#they would have this fight over and over your honor

[bigmacari]

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Ena (Joel G YT Series) x Reader

☆Your polygon girlfriend tries to

help you through your homesickness.

☆Warning(s) None!

☆Author Note(s) I'm in love with her your honor! This is just a cute one-shot I whipped up, let me know if you want more 🤗

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☆ when you first dropped into this bizarre world, the 50 mile per hour clouds and poorly rendered brightly colored textures made your head spin. As you walked around, you could quickly tell that up was down and left was right in this universe. In other words, nothing made sense, and rules were merely suggestion.

Your human body, which seem much more fragile compared to the entities roaming around, was often overwhelmed with dizziness and nausea. Said entities looked as though they were a from a 90's video game, and a very creative one as everyone here seemed to have there very own design. Minus the mannequins, which you would see around more often than not.

All this to say that you stuck out like a sore thumb, your highly detailed 2160p60+ figure was hard to miss. Most would stare and gawk, some would whisper, little would actually asked about your existence. Here, it seems that your presence was profoundly abnormal and you did not certainly fit in.

Thats until you met Ena of course.

A strange woman with irregular hair and an even more irregular emotion state. You found shortly after meeting Ena that her half blue, half yellow wasn't only for looks, but also a tell-tale sign of her two strong personas. Her two voices collided together in a harmony that you've never quite heard before.

After meeting Ena, it seemed as though she took you under her wing, guiding you through her world hand and hand. She gave you a place to stay, food to eat, and most importantly, her company. So much company in fact, certain feelings between the two of you started to bloom.

Eventually her normal becomes yours, at least to the point were it didn't give you a headache anymore. Though, even if you have an amazing girlfriend and a general idea of the abstract universe you have landed in, you can't seem to shake off the feeling of missing your own home.

The only time you only really got to see it was in your dreams, but even those seemed to fade, being replaced with low rendered replicas of what your life use to be. When a particularly hard day hit, you would sometimes lay under the fast moving, oddly realistic clouds and wonder how your friends and family were doing.

Ena, of course always notices your dismay, and usually joins you with a fall onto the ground and a "My dearest, are you not well?"

☆

This brings you to now, laying next to Ena, on some grass that looks like it could be from Minecraft, looking up at the at the ever moving sky above. It was a quiet moment, which was rare, not only because the world was never this calm, but becuase Ena was uncharacteristically unmoving.

You started to wonder if she glitched, as she would that ever so often for no apparent reason. But as you open your mouth to speak up, Ena speaks up in a whisper you've only heard rarely.

"Tell me about your normal."

You turn your head to look at her, only to see she was staring at you for what you can assume is the entire time. The look on Ena's face concentrated, more than you've ever seen before. It made you a bit flustered, having her stare at you so intently, you had to fight to keep your eyes on her.

"My... normal?"

She suddenly shoots up to a sitting position, her heading spinning as she claps her hands together.

"Percise!" She then grabs your hand with her both of hers, pulling you up to sit with her, then rests your hand against her chest. Almost as though she was putting your hand over her heart.

"Tell me what made your inner spiritual and physical being sing! Or a existential cwisis that made your swoul sink!" Still holding your hand, Ena is now pulling you back and forth, her face flashing between yellow and blue.

You hesitate, not because you didn't want to tell her about your life before, but because it was just...hard. Remembering something so far, so untouchable, made your heart hurt a little.

"Well, my life before here was pretty boring..."

Ena stops shaking you, then let's go of your hand. She scoots over to be closer, just until your shoulders are touching. Then, she bonks her forehead against yours, staring at you intensely.

"I don't think your existence is mundane, I want to know what makes your psyche."

You feel a smile grow on your face, staring back into her eyes softly, you plant a chaste kiss on her nose. Her eyes widen and her face flashes through a couple colors before landing on a pink. You lean back and giggle, then you lay back on the ground while pulling her with you.

You start thinking about the world you came from, bring up memories of fond moments. You even found yourself smiling at some.

The rest of the day was spent laying on the small grass patch with you rambling on about different things. You switch between topics easily, telling her about your job, schooling, hobbies you liked, music you listened too, and movies/shows you enjoyed.

The entire time Ena never seemed to lose interest. She listened intently and with curiosity, and eventually snuggled up to lay on top of your chest.

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[farfromstrange]

Do No Harm

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Blood

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: You wake up in the grasp of your kidnappers, and they are far from done with you. But they forgot to take one thing into account: The Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

Warnings for this chapter: ANGST, graphic descriptions of violence, kidnapping, blood, S1 plot, allusions to domestic violence and sexual assault

Word Count: 3k

A/n: Hi! It's been a while! In fact, since before Daredevil: Born Again came out. It's strange to write a story that takes place in season 1 of the original show after watching Born Again, but also weirdly refreshing to work with the Netflix version of Matt again. Anyway, this chapter takes place in episode 4. Hope I didn't disappoint.

Read Chapter 17: Blood here on AO3!

You still remember the day you first held a human heart in your hand. It was eleven ounces, the size of your fist, and still beating. The pale cadaver you encountered in your first year of medical school couldn’t have prepared you for what it would feel like: a terrifying honor and a privilege. 

The day you witnessed the miracle of open heart surgery for the first time was also the first time your hands felt destined for good. Becoming a surgeon was never going to bring back what you lost, but at least it gave you the feeling that all the agony you went through finally meant something. You held onto hope with all you had, made sacrifices, and scraped your knees praying to a God you never had faith in, but at what cost? 

You gave more than you’ve ever had, and you still keep losing. 

You jolt awake when your head hits the wall of the tiny trunk they stuffed you into, God knows how long ago. The already bleeding skin around your scalp burns with the sudden impact, and you cry out. Even the darkness seems blurry. You try to move, but the car hits another pothole, and you’re thrown back into the hard plastic with a force that makes your stomach churn. 

You don’t need a medical degree to figure out that you have a concussion, probably lost half a liter of blood, too. Your heart is beating so fast, so loud that you can taste it on your tongue. You must be stuck in an infinite time loop of misfortune because there is no reasonable explanation for why this keeps happening to you. And if the situation weren’t so grave, you would have laughed at the irony of it all.

You’re not scared. You know you should be, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. The pain is merely an old, familiar ache in your bones, so familiar that it has rendered you numb. Your mind is screaming for you to fight, even if it kills you, but your body has already flatlined. The memories flash in a sequence of distorted pictures before your inner eye. 

You swore to yourself that you would never let this happen. You swore you would never let a man lay a hand on you again. Over your dead body, you said, but no matter how hard you try to reason with the voices in your head, you just can’t move.  

The car comes to a stop. You hear the doors open and close, and the voices disappear for a moment before a set of footsteps approaches the trunk. 

Bright neon lights break through the darkness. You lift your duct-taped hands to block it out, but the stranger takes hold of your arm and yanks you out of your makeshift cage. You catch yourself on unsteady feet, panting, only for a moment, before he throws you to the cold floor like garbage. One of them laughs, or maybe it’s all of them. You can barely make out who’s who over the ringing in your ears. 

Blood trickles from your temple to the cracks in the cement. It reeks of burnt rubber, motor oil, and varnish. Not even a minute passes before one of the men grabs you again. You don’t recognize him. You close your eyes, trying to stop the world from spinning, but his grip on your hair tightens. And then he lands his fist in your face. 

The skin above your brow splits open. The pain spreads through every nerve and every muscle, settling deep in your stomach and traveling back up your esophagus. When you spit it out, though, all that comes out is scarlet. 

He pulls you off the floor and onto a fragile plastic chair. It’s cold, hard. The cab they transported you in—you can tell it’s a cab, obnoxiously yellow with that telltale sign on its roof—offers a stark contrast to the fog that continues to cloud your vision. 

Another man appears. His eyes, empty and soulless, zero in on you. “Here’s the deal,” he says, twirling the metal of a baseball bat in his hands. “You answer my questions, he stops hitting you. Everyone is happy.”

Everyone but you, he fails to add. 

The men who took you, those nowhere to be found, didn’t bother covering your eyes. You may not know where you are, but you have seen their faces; you know that you have no chance of getting out of this alive, and once they have what they want, or they inevitably find out you truly know nothing, they will dispose of you.

You manage a weak and broken, “Go to hell!” But the man only laughs at you. It echoes off the walls and pierces your eardrums.

You don’t see it coming until it does. His henchman lands a clean punch across your already bruised nose, and the bone cracks. The pain pierces your skull, straight through to your brain. You lean forward, the taste of copper in your mouth overwhelming enough for you to retch, but a hand pushes you back into the hard plastic underneath you, and you choke. 

A pool of maroon has long formed at your feet, slowly seeping into the cracks in the cement. You suppose once they’ve cut up your body into neat little pieces and drowned you in the Hudson, at least your DNA will be left at the scene of the crime. And when the police run it, they’re not going to find that it belongs to Olivia Clarke; they’re going to match it with a missing person’s report from California with your real name on it, and then they will know. 

But who is left to mourn you, anyway? Claire has made it clear she is done with you. She wouldn’t cry for you. Or maybe she would, for a week or so, and then she’d take her secrets and move on. But at least she’d still be alive, you think. At least she wouldn’t be at the bottom of the Hudson, and you wouldn’t have to mourn the only friend you’ve ever had in this city.

It would kill you, but if you died, she would be fine. She will be fine. That is all that matters.

“The man in the mask,” the man says then, “I want his name.” 

Your lungs burn with every breath you take. “Wh–” You must have not heard right. 

But then you remember the night you first met him; the night you were trying to help that woman, and he jumped in because you couldn’t have cared less about your safety. You were reckless, and he was there, as if he just somehow knew where to be. 

You let him go. Of course, you let him go. No one admits it, but everyone knows the city is a safer place with him out there.

You have had more perpetrators on your table this past year than their victims. Men beaten to a pulp by someone with very skilled fists, never gravely injured, except for the one they’d pulled out of a dumpster not so long ago with a head injury that even a neurosurgeon couldn’t fix. The nurses said he was Russian and that they had to put him in a coma. He put him in a coma. And a few days ago, he went into cardiac arrest.  

You’re not sure how it connects, but it must, somehow.

Another sharp tug at your hair makes you groan. “I don’t know him,” you choke out. “I don’t know who he is.” 

The man sighs, unbothered at first, then his face contorts. It’s as if someone stabbed you with a syringe full of unbridled adrenaline, and you exhale a shriek when he brings that metal bat in his hands down on you, on your fragile skull. 

Your heart opens up to the possibility that this is it, you are going to die, and the panic that grabs you without warning knocks the air out of your lungs. 

You were kidnapped. You’ve been beaten and tied up, and now they’re going to kill you because you can’t give them the answers that they want. Because you don’t know anything. It’s not just a morbid thought anymore, it’s reality. And you’ve already given up. How sick is that?

You couldn’t care less about your life, but this is not what you escaped for. This is not natural selection. This is madness. 

You close your eyes, but instead of your skull, the man smashes the metal into the window of the taxicab behind you. Glass goes flying everywhere. It scratches whatever skin it can find and leaves you bleeding some more. You swear you can even taste it on your tongue, slicing open your esophagus when you swallow the salt that has collected on your tongue.

