darling." Hannibal said in too singsongy of a voice than was really appropriate while wrapping your hand in gauze.

"Acting entitled, talking like I belonged to him-"

"You have no idea how little that narrows it down." Will shook his head.

You were compelled to agree, but couldn't bring yourself to admit that and the fact that you ever dated Sidney in the first place. "Right."

"That isn't out of character for him." Hannibal said.

"And certainly not enough to make you willingly drive back out to cousinfuck nowhere to beat him up." Will finished.

"I didn't go out there with the intent to beat him up!" You contested. "He said that if I could meet him for coffee he'd never speak to me again. I know it's a lot of gas money, but I really was gonna hold him to the whole 'never speaking to me again' bit."

"So what happened?" Will asked, growing impatient.

You looked at the ground, embarrassment stopping the words at the tip of your tongue.

"Somehow, he caught a whiff of our... arrangement." You tightened your hands into frustrated fists. "And he made some really shitty comments about... you."

Hannibal and Will exchanged looks. They let the silence linger, urging you to fill it.

"He went into obscene detail about how mmf threesomes are his favorite category of porn," you tried not to gag as you recalled the disgusting details. "And then said if I 'let him watch', he wouldn't tell the local baptist church that I was a whore-"

"The man is a pig." Hannibal said, matter-of-factually.

"I got up to leave." You continued. "Obviously. Then he said he knew where you lived. Announced it to the whole diner. Started to go through his list of semiautomatic weapons. So to make sure he knew I meant business-"

"You threw the first punch." Hannibal finished the thought for you.

You nodded. "Naturally."

Will smiled to the floor and pushed his glasses up his nose. "I would have loved to see that."

"As much as it pains me to say," Hannibal began, resignedly agreeing. "It's only fair that you stand up for us the way we stand up for you. From time to time."

Will brought your bruised knuckles to his lips. "Though we desperately need to teach you how to dodge. Because the next time you come home covered in scratches, someone will pay."

You took both of their hands. "I should get beat up more often."

[docholligay]

As much to myself as anyone, but also, let’s reflect on it today: It’s a really really human thing to hate being corrected. Even when we’re factually wrong. It’s normal to get defensive or tetchy when someone points out something.

The challenge is in moving past that defensiveness, and looking at yourself.

Now sometimes this is just, “Okay I was factually wrong about this, but I’m not a bad person for being misinformed, and they aren’t a bad person for telling me I’m wrong.”

And sometimes this is, “I’ve been told this part of my argument is wrong, and how do I feel about that? Do I think they have a point, when I am divorced from the situation? When I don’t take my own opinion as gospel, but allow that other thoughts can and do exist? Do I feel this way because of a feeling, or experience, that may not be universal?” THIS IS THE HARD ONE. (Though I am also no great fan of option one) But I really, really encourage everyone to work on stepping back, and rotating your argument a little in your mind. Your values, and how you express them.

Defensiveness and a rush to clash is not something to hate yourself over, but neither is it something to feel proud of. I say this as someone who is constantly spoiling for a fight over the MOST irrelevant bullshit. Deep breaths! If your argument is good now, it will be good later. Something I’m working on, and encourage others, is to come to discussion with a sense of curiosity instead of victory. I fail at this sometimes! I am very reactionary, as a person, and while that makes me, just, fantastic in any given crisis, and GIRL, if you need a Rude American to get in someone’s face, I am THERE, it doesn’t always serve me in the way I’d like.

To be the master of something is not the same as keeping it constantly caged. I want to train my temper, my defensiveness, my bluster, and keep it to heel. I don’t want it to drag ME along. And I think that’s a good lesson for all of us.

I also think that we should consider--and again, I am talking to myself directly--working on how we correct others, how we approach into these conversations. Our motivation shouldn’t be to “make them look stupid” or “win” or something but to come to a better place, where, at the very least, we can SEE each other, even if we can’t MEET each other, you know? I can’t change other people, I can only change myself, but we have to remember that a flood starts drop by drop, i think.

[ganymedesclock]

So I discovered the trailer for Belle (2021), and it’s making me think about what I love about Beauty and the Beast riffs, and what makes a story scratch that particular itch for me or not.

And I think a huge part of it for me is the examination of monstrosity as a social role. To just use Disney’s animated classic as my base for comparison here, Adam, The Beast, is not literally cursed with fur and fangs, claws and horns- he has those things, and may have mixed feelings about them, others certainly have bad reactions to them-

-his curse is ostracization. His curse is to not be seen as human. What actual, physical features he has are irrelevant to that. They’re just quirks he can learn to live with, or a further excuse to tell himself he deserves this isolation, this frustration, this misery.

So the breaking of the curse, to me, is not the scene where Belle sobs confirmation of what we knew well before then into his stilling chest and brings him back, minus those quirks- if anything, that his happiness comes with the loss of those things has seemed to me (and I’m not alone) as almost something of a betrayal depending on how it’s framed.

