#pixie questions!

[rocky-road-to-london]

why do you call barok van zieks mr pretty prosecutor?

well i cant say i didnt sorta expect this after everyone wanted me to prove my case about mr handsome like a lawyer but i can do it again!! im no one trick pony!!! its because he is both the prettiest man in all of england and also a prosecutor and i liked the alliteration!!

so!! my proof is that he is very very pretty!!! its unfair. ive sort of not really gotten used to it?? because hes such a public figure, you see him in the newspapers all the time and in weird alleys and sometimes he just shows up in pubs and stuff and you just know someones doing a gambling ring. youd figure, right? youd figure all that murk and grime and crime would make him less pretty.

and youd be wrong!!! he mirrors the beauty of the daoine sidhe, all crisp and without flaw. i know he owns a cat because that cat slept on my stomach last night and yet somehow his clothes are not covered in cat fur. without flaw. i dunno why he ever has to fight people, hes so disarmingly pretty i would just drop my weapons the moment he looked at me yknow??

his eyes are the exact shade of frosted violets in early spring and i have been trying to write a song about his hair for like, two months, and sure it isnt going super well because the melody isnt quite working out the way i want it to but heres a preview!!!

Hear the tolling, hear the rolling of the bells in the distance Hear the baying of the dogs, his arrival do they tell Eyes like frost on a full moon's light And his soul, ah, his soul, it's lavender blue.

he smells like blackberries by the way. i can never decide if its blackberry flowers or blackberry syrup, like the kind you put in tea, but its definitely blackberries!! smells very good and very nice. his hair though... he brushes it back a lot but i could tell he had ringlets right from the start, then i got to see him with his hair all messy a couple of days ago and i can confirm. he has the prettiest ringlets.

my hair does not do ringlets!! it just curls and curls in every direction thats been invented and some that havent been. mr pretty prosecutor has perfect coiffed ringlets and one day! one day!!! i will find out if theyre as silky as they look. and that mystery will be solved!!

last thing i promise. i saw him smile once. and it was so pretty he could maybe have resurrected the dead with that smile. the fact that flowers dont bloom where he walks is proof that the world isnt just, because if it was, it would see mr pretty prosecutor and agree that flowers should bloom where he walks.

and that is why he is mr pretty prosecutor!!!

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Slasher Handler Part 11 - Slip Lead

Slasher Handler Masterlist

Read on AO3

NSFW under the cut.

CW: Implied stalking/surveillance, implied kidnapping, physical injury, deception/emotional manipulation, physical violence, injury with knife, genuinely not enough information, hidden weapons

Something about stabbing him, about meeting Price, has resulted in you being able to stray a bit farther from Simon’s orbit. You’re still on a rather short lead, there is a list of unspoken rules between the two of you as long as your arm. But you’re going out alone more. You don’t feel Simon’s eyes on you every moment he’s out of your sight. It’s weird.

But when it comes to Simon, it’s best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. So you start a routine of going to the cafe down the street twice a week or so to work and see other human beings. It’s surprisingly difficult, some days. More than once, you’ve felt too exposed and retreated back home. These days, you have more good days than bad. As long as people don’t talk to you too much, you’re fine.

So it’s a bit jarring when someone clears his throat while you’re wrangling spreadsheets.

The man is in a light jacket, tee shirt and jeans. Looks like he works out. Kind of a stupid haircut, but he’s at least committed to it. Very distinct looking, Simon’s voice says in your head, easy to track. Unlikely to cause problems.

Something about him makes the hair on your arms stand on end.

“D’ya mind?” he gestures to the chair across from you. At your skeptical look, he rushes to assure you, “ Jus’ fer mah coffee, ‘n t’read,” holding up a thick paperback. He gestures to the rest of the cafe. “Wouldnae bother you, but this’s the only open chair.”

The shop is unusually crowded. You frown up at him. “I’m really busy.”

