#the way that this is such an effective tragedy.

[kunareads]

how you talk so sweet when you're doing bad things

actor!satoru x popstar!reader

you and satoru fulfill the prophecy (he picks you up, pulls them down, turns you around).

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satoru "filthy mouth" gojo!!! i had to stop writing this multiple times because of what he does to me. PART 3 VALENTINE'S DAY (comment for taglist)

content: fluff and SMUT! even more tension, you and satoru are once again the subjects of internet speculation, making out, 69, oral (m! and f! receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v sex, pronebone, cowgirl, he's very much in control here

18+ please i block children <3

+++

the internet does what it does best: fill in the blanks.

neither of you say anything. no statements, no denials, no acknowledgments. but speculation spreads like wildfire.

it started small. the blurry afterparty photos, the red carpet chemistry dissection, the think pieces about hollywood's most unexpected flirtation. the usual.

then you post an instagram story.

nothing special. just a close-up of a wine glass, city lights blurred in the background. no context, no caption. but the fans? they think they know.

twitter erupts.

@/satorumess: not to be crazy but i mapped out their locations based on timestamps and—

@/fulltimeshipper: this is worse than when the CIA redacted half that UFO document

@/ynupdates: y/n posting a cryptic story the same night satoru is spotted downtown… oh we are in the trenches forreal

then, satoru likes a tiktok.

a slow-motion edit of you in your red carpet and afterparty looks, set to some dramatic song, captioned this woman is dangerous, your honor.

he doesn't comment, doesn't follow the account. just leaves one single like. and the internet implodes.

@/fandomedits: nah this isn't pr this is a man down BAD

@/popcultupdates: GOJO SATORU LIKING THIRST EDITS IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT WE HAVE LOST HIM COMPLETELY

@/ynstan: this man saw a slo-mo thirst edit and said "yeah let me cosign that"

but it gets worse.

an old clip resurfaces. a red carpet from last year. you and satoru, near each other but never interacting. a moment that meant nothing��until now.

fans slow it down, zoom in, analyze every tiny detail:

satoru steps onto the carpet, and your eyes flick toward him, barely noticeable.

he glances in your direction.

there's a beat where he exhales, seems to collect himself—something no one caught before.

and suddenly, it's evidence.

@/fathergojo: why do their interactions feel like deleted scenes from a romcom

@/yninvestigator: guys. GUYS. what do you MEAN she looked at him FIRST. what do you MEAN HE TOOK A BREATH AND LOOKED AWAY.

@/stanwars: suddenly i believe in fate. suddenly i understand greek tragedies.

apparently, none of this is new.

you and satoru are just catching up.

+++

+++

satoru isn't good at waiting.

patience isn't exactly his strong suit, but when the reward is this good? he doesn't mind.

you walk in like the last week never happened. like the chaos never even registered.

the rooftop lighting catches the silk of your dress, the shine of your jewelry, the sheen of your lips. it makes you look untouchable.

attention follows you effortlessly. heads turn, backs straighten. someone says something, you smile—polite, charming, distant. you're impossible not to watch.

and satoru watches.

he's become acquainted with the effect you have, but it hits harder tonight than it did a week ago.

because now he knows how you taste.

the glass in his hand is cool, condensation falling between his fingers. he takes a sip, tracking you, cataloging details no one else would catch.

the way your shoulders shift, subtle, as you get closer.

the flick of your gaze toward him before you fully reach him.

you stop beside him, close enough for the scent of your perfume to settle between you.

a pause before you meet his eyes.

"so… how's your week been?" you ask, tone light, a smile gracing your features.

satoru exhales a laugh, tipping his glass like a toast. "surprisingly quiet. you?"

as you talk, your fingers trace the rim of your glass. he watches. you let him.

he leans in when he speaks. you don't move away.

he notices the way the waiter lingers, the way you dismiss it with a polite, distant smile.

you notice the way his expression shifts at that, just slightly. neither of you acknowledge it.

"you're kind of a nightmare," you tease.

satoru grins, unbothered. "funny. some people call me a dream."

you laugh and roll your eyes at him. he takes his time with his next sip, letting the tension settle. you're watching him watch you.

it would be easy to let you play this game, to see how long you can act like you're not as impatient as he is. but he leans in, voice quiet, just for you.

"you gonna make me wait?" low, taunting.

you could, but you don't. instead, you lean in too, meeting him halfway. you set your glass down carefully. he mirrors you.

someone—a bartender, another guest—tries to pull you into conversation, but you don't reply.

you lean into him, your voice calm but sure.

"let's go."

+++

streetlights skim over sleek black paint as the car pulls up, satoru swinging the door open. you barely take a step before his hand finds the small of your back, fingers pressing just enough to guide you.

he grins lazily. "last chance."

you roll your eyes as you step in. "so dramatic."

he closes the door after you and circles the car, the driver pulling off.

the backseat feels too small.

you cross your legs. his knee brushes against yours, and he doesn't move away. his hand rests on his thigh, relaxed, too close to yours. deliberate.

you pretend not to notice, but he knows better.

the silence is louder than words. the city blurs past the tinted windows, neon bleeding into the dark. the hum of the engine, the distant murmur of traffic, the faint pulse of something unsaid.

satoru exhales slowly, gliding his tongue over his teeth, thinking. he pushes a button, the partition rising.

you're both quiet, but it's a silent signal: stop pretending.

the second it clicks into place, he moves. or maybe you do. it doesn't matter. he's closer now, facing you, and you're already leaning in.

a beat. a sharp inhale.

his fingers skim your thigh, higher this time.

