#well it allegedly exists i mean

[crysdrawsthings]

Have just finished Veilguard and genuinely had a blast with the game, subjectively very fun to play, objectively... Could have done a handful of things better, but still, I think, a solid action-adventure RPG.

Absolutely loosing my mind over just how both obsessed with Rook Elgar'nan is, but also about his temper tantrum over being the goddest god to ever god.

Biting him. Chewing him even, like Lusacan chewed Egg

[murderpartita]

if it's hard to buy clothes if ur plus size, and also hard if you're skinny (or even just slim + short), WHO THE FUCK IS MANAGING A FAST FASHION ADDICTION

[light-wrath-paradise]

WAIT ARE YOU SAYING THAT ALL OF THESE HAPPENED IN THE LIVE ACTION REMAKE. I THOUGHT THIS WAS A HYPOTHETICAL LIKE "HAHA WHAT WOULD BE THE WORST THING TO POSSIBLY HAPPEN". PLEASE SAY THAT I MISUNDERSTOOD AND THIS IS A HYPOTHETICAL

*very emblematic of disney sanitizing the fuck out of stitch.

[sunderwight]

A fun prospect for Superhero-themed SV AU's that I don't often see is genre dissonance. Like, Luo Binghe as this edgy 90's style antihero who just straight up kills his enemies and sleeps around and is driven by selfish motives (revenge, ambition, etc) rather than altruistic morality, vs Shen Qingqiu as this kid-friendly supervillain who is "evil" mostly in terms of aesthetics and his ability to make inconvenient problems that are reasonably safe for child heroes to solve. Something like Punisher vs Team Rocket in terms of vibes.

Maybe the reason they meet is because some big publishing house akin to Marvel or DC just bought up the rights to whole bunch of older, discontinued comics titles, and decided to do a Justice League/Avengers style mash-up with a bunch of nostalgia properties and their most recognizable heroes and villains. Which means lots of crossovers condensing several titles into a handful of series.

Luo Binghe's origin always features him as a teenager, so he reboots as the youngest Avenger-equivalent team member in the new continuity. Even in this reboot, however, the writers still mostly go the gritty and dark route with his plots and stick to the same key developments -- his abandonment as an infant, his adoptive mother's tragic death, his tough life on the streets, abusive mentors and backstabbing "allies", and so on.

But Luo Binghe's life suddenly starts experiencing periods of dramatic change in his life when he's brought in for appearances in the lighter, friendlier world of the Junior Heroes continuity. After all, he's a natural choice for tying the two continuities together thanks to his youthfulness. Luo Binghe isn't consciously aware of the fact that he's moving between different titles and different writers. All he knows is that sometimes, when he hangs out with the bright and talented Ning Yingying, he's drawn into "conflicts" with Shen Qingqiu -- the kind of "villain" who will call for tea breaks, never actually hits anyone when he shoots his ray gun, leaves clues for all of his crimes, and can't seem to stop from imparting genuinely helpful advice in between his witty quips and taunts.

When Luo Binghe fights Shen Qingqiu, somehow he never actually gets hurt. Neither do any of his friends. The world in general seems brighter and lighter, as if there is some secret barrier protecting everyone from all the evils Binghe knows only too well exist in the rest of his life. Luo Binghe is increasingly convinced that Shen Qingqiu is the source of this mystical safety net. After all, for an allegedly powerful genius who is able to fool half the world about his wicked aims, he's never won a single fight against a kindhearted but somewhat ditzy teenager and her ragtag bunch of friends!

So what's he spending his actual energy on?

Luo Binghe is pretty sure it's keeping the real evils at bay. Making himself the biggest bad in town, and in doing that, making it so that the "biggest bad" is nothing worse than a slightly judgmental teacher in a pretty costume.

It's not long before Luo Binghe doesn't want to go back to the Justice League equivalent, to his world of misery and strife, even after his visits with Ning Yingying are supposed to be over. Especially as the global stakes of various heroic activities start getting higher, and it becomes clear that the boundary between Shen Qingqiu's safe world and the grimdark reality of Binghe's usual life are getting thinner...