“Willnae hear a peep from me,” he promises, setting down his coffee and pulling out the chair across from you. He turns the chair so he’s facing more of the room instead of the corner you’re in. And he opens his book.

You watch him for a minute, but he doesn’t look up. It’s hard to shake the feeling that something is wrong, but you do need to work. With a last wary glance at him, you settle your headphones over your ears - transparency on - and get back to organizing a data set that reminds you of a ball of duct tape.

It’s time for a break before you know it. Your companion, true to his word, hasn’t said a peep since he sat down, more than an hour ago. He barely looks up as you close your laptop before turning back to his book. He does look up when you flag down one of the servers.

“Lunch,” you say, inanely. To the server, you say, “Can I get the chicken sandwich today?”

“Chips ‘n a lemonade, yeah?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

They turn to your table mate. “And for you?”

“The same, ah guess?” He raises his eyebrows at you, like he expects you to give him permission or something. He looks back at the server. “Yeah, a chicken piece for me, as well. ‘Nd a juice?”

“Separate checks?”

“Aye, ta,” the guy says. When the server leaves, he blanches. “Hope you dinnae mind.”

You do mind, but it’s not like he can sit anywhere else right now. “It’s fine.”

He sets his book on the table, and your eyebrows shoot up. Whatever you thought he’d be reading, Jurassic Park wasn’t it. He grins. “Ah ken. It’s old, yeah? But it’s a damn sight better’n the movie.”

“Isn’t that how it goes,” you say, vaguely. 

But you’ve already fallen into his trap. He turns his chair to face you, crossing his arms and leaning into the table. His eyes are unnervingly blue - somehow even bluer than Simon’s - and bright with interest. “’M serious. It’s not just that a character yells in the movie and speaks softly in the book, aye? In fact, the movie made Dr. Sattler older, aye? Great choice, emphasize ‘er expertise.” 

Aging up a woman character? You’re reluctantly intrigued. “She was a less important character in the book?”

“Nae,” the man scoffs. “She’s probably the first o’em to realize how shite the whole thing is. Notices things. Stuff the other’s aren’t payin’ attention to because she’s the plant expert, an’ naebody pays attention to plants.”

You find yourself drawn in, in spite of yourself. Johnny, as he introduces himself, has obviously been waiting for a chance to talk about it, but he’s not pushy. He excitedly pulls a pen from his pocket to doodle along with his explanations. By the time your food has arrived, he’s convinced you to at least try the audiobook.

“I cannae pay attention stuff in mah ears,” he says with a grin as he starts to dig in. “But I hear good things, if you don’t ‘ave time to sit an’ read the text.”

As you nod along, you look up and almost choke on your next swallow. Simon is outside, looking at you through the window with raised eyebrows above his usual black surgical mask. His eyes flick to give the man at your table an obvious once over. And then he turns away and walks out of sight.

“Ye alrigh’?” Johnnys’ eyebrows are up near his hairline when you look back at him. “Ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost.”

“Y-yeah,” you say, torn between staying seated and the urge to run after Simon. You can’t help but look at the window again, but he’s gone, there’s nothing for it. “Sorry, I thought… Sorry. Yeah, I’ll get the audiobook.”

When you get home, Simon is on the couch, the TV on with the volume low. He watches you, like he always does, as you take off your shoes and shuffle around to put away your things. When you finally join him on the couch, you find that he’s watching a nature documentary. A crocodile slides under the water with barely a ripple.

“He was only sitting with me because there wasn’t anywhere else,” you rush to say.

Simon turns to cock his head at you. “You get ‘is name?”

“John. Johnny,” you answer. “He told me about his book, but I left as soon as we were done eating.”

“Good,” he says with a nod. He lifts the arm closest to you, pulling you close as you settle into his side. “’S good to have friends, Precious.”

“He’s not a friend. Just some guy out to lunch like everyone else.” 

“You let him stay,” Simon points out. He squeezes you in a rough approximation of a one armed hug. “Been nervous around people, but you’re gettin’ better.”