It’s only then that you realize you are crying. You’re so detached from your body, you’re suddenly looking back into your own broken eyes from the other end of the room, and what you see is nothing short of terrifying. 

“I swear!” you cry. “I don’t know him! I don’t…” your voice cracks, the air getting caught in your throat where it meets the blood that has long made its home there. 

The man lifts his bat again, but before he can bring it down again, someone stops him.

“Sergei!” He switches from English to Russian. You can’t make out what he’s saying, but it at least gets him to put his weapon down.

The man takes another breath to steady himself. “This gives me no pleasure,” he says. “It really doesn’t. But I have been given a job to do, so please, answer the questions I was told to ask.” Though all politeness leaves his body when he waves that godforsaken baseball bat for the millionth time and adds, “Or I will begin breaking you, a piece at a time.”

You try to breathe through the pain that has consumed your entire being like a fire-breathing dragon. “I told you, I don’t know him,” you say. “I only met him once, and we barely… we barely even talked. I don’t know him.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not! You’ve got this all wrong. Just…” You shift. “Please.”

He takes a step forward, and the men around him scowl as if you’ve threatened their puppy with murder. “Are you calling us stupid?” he asks. 

“No!” you’re quick to answer. “No, I’m saying you’re wasting your time.”

He growls again. “Tell me his name!”

“I can’t! I–”

His hand finds your jaw, grabbing it and forcing you to meet his eyes, not an ounce of humanity left in them. You open your mouth, but before you can utter another pathetic plea, the neon lights above flicker and then go out completely. 

The moment of silence that follows is deafening. Then, all hell breaks loose. 

Voices start to overlap. Orders or curses are shouted in Russian. You can barely make out where they’re coming from anymore. A body hits the ground not far from you, then another. Fists collide with bone.

You can’t make out anything through the faint glow of the moonlight streaming in from somewhere outside.

Outside.

You push through the pain threatening to paralyze you and rise to your wobbly feet. You manage one step, two, before your knees buckle and you cave in on yourself. The moonlight disappears into darkness.

Your skull hits the cement, but your skin is numb to the pain. Your nerves are tired. You are tired. Every thought about lifting yourself off the ground stays just that—a thought. And that primal need of survival starts to lose its hold on you. 

A gunshot rings out, followed by a groan and the clanging of metal, and then… silence, again. 

The air is thicker now, full of smoke and something you can’t quite put your finger on, and underneath all of that, there is a scent you recognize, soft, soothing. 

You try to remain still as footsteps pad across the floor toward you, but another wave of blood in the back of your throat tickles a cough out of you. 

“Hey,” a low voice says. “Hey, I got you. You’re okay.” His hand brushes your shoulder, fingers curling into the bloody fabric of your shirt, and you jolt.

It’s as if he met you with electricity, or the blade of a knife. Your skin burns where he touched you, and with what little strength you have left in you, you scoot back as fast as you can until your back hits the wall. 

“Hey, hey, hey.” The moonlight engulfs his silhouette, dark and looming. You can make out the faint lines of black fabric over his eyes. “You’re okay,” he says again. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

The more you try to focus, the more you start to recognize him—his lips, his nose, his stubbly jaw, and his gloved hands stained with blood. He looked less terrifying in the alley that night. Perhaps because you weren’t hurt, and there was enough light to see him. 

But tonight, you don’t trust him. He is the reason these men even took you. You can’t trust him. You don’t even know where up and down are anymore.

“Get away from me,” you croak. 

He sighs as if hearing you say that physically pains him. “Liv…”

The way he says it, the way he utters that name, is so strikingly familiar that it sends a chill down your spine. 

Your heart stutters for a few beats. “No!” You inch back even further, your spine protesting when it touches the hard metal of a support pillar. “H–how do you know my name?”

“I–” You half expect him to say that he guessed, but the lie dies on his tongue. Instead, he reaches for the edge of his mask, slowly, and peels it off like the layers of an onion. 

The moonlight is enough to break down the wall of denial your brain erected. 

You should have known. You should have filled in those missing puzzle pieces the moment you sensed something was wrong. But you were hurt, you got drunk, and you pretended your life was not even remotely connected to the bullshit Claire was trying to sell you. 

Your vision blurs, not from the pain but from the onslaught of tears that begins to burn behind your eyes. “No,” you whisper. 

Staring back at you are those unseeing hazel eyes you have fantasized about. Hazel eyes that were covered by a pair of red glasses, the last time you saw him. Before he broke your heart. 

No.

Denial fights with reality once again as you try and find some other explanation for this. Something reasonable. Something that doesn’t add up with the evidence starting to collect in your foggy mind. It must be the concussion playing tricks on you, a hallucination. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be the same man you met the night you lost a kid in the operating room and cried like a baby in the hallways of Metro-General. 

Except when he opens his mouth and whispers, “I’m so sorry,” you know, without a doubt, that it is him.

Matt Murdock. Your Matt Murdock. And the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. 

“You’re not real,” your voice cracks. “I’m hallucinating. I, uh, have a concussion. The blood, I…” 

He shakes his head, and you do the same, but for an entirely different reason. “It’s me,” he says.

You whimper, “No.”

“Hey. I’m gonna get you out of here, okay? And then I’ll explain everything. I promise. You’re safe now.”

“No.”

“Liv.” His hand meets your knee. “Please.”

You cry out, throwing your body back against the pillar, “No!” 

He pulls away instantly. If there is hurt in his eyes, he doesn’t let you see it. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“Don’t touch me!”

“I’m sorry. I won’t. I won’t.”

A strangled sob escapes you.

Everything hurts. Your body, your mind, even your soul. Your nose is broken—it has been broken more times than you can count—your head is bleeding, and your ribs are bruised, but the old scars that decorate your body scream louder than the fresh ones. 

You remember his hands, so harsh when they broke your bones, so strong when they wrapped around your neck and knocked the air out of your lungs, and they, too, tossed you around your apartment as if you were nothing but garbage. You accepted it. But then they would caress you, his touch suddenly so gentle you thought he meant it, and no stopped having meaning.

So many hands have touched you tonight. So many hands, cruel hands, have hurt you, and when you close your eyes, you can still feel them. You still feel him. 

Matt’s fingers were gentle, too, where they’ve brushed against you, and it hurts. It hurts because for the longest time, you’ve associated gentleness with pain, and you cannot bear it. 

Dark spots begin to dance in front of your eyes. The world resumes spinning at a pace that might eject you. Your limbs start feeling dangerously light where they lie curled against your body. 

“Hey,” Matt says through the cotton in your ears. “Stay with me, sweetie. Stay with me.”

There is that name again, sweetie. His face blurs, as does the hand reaching out for you.

“Keep your eyes open.”

You can’t. 

The darkness buries its claws in you. It tears at you, dragging you under, steadily toward the abyss, your body folding in on itself. But before your head can hit the concrete, he catches you. Soft. Gentle. It doesn’t hurt this time. Nothing does. 

His fingers brush over your face, the blood, the cuts, the scrapes, and the broken bones—everything. He curses under his breath, something blasphemous, maybe, you’re not sure. The fear in his voice tastes bittersweet on your tongue. 

Your heart flutters, then starts to slow. “Matt,” you breathe.

“I have you,” he says. “I have you.”

But the darkness wins the war. 

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[waxworkdaughter]

respectfully, you were perfectly clear in the first place and changing the order of the pieces of "evidence" around doesn't change the fact that it reads like you're trying to disprove the idea that Mulder could be Jewish. An idea that Duchovny also had, and genuinely I believe this is one of the major creative differences he had with Carter, that maybe earned him some of the in-show digs made in Mulder's direction.

Yeah of course Carter, who is obsessed with messianic Christianity and Gnostic thinking in the mytharc ('Truth and Knowledge' over material reality or actions, warring celestial powers, a destructive rapture like event that would destroy most of humanity and leave a genetically and inherently superior 'race' to flourish), didn't intend for Mulder to be Jewish. He wanted him to be a good christian action hero.

Howard Gordon, apparently an observant and proud Jew, is understandable because there are culturally christian finger prints all over Mulder and maybe he wanted to distance himself from how Carter saw Mulder.

But Mulder also gets the 'cheap jew' digs (even when he isn't even wearing Mulder's face, thanks Vince Gilligan, and yeah Vince thinks he's a Jew so.), he gets the 'jewish men are weak and cowardly' digs, he gets the 'Mulder is a nebbish, mulder is pathetic, mulder is born to lose' digs when Carter himself isn't making him run around like an action hero. He get's the 'unmasculine' Jewish Man stereotypes, and some of that is coincidental with the way TXF was trying to subvert gender stereotypes of the 80s and 90s, but a lot of it... doesn't feel coincidental if you're used to keeping an eye out for certain tropes. And if my favorite guy is going to catch all that shit, I'm going to give him the positive side of it too, in fanon.

And even in the show, I feel like you can view Mulder's quest to save his sister from whoever or whatever took her and to fight to stymie the Syndicate men who are trying to sell out humanity through a particularly Jewish lens. There are various ideas about what might come after death within Judaism, but the emphasis isn't there like with the Christian heaven and hell. What matters is this world and this life, and the work you do here to honor what's right. "It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you at liberty to neglect it..." from the Mishnah is an extremely well known quote for a reason, and it could very well be cited as Mulder's driving principle. Although he does seem to think that it is his duty to finish the work, which is understandable because multiple people in his life have told him it is his duty, and only a few other people are trying to do anything to help.

Of course it's a double edged sword. My belief that Mulder and Teena's family is Jewish makes the fact that Teena was tricked into marrying a man and coerced into having an affair with a different man who collaborated with Nazi butchers even more horrific. What's more she was forced or coerced into giving up one of her children to be experimented on by those same butchers. The fact that Samantha is given the ending of "she turned into starlight and went to the afterlife and there isn't even a body to lay to rest and treat with respect" from a Jewish perspective is yet another twist of the knife. Survival and redemption from suffering is the priority, the aim, not a 'beautiful' premature death. And them Mulder himself ends up experimented on and the subject of non-consensual surgery at the hands of a later version of the same Nazi eugenics alien 'science.' It is viscerally sickening.

But then again, the coding is already there if you're looking. Even the victimization is part of the coding. So it's like. We might as well face it head on, and use fan works to give him back some agency in his identity and cultural and emotional foundation.

(and no, Mulder asking for an autopsy on his mother to prove if she was murdered is not significant, truth and justice are other priorities of Judaism, and I assume she was buried respectfully shortly afterward. There's also the fact that teena and mulder had been living outside of any halachic observation for decades by that point.)

I do want to point out that rabbinic Judaism is not 'organized religion' in the sense that Mulder was against. There's no 'Jewish pope' and no sect or variety of observance or interpretation of the texts is considered more right or powerful than any other. It's a tiny, closed tribal culture living on in dozens of different sustained traditions around the world, and it has no institutional power anywhere, especially not in the US. There is no Jewish equivalent to Evangelical megachurches or whatshisface on TV, trying to control politics and scam money from the devout, which is what Mulder was objecting to when the topic of "religion" and religious fraudsters comes up.