[hoonieyun]

interview with a vampire

pairing: sim jaeyun x reader genre: vampire!jake x talk show host reader, suspense/thriller, angst, supernatural, internet forum theme (?) warnings: mentions of blood, neck biting and other vampire activities lol, reader is a skeptic and a bit mean, jake is a vampire so you know... kissing, suggestive, 18+ not proofread lol

synopsis: yn, the new face of late night tv has made a calling on centering her show on supernatural and paranormal activities and entities because of her skepticism. tonight, she faces a real life vampire on her show; intending to prove his existence: false.

wc: 3017

“places! filming in 3.. 2..” the director signals a hand that filming has begun and a bright red light turns on in the far corner that says, “filming in progress”. 

“hello, everyone. my name is yn, the host of spooky skeptics and i’m going to cut all of this introduction bullshit and go straight into it– tonight, we have a special guest.” you said confidently, a flirty and sassy attitude wrapped around your tongue as you go through the introduction of your show. 

“as you can see, our usual live studio audience is empty and that’s because we have a real life ‘vampire’ in the studio tonight. he’s been alive, or i guess, dead? –for thousands of years, allegedly, and has taken time out of his busy schedule of being an undead creature to come onto my little show.” you continued, putting emphasis on certain words like vampire, allegedly, and undead to push the narrative that you’re very skeptical and find none of this to be true. 

that was the premise of your show after all. 

spooky skeptics first started out as a little youtube show, you’d make video essays on paranormal and supernatural events and creatures which eventually led to you going insanely viral on the internet, landing you a gig as a tv show host. 

what started off as you being, in all honesty, a hater on the internet, turned into a full blown production on a tv set and filming lot. 

“i know there isn’t an audience tonight but we are streaming live to all of you at home, so… everyone watching at home please give a warm welcome to jaeyun..” you said, with a barely warm tone as you welcomed him on your show. his aura is strong as he steps onto the stage, he’s wearing a beige suit, hair slicked, and features sharp but he has a warm smile on his face. 

it was like he was overjoyed to be there. 

“hi, jaeyun. welcome to spooky skeptics; i’m– yn.. i know.” he says, cutting you off when you attempt to introduce yourself. it catches you a bit off guard but you don’t fully let it show because inside, you know it was just an attempt to throw you off. 

“please introduce yourself.” 

“hello world, i’m sim jaeyun; but all of you can just call me, jake.” he says, a mysterious smile on his face as he looks into the camera.

“wait! let’s cut! sorry we’re having weird transmission issues, give us a second.” a staff member calls from the back and everyone cuts. the light in the back is now green, indicating that filming has paused. you drop your cards with your script on the table with a bit of an aggravted sigh, slightly slouching into your chair as they try to figure out what’s going on. 

“you look a bit tired.. are you alright?” jake asks, turning his head towards you but his body remains still in position. 

you look up at jake and blink at him, not expecting the question. 

“what is that accent? australian?” you ask and he nods. 

you pout and nod at his response. 

“um.. no i’m not tired– well kinda. we did have to film pretty late today, per your request, but anything for the show, right?” you tilt your head, a bit of a condescending smile on your face as you answer him. 

jake had several requests before making his appearance on your show. 

1: limited witnesses, right now there was only you, the director, and 3 other staff members. 

2: filming would take place after midnight because you know… he’s a “vampire”

3: for you to be open to him even if you’re skeptical of his existence 

you had followed all of these rules, maybe the third one not as much, but you tried your best not to be so strong with your skepticism. 

“you're..” jake says, eyes boring into yours. 

“what?” you ask, not completely sure of what you heard. 

“okay! we’ve got it situated, let’s run it back.” the cameraman says and soon filming restarts, picking up where you left off. completely forgetting the small conversation you were just having with jake. 

filming goes on and you ask jake several questions, a regular interview routine, and he seems to answer them with a sense of grace and maturity; not completely playing into your games. you weren’t completely sure if jake was just toying with you but his answers seemed to run in circles just enough so that it sounds fundamental but doesn’t have an actual answer within it. 

as much as you wanted to take this seriously it felt like he treated this interview as if  it was a joke. he didn’t give definitive answers, often responded with questions of his own, and tried his best to make you look like a fool for not believing in him. 

“okay– none of this even makes sense. if we go off of basic vampire rules and such, then none of it is correct. we can see you on the cameras and mirrors; and quite frankly, i actually had garlic wafted through our ventilation system and you seem completely fine. 

jakey.. can i call you that? jakey– i’m sorry but i don’t think you’re a real life vampire because vampires. don’t. exist.” you say with a shrug punching each word at the end– a smug expression on your face as you grill into him for the false narrative that he’s presented on your show. 