"i was trying to be good," you say quietly.

his voice drops, tight with restraint, and your breath catches. "don't."

the second the word leaves his lips, you're on him. a hand finds the back of his neck, drawing him in.

the first kiss is slow, but not reluctant. he drags it out because he can. he tilts his head, deepening it. he hums against your lips when you press closer, pleased.

his fingers tease higher. yours twist into his hair, nails scraping just enough to make him sigh into your mouth.

the car rolls to a stop.

neither of you move. not right away.

satoru's grip tightens, like he's considering pulling you onto his lap. like he could keep you here a little longer, let the city blur beyond the tinted glass while he takes his time.

instead, he drags his lips down your jaw, then lower. he breathes you in before murmuring, "upstairs."

+++

the door clicks shut, sealing you in. no music, no distant hum of the city, just quiet, dense and charged.

neither of you break the silence.

satoru steps in first. the air seems to crackle around him here the same way it does everywhere else.

you hold his stare, challenging. he waits.

a test. a game.

then, finally, you reach for him. his grin is lazy, knowing. like he was waiting for you to break first.

this kiss is purposeful. his lips brush yours—once, then again. a silent question, just the slow press of his mouth, the barely-there slide of his hands down your waist.

your fingers slip under his shirt, nails grazing skin, just enough to pull a slow, amused breath from him.

his hands find your hips, insistent, pulling you in until there's no space left. the shift makes you gasp into his mouth, and he drinks it in, looking smug, like he expected it.

like he's been waiting for this all week.

his grip tenses, like he's about to pull you closer—but then he's gone. his heat vanishes, his lips just a ghost of pressure before they disappear completely.

he barely moves when you chase him a bit, just tilts his chin, smiling. like he knew you wouldn't let him go. like he was counting on it.

you inhale, frustration sparking low in your chest, and you move before you think. your hands find his shirt, tugging him back in—but before you can, his fingers close around your wrists, catching you with ease.

his grin is knowing, his grip firm but teasing. he tilts his head, amusement spreading across his face.

"easy, princess," he murmurs, voice low, eyes flicking to your lips. "what's the rush?"

you arch a brow, fingers flexing in his grasp. "you did haul me out of the car."

his grin widens. "not like you put up a fight."

you push.

you press into him, backing him towards the wall. he lets you. lets you kiss him deeper, hands still wrapped around your wrists but relaxing, giving you room to move.

for a second, you think you've won.

then the world tilts and your back meets the wall with a gentle thud, your head tipping back slightly as he crowds you.

he smiles at you, eyes sparkling, enjoying himself too much. his hands settle at your waist, keeping you where he wants you.

you should be annoyed. instead, you match him and smirk right back.

you like the way he handles you.

+++

his touch is maddening.

his fingertips skate over your ribs, your stomach, but never where you need them. it's intentional and exploratory, like he has all the time in the world.

and he does. his apartment is a sanctuary from the mess of the last week. no prying eyes or a disgruntled kento to interrupt here.

you shift, trying to lead him downward, but he only chuckles, barely making a sound.

"you can be patient for me, can't you?" his voice dips lower, "or are you already too far gone?"

he's mocking you, and reflex kicks in—your thighs squeeze together, and you feel the heat creep up your neck when he notices.

his fingers ghost up your inner thighs, teasing warmth into your skin before retreating. every near-touch is calculated, just enough to remind you of how easily he could give you what you want.

he watches as impatience builds in your expression, as your breath stutters when his hands graze your waist again.

your nails press into his shoulders, a silent dare. before he can smirk, before he can gloat, you roll your hips against him, slow, deliberate. the response is immediate.

his breath falters, a groan through gritted teeth. his jaw tightens like he wasn't expecting you to test him. for a split second, he stills entirely.

you smile at him. message received.

"if you wanna ruin me, do it right, satoru." a taunt disguised as a whisper, just enough to chip at his restraint.

his hold turns bruising, like he wants to leave something behind. the teasing tone vanishes, his smirk dissolving into something darker. your breath catches—not in surprise, but excitement as something kindles in your stomach.

because suddenly, it's not a game anymore.

the realization barely registers before he has you pinned, wrists above your head, mouth at your ear.

"hope you know what you're asking for," he murmurs, hips flush against yours. his voice is different now—rough, heat twisting through every syllable. you shudder at the sound, your body responding. he makes good on his words immediately.

his hands find the backs of your thighs—then, suddenly, you're weightless, gasping, clutching at his shoulders. your legs draw around his hips, heat pooling fast.

a startled breath leaves you, but he's already moving, carrying you across the room like you weigh nothing at all.

+++

he drops you onto his bed, grinning at the glare you send him when you bounce.

you don't even get the chance to scold—his hands are already on you, pulling your panties down.

his teeth graze your inner thigh before he bites down, sharp enough to make you whine, hips squirming. he exhales with a smile. "thought so." his tongue follows—slow, indulgent, a promise to ruin you.

you've barely found your breath when he shifts, broad hands pressing into your thighs, spreading you open. his gaze lifts, dark and teasing.

"comfortable?" he asks, lips skimming the inside of your knee.

you roll your eyes, about to retort—but your fingers curl into the sheets instead when his mouth finds your core, hot and devastating.

your hips shift, back arching, and he hums against you, content.

you move the moment he adjusts—quick, decisive, hands pushing into his shoulders. he lets you shift the balance, rolling onto his back, breath catching when he opens his eyes to find you above him.

your fingers work fast, tugging at his belt, yanking it free with a sharp pull. you work on the button, the zipper, pulling the fabric down just enough to free him.

he was so fucking cocky a second ago. now, he's not even breathing right, body taut under your hands. so you stroke once, then twice, then take him into your mouth.

no warning, no reluctance.

his grip tightens on your thigh, breath punching out like you knocked it loose. his head tilts back, jaw tensing, a soft "fuck—just like that, baby" escaping him.

you hum around him, pleased, tongue teasing, and he swears again under his breath. his hands fist into the sheets, trying to ground himself.

but satoru doesn't like being outmatched.

his fingers skate up your thigh, squeezing. and then his mouth is on you, tongue dragging through your folds, slow and deep.

you gasp against him, body tensing, and he grins.