Fox Mulder: Jewish, Dutch, or Other Some Such

In my curiosity to explore Jewish cultural practices, I stumbled on an enlightening article (and a couple noteworthy theories.)

JEWISH CUSTOM

When toying with the idea of Mulder's Jewish ancestry, I had assumed that maternal lineage was the opening and closing authority on the subject.

Not so, apparently, in recent years.

REFORM

As My Jewish Learning explains: Although the Hebrew Bible defines Jewish identity in patrilineal terms (determined by the identity of the father) the Mishnah [a record of the oral Torah in the aftermath of the destruction of the Second Temple, 70 CE] states that the offspring of a Jewish mother and a non-Jewish father is recognized as a Jew, while the offspring of a non-Jewish mother and a Jewish father is considered a non-Jew. This talmudic position became normative in Jewish law.

This continued as the religious and ethnic norm for many centuries until, about, 1947: ...the CCAR adopted a resolution that stated that if a Jewish father and a gentile mother wanted to raise their children as Jewish, “the declaration of the parents to raise them as Jews shall be deemed sufficient for conversion.” And though the wording changed somewhat in 1961 ["The insistence on a “conversion” was dropped completely...."]

But it did not become-- in effect-- law until 1983 resolution:

By 1983, the CCAR was ready to spell out the patrilineal descent resolution in greater detail. By this time there was a broad-based commitment to egalitarianism. To many, it seemed unnecessarily biased to accept the child of a Jewish mother and a gentile father as Jewish while rejecting the child of a Jewish father and a gentile mother. 

[Rabbit Alexander] Schindler initiated a process that eventually led to the CCAR voting in favor of what became known as the Patrilineal Descent Resolution....

What this meant was that if a child was born of either a Jewish father or a Jewish mother, and was raised as Jewish, that child would be regarded by the Reform movement as Jewish. They were, however, expected to participate in the various Jewish life-cycle ceremonies which usually mark the life stages of a Jewish person.

1996 brought another development:  ...the CCAR created an 11-member task force to interpret and develop guidelines for the successful implementation of the patrilineal descent policy. The task force recommended that the resolution be referred to as “equilineal descent” or simply “Jewish descent” rather than patrilineal descent since the resolution accepted descent from either the mother or the father.

The radical shift, encapsulated, is as follows: While Jewish children had always been asked to prepare for their bar and bat mitzvahs, their Jewishness was never contingent upon successful completion of that ceremony or any other.  The Patrilineal Descent Resolution shifted the emphasis from birth to conscious choice.

DISSENT

Regardless, there is still broad disputation between Conservative and Orthodox Jews and Reform Jews:

...However, patrilineal Jews are likely to encounter problems later in life if they decide to become more traditional in their observance. A problem arises if Reform Jews who are Jewish by patrilineal descent choose to participate in ritual or celebrations at more observant synagogues. 

...Conservative and Orthodox Jews do not recognize patrilineal descent as a valid means of passing on Judaism. “Who is a Jew?” has been a controversial issue for several decades, and the Patrilineal Descent Resolution deepened the division between the opposing viewpoints. 

The article also raises an intriguing point:

Interestingly, this created the possibility that someone who had a Jewish mother, but had not been raised Jewish and had not had any public religious acts of identification such as a Jewish baby-naming ceremony, a bar or bat mitzvah, or a Jewish confirmation service could theoretically be regarded as a non-Jew despite his or her lineage. However, many rabbis recognize lineage alone.

MULDER'S EARLY PARENTAGE: A THOUGHT

With this in mind, it's possible that Mulder could, potentially, have had Jewish roots from his father's side (per his actor, David Duchovny's, own ethnicity) --instead of, or in company with, his mother's.

Early canon states that Bill Mulder was Mulder's father, while later canon debates the issue back and forth a bit before settling on CSM in the Revival. If, however, one were to build off the framework of those initial ideas, Bill Mulder could hold as much theoretical weight as Tena Mulder in the ethnicity and lineage discussion (per the Reform dictates): neither canonically uphold Jewish customs, and are both buried according to the Americanized (or Protestant) standard.

Speaking of canon: what evidence can we glean from The X-Files's on-screen depiction?

TO JEW OR NOT TO JEW

Let's dissect the series' proof (or lack thereof); and the writers' and actors' opinions and perspectives.

CANONICAL EVIDENCE

We are shown three Mulder family funerals: Bill Mulder's in The Blessing Way, Fox Mulder's in Field Trip, and Fox Mulder's again in Deadalive.

For Bill's funeral, Tena Mulder made the executive decision (or carried out his expressed wishes) to involve a minister, not Jewish Rabbi, in her ex-husband's final service:

For Mulder's Season 6 funeral, Scully glimpses a cross of white flowers standing above her partner's casket; and doesn't bat an eye:

For Mulder's Season 8 funeral, Scully chose a Protestant (or derivative thereof) minister-- not rabbi or priest-- to read from scripture and pray over her partner:

We aren't shown Tena Kuiper Mulder's funeral; however, she wasn't buried within the traditional twenty-four hour timetable for Jewish custom. Not only was her body likely preserved for multiple days while Mulder was tracking his sister, but it was also flown out to North Carolina and buried alongside Samantha's memorial an undisclosed date later. While there are exceptions in Jewish law-- be it Shabbat or other religious observances-- if Tena wished to be buried according to Jewish custom, she would have broken the rules.

As for Mulder himself, he is notably non-religious, often struggling to understand his partner's (at times) unquestioning belief in God. That being said, he has sought out and wept in a Christian church (Conduit), kneeling without hesitation in an accustomed pose. Religious observance, then, isn't an utterly foreign concept.

These circumstances, however, could be interpreted as shadows of Bill Mulder's or Tena Mulder's (or Bill and Tena Mulder's) WASP upbringing: the Protestant symbolism a tie to his lineage rather than Tena's. Perhaps husband and wife had separate faiths that were both lost after Samantha's abduction-- Tena turning away from the religion of her people and Bill from the practices of his upper crust society.

AUTHORIAL INTENT AND INTERPRETATION

I've briefly explored this concept in another meta post here, but it's wisest to tackle the subject as thoroughly as possible.

Chris Carter named the Mulders in honor of his mother, a descendant of Dutch-Americans.

April 2001:

Loyal “X-Files” fans may know that Fox Mulder, the brainy protagonist played by David Duchovny, was named after Carter’s mother, the late Catherine Mulder Carter. (Scully was named for longtime-Los Angeles Dodgers’ baseball commentator Vin Scully – no relation). But very few people know that Carter’s mother was born to a Dutch-American family in Manhattan, Mont.

According to McCoy [Carter's cousin], the Mulder family moved to the Amsterdam-Manhattan area from Grand Rapids, Mich. Seven of their nine children were born in the Gallatin Valley and after an unsuccessful turn farming here, the Mulders moved to Southern California to start a feed and grain business in Bellflower, Calif. Norman Mulder was the only one of the nine children in the family to return to the Gallatin Valley. While McCoy and Mulder are Carter’s closest area relatives, there are probably many distant relatives still living in the Gallatin Valley’s Dutch community, McCoy said. She added that the California and Montana Mulders have always been, and remain, close.

(An aside: Kuiper, Tena Mulder's maiden name, is also of Dutch origin.)

Meanwhile, David Duchovny and Vince Gilligan had a different view. David inherently played any character through his experience of the world-- culturally-ish Jewish-- while Vince worked in a reference to Mulder's "Jewishness" in a deleted portion of Drive's script:

Crump: You know... what kinda name is Mulder, anyway? What is that, like, Jewish?

Mulder: Excuse me?

Crump: Jewish. It is, right?

Mulder: No it's not, yes I am....

But there is, yet again, another schism of dissent: Howard Gordon, write of the episode Kaddish, stated that he didn't think Mulder was Jewish "or even half-Jewish." The purpose of his work was to set Mulder up as the outsider peering inward: "We had never dealt with the horrors of antisemitism and the power of the word [on The X-Files]. And because I'm Jewish, it was something that was really compelling to me personally." As explained in Paula Vitaris's Cinefantastique article, Gordon purposefully wrote in three references to Mulder's Gentile perspective: Mulder is unable to identify a Jewish book, does not read or speak the language himself (" I don't speak Hebrew, I don't know what that means"), and is unwilling to pass up a reference to Jesus Christ's Christian resurrection ("A Jew pulled it off 2000 years ago") in response to an antisemite. Gordon's Mulder, then, is a man who related to all perspectives while still remaining, fixedly, an outsider.

CONCLUSION

Church and prayer, funerals and flags, could all be part of the nostalgic American 90s, symbols of meaning rather than actual belief. Mulder could have been raised Christian, agnostic, religiously Jewish; Mulder himself could be Dutch or Jewish or Jewish-Dutch or Dutch Jew. His mother or his father could have been Jewish; Tena Mulder could have been Jewish; Bill Mulder could have been a Jew who turned his back on his people; or both could have renounced, or been forced to renounce, their Jewish ancestry.

The truth is, ultimately, what you make of it: everyone has their own version.

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

[pastxl-ghxst]

Based on this interaction I found very amusing:

@jonathan-cranes-mistress-of-fear @amzedelsarkham @shaydystheshadowqueen

[ominous-faechild]

Okay, first of all—GENESIS casually turning his chronic illness arc into villain origin story? Chef's kiss. The man said 'if the system won't heal me, I'll rewrite the system' and honestly? Respect the grind (while also being deeply concerned).

Ohhhh, Genesis grinds...

[hurriedly sweeps up particles of ground-up bones] :>

BUT YEAH! He's a super interesting character because, despite the many atrocities he commits, he genuinely thinks he's doing the right thing. He's working toward the greater good! Who cares if people are getting experimented on now, he'll create a world where nobody ever gets sick! Where nobody's born with 'imperfections'!

And, well, if you don't agree with him?...

[sweeps up more ground-up bone particles] :>

... well. That can be... resolved. :>

And Cricket's whole deal—this poor artistic bug-boy just trying to survive while magic keeps yeeting him into new traumas? I'm EMOTIONALLY INVESTED. The fact that his ADHD humming literally turned into physical bug traits is inspired. Also, the way you've built this world where magic is both a lifeline and a curse? SO GOOD.

Ohohoh, it ain't the magic yeeting him into trauma...

Though, actually! The humming and such isn't what caused the bug traits—that's actually a side product of what I call "his alignment"!

Cricket is naturally strongest with certain types of magic: earth, nature (forestry, animals, and bugs), and "stabilization"-oriented stuff. That's reflective of his earth-nature-order alignment.

Because he's most comfortable with strongest with those things, Cricket naturally gravitates toward those spells, and has strengthened that alignment in the process. Through channeling those elements more frequently, he's been Changed to "more closely match" them.

And, well, long story short: the Changes someone receives is directly related to both someone's alignment and what Changes them—and Cricket most often uses spells oriented toward nature!

Also low-key hilarious that the Wizard Council is out here like 'please stop carving apocalypse runes into your arms, Greg' while Genesis is just [redacted for crimes]

To be fair, lol, a lot more of what they'd maintain is the potential for doing crime with runic magic lol

They'd mostly try to ensure safe practices were held/used/taught for everyone's safeties, try to keep only people with clean backgrounds within the field (let's not talk about how the marginalized are criminalized here...), and mostly do so through the controlled release of tools and information.