“everyone at home, i’m going to be honest… this episode is a bust and– give.” jake interrupts you with a single word and your face instantly turns towards him. 

you give him a puzzled expression, head slightly tilted to one side. 

“what did you say?” 

jake shakes his head with a pout as if he hadn’t said anything and when you look towards your team, they’re all exchanging glances with each other like you were crazy. seemingly enough, they hadn’t heard anything the way you had. 

maybe it was because they weren’t sitting right next to him. 

“um.. anyways. okay, please give me and our viewers at home a bit of a run down on what it’s like being a ‘vampire’.” you say, putting air quotes around the word vampire. 

jake chuckles with a scoff, a half smirk on his face as he looks down before looking directly into the camera to speak. “you know, being a vampire isn’t all it's cut out to be. i have to remain hidden, nonexistent, and constantly waiting. 

i wish i could be like you, all of you, living my life the way i want to. indulging in my cravings the way you all do. give into temptations. unleashing my desires for the world to see.” 

his voice is low but clear. he speaks with a cadence similar to a tune; like a lullaby almost. you’d be lying if you didn’t feel like you were in a bit of trance as you listened to him speak but you shook that feeling off when he looked back at you before he finished speaking. 

“mine.” 

once again, you look at him with a puzzled look but you choose not to address it. you for sure heard him clearly, he had said mine but the word was out of place from his previous statement. your eyes are narrowed at him as you slowly pull up your cue cards, almost like a shield, however not one that is effective. 

“right.. um.” you start to stutter a bit, like the longer you’re in the presence of jake, the harder it gets to remain focused. you weren’t sure if it was because you were getting tired of the interview or if it was due to jake’s unnerving aura. 

he wasn’t even doing anything but his lack of energy was replaced with a certain ambience that shifted as soon as he stepped in front of the camera. jake was merely sitting on the small couch in front of your desk, one leg crossed over the other with his shoulders back and posture upright. he was looking directly at the camera in front of him and would only look at you when he was speaking to you. 

you couldn’t help but take in his features. despite claiming to be a vampire, his features were soft. he had big round eyes, one of like a puppy, plump lips that look like they’re stained by strawberries, and a tall nose that grounded all of his features together. 

if you weren’t trying to prove this man as a farce, you would’ve complimented his looks, but you had a character to uphold. 

“to..” 

he speaks before you get a chance to read the next thing on your card. 

“what?” 

jake doesn’t move or respond so you decide to continue. 

“um– so, tell us jake. is there anything you want the world to know about being a vampire? not that i totally believe you are one.” you added, widening your eyes in doubt. 

“i exist.” jake looks straight into the camera with a stoic expression. his face barely even contorts when he speaks, like a statue or a puppet of some sort. your cameraman had his camera focused on your guest, eyes glued onto him as he watched the alluring man in front of the camera. 

“ah, shit!” the cameraman exclaims out of nowhere. 

“is everything alright?” you ask

“yourself..” 

jake’s words don’t register in your mind as your focus is on your team. “fuck– my nose is bleeding. sorry guys, give me a moment.” the cameraman excuses himself, hands around his face as blood begins to drip from his nose, covering his hands in crimson. 

small droplets fall onto the floor, trailing behind him. 

jake swallows the lump in his throat, forcing himself to remain unphased– but deep inside he wanted nothing more than to jump from his seat and chase down your cameraman and drain him of all the blood in his body until he’s become shriveled up– nothing but bones and skin left behind. 

you clear your throat before continuing. 

“let’s cut.” you suggest and everyone takes a break but because the main cameraman was dealing with his bloody nose, no one shut off his camera. “you know, my goal isn’t to convince you that i’m real, right?” jake speaks up as you’re taking a sip of your coffee. 

“then what is your goal?” 

“yourself..” 

“what? your goal is.. me?” 

jake slowly turns his head towards you, gaze piercing into your own as you get a full view of his face. your bottom lip starts to tremble as you battle and try your best to hold his gaze. jake doesn’t speak for a second, almost like he’s challenging you in a staredown. his dark orbs were like a blackhole and the longer you looked into them the more you felt yourself getting pulled in. 

“me..” 

and suddenly jake is rising from his seat on the couch and sauntering over to you. like he was floating almost. you begin to lean back into your chair so much, wishing it would just swallow you whole as you watch jake get closer and closer.