"that's better," he mutters against you, lips brushing sensitive skin before his tongue circles once, twice.

the sound you make is muffled around him, and he groans in response, the vibration rolling through you both.

you try to keep a rhythm, fingers curling at the base as you sink down, but every time his tongue moves just right, every time he sucks at your clit, you falter.

he notices, and he loves it.

his hands tighten on your hips, keeping you still as he buries his face deeper, determined, fucking into you with his tongue, sending you to the edge without mercy.

you try to keep going, try to keep your lips wrapped around him, but every nerve in your body is on fire, pressure winding as you moan around him.

he grins against you. "that's it, princess. lemme hear it."

his fingers dig into your skin, tightening as he licks into you with purpose, drawing desperate sounds from your throat.

it's too much. you pull your mouth off of him, panting, lips slick and hips twitching against his face as the bliss hits all at once, unraveling you from the inside out.

"satoru, fuck," you gasp, the words nearly unintelligible through your moans. you can't do anything but let it consume you, your body seizing before the release finally drives through you.

you gasp, sharp and unsteady, his name tumbling past your lips again, voice cracking into a whine.

satoru doesn't stop until you're shaking, your legs weak, pleasure rolling over you in dizzying, tormenting waves.

only when your thighs twitch, too sensitive, does he finally pull away. his face is wet, and he's breathless. he presses one last kiss to the inside of your thigh before looking up at you, eyes dark and lazy.

"you're fucking perfect," he murmurs, voice hoarse, before flipping you onto your stomach, pressing you into the mattress.

+++

you're still coming down when he lifts your hips, tucking a pillow underneath them.

his breath is warm against your shoulder, steady and grounding. his lips trail down your spine, flirting, savoring the way you squirm. a hand settles on your hip possessively, making sure you don't slip away.

his other hand trails lower, sliding between your legs, fingers pressing in—gradually, unhurried, teasing the mess he left behind.

"fuck, baby—you're dripping for me." his voice is all rough edges and satisfaction, murmured against your ear. you shiver. his fingers slide through your folds, spreading your slick, teasing the spot he knows will make you gasp.

"been thinking about this all week," he mumbles, kissing the curve of your neck. his fingers dip lower, pushing inside, slow and deep. "bet you have, too."

you whimper, and he smirks against your skin.

"should've had you like this that night. should've fucked you right up against that wall."

his fingers move at an unbearable pace, curling, pressing into the spot that makes your knees weak. your hips jerk, but he holds you still.

"needy, huh?" his breath is burning against your ear, teasing, smug. "tell me how bad you want it, baby."

your fingers clutch the sheets, patience fraying. you should fight him— push back, make him work for it—but you're too far gone for games.

"satoru—"

his fingers stall. "mm, not good enough."

"want you," you gasp, growing desperate. "need you inside me."

he groans like you just hit him where it hurts. he pulls his hand away, leaving you empty for barely a second before the thick of him replaces them.

he slips the tip through your folds, slick and teasing, but doesn't push in. "this what you wanted?" he asks, rougher now.

"yes."

"say it again."

your breath stutters, but you give him what he wants. "yes. please," you gasp.

his hands flex against your hips, keeping you still as he pushes forward, stretching you open with an unrelenting drag that knocks the air from your lungs. it's almost too much—almost—but you want all of it. you take all of him.

he moves in slowly, and a shaky gasp escapes as he bottoms out, deep inside you, holding himself there, letting you feel it.

his breath is ragged now, his exhale hot against your skin. "fuck."

his hands slide up your sides, guiding you, holding you where he needs you.

"you feel so fucking good," he breathes, voice dipping into something ruined.

his hips roll, deep and slow, like he wants to feel everything. like he wants to make this last.

you think for a second that you won't survive at this pace.

satoru brings his body lower, pressing his chest flush against your back, all heat and tension, breath ghosting over your shoulder as he sinks in.

his arms slip under yours, palms spreading over your shoulders, drawing you into him. not just pulling you back, but owning the space between you.

hi thrusts are indulgent, stretching, coating himself in you. his breath is uneven, satisfaction humming in your ear.

you push your hips back into him, matching his rhythm.

satoru exhales a sharp breath, fingers digging in. "you trying to make me lose it?"

you don't answer, just push back harder on instinct.

his response is immediate—a sharp, precise thrust that knocks the air from your lungs, ripping a moan from your throat before you can swallow it down.

"thought so," he murmurs, lips grazing your shoulder.

his pace turns deep and steady—controlled, measured. he brings his face close to yours, wanting to watch you react, to feel you tighten around him with every movement.

but you're impatient. you shift, pressing up onto your elbows, angling your hips just enough to take him deeper.

his pace stutters. he swears under his breath, voice raw, and one arm locks around your waist. he holds you in place as he fucks into you now, hard enough to leave you trembling, helpless against the bed.

his name leaves your lips, breathless and desperate.

"fuck—it's so good," he groans, half-choked, messy. his face buries into your neck, hands gripping like he's holding on for dear life. "let me hear you, baby."

you can barely think, barely breathe. his hand slides between your legs, fingers finding that spot, pressing slow, teasing circles.

"satoru—"

he chuckles, low and smug, but there's an edge to it now, a tension in the way his hips stutter, his movements losing their precision.

and then you tighten around him, body seizing, pleasure cresting all at once—

"fuck," he bites out, breathless, grip tightening like he's trying to hold on.

and then—he pulls out.

a sharp inhale, the loss making you gasp, but before you can even form a thought—

he flips you over.

"not done with you yet," he mutters, voice rough, gaze dark as he hovers over you.