They'd more so be the people who set regulations... while simultaneously working to expand on the field themselves. Luckily, they're not corrupted, right? :D

.... right???? :'D

Also, the mental image of Cricket and Genesis ever facing off lives in my head rent-free now. The dropout vs. the guy who became.the curriculum? The bug-boy vs. the walking magical disaster? I would perish. (End the fight with a kiss pretty please lol)

IT'S SO GOOD OMFG

But, as much as Cricket needs it, tbh? Idk if any singular character is going to get the honors of finishing off Genesis. Because bro's made a lot of enemies, and Cricket's... well, Cricket.

(I love you, buddy, but you can't even beat Benji in a fight without runes. You aint doin shit to Genesis.)

Also, it could and would never end in a kiss lol. Not only are both of them straight and head-over-heels for specific women, but Cricket would absolutely despise Genesis for what he's done, and Genesis would look down on Cricket for—I shit you not—"being a failure".

Also, if Cricket's mom doesn't have a 'proud parent of a magical entomology student' mug, we RIOT."💖🔥

SHE DOESN'T KNOWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

(but she does have a t-shirt reading "proud parent of an arcane master" LMAO)

An additional thing about (@ominous-faechild original; do not steal /lhj) runic magic within my writing!

Styluses are essentially the world's early version of wands. They're made to draw runes, but require surfaces to draw on. They always encase—or utilize as the writing utensil—a conduit (an object containing pure magic, ready for use by anyone). After the invention of wands, styluses are often used as "baby's first wand", so to speak.

In other words: styluses become the giant pencil you give a toddler budding wizard for them to begin to learn runic.

For perhaps predictable reasons, artists are often recruited as wizards. Dyscalculia and dyslexia (although not named in-universe) are known to be a particular struggle for budding wizards, however.

Hugo “Cricket” Tinoco from Waves of Misfortune is an example of both. He was sponsored by the Minoguan government to join a runic academy thanks to being a skilled artist, but was eventually forced to drop out due to struggles “recreating” the runes.

(He's got dyscalculia.)

Wands aren't too dissimilar from the tool in Marvel's Doctor Strange that allows them to write in midair. They often resemble the stereotypical image of a wand, and serve as what's essentially a magic pencil that can write in midair.

However, twist: oftentimes, wizards will etch their most-commonly-used spells spells into the sides of their wands. With that, they can then later filter magic through those runes and quickly, easily, and frequently re-use their preferred spells.

Similarly, many more advanced wizards carry around staves—which are essentially larger wands—with larger conduit cores and many, many, many more runic sigils littered across their casing.

While this may seem to (and does, in fact) simplify the art of spellcrafting, there is a risk to relying on previously-etched runes: the caster has to remember where they've put each, or learn to distinguish between them by feel.

Considering the fact that they're often etched as small as possible both to fit more and to keep a possible enemy from seeing what spells you have at the ready... it is very dangerous, indeed, to rely on pre-etched spells. The practice is highly advised against except for master practitioners with several years of experience... and practice.

"Getting a new wand" is also highly frowned upon in this case, because if the caster fails to put their runes in the exact same spots...

Well.

Some "problems" can emerge.

(unlike last time, i've got this pretty solidified in my mind. i just wanted to share because, again, i thought y'all'd find this cool)

[firstroseofspring]

thinking pondering to me john torres is like. what if u met a woman. with confidence and dignity and a strong moral backbone. you meet and she makes a distinct impression with her honesty and her frankness and she seems like she's always sure of what she wants and what she needs and she's so different from anyone else you know and thats exciting and she's exciting and she likes you specifically you. and you don't think much of you but it feels good to be liked by someone like that. you love her of course. you marry her. of course!

[inbabylontheywept]

i did wrestling in middle school. on one hand, i was actually quite good at it, which was nice. being good at any sport was a new achievement for me. on the other hand, i was bi, and i was trying very hard not to notice that i was bi, and getting folded into knots by very kind, very muscular dorks made that task somewhat difficult.

adding fire to the problem was that my parents and my grandparents wanted to watch my matches, because they were very proud that their Gangly Nerd Son was actually Sporting, and they wanted to cheer me on. which would've been sweet and all, but if there are four people you do not want there during a key part of your Burgeoning Sexual Awakening, it is your mom and your dad and your grandma and your grandpa.

right? i mean, imagine some guy's got your head in his armpit, and you're going you know, old sweat smells bad, but fresh sweat has a sort of and then you make eye contact with your grandpa in the stands and you remember you're swearing spandex so if you pop a boner people aren't just going to be able to see the outline, they're going to be able to count the veins, and the only way you will be able to restore your family's honor after that would be by moving to siberia and renouncing joy, forever. that, or lift your entire body up by your kneck then twist 180 degrees without paralyzing yourself.

it’s a lot of pressure, is what i’m saying.

still it did motivate me to win my matches really fast. because i was so tall and skinny, i was stupidly good at the double leg takedown, and then once someone was knocked down, i'd just do the half nelson and kind of flip em over for the pin. then the ref would count to three and i’d win. EZPZ.

i had one match where that went great. won in the first ten seconds, sat back down, and prepared myself for a good hour or two of doing fuck all. didn't even feel bad the parents/grandparents were gonna be bored. the matches went up from me in 5 pound increments (i was in the 115 lbs division) and it was going great until we got to the 145 lbs division. the other school's wrestler stepped onto the mat, and she turned out to be a girl so our guy flipped, because for straight guys, wrestling a girl is not a pleasant experience.

i'm not entirely unsympathetic. my experience wrestling dudes was definitely a little traumatic. but also, i dealt. guy could've dealt too. instead, he refused to wrestle, and the coach went - fine. not even worth fighting over.

so he went to the 140 pounder, and that guy said, nosir, my mom said mormons can't wrestle girls. next guy down, 135 pounder, now he knew he could pull the same card and thus did. 130 pounder, 125, both tapped out. he got to the 120 guy, and that guy was catholic, but he said he was considering being mormon, and thus would have to pass. as a precaution.

coach blew up a little at that. he said "is there anyone - anyone - on this entire goddamn team that is willing to wrestle a girl?" and then he pointed at me and said "YOU. MAT. GO."

and i'll be real, if i'd been paying more attention, i'd have pulled the mormon card too, but i'd just been putting all that audio into a buffer file because i was reading, so i was halfway across the mat before i even processed what had been said and by then it was too late to turn back.

still i had a plan. and my plan - my beautiful, perfect plan - was to do what i'd always done. tackle, flip, pin, win. sit down. read. bore my family to death. move on.

i got the first part right. she was bigger than me, but she wasn't taller. just an incredibly stout woman. god built me like a snake with glasses, just as he built her like a combat cube. the problem was the half nelson. soon as she was down, i tried hooking my arm under hers from behind and for both genders, the defense for this move is just clamping your arms really fucking tight against your sides. if you're a guy, that's whatever, but if you're a girl - especially if you're god's chosen combat cube - that pins your opponents hand right against your boob.

so, i got the hook in, she clamped, my whole arm pressed against something soft, my coach was yelling THE HALF NELSON. BABYLON! JUST FINISH IT! FINISH THE HALF NELSON! and i was just trying to press hard enough to finish, when then my brain went

...oh.

and i flipped out. of course i flipped out. i like girls, and touching a boob is an elemental experience, and i was not ready. i was not prepared. i had not committed the sacred rites. i recoiled like i'd just brushed my arm against the surface of the sun, stood up, and backed away. nobody in the room knew why i'd given up. all they saw was me, right about to win, suddenly flailing around and scrambling. so everyone started screaming at me to just get the half nelson again, and i couldn't really yell back there's a fuckin' boob in the way and it was very distressing, and the only way i could think of to make them stop was just doing it over again the right way.

so i did.

i hunkered down and prepared myself for Wrasslin' Attempt #2: The Sequel.

i knocked her down again, EZPZ. i went for the half nelson again, but she knew what i was about to do so she super clamped, and i knew she was gonna super clamp, so i wound my arm back like a pop-eye cartoon punch before swinging my arm through the gap between her bicep and her side, but the amount of time i spent winding back super signalled what i was about to to do, which gave her time to clamp even harder, which somehow redirected the entire force of the popeye punch to the bottom of her bra.

it spat out a single boob the same way an action hero might spit out one single tooth after getting a solid crack across the jaw. as if to say:

*ptooie.* "that all you got?"

i did not actually see this. my experience was that first there was an arm, then there was a bit of boob, but i was braced, i was ready, forward at all costs, tatakae motherfuckers, and then the boob went away, and i didn't know where it went but my team, and the audience, and everyone who was in front of me, they all gasped like i just kicked them in the stomach. except for my coach. he was behind me, and thus one of the four people in the room who did not see the boob. now my mom, my dad, my grandma, and my grandpa, they all got flashed but nooooooo, coach thunderbutt was behind me, and he didn't see shit so he was still yelling NOOOOOO BABYLON WHAT ARE YOU DOING JUST FINISH THE NELSON! GO FOR THE KILL! BABYLON! BABYLON!

but i did not go for the kill. i stood up and she stuffed her boob back real fast, and we just kind of circled each other awkwardly until time ran out and i won on points. that's not technically allowed, but the ref had some mercy on me.

my coach did not.

i barely had time to sit down before he strode over to the bench to chew me out.

"babylon," he said, in that very calm way people get when they're too pissed to yell. "why didn't you pin?"

and i didn't know how to say well coach, i tried, but there was a boob, and it kept getting in the way, and my mom was watching, and so was my dad, and so was his dad, and his mom, and god (like bible god) and that's a can of worms because i'm pretty sure he was already mad at me, and i'm wearing spandex, and i think i might have to move to siberia, so instead i said

"i uh. i forgot how to do the half nelson."

which is actually impossible. forgetting how to do the half nelson is like forgetting how to swallow your spit.

and he looked at me, like i was the dumbest person in the entire world, and i looked through him like i'd just survived my 250th day in a trench at verdun, and he said: fine.

fine.

but we're all going to practice it for an hour tomorrow because you forgot.

and then he left.

and my buddies had the gall to be salty about it. i got so many comments saying "dude, why didn't you just tell him the truth?" and i said "you can if you care so damn much. you could've wrestled the girl too. maybe someone else should do the hard thing today."

but they didn't. so the next day, we did an hour of half nelson drills, and i spent a decent amount of time getting thrown around the mat, and it was pleasant in exactly the way that i hated and the year after that, to the surprise of everyone but myself, i quit wrestling and joined the trivia team.

and if you want more reasons to love my mom, my grandpa joked after the match that i might have to talk to my bishop about it, and my mom told him he would be allowed to make jokes after he stood in front of a crowd of 110 people in spandex underpants while wrestling a woman that was not his wife.

he paused for almost five seconds after that. then he said: aw. hell. sorry babylon.

and i'd have preferred my apology from god, but getting it from him was pretty good too.