“what are you doing?” your voice falters as you question him.

but jake doesn’t answer. each step he takes makes your heart thud louder. all the while, jake can hear it 100x more than you can. the blood rushing through your veins and coursing through your body is like a lullaby to him. drawing him closer and closer. 

you look to your team for help but suddenly there isn’t anyone there. the director sitting in his chair was gone, everyone behind the cameras and lights, gone. nothing but stale air and a slight ringing in the atmosphere as your eyes wander. 

jake slamming his hands on your wooden desk and throwing it away with a crash causes you to flinch. the loud sound and aggressive action startled you as jake was now towering over your shaking body. you tried not to look him directly in the eyes but when you turn away, jake’s hand flies to your chin and pulls your face towards his. 

“don’t look away now love, didn’t you want to know if i was real.” he says, his voice was still low but it felt different. before, he sounded calm and reserved, sometimes his inflection would raise but now it was like a whole other person had stepped into his body. he sounded playful, almost like he was toying with you. 

“do i look real to you?” jake says, lowering his face closer to yours. so close that you could feel his breath on your skin. 

you swallowed the dryness in your throat, frozen against his touch. jake’s skin was freezing. not just cold, but freezing. you felt your body’s temperature fall several degrees when you felt his hand touch your face. so cold that the room itself began to feel like there was a constant chill wafting in the studio. 

you were able to spit out a small no through your quivering lips but jake’s grip on your chin only gets tighter as you try to fight him off. he brings his face even closer, his cheek slightly grazing yours as he brings his lips closer to your ears. 

“what about now?” he whispers into your ear, lips ever so lightly brushing against the shell of your ear as his words pool inside of your head. before you could answer, sharp fangs elongate inside of jake’s mouth and a searing pain in your neck causes you to gasp, an agonizing moan escapes from your lips. 

jake was indulging in your blood and you could feel all of your blood swimming towards his lips that are attached to your neck. you begin to get light headed, the studio lights above you getting brighter and brighter the longer jake sucks onto the supple skin of your neck. the fear rages through you and it only makes jake’s meal taste even sweeter. 

he smiles into your skin before pulling away. 

blood drips from his mouth as he looks down at you, eyes drooping and head bobbing around, trying your best to stay conscious– but you eventually succumb to the feeling. 

“delicious.” jake whispers. 

he stands up straight, fingers gently trailing over your lips before he dusts off his blazer. later wiping the blood off of his face and sucking the excess blood off of his skin. red, staining his face as your sweet and vibrant blood is smeared across his chin. his head slowly turns to the camera like an owl. 

a sinister smile slowly spreads across his face as the cameras suddenly cut, nothing left on the screen’s of the viewer’s watching at home. 

⸸

r/Supernatural Did you guys see this week’s episode of Spooky Skeptics? WTF was that?  submitted by: QuackPuma PrettyFoxPrince I saw it!! That was so crazy?? You think it was real? I doubt it, then we’d hear all about it on the news right? OrangeCatNyaaa That was so fake. I love YN and Spooky Skeptics but that episode was so whack.  BambiBoy God, that was insane. I hope YN is fine and that this was all a prank or something. Anyone find any updates on that guy by the way? I tried looking into him but I didn’t get anything besides some articles from the 1600s that were in a random ass language.  PrettyFoxPrince in reply to BambiBoy I tried to look him up too and didn’t get anything. I even tried reverse image searching him with a screenshot from the stream and I swear it gave me a virus or something. The words on my computer turned into random characters and when I refreshed the page it just said error.  IcePenguin Did you guys catch this? Whenever he’d say a random word, YN would look hella confused and I watched back the stream and put the words together. It took a bit of time but I was able to mix the words around and came up with this, “You’re mine. Give yourself to me.”  Fucking weird dude.  BlackCatShadow in reply to IcePenguin Bro, what the fuck!! I just tried to rewatch the stream and it fucking crashed midway and when I refreshed it was gone. Someone needs to check in on them.  QuackPuma [NEW] Guys, I got an update. This is so fucked… I can’t believe it.  Article Linked: Late Night TV Show Host and staff found slaughtered on their TV set. Footage from cameras and security cameras on the premesis have been wiped. OrangeCatNyaaa in reply to QuackPuma What? That makes no sense, there’s a whole stream of it.  IcePenguin in reply to QuackPuma Yeah, that weirdo vampire guy named Jake did it?? Why is no one talking about him?? He’s a fucking murderer!! PrettyFoxPrince in reply to IcePenguin Who is Jake? That stream literally doesn’t have anyone on the screen besides YN?? She was probably tweaking the whole time and made it all up.  BlackCatShadow in reply to IcePenguin Bro, you’re tripping. I just watched the stream again and it’s just YN talking to an empty couch. Are you sure you aren’t behind this too? This is probably a publicity stunt or some shit. LAME! BambiBoy in reply to IcePenguin Ain’t shit there bro. YN probably hired you to come up with this hoax because her show was starting to flop. Click the link QuackPuma sent, they literally talk about a wild animal breaking onto their set. 