This isn’t what you expected. You can’t help but side-eye him. “You’re… proud of me?”

Simon’s lips press gently against your forehead. “’S long as you pick better this time, I don’t mind you ‘aving friends. Can’t keep you all to myself forever. ‘Sides, you’ve marked me proper, ‘aven’t you? Got me as your little pet. Johnny’s not gonna be a problem.”

The little pink scar around his ribs is little more than a raised line. You slide your fingers under his shirt to pet at it. Among all of his scars, it’s one of the smallest. You’d cried the first time he’d let you see under the bandages.

“You’re not a pet,” you grumble, leaning your head on his shoulder. “You’re an alligator who won’t leave my house.”

“Your alligator, now,” Simon agrees. He focuses back on the television, seemingly done with the conversation.

You could leave it at that. But you turn to face him, instead. “You’re not mad?”

“Not unless ‘e ‘urts ya.” Simon presses his lips against your hair. “An’ I wouldn’t let that ‘appen.”

The following week, though, he stands over you with an exaggerated grimace at how crowded the place is. “Och, d’ya mind?”

Johnny is there the next time you go to the cafe. He waves from his table, but ducks back into his notebook without waving you over. So you work from your own table in peace. When you take a break for lunch, he’s gone. Two days later, it’s the same. It’s easier to concentrate, now that you’re less worried that he’ll take the conversation from the other day as an invitation. 

With a sigh, you clear some space for him. But just like last time, he keeps to himself, reading and occasionally jotting things down in his notebook. It’s not until just before lunch that he breaks the silence.

“D’y’ve a boyfriend then?” You can’t keep yourself from cringing fast enough, apparently, because he laughs. “Sorry, sorry, shouldnae asked.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you grumble.

“Aw,” he coos. “Don’ worry hen. You’re right bonnie. Ah’m sure they’ll come around, whoever they are.”

That would be sweet, if it wasn’t so painfully off base. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Oh, you’re right done wit’ me,” he laughs. “Ah ken’t I shoulda kept mah mouth shut. Ma always said runnin’ mah mouth would get me into trouble. I won’t bother ye again.” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s fine. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

He doesn’t push, and you’re grateful. But when it comes time to pay for lunch, he insists on paying. It grates on your nerves. A gift from a guy is never just generosity, you learned that long before Brandon. But you clench your jaw and pack your bag up a bit more roughly than usual and say your goodbyes.

“They didn’t have the brownies you wanted,” you announce as you return home from the grocer, two days later. “I think it was a limited edi…tion…”

You notice Simon watching through the window, but he’s there and gone before you can get a read on his expression.

There’s a smattering of blood on the entryway carpet.

You don’t drop the bag with the eggs, but only because your muscles are locked up. Did someone break into the apartment? Was Simon here when they did, or next door? Did they leave? Did he take them?

A sound makes you gasp before you bite your tongue hard enough to taste blood. And then again, a muffled groan, close, from the direction of your couch. 

It’s not Simon’s voice.

You gently set your bags down and reach behind the coats for the blackjack Simon insisted on leaving there for security. There’s a rustling. Another groan. You stoop low, trying to make yourself a smaller target, and creep around the edge of the couch.

When you see Johnny, bound and gagged, shirt covered in blood where he lies on the floor, your stomach drops so fast you feel dizzy.

“No, no, no, no, no,” you whisper, dropping the jack with a thump. You crawl over to him, looking around frantically. Simon is nowhere to be seen. But he did this. He had to have done this. Right?

Johnny twitches, groans again, eyelids fluttering open. When he sees you, his eyes go wide, and he frantically tries to sit up.

“No, don’t! I don’t know where you’re hurt,” you hiss. You reach around his head to untie the cloth that’s gagging him. “Oh my god-”

“We gotta get out’f here, bonnie,” he grunts, leaning into your hands as you help him upright. He spits blood on the floor. “No tellin’ when that mental bastard gets back.”