[fanfoolishness]

Just losing my mind at the implications that the companions have all been trying to help Rook grieve Varric, and Rook doesn’t know

Emmrich, wise and long-familiar with grief, being told by Neve and Harding what happened; understanding why sometimes he overhears Rook’s muffled voice in the Infirmary, talking to no one. He takes Rook to the Memorial Gardens and mentions he talks to his parents, thinking Rook might be comfortable with the same. Rook lights candles and rings bells but Emmrich watches, sorrowed, to see Rook still seems in deep denial.

Neve takes Rook to the Wall of Light; a Shadow Dragon Rook knows just what this means but any Rook can understand the solemnity, the power of remembrance. Neve reenergizes Brom’s light and looks to Rook, hoping Rook will mention wanting to make one for Varric. Rook is kind and comforting to Neve, but Neve is lost in wondering why Rook doesn’t take the chance to open up. She can’t figure it. Maybe Rook just can’t face it, not yet. Maybe Rook does something privately. She isn’t sure but it nags at her.

Davrin’s not big on talking about feelings. He’d rather just move on. But he sees the way Rook seems a little hollow sometimes, a little distant; he sees how Rook takes so quickly to Assan. “Hey Rook,” he says, and invites them to come with him and Assan to safe places in Arlathan, where the woods are clean and green and growing, where real sunlight dapples through the trees. Rook always seems to love these outings, seems lighter afterwards. But Davrin feels a little confused in that Rook never seems to realize the outings are mostly for them.

Taash is another person not big on feelings. But they know how much feelings can twist you up and mess with your head. When Lace tells them about Varric they feel badly for Rook, and think to how they feel when they’re struggling. Epic fights, dragon fights, drinks with the Lords. Taash is perfectly capable of doing all that on their own. But maybe bringing Rook along will help get them out of their head a little bit. Does it help? Taash isn’t sure.

Bellara’s double-versed in grief after what happens to Cyrian. Rook helped her through trying to reach him, and Bellara wonders, in her own pain, if she can help Rook a little bit too. Especially if Rook is elven, teaching Rook about the braziers and the challenges is another tool she can share about her or their people, another way that might help Rook with their grief. Neve’s told her that the Wall of Light didn’t seem to help Rook much, but maybe a different funeral tradition could help them instead. Rook helps her light the braziers and Bellara feels her heart lightening, though she wonders at Rook, who seems more moved by Bellara’s reactions than anything else.

Lucanis is nearly as allergic to dealing with feelings as Davrin is, but he immediately clocks how Neve and Harding are acting, and asks what happened before he joined them. They tell him about Varric and that they’re worried about Rook, that Rook seems to just be shoving those feelings down without dealing with them. Lucanis is no stranger to that, but while it’s fine for him, he doesn’t want to see someone who risked their life to save him share that struggle. He brings Rook to Caterina’s funeral planning to show Rook it’s okay to admit the loss and honor it. When that doesn’t seem to make a dent, he falls back to his standard - lavish meals, small gifts, coffee. He knows it would help him. He just wishes it helped Rook too.

Lace hurts the worst after losing Varric and Lace is where Solas’ magic comes the closest to faltering. Rook can see Lace is down, she’s quiet, she’s afraid after what happens with the gods escaping; but Solas’ magic holds and Rook can still never see quite why. Lace would love to sit over drinks one night and share stories about Varric, but she sees that Rook doesn’t seem ready, and she doesn’t want to push. Instead she writes letters to Ma, to the Inquisitor, to Cassandra, to Aveline, maybe even to Hawke. She writes out her stories with Varric’s old quill and she carries a bolt of Bianca with her. A dozen times she goes to talk to Rook about him, and when she tries Rook turns away or changes the subject. It hurts, but Lace knows she can’t make Rook talk about him, and she hopes in time it will get better.

This just absolutely crushes me the more I think about it 😭

Edit: Varric’s death is Rook’s personal companion quest every other single companion tries to help them with, and can’t 😭😭😭

[kthologue]

then and now — gojo satoru

synopsis. only satoru gojo would be jealous of himself.

contents. fluff, lovesick!gojo, mentions of pregnancy, time travel inaccuracies probably, not proofread :x

you’re not quite sure how you ended up here.

one minute, you were curled up in bed, fighting a wave of nausea courtesy of the growing child of the strongest inside of you. the next, you were wandering toward the kitchen, wondering what was taking your husband so long to bring you the damn breakfast he promised — only to find him standing rigid in front of the stove, staring down…

himself.

you blink.

twice.

“satoru, what’s taking so long—”

your voice dies in your throat the second your eyes land on him. no — not him, but a younger, wide-eyed, hopelessly awe-struck version of him. standing in your kitchen, mouth parted, face pale, and gaze locked entirely on you.

you freeze.

he stares.

you stare back.

and then—oh no—he starts to smile. bright. dopey. disbelieving. there might actually be drool.

the younger gojo looks at you like you’re made of stars and everything he’s ever wanted in life, and you’re only in your husband’s oversized tee shirt. 

he looks like he’s about to fall in love with you on the spot.

then comes your gojo.

he appears behind you like summoned by jealousy itself, pressing flush against your back, arms encircling you. his chin hooks over your shoulder as he narrows his eyes at his teenage self with all the warning.

“oi,” your husband growls low, “eyes off my wife, you brat.”

the trance breaks instantly.

“what the hell—she’s my wife too!” younger gojo snaps, voice cracking in disbelief.

“like hell she is,” your husband shoots back, his hand sliding possessively down to cradle the swell of your belly. “i put a baby in her.”

you choke on air.

teen gojo’s eyes drop down—

—and bug out.the younger gojo is practically gaping, his eyes wide in disbelief, as he stares between you and your husband. "y-you let this man impregnate you?!" he blurts out, the crudeness making you flush with heat.

you feel the immediate rush of embarrassment. “i—how— satoru, explain.”

both of them whip their heads around at the mention of his name, as if they were no more than dogs waiting for a command.

your husband rubs your back, “i guess my younger self must have managed to travel to the future.”

you’re gaping at the two men.

the younger version of him is practically wagging his tail, a wide grin tugging at his lips like he’s just won first place in something that actually mattered. he looks completely lost in his own world to understand his future self’s subtle jab, and you could swear you hear him whispering under his breath, breathless and giddy—“i did it, i did it, i did it.”

“ah,” you slowly try to rationalize. “satoru, i know this might seem strange, but—”

“no, no,” your husband cuts you off with a tight squeeze around your waist, leaning slightly into you. “i’m satoru. he’s just gojo.” his tone makes it clear who he thinks should have the honor of the name, but his attention never leaves his younger self, and the muscles in his jaw are flexing.

the younger gojo squints, confused, then his face contorts with a mix of irritation and amusement. “since when did i become so uptight?”

your husband snorts. "yeah, well, you have a lot of growing up to do."

the younger gojo mutters, crossing his arms and leaning back, his posture almost defensive. "i get it. you put on the blindfold and suddenly you're mr. 'i've got it all figured out.'"

the tension in the room thickens, palpable between the two men.

"yeah," the older gojo retorts, voice steady but tinged with a bit of pride. "and i also got the girl of my dreams."

the younger gojo’s eyes narrow, his voice rising, "she’s my dream girl too!"

the older gojo shifts, locking his gaze on his younger self. his expression hardens, becoming a little sharper. "she’s my wife. not yours."

you sigh, exasperated, stepping between them. “oh, for heaven’s sake. you’re both the same person. you’re arguing with yourself.”

younger gojo leans forward slightly, eyes fixed on you. “i could love you just as much as he does, you know.”

your husband scoffs, clearly unimpressed. “please. you don’t even know what to do with her yet.”

“try me.”

“enough!” you snap, your glare cutting through the air like a blade. there’s no mistaking the warning in your eyes, a silent promise that things are about to escalate if they don’t stop.

both satorus fall silent in an instant as they both straighten at your words.

“me and the baby are starving,” you declare, your tone laced with a hint of challenge. “and if neither of you plans on helping, i guess i’ll have to do it myself.”

the younger satoru’s eyes flicker to your growing belly, then back to you.

in an instant, they’re both at your side, moving in synchrony like two halves of a whole, each hand hovering near you, as if they could protect you from something, but you know the truth. it’s not about protection. it’s about proximity—about the excuse to touch you.

“you know,” the younger satoru murmurs, a playful glint in his eyes, “you’re even more beautiful now. who would've thought you could get hotter?”

your breath catches at the unexpected compliment, and before you can stop it, your cheeks flush, a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the heat of the room. “t-thank you,” you mutter, not quite looking at him, trying to hide the effect his words have on you.

your husband, who’s been standing just behind you, makes no attempt to hide his irritation. his gaze sharpens, but his voice remains smooth, controlled—too controlled. “it’s no surprise, of course,” he says, his hand sliding around your waist in a possessive gesture, pulling you a little closer, a subtle but undeniable claim. “you’ve always been breathtaking. she’s glowing, don’t you think?”

you feel his lips brush against your temple as he says it, and though his words are directed at the younger satoru, they’re meant for you—just the two of you, wrapped in this small, intimate moment. his grip tightens ever so slightly, a silent declaration of ownership that you can feel in your bones.

“thank you, dear,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, but there’s a flicker in your chest that betrays you—something more than just appreciation for the compliment.

as you open the fridge, you don’t notice the younger gojo’s subtle frown at the pet name, nor the way your husband’s chest puffs just a little, satisfaction practically radiating off him. but you do feel it. the electricity. the unspoken challenge. and you can’t help but wonder which of them will break first.

the clink of chopsticks and the sound of your satisfied hums fill the room as the three of you eat breakfast, the tension at the table simmering beneath the surface. the younger gojo eyes the older version of himself from across the table, suspicion flickering behind his sharp gaze.

he sets his bowl down slowly.

“so tell me,” he says finally, chopsticks tapping against ceramic. “how’d you do it?”

the older gojo raises a brow. “do what?”

younger gojo tilts his head pointedly in your direction. “get her. my [name] doesn’t want to do anything with me.”

your husband doesn’t miss a beat. he smirks, annoyingly smug, and drapes his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side like a trophy. “i charmed the living daylights out of her. obviously.”

you give him a flat look. 

your husband ignores you. “she thought i was endearing.”

“i thought you were desperate,” you add with a sly smile.

he turns toward you, hand over his heart like he’s been shot. “desperation? is that what we’re calling devotion now?”

“you were on both knees when you proposed,” you point out, smug.

“i really wanted you to say yes,” he mutters, now clearly sulking. he stabs at his food like it personally offended him.

across the table, the younger gojo leans in, chin propped in one hand as he watches the two of you. there's something soft in his eyes now, envy tempered with awe. 

“don’t listen to him,” you say with a playful smile, your gaze softening as you turn to your husband. “i only gave you a chance when i realized how big your heart is. how much you really care. your dedication to reshaping jujutsu society—that’s what made me see you weren’t just a nuisance.”

both gojo's eyes widen in shock, clearly not expecting that.

your husband, though, pouts, his usual smugness replaced with playful mock hurt.