That was the very last episode of Spooky Skeptics. YN’s show on YouTube had 100 videos and her Late Night Show lasted for 2 seasons. 

The episode titled “Interview with a Vampire” was only up for one hour after the stream ended, suddenly disappearing from the internet– and when it returned at exactly 6am, the footage only shows YN seemingly interviewing nobody when static interference cuts the interview for 27 minutes before returning to normal. The sight of the aftermath of the slaughter remains on the screen for the rest of the playback before the screen goes black. 

⸸

ᡣ•.•𐭩♡ @pagemiah @jiiyen @jnysaln @xh01bri @rairaiblog @laurradoesloveu @manaah02 @zorange13 @firstclassjaylee @kristynaaah @17ericas @heeseung64 @leipforggy

copyright 2025 - present © hoonieyun all rights reserved all writing here is fiction & not in any association with characters mentioned. if you enjoyed reading this please consider reblogging and following <3

[vee-thebee]

okay anyway. alchemy. alchemy is the big thing in tmagp. balance is huge in alchemy. it is literally the basis of almost everything in it. tria prima--balance the three primes and you can do anything from turning lead into gold to raising the fucking dead.

the oiar is trying to keep everything in balance for the good of the people. lena herself says that in 13. to keep everything going and in check, the "opposing forces" need to be monitored and balanced. they manage the externals and monitor potential externals cases to make sure things are within a reasonable margin of chaos, maybe? that's why they give them specific assignments. bonzo and mowbray and possibly ink5oul if they'd said yes. you can still do all these things to 'feed' (lady mowbray declining refreshments because she'd recently eaten right after we hear a casement about her) but we're gonna tell you who to feed on because we need to monitor it and keep it balanced.

the magnus institute in this universe was heavily focused on alchemy. sam's whole thing that he saw at the institute where that dude just,,, shed his skin after fucking up some kind of experiment, over a person that was "naked and pale and still". maybe dr welling was trying to bring that person back to life?

when isaac newton got a little too crazy with alchemy, a couple of roberts said "hey, we need to Protocol this dude". it disturbed the "precarious equilibrium". threw something off balance. balance balance balance. throwing something off balance means enacting the protocol.

they talk about the great plague of london, enacting the protocol against the entire city. the great fire of london was in 1666, which is also when the great plague is said to have ended. isaac newton's lab caught fire, allegedly after his dog knocked a candle over. ironically in this context, the dog's name was diamond.

the magnus institute burned down.

i don't actually think a "magnus protocol" exists. i don't think there's a specific protocol named after the institute. i think it's a misnomer, we're thinking of it wrong. after all, the protocol is being referenced as existing as far back as the 1660's, but jonah's notes were dated 1845.

i think the Magnus Protocol is in reference to an incident. the enacting of The Protocol against the Magnus Institute. and i think the reason that any cases or information regarding "the magnus protocol" are blocked is because the OIAR is connected to the protocol being put into motion against the Institute and they don't want anyone knowing about it (the office used to be associated with starkwall--maybe?? maybe the oiar loaded the gun and starkwall pulled the trigger?)

there's so many moving parts here and i'm struggling to put them all together without a god damn corkboard and red string.

[solsticehymns]

limited edition: drabble

james potter x f!reader / fluff / happy birthday jamesie poo ily <3

summary: It’s James’ birthday, and you’ve made him something golden, glittery, and entirely him—a gift to immortalize the boy who already shines brighter than the sun.

a/n: this was entirely self-indulgent, i saw other ppl posting bday blurbs for james and thought: i wanna do one!!! so this is my take on being a sappy crafty girlfriend bc i think that's what he deserves. hehehe enjoy bbys, sunny ☀️🌻

wc: 777 (angel numbers hello??? i swear i didn't do that on purpose)

You stride into the Great Hall with a grin that threatens to split your face. James notices you immediately—he always does—and he brightens instantly, like someone switched on a light in him. He starts to rise from the bench, already leaning toward you, his curls messier than usual, tie askew, a sleepy smile tugging at his lips. Even the morning seems to be treating him gently today.