+++

and just like that, everything shifts.

his hands find you the second he pulls out—a sharp, dizzying shift as he flips you over, settling beneath you. his hands slide up your ribs, brush over your breasts, then slide back down.

his fingers splay wide on your hips, steadying you, but it's his gaze that pins you in place. "wanna see you like this," he murmurs, voice low, still rough from before.

your lips part, but the way he looks at you makes it hard to tease. instead, your nails drag down his chest, unhurried, feeling his abs tense beneath your touch.

"yeah?" you breathe.

his fingers flex, tightening just slightly. "yeah, baby. show me how bad you want it."

you wrap your fingers around him, stroking once, slow and teasing, just to watch him squirm.

his jaw clenches, but he doesn't push. he lets you take your time, lets you set the pace, struggling to hold back.

you don't make him wait long.

you line him up and sink down, savoring the stretch—the way he exhales, sharp and shaky, fingers digging in.

"fuck," he breathes, watching you, eyes dark, half-lidded, all heat.

one of your hands finds his shoulders, nails scraping lightly as you start to move. the other moves down to where you're connected, feeling just how far he spreads you open.

at first, it's slow—like you're figuring each other out all over again. a careful roll of your hips, tension simmering, teasing at something deeper.

but it doesn't last.

his grip firms, guiding you down, matching your rhythm. he thrusts up to meet you with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs.

"you feel me, princess?" he asks, pulling you down harder, deeper.

you answer him with a desperate little whimper that makes him melt.

both of your movements are messy, desperate—like you both know exactly where this is going and you need to get there.

your fingers tangle in his hair, nails scraping, tugging just slightly, and he hisses, eyes squeezing shut for a second.

his hands slide up your spine, pulling you closer, his forehead pressing to yours, breathing hard.

"you feel so fucking good," he murmurs, almost a whine. "so wet for me, so fucking perfect."

you can't even speak. your thoughts blur, pleasure winding tight, breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

he shifts beneath you, angling deeper, hitting exactly where you need him. the sudden jolt of pleasure makes your whole body tighten, makes you let out a sound you didn't mean to make—

a loud, broken moan, breathy, helpless.

his head snaps up, eyes wild, something cracking behind them—like he just lost his last thread of control.

"oh," his breath shudders, grip tightening. "oh."

and then he's gone.

he snaps his hips into yours, his hands gripping, guiding, setting a pace that's relentless, that has you gasping, nails biting into his shoulders.

your vision goes hazy, body tightening, winding up unbearably fast. you try to tell him you're close, but all that comes out is a shaky, broken "satoru—"

"oh, fuck—there it is," he breathes, voice dropping, eyes dark and triumphant. "knew you'd sound so fucking sweet falling apart for me."

his hand finds your clit, pressing just right—teeth gritting as he holds on, watching you break first.

and you shatter.

it slams into you, sharp and consuming, a shockwave rolling through your body. your breath stutters, a broken gasp stumbling free as you tighten around him, locking him in.

he feels it—the way you pulse around him, the way you tremble, how your moans dissolve into something helpless. it undoes him. his arm slides your waist, his other hand finding the back of your neck, and he pulls you closer like he needs you.

he curses as you tremble against him, holding you close, burying himself deep in you as he falls apart.

your name leaves his lips like a prayer, breathless, reverent. he groans against your skin as he finally spills into you. pleasure crashes through him, and for a moment, all he can do is feel **the heat of you, the way you throb around him, the way your body takes him like you were made for this.

for a second, you both stay still; the only sound between you is the sharp, uneven puff of breath.

your hands shake against his chest. his fingers are still locked around your waist.

he exhales a wrecked laugh, warm and lazy against your temple.

"so fucking worth the wait," he murmurs, voice low, sated. he kisses all over your face, palm smoothing down your spine. "knew you'd be perfect for me."

+++

the morning light spills through the curtains, golden and soft, warming tangled sheets and bare skin. everything is still. quiet, but not empty. satoru is warm against you, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. at some point in the night, your leg found its way between his, one of his arms draped lazily over your waist.

you shift, stretching slightly, and his fingers flex at your hip, like some part of him refuses to let you go.

he murmurs something unintelligible, voice low and drowsy. then, with a slow, easy smile against your skin, "stay."

you huff a quiet laugh. "clingy."

"mmm," he hums, voice is thick with sleep. "you're warm."

he still hasn't opened his eyes. he just shifts a little, nestling deeper into you. his fingers pressing idly into your hip, like he's memorizing the shape of you beneath them.

you stay like that for a while.

you steal a button-up from his closet when you finally get up, slipping it over your shoulders before following him into the bathroom. he doesn't comment, just flicks his gaze over you, lips twitching, before rummaging through a drawer. a moment later, he presses a spare toothbrush into your palm.

"definitely took you for the clingy type."

he grins, stretching lazily against the counter. "not my fault you're so soft."

you brush your teeth side by side, bleary-eyed in the mirror. he stands just a little too close, bumping into your arm like he can't help himself.

and when you head back to bed, he follows, catching your wrist just before you climb in, guiding you back under the covers with ease.

"wait." his lips brush your shoulder. "just stay there."

"i am staying," you point out, amused.

"good," he hums, pressing one last kiss to your head before disappearing into the kitchen.

satoru returns minutes later, two mugs in hand. he sets yours on the nightstand before wordlessly disappearing back to the kitchen.

you wait until you smell breakfast, then you get up and follow the scent out to his kitchen island.

he doesn't ask if you're hungry. he just plates your food and sets it in front of you without a second thought.

you steal sips from his juice between bites, and he lets you, just watching, amused, eyes flicking toward you over the rim of his glass.

soft touches happen naturally, thoughtlessly.

his palm finds the small of your back when he moves past you, warm and steady.

your fingers brush when you both reach for the same thing.

his knuckles graze your thigh when he leans back against the counter.

none of it feels unfamiliar.

you stay longer than you expected to. he doesn't call you out on it.

the goodbye is unserious, drawn out in a way that makes it obvious neither of you is in a rush.