“aww~” he whines, a teasing lilt to his voice. “i think you’ve got a little crush on me!”

you narrow your eyes, a warning simmering beneath your words. “satoru, i’m about to bite your head off.”

he grins, leaning in with that signature mischief. “don’t threaten me with a good time.”

the younger gojo’s eyes dart between the two of you. perhaps his future wasn’t too bad.

[narxcisse]

★ — Leaving them hickeys

With: Viktor, Jayce, Mel, Vi, Caitlyn, Ambessa, Silco, Vander and Sevika

CW: suggestive, hickeys, s1

English isn't my native language / Reverse Ver.!

— VIKTOR

He is a mix of bashful and pleased. When you kiss and nip at his neck, he goes still, cheeks flushed as a soft, breathy chuckle escapes.

"You...really like marking me, don't you?" He tries to act unfazed, but when he looks in a mirror later and spots the darkening bruise, his fingers ghost over it.

He'd cover it with a scarf or high collar in public but secretly loves that you left your mark. It's a rare indulgence that makes him feel wanted.

— JAYCE

He leans into it and lets you do whatever you want, practically purring under your touch.

"You just can't keep your hands off me, huh?" He smirks, wrapping an arm around your waist as you kiss him.

He flaunts the marks with pride. If someone notices, he grins wider. "Oh, that? Yeah, my partner's got good aim."

— MEL

She doesn't stop you; she tilts her head to give you better access, enjoying the sensation as your lips press against her golden skin.

"Careful, darling," she murmurs, her voice smooth as silk. "You'll leave evidence of your affection."

She wears her hickeys like jewelry, unbothered by anyone's reactions, because who would dare question her?

— VI

She pretends to complain. She'll huff as your teeth scrape her skin, but she's grinning the whole time.

"Really? You're leaving me looking like I lost a fight?" She teases but tilts her head anyway.

She wears the marks like trophies. "Yeah, my partner did that. What about it?" If someone stares too long, they might catch her smirking.

— CAITLYN

She gets flustered. She tries to keep her composure as you kiss along her neck, but her blush gives her away.

"Are you... trying to make this harder to hide?" She scolds, though her voice is shaky.

Later, she's wearing a high collar. When Vi notices and teases her, Caitlyn glares but secretly feels proud.

— AMBESSA

She chuckles lowly, utterly amused by your boldness. She lets you have your way, resting a heavy hand on your back.

"Is this your way of staking a claim?" she asks with a smirk, tilting her neck for better access.

She wears the marks unapologetically, daring anyone to comment. She admires your daring streak and rewards you for it later.

— SILCO

His sharp intake of breath is the only indication you've caught him off guard. He doesn't stop you, but his hand tightens on your hip.

"Bold," he mutters, his gravelly voice filled with amusement. "Do you think this will deter anyone?"

He hides the marks beneath his collar but touches them absently, conflicted between annoyance and smug satisfaction.

— VANDER

He laughs softly, a warm rumble from deep in his chest as you leave your mark on him.

"You're enjoying this a little too much," he teases, cupping your face to kiss you.

He's not embarrassed about the marks and won't bother covering them. If someone comments, he just grins. "What can I say? My partner's passionate."

— SEVIKA

She smirks, tugging you closer as your lips graze her neck.

"Careful, sweetheart," she growls softly. "I might start thinking you're obsessed with me."

She doesn't cover the marks, wearing them like a badge of honor. If anyone so much as raises an eyebrow, she gives them a warning glare.

[slut4megantheestallion]

The Boob Curse || ryomen sukuna x f! reader

Summary: You're just watching tv, but sukuna is too busy being obsessed with your boobs.

Warnings ⚠️: fluff, crackfic, sukuna being a menace, boob obsession, groping, squeezing, staring,(consensual but annoying)

A/N: bored asf, and this was randomly in my head, so I just had to do it, I feel like sukuna would probably do this 😭)

It was supposed to be a normal night. You were curled up on the couch, watching TV, minding your business like a responsible adult. The soft glow of the screen cast a warm light over the dimly lit living room, and everything was peaceful.

Or at least, it should have been, but no.

Because Sukuna was staring, not at the TV, not at your face, but your boobs.

You could feel it - his intense, burning gaze boring into your chest like he was trying to set your cleavage on fire through sheer willpower.

At first, you ignored it. Because, whatever. Sukuna was a menace- staring was just part of his personality, but then it got worse.

His arm, which had previously been resting along the back of the couch, inched lower.

And lower.

And-

A large, calloused hand suddenly grabbed a handful of your chest.

You froze.

Sukuna didn't even have the decency to look ashamed. If anything, he looked fascinated- thumb lazily tracing over the exposed lace of your bra, fingers sinking into your soft flesh like he was testing something.

"...Sukuna."

He didn't answer. Just gave your boob a slow squeeze.

"SUKUNA."

"Yeah?" He hummed.

You turned your head to glare at him, boob still in his grasp. "What the hell are you doing?"

Sukuna blinked like the answer was obvious. "Holding them."

"WHY?!"

A pause. Then, completely deadpan:

"Because they're there."

You smacked his arm, but the bastard did not let go.

Instead, he gave them another experimental squeeze, tilting his head like he was analyzing their weight, like some kind of perverted scientist.

"Huh," he muttered.

You narrowed your eyes. "What do you mean, 'huh'?"

"They're... nice."

You gasped. "EXCUSE ME?!"

Sukuna had the audacity to chuckle. "Soft. Bouncy. Good shape. Yeah, I approve."

"Oh, wow, thank you, Your Highness," you deadpanned. "So honored to have the King of Curses boob approval."

"You should be."

You were about to lose it.

"Okay, you've had your fun. Let go."

Sukuna did not let go.

In fact, he gave them another squeeze. Like a damn stress ball.

"Hmm."

You snapped.

"STOP ANALYZING THEM LIKE YOU'RE WRITING A DAMN RESEARCH PAPER!"

Sukuna snickered but still didn't let go. His other hand came up and cupped the other one, like he was trying to compare.

THIS. WAS. INSANE.

"Sukuna, I swear to GOD-"

"What?" He said lazily, finally looking at your face. "You wear that tiny ass top, boobs practically spilling out, and expect me to do nothing?"

You gawked. "Yes?? Like s normal, civilized person??"

Sukuna gave you a long, slow blink.

Then, with absolute confidence, he said:

"Yeah, see, I'm not a civilized person."

You groaned, dropping your head back against the couch. "You're a literal curse, a walking massacre, The King of Destruction, and yet -" You motioned aggressively to his hands, still attached to your chest. "-THIS is what you're obsessed with?!"

Sukuna shrugged. "I'm a man of culture."

You wanted to die.

"Sukuna."

"Hm?"

"Let. Go."

Another long squeeze.

"No."

You grabbed his wrist, trying to pry his hands off. He didn't budge. The bastard just watches you struggle, looking amused, like you were some cute little weakling fighting for survival.

Finally, he sighed dramatically and leaned in, voice low, deep, amused.

"Alright, fine," he murmured, smirking. "I'll let go."

Relief flooded you until he gave one last squeeze.

A long, deliberate, slow one.

"For now."

You gasped in betrayal. "YOU-"

Sukuna leaned back, arms now resting behind his head, looking relaxed as if he hadn't just spent the last five minutes groping you like some horny teenage boy.

You, on the other hand, sat there stunned. Offended. VIOLATED.

"I hate you," you grumbled, crossing your arms - only to immediately uncross them when you realized that pushed your boobs up even more.

Sukuna snickered. "No, you don't."

"YES, I DO."

He glanced at you again - eyes dropping immediately to your cleavage.

You caught him.

"SUKUNA."

"What?"

"STOP LOOKING."

He smirked. "Not my fault they're out."

Your eyes twitched. "You are the WORST."

"Mm." He stretched, looking completely unbothered. "You say that, but you haven't moved away."

You opened your mouth- then closed it. Because damn it, he was right, and he knew it.

Smug Bastard.

Sukuna chuckled again, pulling you into his lap like you weighed nothing. He rested his chin on your shoulder, arms looping around your waist, his warm breath ghosting against your ear.

"You're lucky you're cute," he muttered.

Your face heated. "I- WHAT?"

He just grinned against your skin, voice dripping with amusement.

"Relax, brat. You're my favorite."

You huffed, still pouting, but let yourself sink into his arms anyway.

But you were still mad.

[foldingfittedsheets]

In honor of my nine year anniversary with my beloved wife please enjoy a story from our third date.

Just gonna reemphasize that. Our third date. We were still very much getting to know each other. We were virtually strangers.

We had been intending to do a meetup at a nerdy cafe with a group of people, but unbeknownst to us there had been a tragedy in the group and everyone else bailed. My beloved and I made the best of it. We had a nice date. I horrified them by eating sliders in three bites but it wasn’t a deal breaker.

Afterward I was driving us back to my place when a car came up and rear ended me. It was a pretty light bump but I was still like, well. That car hit me, time to pull over and exchange info.

Except the other car decided to instead shoot past me and drive away.

Infuriated, I pursued.

From the passenger seat, a captive on a third date with someone else in control of the car and pursuing strangers into the darkness, my beloved said, “Uh, what’s the plan here?”

“They hit me! We need to exchange information!”

Indeed. I did not have a plan. The plan was that when you hit someone with your car you exchanged insurance information. I would pursue until that happened.

The offending car led us a merry chase and as I followed through winding pitch black forest roads I felt the tiniest inkling of misgiving. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea? Pursuing someone into the darkness? But I persisted.

I wasn’t being propelled by a plan or even stubbornness but instead I followed a blazing righteousness. Fundamentally I knew that when you hit someone’s car you talked to them afterward. It was an inexorable fact. They would not escape the talking portion of this event.

When the car pulled into a trailer park I fully realized that this was not, in fact, a good idea. Inside the other car was a couple who were clearly having an argument and it seemed increasingly unlikely that they had insurance info to swap.

With a sigh I said, “Will you pull out your flashlight? Let’s see if my bumper is damaged.”

We got out of the car and inspected my bumper together. It actually looked fine, and I was about to call it when the woman got out. It was instantly clear she was under some chemical influence, her pupils dilated absurdly large. She attempted a poor performance as she said, “Oh, did we hit you?”

“Yeah,” I said flatly, “but I think it’s fine. I don’t see any damage.”

“We weren’t sure, uh, if we did, we didn’t think we did but we just weren’t sure.” She shifted anxiously foot to foot.

It was time to leave, a fact which became clearer when the man stepped out, eyes buzzing in his skull. He feigned innocence and radiated an aura of someone barely tethered to reality. My beloved and I waved them off and got back in my car to drive away.

As we did my beloved let out a huge gust of air as if they’d been holding their breath.

“Are you okay?”

“I was so squared up ready to fight them,” they said. “I’m glad we didn’t.”

I turned to look at them in astonishment. “Why would we have fought?”

“Are you joking? You followed them at 11pm to a trailer park! The second we got out of the car I was in a fighting stance. What did you think would happen?”

“I- I don’t know. That we’d talk and then go home? But. I can see now that driving after a car that tried to do a hit and run may not have been that safe…”

“You think!!!”

We sat in silence for a while before we burst out in relieved laughter.

“You were ready to fight?” I asked.