Sunlight streams through the tall windows, casting warm, golden lines across the table and illuminating his hair like it was designed to reflect light. The whole space glows—but you can’t quite tell whether it's the sun or James himself lighting the room. Maybe they're indistinguishable. Maybe he's always been composed of light, and you’re simply fortunate enough to exist in his orbit.

You stop in front of him, hands tucked deliberately behind your back.

"There’s my birthday boy," you say, your voice soft and lyrical, like the melody of something cherished.

James looks at you as though you’ve handed him the cosmos. He leans forward to kiss you—tender, instinctual, like he's greeting a dream he's not ready to wake from. He smells of cinnamon toast and the warmth of sleep, and when his thumb brushes your jaw, it feels very purposeful, a reverent act, as if he's memorizing you.

You return the kiss slowly, with the familiarity of something well-loved. When you part, his eyes remain closed, reluctant to release the moment.

"I brought you something," you whisper.

James peers at you through his lashes, amusement and curiosity dancing in his expression. "What’s this? Another love letter? A restraining order?"

"Open it."

You produce the card from behind your back and hand it to him. He accepts it like it’s spectral, like it might vanish if he’s not careful. He opens it—and freezes.

Then: "No bloody way—"

It’s a hand-crafted Chocolate Frog card. The border gleams gold and glittery (Lily had shown you a trick to bewitch the glitter to stop it from spreading everywhere), and in the center is a moving photo of him mid-Quidditch dive, hair windswept, cheeks flushed, smiling like he’s flying on joy alone. He gazes at it, visibly overwhelmed.

Beneath the photo, in your deliberate, curling handwriting:

James Potter (b. 1960) Renowned Gryffindor Chaser. Known for his record-breaking speed, his signature wink, and his heart of gold—which, allegedly, belongs entirely to the girl who made this card. Fiercely loyal, devastatingly charming, and prone to acts of ridiculous bravery (like falling in love).

He says nothing for a moment, just stares. Turns the card over once or twice in his fingers, appreciating the front and back equally.

"I don't have words," James says at last, cradling the card like it might crumble under the weight of how much it means. His voice cracks halfway through. "You made me a Chocolate Frog card. With stats."

"I did," you say, glowing with pride. "You’re a limited edition. Happy birthday."

He blinks rapidly, fighting off emotion. His fingers lightly trace the gilded border. "This is the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever given me. Ever."

You smirk. "Even better than Sirius’ ‘Kiss the Birthday Boy’ badge?"

"Infinitely better," he replies, pulling you close again, arms wrapping around you as if he’s anchoring himself to this moment. "You’ve officially immortalized me."

"As you should be," you murmur, brushing your nose gently against his, your smile aching with sincerity.

He glances again at the card, like it validates something sacred—that he is loved deeply, without condition.

"You make me feel like I’m everything," he says. "Even when I’m just me."

You kiss the edge of his mouth, smile pressed soft to skin. "You're my everything, birthday boy."

He tucks the card inside his robe with care, then takes your hand, threading his fingers through yours like it’s second nature.

You sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder, legs nudging beneath the table. Around you, the Great Hall stirs with the sound of breakfast and sleepy chatter, but it all fades into background static. James watches only you—like you’re his wish, already granted.

He lifts your joined hands to his lips. "Best birthday ever," he murmurs.

"You always say that."

"That’s because you keep making it true."

You laugh gently and rest your head against his shoulder. For a moment, the world is hushed and golden. Just the two of you, cradled in something secret and safe—held in quiet reverence.

And James Potter—a little older, a little softer, and incomprehensibly adored—holds onto it all like it’s the rarest kind of magic. Because it is. Because it’s you.

The morning sun, jealous as ever, spills light across the table, trying to keep up with him.

☀️🌻 masterlist

[honeydippedfiction]

Can I get 15. "eyes open. keep looking." and 16. ^ and in the mirror--it's their large hand splayed across your abdomen, another wrapped around your perking nip. as they thrust into you, hard, slow, deep. their teeth sinking into ur neck.

with Joe and Angel, I just know they're nastyyy🤪

Listened to ‘Maybe’ by Teyana Taylor while writing this so everyone say thank you Teyana for the inspo

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

#15. "eyes open. keep looking." & #16. and in the mirror--it's their large hand splayed across your abdomen, another wrapped around your perking nip. as they thrust into you, hard, slow, deep. their teeth sinking into ur neck.

Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

It was supposed to be a chill weekend.

With baby Zariyah gone to spend two blissful days with Joe’s parents—Robin and Jimmy, who were beyond thrilled to take over spoiling duties—the Burrow household had finally fallen into rare, golden silence. No bottles to warm, no 3 a.m. wake-up cries, no schedules to juggle. Just peace. Glorious peace.

Joe had made plans, quiet ones. Sleep in. Watch a little film. Maybe grill something. Wrap Angel in a blanket and cuddle until neither of them knew what day it was. It was supposed to be recovery—for both of them.

But by noon, Joe was starting to realize something: Angel had no intention of letting him enjoy any of it.

From the moment she rolled over that morning, her attitude had been locked in. Petty. Sharp. The kind of bratty that didn’t come from actual frustration—it came from intent.

“You breathing loud again,” she muttered from her side of the bed, voice low and gravelly with sleep, but lined with attitude like sharp eyeliner.

Joe blinked, still half-asleep. “What?”

“I said you breathing loud. Sound like a busted radiator.”

He frowned, turning his head toward her on the pillow. “I was asleep.”

“Exactly.” She yanked the blanket tighter around her like he’d committed some great offense simply by existing.

Joe stared at the ceiling for a long beat. Okay…

He let it slide. For now.

The day went on like that. Little digs. Passive-aggressive comments with a smile. Petty nonsense that she served up like appetizers at a dinner party. At first, Joe let it slide. He knew Angel. Knew when she got this way it was usually about something deeper—or nothing at all. But this time, there was no mystery. No hidden frustration. She was just… acting up.

On purpose.

•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ

Later, he padded into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, hoping coffee might at least smooth things over.

Angel was already there. Perched on the counter in one of his old LSU hoodies—bare-legged, smug, and scrolling her phone like she was too cute to be guilty. She sipped from her mug without looking up.

“Morning,” Joe offered.

She made a noncommittal sound in response. Something between a hum and a hmmph.

He tried again. “I made coffee. Want some of mine?”

She finally looked up, blinking slow. “Did you put that dusty almond milk in it?”

“No. I used the new one.”

She took a sip of her own drink, then wrinkled her nose dramatically. “Well, mine still nasty. Probably your fault. You opened the fridge too long yesterday.”

Joe squinted. “What does that even mean?”

“Means now everything taste like fridge air and disappointment.” She hopped down, walked past him, and added, just loud enough, “Don’t nobody ask you to help and you still messing stuff up.”

Joe turned, confused, but she was already halfway back to the living room.

That was round one.

•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ

An hour later, Joe tried to lose himself in film. He pulled up Week 5’s offensive breakdown and plugged in his AirPods. Angel was curled up on the couch beside him, allegedly watching TV—but what she was really doing was finding ways to drive him to the brink of madness without ever raising her voice.

First, she stole the throw blanket from his lap with no explanation.

Then, she took the last two slices of the cinnamon toast she knew he had been saving.

And finally, when he got up to go switch the laundry over, he came back to find the remote gone.

“Angel.”

She didn’t look up from her phone. “Hmm?”

“Where’s the remote?”

“Oh.” She paused for a beat, chewing her nail. “I think I dropped it behind the couch.”

Joe gave her a look. “You think?”

“Or maybe I put it in the laundry basket with the whites. Thought it was a sock.”

He stared at her, deadpan. “You put the remote control in the laundry?”

She shrugged with the exact amount of indifference that could drive a man to madness. “Don’t act like you use it. You just watch the same plays over and over. Ball. Throw. Catch. Repeat.”

He took a slow breath. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Angel turned her head and finally gave him her full attention. That familiar gleam was in her eyes—trouble, dressed up as flirtation. “I do. Question is… do you?”

•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ

Later that morning, Joe tried to get a jump on laundry while Angel scrolled through her phone on the couch, pretending not to watch him.

He held up one of his favorite hoodies—the gray Bengals one with the frayed cuffs.

“Why is this in the bottom of the hamper?”

Angel barely glanced over. “Zariyah spit up on it. I used it to wipe the floor.”

Joe looked at her like she’d just confessed to a crime. “You used this as a mop?”

“It was right there,” she said with a shrug. “Quick reflexes. You should be proud.”

“That hoodie is from my rookie year.”

“And? You got a whole closet of free gear. You’ll live.”

Joe closed his eyes and took a slow breath. She’s trying to get under your skin, he reminded himself. Don’t let her win.