"try not to miss me too much," you tease, pulling on your shoes with a grin.

he smiles, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. "oh, i will."

his tone is playful, but something about the way he says them makes you hesitate, just for a second.

and as you step out, just before it closes behind you, he calls after you.

"i'll be thinking about you, y'know."

tags (ongoing): @moonchhu @httpstoyosi @lavnder311 @harryzcherry @perkypeony @katecupcakekate @hellicify @oh-my-god-donald @jupiterbinnie @i88b0nten @satxoru @chuuminn @moncher-ire @r0ckst4rjk @flwerie @raendarkfaerie @pinksdump @blkmystery @pearlessance @satoruxsc

[gothicloverdream]

"I think their relationship is incredibly insular and it's quite terrifying to see two people who have no connection or awareness to the outward effect of their actions. So even when they themselves are maybe as vulnerable and needy as anyone else is, it still... I think what's really scary in this movie is power. It's how power is built. How broken it all is, and so I think that was something that felt like a key to the relationship."

"There's two duos. It's him and his brother, and him and his monkey. I mean, I don't think we're built in the individual. I mean, I believe in certain bits of individuality for everyone, but I also think so much of storytelling is seeing the way that other people change you and how you exist in relation and the context of others. So the way in which like his brother is... His brother's broken in a million ways, and then I think Caracalla breaks himself in these complementary ways. They move to extremes because they're always surveilling the other one."

Q: Do you think like what ultimately happens between the two brothers, do you think that that's something that Caracalla would have done, or do you think that that is Macrinus was just pushing the right buttons at the right moments? You obviously feel that resentment between the two of them in that climactic moment, but I don't know. I felt like because he was so lonely, like he would never neccesarily go through with that unless he has someone else holding the knife, per say.

"Fascinating. Yeah, there's that thing, right? That like things can be inevitable and spontaneous at the same time. Great tragedy can work like that sometimes."

Fred Hechinger on Emperor Caracalla & Emperor Geta: AwardsWatch

[ifishouldvanish]

So given that Coyote in various mythologies is a sort of trickster deity... given that Orlox also refers to him as Mephistopheles, who we know is the devil's deal broker... Given that Huehuecoyotl is himself the Nahua deity one might appeal to when seeking to reverse one's fate...

What if Olrox had already made a Faustian bargain with this entity before? What if this entity has been banking on Orlox seeking it out again?

Like I'm undecided if the show is treating Old Man Coyote/Mephistopheles/etc as different names for the same entity, or if Olrox was merely connecting them as separate entities that fill a similar role. Because as far as I understand, he's meant to be a more benevolent or chaotic neutral sort of entity in most (from what I've seen, like virtually all) indigenous American mythologies, as opposed to a malicious figure that the character in the show seems to be??

BUT ANYWAY.

The way Old Man Coyote approaches Olrox, who admits he could use a powerful ally... They way he leaves him alone once Olrox destroys the book...

The way Olrox tells Old Man Coyote "he's not for you"... The way he tells Mizrak, "I think [Old Man Coyote] was coming for someone else" (Olrox himself perhaps???) and that "the devil is easy to cheat"...

Idk something something the idea that Olrox, "knowing when a war is lost", appealed to Huehuecoyotl some time during/shortly after the Spanish conquest to save himself/his people, and that he is now in some way either indebted to serve them or is currently grappling with the consequences of that bargain in some other way...

Makes me go hmm...

Gives me the angsty thought that maybe Olrox is meant to procure doomed souls for this entity, that maybe Mizrak was supposed to be one of them at first before he caught feelings, that maybe the death of his past lover was this entity collecting on a debt that was past due... that maybe his appeal to Tera was born out of a desire to nudge her away from the doomed fate she seems bound to in that last scene she's in with the entity behind her... maybebybebm—

Like the IMPLICATIONS of Olrox successfully resisting the temptations of an entity that has effectively caused him to rack up a gambling debt... While being unable to resist the temptation of turning Mizrak.... Of thinking he can cheat the game and beat the house...

Poetic cinema, I love tragedy 🫠🫠🫠

[chamerionwrites]

First things first: yeah! That’s an entirely valid interpretation of the story - in fact it’s probably the most straightforward interpretation of the story - and one that I have zero problems with. I can see how this might not be immediately clear, but I do not in fact have any objection to that reading. When people break out the above quote to argue that - as you said in the tags - “grimdark hopeless isn’t any more realistic or true to life than all the other types of stories we tell to each other,” I agree with them!

And I do think it’s important, here, to acknowledge the context in which those discussions are often taking place. Namely: there exists a very tired argument wrt SFF in particular that speculative worlds aren’t believable without racism/homophobia/misogyny/etc, and that defends even the most slapdash and thoughtless writing about such issues as “realism”. Funny enough this concern for realistic worldbuilding rarely seems to get raised in the name of exploring sociopolitical injustices, and how they’re created and reproduced, and their effects on people’s lives. Instead it’s usually deployed as an argument for slapping those injustices unchanged and unexamined onto every imagined world - with zero thought about all the other ways a setting might be wildly different from our own! - and also for Why All Protagonists Should Be Straight White Men. Nobody else in the universe has ever done anything interesting or worth reading about obvs! (This is an ideological position that we’re going to describe as “realistic” and “historically accurate” without the slightest hint of irony!) We love the mental puzzle and challenge of creating and imagining other worlds and ways of being….but in this one specific respect, the way our world is and has been is the ONLY realistic way that a world can or could (…or should?) ever be!

This argument has been done to death enough and we’re on the same page enough that I don’t feel the need to say much more about it here except that yeah, on top of being nakedly reactionary it’s also mind-numbingly stupid and boring. Long story short, my frustration in the op is very much NOT about people insisting on the artistic validity - or the artistic value - of imagining other, better worlds.