“Oh god,” you whisper again, touching the front of his shirt. It’s dark and sticky in a bloom across his chest. “Where are you hurt? Did he stab you?”

“Ah’m okay,” he grunts. “A bit banged up, but ah’ll live.”

You swallow down the urge to vomit. “There’s a lot of blood, Johnny.”

“S’nae all mine,” he answers. “C’mon, untie me, before Simon gets back.”

You’re shifting to reach behind him before your mind catches up. You can feel the blood drain from your face. “W-what? What did you say?”

“We need to get out of here!”

“No, you said his name, you called him - ”

“Simon? That’s what ye called him when you came home,” he hisses. 

“No, I didn’t,” you whisper, body stuttering between frozen and electrified. You never call Simon’s name where others can hear. “And - and I - you - you were unconscious.”

Shining blue eyes stare into yours from two inches away. Johnny’s bloody mouth curls into a smile. “Oh, he’s trained you up good, he has.”

You scream when he lunges forward, huge arms grabbing at you. 

His weight crushes the air out of your lungs when your back hits the ground. You twist under him, using the arm he hasn’t trapped to grab his hair and yank. He swears, and loosens his hold just enough that you’re able to free your other hand and jab him in the throat.

You expect the way that he chokes, but the hand he’s twisted in the back of your shirt stays locked tight. He coughs out a frenzied laugh as you twist. Your heart races as he prevents you from getting your knees up between your belly and his. But he doesn’t expect you to hammer the heel of your boot against the back of his knee, or how you use the leverage against his leg to roll away onto your belly. 

He doesn’t let go of you, but that’s fine, that’s okay, as long as you can reach under the edge of the couch. Johnny pounces, body curling around you without quite pinning you down. His fingers twist into your hair in an echo of how you wrenched at him. But he doesn’t stop your hand, grabbing the leg of the couch and then reaching under and up and-

“Try again, Bonnie,” Johnny chuckles into your ear when your hand meets nothing but cotton and wood.

Your heart doesn’t have time to stop. The grinding pain between your hip bone and the floor makes you pop up your pelvis and reach down. The tiny knife, Little K, jumps to your hand. It’s so easy to flick it open, you think you almost cut your own belly as you heave. Johnny rides you for a moment, then pops up onto his knees to let you roll freely.

You don’t have time to decide, gut or femoral, you just swing. Denim parts, pressure - 

Johnny yelps.

His weight is suddenly gone, and the arc of your arm slams the back of your hand and your elbow onto the carpet. It’s a shock, almost hard enough to make you drop the knife. You flick your eyes around, nearly blind with tunnel vision, and see Johnny standing over you. His jeans are slashed, outer thigh almost to crotch, but you can’t see blood, fuck.

He sways, oddly. Is your vision swimming? He doesn’t descend on you again, though, just laughs and wiggles. One of his feet isn’t on the ground, his injured leg is dangling, did you get him?

You imagine you can see Simon’s face, a little angry and a little amused. If you die here, Johnny will live to see his own intestines, you know it. Even if you survive, he won’t. Simon might gift you another skull. The thought almost has a laugh bubbling out of you. 

“You stupid motherfucker,” you hiss. 

“Oh, now you’ve done it.”

Simon’s voice startles you into action. You’re off your back and scrabbling backward in and instant as he manifests behind Johnny. Except, you realize, that Simon is holding Johnny up, one arm snaked under Johnny’s and hand around the back of his neck. That’s why Johnny looks off balance, it’s because he is, because Simon is here, he’s going to save you-

“Did real good, Precious,” Simon says with a grin. “Knew you’d get along.”

What? “What?”

Simon says something else, but you can barely hear him over your heart pounding in your ears. But you hear it when Johnny laughs. You see when Simon releases him with a ruffle to his mohawk and a shove toward the armchair. Before you know it, Simon’s scooped you into his arms and taken his usual seat on the couch. He pries the knife from your hand and snaps it closed. 