By contrast, to me, the breaking of the curse is the ballroom scene, and the moments leading up to it. Adam returns to Adam, rather than The Beast, at the point that he decides that he deserves to be treated like a human being- not as a labor of love from Belle, but from himself. Yes, it’s love with Belle that they dance together, that they have this ball scene when there’s no high society to impress, but before that point, he had to make a decision; that he can clean up and dress nice and have an evening. That he deserves to.

When we first see The Beast, he has all of the means and resources to act like a prince, to present like one. He could make himself comfortable and be surrounded by splendor, but the truest thing he suffers under is he’s ceased to see himself as worth the effort. It’s not as if he could cut the fur down and prune back his claws, file down the horns, and look the way he feels he ought to- the way he thinks he should. He’s broken every mirror in his house except for the one he hides from, and this is a gesture of absolute defeat. He knows what he looks like. He can’t pretend he doesn’t. The only way he can tolerate this is not looking at himself.

As a neurodivergent queer person, the monster in the mirror is something I have a very complicated relationship with. I have an “advantage” in some ways. My appearance is not shocking to most people. I do not benefit from an obvious mobility aid or assistive device; I speak within a range people think of is normal. I have an “unusual haircut” for a “girl” and I don’t aggressively correct people on my pronouns or presentation.

But I’ve always had this feeling, that perhaps, my fangs and fur were simply easy things to trim off, and it’s so easy to wonder, would I still be okay if they weren’t? Because really, it’s none of the granular details that make a monster. For every imagined horror creature, there’s almost certainly a real animal it resembles, and real animals are not monsters. A monster is a monster; anything else, we believe, has a place, has a home. Deserves to exist.

To be a monster is to be a thing that doesn’t fit, or, more directly, to be a monster is to be a thing that is unaccepted. Rejected for not fitting. Unworthy of love, from within, or without.

At the end of the day, I know, factually, I am not a monster. I know that I’m a real person. I know that I deserve dignity and respect and love, even if only from myself. I’m not owed another person to love me just to prove that I can be, but, also, no man is an island; as humans we seek each other one way or another, romantically or platonically. That’s a fact of anyone, not just people who struggle to see a real person when they look at their reflection.

And yet, at this same time, I can’t help but feel betrayed, left behind, when the narrative goes that if the monster does everything right its reward is to be shaped into the likeness of a Real Human Being. Because you can’t just pull a feathered skin off me and make me like I “should be”, like my various diagnoses and self-identifications all present me as an aberration from. If you showed me a me without any of those qualities, that’s honestly the thing I’m the most afraid of, a me without me. A Miss Perfect who’s a good, normative daughter, and in my insecurity I wonder if people would like her so much better than me that they wouldn’t miss if I was gone.

Which, that’s nonsense. I know a lot of people who care about me the way I am. But nobody ever said fears had to be rational.

At the end of the day, as much as I hate the idea of being a monster to others, I also relish the notion of qualities that are categorized as monsters. I love dragons. I love putting big, horrible teeth and leering eyes and wings and claws on heroic characters. Because brought into the light, qualities are just qualities. And if you bring those qualities into the favoring, soft light of stories about human connection, romances, queerplatonic bonds, friendships and found family alike, those qualities can even be charming, alluring, inspiring; a character can look like anything and we still feel a rush of reassurance that this specific character is there.

And that’s the other side of Beauty and the Beast: Adam is running away from being a monster, and Belle is trying to run away from who she is, too. Because Belle is the other side of that trap.

Let’s be honest; it isn’t just that Belle’s an outspoken woman with opinions. It’s that she’s pretty. She’s the prettiest girl in town. She’s someone people want, people have expectations for- and those expectations have little room for what she actually wants. Hell, that’s one of the major dangerous driving forces of the climax- Adam nearly gets murdered by a mob because Belle made a choice that her community really didn’t like, especially Gaston, and it’s easy to point to Adam as the wrong choice because he’s pointy.

“Beauty”, as much as “The Beast”, are dehumanizing categories that people are sorted into. The doll and the monster. One is considered beneath monstrosity; beguiling, an object of appeal and desire but not someone with opinions, oh no, and not someone able to make a choice that you disagree with. People driven to the fringes by opposing forces but regardless find each other in the place they’re trying to find room to breathe in.

And that, I think, is one way some of these riffs can, for me personally, miss the point- and that’s not a mark against them, it’s just that there’s a specific thing I see in this story, and it’s very specifically not, “to be beautiful and desirable to mass public consumption is the way to be happy; we will have a story about how to rehabilitate someone so they can be beautiful too” but rather, “what does it mean when people stop seeing you as yourself, whether the alternative is perfection or a monster? what would you do to be seen clearly?”