“I do kung fu! That guy looked so shady, I was ready to kick his ass, but I really didn’t want to.”

Unbelievably, they agreed to more dates, and eventually married me, but more often than not they’re the one driving.

[drchucktingle]

shooting the messenger

something you learn writing SOCIAL HORROR of any kind is there is just a huge portion of buckaroos who will always think the political things being reflected in art are not real or overblown, and theyre almost always wrong. i believe love wins out, but there ARE scoundrels to battle on our way there

in my first horror novella STRAIGHT the buds are going out to a cabin three years after first annual zombie day because theres a vaccine. theyre acting normal. amount of early reviews docking stars for 'being unrealistic that folks would return to acting normal in just three years' is HILARIOUS now

in BURY YOUR GAYS there are were some folks all the way up until a few weeks ago who would review and say something like 'loved the book but this issue is over. queer media is mainstream'. YET SUDDENLY we now have pride days getting removed from official calendars, gay media deleted, flags banned

so point is IM RIGHT ABOUT EVERYTHING. just kidding. although i am. BUT ACTUALLY my point is that HORROR taps into something SO important. it taps into fear yes, but it also taps into a subliminal deep knowledge that culture KNOWS but most people are not ready to hear yet. it is a MESSENGER genre

maybe that is why i talk to much about connection between PUNK and HORROR. both strong messenger genres, and how fitting that we have whole idioms about 'killing the messenger'. these artistic expressions are often maligned as 'too much' because sometimes the truth is hard to hear and feel and read

all of this is to say I AM SO PROUD to trot here in the world of uncomfortable truths with you. im also deeply honored, and it is fight i will not back down from. fortunately WITH LOVE AS OUR FUEL this is battle we will win. that is a truth i am certain of, so lets HOIST THE FLAG OF LOVE AND TROT ON

PS: as far as pointed messages go, my next book LUCKY DAY has a ferocious way and sure as heck isnt pulling any punches. give it a preorder if you can

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ When someone tries to imitate you or take your place 

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Pantalone 

(tw: general mentions of violence and intimacy, swf. Old ask suggested by the lovely @pandaquick, better late than never)

Your position in the Fatui is a much more personal and delicate matter. You are not just some high-rank advisor or soldier idling within the Zapolyarny Palace, nor can you be defined as another Fatuus. You are someone of a different echelon - a Harbinger’s beloved, safeguarded with the utmost honor conferred by Her Majesty the Tsaritsa. It is no secret your significant other would utilize a whole army to protect you, but what happens when someone, in their foolishness, forgets that?

✧ Pierro was the first to notice that someone tried to imitate you. An individual of high status endeavored to emulate your work and areas of expertise. Subsequently, this individual began to adopt aspects of your appearance, from hairstyle to clothing. However, the breaking point occurred when this foolish person attempted to purchase an identical jewelry brooch to the one you frequently wore. It was a similar piece, one gifted to you by Pierro.

Except that imitator missed one important clue - Pierro orders you custom-made silver adorned with deep-cut sapphires that would put the Tsaritsa’s crown into shame. A one of a kind piece.

This cheap attempt to imitate you and usurp your spot was what forced The Jester to abandon his silent observation. His gaze has long caught the envious glances directed towards you whenever you accompanied him on meetings, whenever he linked his arm with yours, whenever he generously kneeled beside you to put his coat over your shoulder and keep you warm from Snezhnaya’s cold - the same individual, always seething with resentment. Thus, it was time for the Director to silently act. 

He kept tabs on this person via a network of spies, gathering intel on their behavior and intentions. And with the most skilled spies raised from the House of the Hearth, it didn't take long to have a whole pile of evidence right on his desk. And with the simple snap of his fingers, he effortlessly orchestrated the apprehension and subsequent banishment of the culprit, sparing no unnecessary words. Hearsay will not be tolerated in the Fatui, but to see some lowly scum tarnish your reputation by cheap mimicry then it’ll be his responsibility to weed out. 

“Pierro, dearest, What's wrong? You seem so deep in thought.” - Your gentle murmur broke The Jester's train of thought. As he lay in bed, your head resting on his chest and his arm draped over you, he reminded himself that he was in the comfort of your love. He doesn't have to mull over the bloodied ordinances when he feels the warmth of your skin underneath the covers.

“Apologies, my divine. It seems my mind was drifting to troubling thoughts. But it no longer matters when you're here.” - Thus, he gently planted a kiss on your forehead and tucked the covers around your body which harbored marks of his devotion earlier that night.

✧ Il Capitano clutched the hilt of his sword in resolution. Something was wrong and he could see it. The Harbinger was in the middle of his morning spar with you, a regular training session where you and the Captain warm up as a routine. He stood in a defensive stance, his movements fluid yet measured as his sword received blow after blow from your weapon. You, on the other hand, moved like a silent tempest, your strikes precise yet frustratingly urgent.

It was unlike you to be so unsteady, noted Capitano to himself, especially when fighting. Despite the unspoken patience, an undercurrent of concealed despondency and anger laced your body language. 

“Alright, my dear, I can feel your unease. What troubles your heart?” 

You shook your head, panting as you almost faltered. You insisted on continuing the training session, but it was clear your brave facade was almost crumbling. 

“It would be foolish to continue. And I care about your well-being. Please, confide in me, my beloved.”

You tried, you really did. But before you know it, your lips pursed into a thin line and a flood of tears escaped the moment you shakily lowered your weapon. Now the Captain was on full alert, rushing towards you and gently supporting you before you could hide your tearful face in shame. With an arm around your trembling form and much persuasion - you relented and shared the source of your frustration. A newly enlisted soldier had undergone thorough training under the tutelage of Il Capitano, and their impressive advancement was unmistakably evident in their unwavering dedication. However, this individual began to devote more time to the Captain, delving into military intelligence and climbing the ranks. You genuinely felt joy for the new recruit, truly. Yet in timid humiliation, you had to confess you felt obsolete as if your power alone wasn’t enough for a harbinger of his caliber and ranks.

“Ah, my dear, you are far from weak. My time with the trainees is merely a duty, a part of my job as the 1st Harbinger. But when it comes to you, my dear, your might and wisdom are incomparable. You don’t deserve my ranks, you deserve my life laid before you.”

But whatever gentle words of affection were coming out of the Captain, your next words of truth made him halt at once. “... At least, that’s what the recruit told me when we spoke. That I'm weak.” 

“...What did you say?” 

The gentle armored hand on your shoulder now tightened in restrained anger, fury flaring within his chest. Capitano now understood: your tears, your sudden insecurity, your doubt, your silence… It wasn’t coincidental. This recruit who was so conveniently rising in the ranks made sure to aim not just for the Harbinger. Specifically, you; to sow self-doubt onto you and hinder your precious relationship. Someone was deliberately bullying you.

You looked up at Capitano’s dreadful silence, asking him what was wrong.

“It… seems, my dear, someone has crossed an unforgivable line. One that would cost them their life dearly. And I am to blame for not noticing when harm and doubt came your way. I must amend this transgression for your forgiveness.”

You blinked in response, not having time to comprehend the severity of his words; It’s hard to respond when your beloved suddenly kneels and bows like a knight on duty. In the end, Capitano ushered you to take a day off and let your mind rest easy.

The next day, Capitano returned home early but was eerily silent once more. He stayed with you the whole day, like a hawk overlooking his nest, his arms crossed but his touch gentle. Although he claimed nothing was wrong, you received news that certain recruits were gone, and any upcoming soldiers that would come into his care would receive even stricter training from now on. That day, you wondered why some Fatui soldiers feared talking to you. Not to mention the armor around Capitano’s knuckles seemed faintly red-tinted.

The Fatui organization was a constant battle of powers and ranks. But to climb the ladder and meddle with the life of The Captain was a personal offense, one that would result in quick and unapologetic bloodshed. Nevertheless, he made sure to remind his soldiers about that. 

✧ When one of the folks working under Il Dottore as a lab analyst approached you, you didn’t expect them to call you names so suddenly. You stood there, confused and apprehensive at the sudden barrage of insults from the stranger. But they explained:

“You don’t do anything when helping during research, you know! I don’t even know how The 2nd tolerates you when you’re this useless. I’ll tell you what, quit your special-treatment act, and don’t come back to the lab. The Doctor is better off with someone of his level of intellect.”

You didn’t fight or defend yourself, you didn’t even insult the assistant. Instead, you smiled simply  - “Very well, I won’t. Good luck.”

That day, you turned and left. The frustrated lab analyst was left in confusion but thought they succeeded in eliminating the only obstacle left to get closer to the elusive yet powerful Harbinger. After all, what the hell do you even do at his lab? You exchange a few words with Dottore, maybe sporadically point at what to do, and remain seated in the back, resting as if you were the Tsaritsa herself. The audacity. How come Il Dottore never kicked you out?

Well, it didn't take long for this person to find out.

The next day, naturally, Dottore couldn’t find you when he proceeded with work. You were neither at his study, nor at the lab, nor at your favorite corner of the library. It was barely noon, and receiving your warm greetings was his routine. And the Doctor always follows the agenda.

“Where are they?” 

His question was brief but pointed, and his subordinates knew exactly who he was referring to. They could sense the tension in his voice. The only individual privy to the reason for your absence smirked smugly and responded.

“Hmph. It seems they decided not to come, Lord Harbinger Dottore.”

That was their first mistake because The Doctor caught on to the haughty smirk coming from his new analyst.

“And you know so certainly how?” - he quickly gestured to a nearby Fatui servant with a flick of his wrist. “Send in servants to check in on my behalf. I wasn’t informed. If my darling is feeling tired or unwell, bring their preferred refreshment immediately, and ensure it is warm.”

However, this displeased the new lab assistant, as even while you were away, Dottore was still dotting on you as if it was his second nature to do so while he was busy with work. Thus, they cleared their throat and spoke up:

“They… barely accomplished anything in your presence, doctor. So I advised them to leave, to which they agreed. Pretty straightforward, s-sir.” 

“Oh? Did you, now” - A burning rage, like never before, flared up within Il Dottore. With clenched teeth and a rigid jaw, his voice oozed with venom. But any seasoned lackey working under Dottore knew that this was the calm before the storm. Because soon, an echo of shattering vials and slammed objects would ring out from the laboratory. And in your absence, nothing would prevent the doctor from showing a bit of despotism. 

Much later that evening, after everything was set and done, the servants informed him of your whereabouts. Il Dottore briskly made his way through the Zapolyarny Palace to find you. Spotting you tucked away in a secluded nook of the palace, he hastened over, anxious to ensure your well-being, fearing you might’ve withdrawn due to the influence of some blabbering lowlife. 

“Dear! There you are… No one has the right to speak to you like that ever. Are you alright? My dearest, why did you not tell me immediately?! I would’ve-”

Dottore’s frustrated rambles come to a halt when you place a finger on his lips to shush him. You didn’t look despaired, in fact, you looked calm - “Zandik? Did you have another tantrum in your lab while I was absent?”

The doctor gulped, remembering his place. Calming his senses, he placed his hands on your waist and ushered you closer to his arms.