What does frustrate me is a loud minority of folks who insist on making a super unfounded (imo) rhetorical move from “[not] only pain is intellectual, [not] only evil is interesting” to “pain and evil, failure and darkness, CAN NEVER be interesting.” They’re not just arguing for the value of imagining better worlds. They’re arguing that their own preference for happy, escapist fiction is a moral imperative, that dystopia and tragedy are a failure of artistic and political imagination. And it’s that, specifically- that smug disdain for sad or dark or confrontational stories, the insistence that they could only ever appeal to pretentious reactionary edgelords - which I was objecting to up top. First because I think that’s an equally simplistic and ungenerous and impoverished way to engage with any fiction. Second, because I think it’s a wildly unjustifiable reading of Omelas specifically.

Because whatever sort of story you prefer and whatever you believe that Le Guin is saying, the truth is that the power and punch of that story derives from dystopia. The reason that people remember it, and argue about it, and write spin-off stories about it or in dialogue with it, is because that vividly horrific premise - the tortured child and the society that turns on the child’s suffering - gets into people’s heads and haunts them. I have enough respect for Le Guin to believe that if she had solely wanted to make a kind and just world real to the reader, and defend the artistic merit in doing so, she could have. But she didn’t. She sketched a society so upsetting that it practically spawned its own micro-genre of professional fix-it fics - and then she pointedly refused to elaborate on any alternative. (“The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible that it does not exist.”)

THAT is the context in which that quote about “the treason of the artist” exists. Which means one of two things. Either “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas” is astonishingly lacking in self awareness, an abject failure by its own artistic standards - or Le Guin was making a more complex and graceful point than just dystopias bad and boring. Those are the terms.

I happen to think she’s making a more complex and graceful point! I think those internal tensions in the story are productive, not self-contradictory. I don’t think that “a story about the world as it is” and “a story about the world as it should be” are in any way mutually exclusive. I think you can engage with an unjust reality without dismissing alternative possibilities. (eg “We live in capitalism; its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings.”) I think you can harness the metaphorical and emotional and provocational power of tragedy and darkness to insist that other, better worlds are possible. Isn’t that precisely what Omelas is doing? Isn’t that what a story like Black Sails is doing? The narrative works not despite but BECAUSE the audience is watching from a future in which we know there was no widespread successful 1715 slave revolt that overthrew colonialism in the Western Hemisphere. And yet the dramatic tension relies on some part of you believing in it. For the tragedy to work, you have to be able to imagine and mourn for that better future!

Does all of that make sense? I’m not saying your above reading of Omelas is wrong (to the contrary). Nor am I claiming that dark fiction is more intellectual & interesting, or that people aren’t entitled to their genre preferences. But ngl I have zero patience for anybody ripping that quote out of context to claim that a story about prevailing injustice can have no possible value. Injustice prevails every day, in real life. Many revolutions have failed in real life. We already live in Omelas - except that our version devours the lives of far more than one child. If the human mind and heart could comprehend the magnitude of corruption and colonialism, suffering and slavery, torture and rape and murder, ruined ecosystems and communities and dreams and lives and futures, that has been required and is STILL required so that you can buy bananas for sixty cents a pound at any time of year, then at almost any given moment you would be falling to your knees and weeping brokenly in the street.

Failure of imagination is one reason that kind of injustice is allowed to continue, for sure. A closely related reason is complacency. Because the proverbial Omelas kid is locked away in a basement where we don’t have to look. Because - as Black Sails spends a whole lot of narrative and thematic energy trying to illustrate - Civilization™️ is a machine that runs on mind-breaking amounts of devastating violence, and yet that violence is tolerated or celebrated when it isn’t entirely invisibilized.

So yeah, I agree that there’s a lot of value in imagining more just worlds. I’m simply not willing to concede that there’s no value in engaging with unjust worlds, because some people feel squeamish about injustice when a story asks them to truly look at it.

Guess I’m never going to stop seeing red about the unholy number of times I’ve seen people quote “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas” out of context in order to condemn stories that focus on dark or troubling subject matter or that don’t end happily (“The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain”), when THE STORY ITSELF is about a society that closes its eyes to suffering and evil in order to live in comfort and has a hopeful but at best bittersweet ending

[boardboxes]

my favorite FAVORITE part of song of achilles is the dramatic irony. us knowing how their story ends and being so aware of that while Achilles and Pat have no idea. “What’s Hector done to me” “The never let you be famous AND happy, but I’ll be the first” “I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me”. The double meaning when achilles tells pat that if pat has to go, he will go with him. War and death. Chiron asking Achilles don’t you think it is the greater grief to be left on earth when another is gone, and Achilles simply replies with “perhaps”. not knowing. NOT KNOWING!!!!!!!!!! I LOVE WORDS. I LOVE BOOKS.

[buqbite]

it's kinda fascinating to me how welt has been "at the end of his life" for like. several decades by now. he goes on and on about how old and weary he is and how "his job is done" and his story is over but- oh wait i just realized i can phrase this in a very funny way- he's kind of sorta immortal now because he got the herrscher core back, so he's really just stuck in the epilogue for all eternity

[amethystsoda]

ohhhhh the Henry and Martha backstory made me WEEP

[valentinsylve]

Thank you for the tag, @wellntruly! Due to the fact that I lived my life as a fool, I didn't write down all the films I watched for the first time in 2024. However, I can post my top nine first watches with little blurbs <3