“Told you I was thinkin’ of gettin you a dog,” Simon rumbles, sitting you in his lap so your back is against his chest. Before you can protest that no, he never once mentioned a fucking dog, he continues, “This’n’s mostly ‘ousebroken, already. Soap needs a firm ‘and, but you c’n ‘andle him. 

Soap? What the fuck does soap have to do with anything? What kind of a name is…

"Oi!” Simon barks. “Off the furniture.”

Your stomach drops as you remember John Price, two months ago now. “Soap’s supposed to be my troublemaker, not you.” Soap.

When your wide eyes swing to him,  Johnny’s face is split into a toothy grin. He tips his head back against the seat of the arm chair. One of his hands touches the blood blooming through his jeans and brings it up to his lips. He laves his tongue over his fingers. “Ah’m lookin’ forward to gettin’ to know you, Bonnie.”

A part of you wants to get up and slit his throat. The rest of you slumps back into Simon’s chest and bursts into tears.

[always4tuesdayss]

[booyahhstormz]

i had a very silly idea

pixieskipps/sparkstrum (SQUIGS MADE THAT NAME AND ITS SO AWESOME) child, just for funsies 🤗🤗‼️‼️

btw this is how she appeared:

anyways juno's not really canon in pixie's lore (i haven't made any pixie lore yet) i just think it's a silly idea to imagine them trying to take care of a kid lol

so in whichever timeline this happens juno literally appeared out of nowhere and both pixie and skipp were so confused because ?????? they're like asexual n stuff why does that kid look so similar to them it's impossible ??????? how did this happen ????

and that's all. uhh be gay do crimes

[defenestrationtactics]

i’m sorry but like

they are SHARING A BED

they are ROOMMATES

they are SILLY LITTLE GUYS

they gave us this set up and for what? scotty pilgrim decides to go to all this effort to defeat this girl’s 7 evil exes and whatnot when THIS TWINK ASS MAN IS IN HIS BED

[daniluvsyou]

rant

what the fuck is highschool bro? wym these girls are gonna tell ppl they don’t fuck with me and then tell ME they love me??? wdym my bf is constantly going to parties and fucking around?? wdym i’m doing ONLINE and people at school still have shit to say abt me?? why is there not one fucking honest human in a single highschool building?? girls would talk shit when i was ugly and then once i got pretty STILL talk shit??? PICK ONE MF!!!!! bitches call me insane and weird because i say what i think and don’t take their shit like huh?? i’m the school’s motherfucking psycho even when im gone cuz i am the ONLY person who tells it how it is!!!! anyways fuck all of them i don’t care if I’m weird or I’m ugly or I’m crazy at least i’m me. what happened to having passions and hobbies? why don’t people want genuine connections and friendships anymore? fucking miserable insecure bitches.

[dellalyra]

omg how do u think that the kids would react to an argument between satoru and reader?

YES THIS is quality content thank you nonnie :):)

masterlist

send in headcanon requests or questions for the family formation series ily thx :)<3

So fights are rare in the gojo household, you’ve been together so long and been through so much together that it really is like you’re 2 halves of one whole. If an argument does happen, it’s usually Satoru being a dumbass and not thinking or reader being needlessly stubborn. BIG arguments are very very rare, maybe 3 in the 10 years you’ve been together. There’s never been a question of breaking up though, you’re each others ride or die, true soulmates, and everything can be worked though.

But as for the kids,

Megumi just retreats into himself, a side effect of Toji I guess, if he protects himself he can’t be left upset again is what works in his young mind. Holed up in his room, books like a shield, and pricklier than ever. You and gojo are quick to reassure him that even if you guys bicker, he’s safe, you’re not splitting up EVER and nobody is leaving

Tsumiki just tries to radiate pure joy, she figures if she tries make everything perfect there you won’t both leave her and Megumi like her parents did. The chores are all done by the time you’re both awake and there pancakes served with a huge smile and wide, wary eyes from the young girl. Safe to say, that reassurance and a girls day and mandatory after this.