“... Perhaps. But I had to. How could I be certain that no one had harmed you? Why did you comply with that impudent fool? You should’ve gone to me first.”

“Well, it was unpleasant to hear the insults, sure. But…" - you glanced apologetically and a knowing smile returned to your lips. "I knew you'd find out and deal with the issue very quickly." 

✧ You and Pantalone were an odd couple. You didn't hail from a rich background, nor were you well-versed in the art of business and finance. You were more proficient in adventuring, your travels taking you to all sorts of journeys and commissions, a polar opposite from your beloved Pantalone. This led to raised eyebrows among the aristocrats of Snezhnaya. How can the richest man of Teyvat, who lives and works in prestige, be associated with such a simple person as you? For some, this gave the impression that they had a better chance of winning him over.

Thus, once upon a night, Pantalone was invited to a luxurious soirée. Here he was, clad in his finest suit, silver rings complementing his equally expensive optics. But to the Regrator, the jewelry adorning him was the least of his concerns - because you were the most precious gem in this gala. You accompanied him, although reluctantly, feeling out of place amidst the grand assembly of extravagant guests and the languid orchestra.

“Pantalone, do we have to…? I know you said this is not a business party, but there are so many guests already lining up to talk to you.” 

“Oh do not fret, my sweet. Evening galas like these are where the real negotiation and connections entail. But I know the details bore you, so I promise we won't stick here for too long. Besides, I get to introduce you as my one and only!”

That's exactly what you were afraid of. As a company of some esteemed noble ladies adorning elegant gowns, you had difficulties matching Pantalone’s polite smile. Overwhelmed by the scrutinizing gazes of some guests, you politely excused yourself to the bathroom. Pantalone was concerned, thinking of following you, but that was exactly what the guests wanted. 

You spent a long while by the hallway alone, trying to stabilize your breathing. The muttering of guests enjoying drinks and strolling was faint, but you could hear some people nearby:

“How can the 9th be with someone like them…? Surely it’s a joke.”

“A charming, rich man like him, and he can have anyone he desires. Yet he wastes his time on a simpleton?”

“Someone was definitely in it for the Mora, maybe he hasn’t seen real class. Quick, let’s go talk to him while he is alone.”

You stood with your back to a wall, and for the first time, uncertainty crept in. With fists clenched by your side, you reprimanded yourself that you are not alone. You came here with your significant other - and he, above all else, knows that gossip has no place in your shared private life. Hence, gathering up your courage, you raise your head high and strode back into the gala.

Pantalone, unfortunately yet expectedly, was surrounded by the same foul-mouthed nobles who wished to impress him. They prattled on about his financial success, while ladies fanned their folding fans and stood too close for his comfort. While they humored him, The Regrator cast hurried glances around the gala in search of you. Where are you?

“Lord Harbinger, may we offer you more champagne? I am sure this expensive bottle is up to your taste.”

The 9th attempted to hide his frown at the woman's tone, his stomach unwilling to ingest any drink some excessively elaborate name. “No thank you, I’d rather decline. I am waiting for my dear. I promised her a dance later this evening.”

“Oh, please sir, I insist. The night is young and there is plenty more for-” 

Before the woman could continue, your voice cut through the air; calm, yet unmistakably firm. “He said no. Simple enough to understand.”  

A hush fell over the gathered guests, the weight of your words settling like a sudden gust. Only Pantalone beamed with a genuine smile. “Ah, dear! There you are,”. The Harbinger was about to step back towards you, when the same lady suddenly blocked his path, her back facing him while her tone edged with defiance.

“I beg your pardon, but I’m afraid the question is directed towards Lord Harbinger Pantalone. I am sure you wouldn't know the pleasure of tasting a 500,000 Mora champagne from Fontaine.”

You recognized the snark in her tone directed towards you, and you couldn’t deny the anxiety twisting in your gut as eyes narrowed in your direction. However, with a shake of your head, you reminded yourself who you truly are and simply said: “Sheesh, lady, you spend that much on a drink that tastes worse than sparkling water? To each their own, I presume”

Her smile vanished. The guests stared in stunned silence, but it was Pantalone’s genuine laughter that pierced the tension. The sound was rich and real—because only he knew how adept you were at humbling an overconfident aristocrat with a dose of blunt truth. That’s how Pantalone managed to push through the crowd and circle his arm back around your waist, leaving the astonished onlookers behind.

“Ah dear, you’re a savior. I apologize I dragged us into this unpleasant company…” - he confined to you apologetically as you two walked away. “You always knew how to be sincere in your honest way.”

“It’s not like I meant to pick up a fight…" - you sighed. "I simply couldn't bear the humiliation, Pantalone. I'm aware that some people give me strange looks when I'm with you. They regard me as if I'm some peasant standing next to a powerful Fatui harbinger. That I'm nothing. That's why I couldn’t just hide, I had to step up to defend myself.”

“Oh, darling… My sweet, precious darling.” - The two of you left the manor that hosted the soiree, the chill night breeze muting the faint sound of guests and replacing it with a symphony of cricket noise from the garden nearby. Pantalone's fingers intertwined with yours.

"You are not just 'nothing' - you're my everything. You did not come from riches, and neither did I. You of all people know that. Would I really hold respect for some rich fool who didn't know an ounce of hardship when Mora was all they had since birth? No, dear, I wouldn't."

With a tender hand, he rested his palm on your waist, gently guiding you along the cobblestone path as if leading you into a slow waltz by garden roses in the night.

"Besides, you should never be ashamed to seek out my help. Although I must admit... Your tone earlier - oh my. Use it on me more often, darling. I wouldn't mind." 

[bluerosefox]

Always Favors You

Another Sibling Danny and Jason idea!!

"Are you Jason Peter Todd?!" demanded a deep and commanding tone from the strange glowing being in front of them.

All the Bats stiffened and tensed, no doubt gearing up for a fight against the being that somehow knew Red Hood's full name.

Jason, Red Hood, decided to put on a brave front despite no doubt cursing in his head and wondering how the heck did this thing know his full freaking name.

"Whose asking." he snarled out, his hands twitching for his gun when the huge glowing knight with purple flames coming out of his helmet and cape, who was riding on a nightmare looking horse while they all had been in the cave going over tonight's patrol.

The Knight didn't seemed bothered by his response nor did he even seem to care or flinch when Batman made his own demand on 'Why was he there and who was he' or when Damian unsheathed his sword and pointed it towards him. Instead the strange glowing Knight reached to it side and pulled out... A glowing scroll? Huh. (Also he completely unnerved everyone in the room when the Knight didn't even react when Batman had tossed a Baterang when he reached for his side)

The Knight opened the scroll and spoke clearly with purpose.

"Jason Peter Todd,

You are hereby invited as a special guest of honor to the crowning of our future King of the Infinite Realms.

Daniel Phantom, once Daniel Jackson Fenton, and once Daniel Austen Todd.

Prince of the Infinite Realms, the Keeper of Balance, The Peacekeeping Halfa, the Defeater of the Tyrant King Pariah Dark, The Great One, Youngest of the Ancients, Ancient of Space, The Bridge between Life and Death.

You, the half-brother of our King, have been given the highest of honors for your past actions and will be given housing and food in the Realms and Phantom's Keep, for the week long event. Personal servants and attendants will be at your disposal and a seamstress will be on hand to tailor make your attire for the Coronation.

Signed: Clockwork. Ancient of Time. Watcher of the Infinite Timeline. Kronos. Mentor and Adviser.

PS: I shall have Fright Knight ("Me" the Knight bluntly said for a second) leave this scroll along with a personal one for you from Daniel to read over and once you make up your mind sign the bottom of the scroll.

I do hope in time you will pick the right choice Jason Todd, we of the Infinite Realms would like to reward you for your actions. After all, if you hadn't gotten young Daniel away from your father that night all those years ago, we would never had gained our Prince nor be free from our once Tyrant King.

Ah, one more thing.

The Infinite Realms will always favor you Jason."

Jason felt like he couldn't breath as Fright Knight? Rolled up the scroll, pulled a letter from his side, and held out the two items for him to take.

[maenefa]

Why does Eowyn want to die?

Because Aragorn won’t love her? Because she feels trapped in her feminine gender role?

These are the explanations we get in the text. However, none of the characters really acknowledge Eowyn’s darkest fear: being taken alive by the enemy.

There are some bad takes on Eowyn that boil down to patronizing her and downplaying the seriousness of her problems. People say that she had a naive desire for glory and Faramir teaches her that war isn’t actually fun. Then there’s the whole “Eowyn was a deserter who selfishly ran away from her duty” argument.

You can only say these things if you ignore how dire the situation was, how close Sauron was to winning, and how gruesome Eowyn’s fate would have been if he won. She knew that death or capture likely awaited her, and she knew that dying in battle was the least bad option. (She also knew her own worth and believed that she was too useful a warrior to be left behind with the civilians. And she was right.)

Eowyn’s actions are ruthlessly practical! She wants to die fighting because that’s better than waiting around for The Horrors. Let’s be real, Eowyn is too sensible to be suicidal over an unrequited crush.

Here are some of her most revealing quotes:

“All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honor, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more.”

“And those who have not swords can still die upon them.”

“Nor is it always evil to die in battle, even in bitter pain. Were I permitted, in this dark hour I would choose the latter.”

“But I do not desire healing…. I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Théoden the king, for he died and has both honour and peace.”

In the end, Eowyn only stops wanting to die after Sauron is defeated. Just before the Ring is destroyed, she tells Faramir:

“I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I wait for some stroke of doom.”

Eowyn can’t turn to light and life until the war is over. Hope is too painful; death at least offers “honor and peace.” This passage is so important because it EXPLICITLY links Eowyn’s despair to the outcome of the war and makes it clear that she is not simply having a meltdown because Aragorn rejected her.

There are two important moments where Eowyn is threatened with violence. The very first time we meet her, we are told by Gandalf that Wormtongue planned to turn her into a sex slave after Saruman conquered Rohan. Even though this threat is dismissed quickly, it’s a disturbing reminder of what could happen to Eowyn if Sauron wins.

Then we have the most triumphant moment of Eowyn’s story: her battle with the Witch King. Once again, Eowyn is not threatened with death, but with captivity and torment:

“Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.”

Eowyn laughs at him and makes sure to announce that she is a woman before killing him. Her victory is all the more satisfying because the Witch King has just threatened her with captivity, loss of agency, the violation of her body and mind—all threats that Eowyn has faced before. But the Witch King’s words continue to haunt Eowyn and us. He threatens to withhold death; and death is therefore framed as an escape, a gift. Eowyn is taken to the Houses of Healing, but she is obsessed with returning to battle and fighting until she dies.

When Eowyn says that she fears “a cage,” this is a brilliantly simple metaphor for the entire spectrum of oppression she has faced: from the well-meaning restrictions of her culture to the horrifying enslavement threatened by Wormtongue.

Once the war is over, Eowyn is able to laugh at her fears. She teases Faramir: “And would you have your proud folk say of you: there goes a lord who tamed a wild shieldmaiden of the North!” Her fear of being caged has been turned into a bit of flirtatious banter. She feels completely safe with Faramir, and the idea that he “tamed” her is nothing but a joke between them.