Hagazussa: A Heathen's Curse (Feigelfeld, 2017) Folk horror film, but the horror really figures most in the isolation of the main character amid the German Alps during the early modern era. Cruelty and ignorance are monsters. Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom (Pasolini, 1975) The Girls, Guts, and Giallo podcast patreon tier I'm on has extra screenings, and we were treated to a small antifascist film fest on November 7th. I'd been a bit afraid to watch this, but now I can say that it's the best film I saw all year. Notorious for its relentless depiction of rape, forced coprophagia, and other tortures by a powerful few against a captive group who are systematically and brutally un-personed, it is equally beautiful and important. Quietest, most chilling Carmina Burana jumpscare. This will become a rewatch for me. Straight on till Morning (Collinson, 1972) I love a creepy connection between two deranged freaks who want to live out their childhood fairy tale power fantasies. Salvation! (Beth B, 1987) It's the 80s! Things are zany! Televangelism! Rampant sex! Trash maximalism! Obscure alternative tunes! Viggo Mortenson and Exene Cervenka! The cinematography and design are really fantastic. Ganja & Hess (Gunn, 1973) I watched this twice and it's the kind of material that takes multiple viewings, so we'll be back. Trying to describe this movie is a challenge for me. It is immersive, surreal, political, erotic, existential. Marlene Clark is an utter icon, glamorous, haughty, witty and daring, and when she shows a bit of vulnerability? All those qualities captured my heart completely. She deserved more roles and accolades. The Color Wheel (Ross Perry, 2011) This is a gem. Uncomfortable in many ways -- the brother and sister leads are both obnoxious characters. Their relationship is the point, though, and wow does it pay off. I was deeply moved. The incestuous romance develops with surprising tenderness given how abrasive the duo can be. American Fiction (Jefferson, 2023) I went into this film knowing nothing about it, and it was solidly amazing. Funny and bleak. You get the broken lovingness of families and a scathing satirical treatment of racism in the publishing industry. Design for Living (Lubitsch, 1933) What a romp! Everyone knows about this one on tumblr, because it's a Pre-Code throuple romcom. Delightful chemistry between Frederic March, Miriam Hopkins, and Gary Cooper. Everyone should watch Lubitsch romantic comedies. The Destroying Angel (De Rome, 1976) From the brief age of arthouse hardcore gay pornography, this is a lurid, trippy sex tragedy very loosely based on a tale of terror by Poe. A priest takes leave of his vows to explore his desire for abjection and transcendence through sex with men. He also tries some mushrooms, to varying effects. I found it unsettling and hot. I want a proper recording of it, but have had no luck finding one. If you get the pinklabel streaming service, you can watch it.

This was fun, and now I'm making sure to write down a list as I watch movies in 2025.

I'd love to know what everyone's favorite movies are, blurb or photos not necessary!

I was tagged by @memory-for-trifles for my top first-time watches in 2024 of movies not from 2024, and also by @door for my nine favorite movies of the year, which I am combining to nine non-recent releases. Thank you buddies!!

Also NOT thank you, as it seems I watched 190 new to me, pre-2024 movies last calendar year, and rated fully 45 of them five stars.

....so here is a representative nine categories (blood! tears!!), and then the whole list of older movies that fucking rule.

: :

Powell & Pressburger: A Matter of Life and Death (1946) Pre-Code: Trouble In Paradise (1932) Screwball: It Happened One Night (1934)

Western: Dead Man (1995) Marty: Mean Streets (1973) Agnès: Le Bonheur (1965)

Historical: The Leopard (1963) Satyajit Ray: Pather Panchali (1955) Noir: Out of the Past (1947)

: :

Top 45 Non-2024 Movies I Watched in 2024 [alphabetical]

A Matter of Life and Death (1946) Powell & Pressburger Ace In the Hole (1951), Billy Wilder All About Eve (1950), Joseph L. Mankiewicz Bad Day at Black Rock (1955) John Sturges Daisies (1966) Věra Chytilová Dead Man (1995) Jim Jarmusch Cat People (1942) Jacques Tourneur It Happened One Night (1934) Frank Capra Johnny Guitar (1954) Nicholas Ray La Ronde (1950) Max Ophüls Laura (1944) Otto Preminger Le Bonheur (1965) Agnès Varda Little Women (1994) Gillian Armstrong Mean Streets (1973) Martin Scorsese Metropolitan (1990) Whit Stillman Miracle on 34th Street (1947) George Seaton Nights of Cabiria (1957) Federico Fellini On the Beach (1959) Stanley Kramer Only Angels Have Wings (1939) Howard Hawks Out of the Past (1947) Jacques Tourneur Pather Panchali (1955) Satyajit Ray Queen Christina (1933) Rouben Mamoulian Sunset Boulevard (1950) Billy Wilder The Age of Innocence (1993) Martin Scorsese The Awful Truth (1937) Leo McCarey The Best Years of Our Lives (1946) William Wyler The Big City (1963) Satyajit Ray The Fabulous Baron Munchausen (1962) Karel Zeman The Heiress (1949) William Wyler The Lady Vanishes (1938) Alfred Hitchcock The Leopard (1963) Luchino Visconti The Lodger: A Story of the London Fog (1927) Alfred Hitchcock The Manchurian Candidate (1962) John Frankenheimer The Philadelphia Story (1940) George Cukor The Red Shoes (1948) Powell & Pressburger The Servant (1963) Joseph Losey The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948) John Huston The Wind (1928) Victor Sjöström They Shoot Horses, Don’t They (1969) Sydney Pollack To Be or Not to Be (1942) Ernst Lubitsch Trouble in Paradise (1932) Ernst Lubitsch Ugetsu (1953) Kenji Mizoguchi Wait Until Dark (1967) Terence Young Wings of Desire (1987) Wim Wenders Zodiac (2007) David Fincher

Honorable Mentions

I had technically watched Casablanca (1942) and Brief Encounter (1945) many, many many many years earlier, but I rewatched both of them this past year as an adult, and guess what: five stars

Tagging @passingknightly, @knighthooded, @camestela, @bakingblues, @forshesajollygoodfellow, @alpineshepherdlass, @valentinsylve, and anyone else who enjoys a MOVIE

[blue-eli]

Ink October day 3: Sophistry

An argument that seems plausible, but is fallacious or misleading, especially one devised deliberately to be so.