Yuuji doesn’t notice anything is wrong. He’s just happy. Lil sunshine man.

Nobara lives for hearing what happened and shit talking men. She probably gets fed up of the tension and just tells Satoru to apologise to his angel wife.

Yuuta is the most emotionally mature, he knows you guys bicker like any healthy couple. If either of you need to talk, he’s there. He sees the bond you two have, and knows not even a diamond drill could break through that.

[amyriadfthings]

Sometimes I wonder what messy Paul mess Andrew has witnessed or experienced to be reacting like this, lol

[dreamfilleddonuts]

As an autistic demi person, it always bothers me when "is this character ace?" for autistic characters always gets yes by a landslide. Because unless it's coming from someone who is either autistic or on the ace spectrum themselves? It feels very much like "this autistic character is too pure, too baby UwU sexless child" when we are talking about a grown ass young adult. Like headcanon what you headcanon, yes. And asexuality is completely valid. But tropes also don't exist in a vacuum, either. And allistic people like infantalizing us.

[lanitashiddencrackstash]

[rocky-road-to-london]

What thing that you have done are you most proud of?

i unno... i dont have much to be proud of. no one really counts living this long.

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Kinktober 10 - Sensory Deprivation

PriceGhost

CW: Blindfolding, headphones used to cancel sound, dub-con elements, oral sex, wildly expensive alcohol (like, seriously, holy fuck)

Price doesn’t indulge in this odd relaxation ritual often, but sometimes he needs it. This week has been long enough that he might need it as much as Simon, at this point. His lieutenant is of the same opinion, apparently, because when Price strides into the den, the noise canceling headphones and sleeping mask are already on the coffee table. He grunts as he eases his aching body down onto the worn leather couch.

Simon comes stalking in, already changed into his sweat pants and a tee shirt. He places the McCallan on the coffee table with a solid thunk, then stares.

When he doesn’t say anything, Price scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m not that bad.”

Simon’s left eyebrow goes up, but his face stays blank.

“Yes, yes,” Price chuckles, placing the headphones around his neck. He settles the mask in place as he add, “I’ve been a right cunt.”

“Y’re always a right cunt,” Simon grumbles.

Price snorts a laugh as he lifts the headphones to his ears. As soon as he turns them on they connect to Simon’s phone and grey noise blocks out the world.

For an indeterminate amount of time, that’s all there is. Darkness and soft static. With the absence of other input, his brain catalogues every ache and pain in his back, his legs, his arms. It takes longer than usual to settle into square breaths.

The first touch of Simon's hand makes Price flinch, hard. He imagines he can feel his lieutenant's judgmental stare before he reminds himself that the whole point is to stop imagining. He takes two deep breaths and tips his head back into the couch.

The tips of Simon's fingers touch the palm of his hand again before being replaced with cold crystal. Price adjusts his grip, then lifts the glass to take in the bouquet of the scotch. It’s one of his favorites, ginger and cinnamon and vanilla notes coaxing the tension from his shoulders. The first taste is heaven, rich and smooth, lingering ginger and apricot as he settles in.

Simon waits until he's set the glass back against his thigh before picking up his other hand. He expects a cigar, but instead, he gets the deep pressure of knuckles in his palm.

He doesn't bother muffling the groan that flows from him as Simon proceeds to massage his writing hand, wrist, forearm as he keeps sipping his whiskey. When he switches hands, he almost drops the whiskey glass, his hand is so relaxed. The world narrows down to white noise, scotch, and muscles forced to unwind.

Then, Simon does something unexpected.

Price spreads his thighs when prompted. Then he feels more than hears himself make a questioning noise when a big body pushes its way between his knees.

For a long moment they just breathe. Then Simon taps his empty palm twice with his fingers. Solid?

Price taps back. Solid.

Large hands land on his knees and smooth their way up his quads. They don't hesitate to lift his shirt out of the way and make quick work of his belt. Another beat of stillness. Price brings the scotch back up to his lips.

Simon's hands are warm as they touch his belly, petting over course hair and feeling over muscle and fat. It's a curious sensation. He's not sure Simon's ever touched him so gently, even with this odd routine they've built together.

It's a shock and it isn't when those same hands coax him to lift his hips enough to shove his pants and trousers down his thighs. And then Simon’s palming his soft cock, not touching to stimulate, but Price feels the awareness of-

He hears himself moan over the noise when Simon’s mouth closes over him, hot and wet. He barely resists the urge to grip the man’s short hair in a fist, stars dancing behind his eyelids. Instead, he tries to focus on not spilling scotch all over them both.

It’s a testament to the stress they’ve been under that Price doesn’t get hard. After a brief flash of frustration, he sighs, deep and long. After a moment, the tension seeps out of his neck, and tipping his chin toward the ceiling.

Simon taps his thigh. Solid?

Price huffs a laugh. Solid.

[mariocki]

Jacqueline Pearce guest stars as fashion model Leonie Peters, but it could be she's mixed up in bank robbery and murder in New Scotland Yard: The Banker (1.10, LWT, 1972)

[issyyhearts]

anyways

send me asks pretty pleaseeee with a cherry on top

idc about what just anything I need smth to do

[starsheet]

??? creature

[emberisk]

Look…Not to be all Cinema Sins and not to pretend the Tinkerbell movies are in anyway consistent…but What the fuck happened to all the blue dust from the second movie in the fifth movie

If we assume that the bowl(First image) they prepared for the blue dust ceremony is the amount they expected to reap, they got at least TEN TIMES THE EXPECTED YEILD. I mean for Queen Clarions Sake FAIRY GARYS UP TO HIS TORSO IN THE STUFF!!! IT SHOULD LAST FAR MORE THAN 8 YEARS!!!!!

In the fifth movie there’s like….a bottle of it left. (Second image)

These fucks are rationing the shit out of it! They have this tiny little dropper they fill meticulously so they never use too much!!!

How were they coasting on the previous 1 bowls worth for 8 years if they apparently blew (haha blue) through 10x the expected ceremony amount in what 7 years max?…Maybe I should establish why I chose that number

“When is this movie supposed to take place?”

Maybe this movie takes place a far long while after the Lost Treasure but nothing seems to suggest that.

The movies started with a pretty simple concept. Tinkerbell is introduced to seasons.

1. Tinkerbell - Spring

2. Lost Treasure - Autumn

3. Great Fairy Rescue - Summer and also possibly in the wrong order chronologically??? Why is summer after autumn? Idk unless this is her second summer this doesn’t make sense but also it can’t be her second summer because during her FIRST winter she tells Periwinkle about Elizabeth. Strange

4. Secret of the Wings - Winter

The fifth movie MUST follow Secret of the Wings because Periwinkle. It also does have a 1 year time skip. I personally believe the movie takes place…a maximum of 6 MAYBE 7 years following the second movie. The reason I say that is because the Blue Dust ceremony happens every 8 years. If this movie takes place less than 6 years in the future the misuse of the Lost Treasure blue dust is even worse. If it takes place 8 or more years in the future I would assume they’d have an even greater surplus of dust since they still have the dope ass moonstone staff Tinkerbell made.

Maybe they do have a secret surplus stash of dust but there’s absolutely no suggestion of that in the fifth movie. It’s like they’re pretending the second one didn’t happen but they’re still using the blue dust concept that the second movie established so that’s weird.

Maybe Fairy Gary lost all the dust in a bet. Maybe it’s hidden under his kilt. Maybe he snorted it like magical cocaine. I have no answers. Maybe it’s in the books.

Someone who’s read the books please tell me if there is an answer. I will appreciate it