[zukkaoru]

i am once again astounded at the bsd fandom's ability to make everything about skk when, in fact, it has very little to do with skk

[the-obnoxious-sibling]

I understand shanks not helping buggy is the most plausible but god I wish he would 😭 I want him to care about buggy like in the past, shanks c���mon…. That’s your bestie

I wonder if he would do something if buggy asked and yeah, there’s also Mihawk. That is also his friend…. I guess he would still not help him no matter what 😭

(context)

yeah, much as i would like to see him take action… shanks isn't really an active kind of guy!

like, he pretty infamously will not make the first move. he appears at marineford to block an attack and act as a mutually assured destruction deterrent to the marines; at wano he very pointedly, non-lethally warns the admiral there against going after the kids while they're recovering.

even when he does take action against someone, like kaidou or kid, it's really a preemptive reaction, either because the consequences of inaction are obvious (kaidou will go after whitebeard while he's focusing on the marines) or because his observational haki literally gives him foresight (kid will wreck his subordinates' ships).

his decision to go after the one piece has been a notable shift in behavior, in-universe and out-! maybe it indicates a shift to more active behavior in general, we won't know until we see shanks again.

but i disagree, i absolutely think he would help buggy if asked, even if it meant going against another friend! i just think buggy would never, ever ask.

[xxkitty-mothxx]

{{YOU'RE RIGHT AND YOU SHOULD SAY IT!}}

In all seriousness though I was just having a conversation with someone else about this exact topic.

One of the reasons the original short story is so horrifying is because AM didn't go after the people who created him. He didn't go after the programmers, or the engineers, or even the military leaders-

He was so misguided in his anger, so ready to take his hatred out on humanity that he picked up five, well, nobodies, to put it lightly.

Average, everyday people, all with their faults and imperfections, but just, people still. They weren't bad, they didn't hold any responsibility for AMs suffering, it could've been anyone in the world and those five people just happened to draw the short straw in a game of complete chance.

It was a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It's a tragedy, because you see these people start to break down and become worse due to their torment. You see the effects that a century of hell can have on the human mind-

Yet, that's also where the theme of hope comes in. Because despite all of that, in the end, Ted still has the humanity left in him to free the others, even if it's in death.

It's an incredibly well written story, and as much as I love the world building the game provided and the expansion to AMs character and personality. The game in no way does the themes of the original short story justice.

....also I'll just never get over what they did to Nimdok, that was so out of left Field.

Idk if I’m in the minority here but I don’t really like how the IHNMAIMS game handled the five survivors

Sure, there were some aspects of the game that I liked, such as the inclusion of the Russian and Chinese Mastercomputers, AM himself and the overall design of the settings perfectly captured that eerie feeling of the story

But I feel like one of the things that made the short story so horrifying was how AM turned these people into the things they hated.

Gorrister going from a peace loving, empathetic man from a violent and apathetic shell, Benny being gay and intellectually gifted to being sexually humiliated and reduced to a monkey, etc.

The game also turning everyone into unlikable (save for Ellen) just also opened up a door for debate on whether or not AM is actually good for “punishing” these people. (Which he’s not, fuck him-)

Idk if I’m just being a negative Nancy but that’s my opinion

[pochapal]

this study scene is actually a fantasy illusion by beatrice to get the reader to hate every member of the family so much that they will not be as upset when she kills them all.

[aroanthy]

me and the worstie watching the cycle continue as direct result of our actions we have complicated feelings about together <3 on a more serious note, no one ever talks about how touga is present In The Arena for nanami’s duels and i think we should fix that. it’s sort of an unhinged detail that reveals so much about the kiryuu sibling dynamic and also i do just think it’s funny (agonising) that anthy and touga have to stand in the arena together like 😐

[ID: a shot from episode 32 of the anime ‘revolutionary girl utena’. in it, anthy and touga stand side by side, watching nanami’s second duel with utena (off-screen) with unreadable expressions. /end ID]

[entamewitchlulu]

ok so i was pretty let down by the way the anime adaptation ended and I haven't caught up to the manga (and also it's still going?? so i don't know exactly what the plan is there so like take whatever i'm about to say with a huge grain of salt)

anyway. suicide mention tw

but anyway I was thinking about moriarty the patriot again and about how when you really think about it, William's "brilliant" plan to change British society is actually really.....childish. The idea that if he puts the corruption of the world on blast, and then becomes the image of that corruption to force everyone to unite against him and thus make the world change....it's so tragically childish. It's the dream of a child, and in fact it's the plan he's had since he was a child. A belief that he can change the world through becoming the villain is genuinely not actionable. Whatever he might accomplish through it wouldn't be lasting.

In the end the simple fact is that William is....pretty deeply suicidal. He genuinely doesn't believe there's a place for him in the world and the only way he can fix it so that the people he loves can have a better world is if he dies.

He's a brilliant man, no one's arguing that. He truly can pull off the perfect crimes that often do make things better for everyone through very violent means.

But i think that just solidifies the idea in his head that the only way to make lasting change is through violence, and because of his various childhood traumas piled on top of the way the world keeps confirming his biases, he genuinely does not realize that his plan is honestly, very very stupid, and predicated on a deep, unexamined belief in his own inherent worthlessness.

He believes that there is evil in the world and the only way to get rid of it is through violence, and he believes that because of his actions he has become that same evil and must, therefore, be removed just like he has removed everyone else.

But it's shortsighted. It's always been shortsighted. He can't save the world by killing himself.

And it's just so fucking tragic.

[skrunksthatwunk]

if i ever start tallying up the number of times someone has said one of my creations has made them cry shoot me bc thats not a high i'll ever be able to escape i fear and if im able to easily revisit it i will almost certainly never leave