He tossed the hoodie back into the hamper and walked away.

Angel smirked.

Round one: her.

•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ

By early afternoon, Joe was back on the couch, trying to reset the day. He figured if he could just carve out an hour—maybe two—to review some film, he could salvage some peace. Angel had drifted into her own little world, tucked into the corner of the sectional with snacks and a blanket, one leg draped over the armrest like she owned the place. Which, in many ways, she did.

Joe slipped on his noise-canceling headphones, pulled up game tape from Week 5 on his iPad, and settled in. All he needed was silence. Just enough to dissect a few coverages, double-check a couple reads.

But it didn’t take long for Angel’s show—some chaotic reality series where every scene sounded like a wine-fueled argument— to start bleeding through the headphones.

He paused the video with a sigh, pulling one earbud off. “Babe,” he said, turning toward her, “can you turn that down just a little?”

Angel didn’t even glance at the remote. “You got headphones in.”

“They’re noise-canceling,” he said, with measured patience, “not chaos-canceling.”

Angel slowly turned her head, one brow raised with deliberate sass. “You mad because my show got drama or because yours is boring?”

Joe blinked. “I’m mad because I can’t hear my tight end’s route because some girl named Shayla is screaming about her eyelash business.”

She scoffed, unapologetic. “Well, maybe Shayla got bills to pay. Unlike some people, she can’t afford to sit around analyzing football all day.”

Joe’s jaw ticked. “I don’t sit around, Angel. This is my job.”

Angel fluffed her pillow, adjusting it behind her like she was settling in for a long, loud binge. “Mmm. And this is my couch. I pay rent in sass and vibes.”

Joe dropped his head back with an exasperated groan. “I’m not asking you to go mute. Just lower the volume like… two notches.”

She turned back to the screen and, with all the exaggerated flair in the world, hit the volume up instead. The surround sound blared a high-pitched “YOU AIN’T GON’ DISRESPECT ME IN MY HOUSE” from Shayla, just to hammer it in.

“Seriously?” he said, sitting up straighter.

“Seriously,” she echoed, cool and unbothered. “But feel free to go in the guest room if it’s that serious.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

Angel finally glanced over again. Her expression was smug, unbothered, her whole body language reading what are you gonna do about it?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, voice saccharine. “I’m just minding my business. Watching my stories.”

Joe stared at her, the tension starting to settle into his shoulders. Not angry—but definitely annoyed. She knew exactly what she was doing. She wasn’t just being difficult. She was playing with him. Poking the bear. Testing how far she could go before he snapped.

Round two?

Definitely hers again.

•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ

A few minutes passed. Joe didn’t bother restarting the film. He knew there was no point. Angel had kicked her feet up now, her legs stretched out across the cushions like a queen on her throne. She reached into the bag of Hot Cheetos next to her, crunching obnoxiously as she side-eyed him through her lashes.

“Hey,” she said, casual as ever.

“What?” he muttered.

“You left the fridge open earlier. Everything’s warm now. Might wanna double-check your almond milk before you start blaming me again.”

Joe turned his head slowly. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m adorable,” she corrected.

“You’re a menace.”

Angel smirked, licking red dust from her fingers. “And yet… you still married me.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but then stopped himself, catching the way her lips curled at the corners—the faintest glint of challenge in her eyes. She was baiting him. Hard. And the worst part? She was enjoying every second of it.

That realization settled in his chest like a match on dry leaves.

She wanted a reaction.

And if she kept going like this… she was going to get one.

•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ

By dinnertime, Joe was running on fumes.

The kind of mental exhaustion that didn’t come from workouts or playbooks, but from one beautiful, petty little storm of a woman who had clearly made it her mission to test every ounce of his restraint.

He’d stayed calm longer than he thought possible. All day, Angel had poked, pushed, and prodded. The smirks. The side-eyes. The backhanded compliments. And the worst part? She did it all with that same effortless confidence, like she was swatting flies for sport.

He walked into the kitchen with the vague hope that a quiet meal might buy him a few minutes of peace. Maybe food would reset the mood. Ground them both.

But the second he opened the fridge, that idea died.

There, stacked neatly on the top shelf, were three sushi containers. His favorites, even. Tuna, shrimp tempura, avocado rolls. Perfectly chilled. Perfectly untouched.

But there were only three containers—and none of them were for him.

“You ordered food?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Mmhmm.” Angel didn’t even look up from her phone. She was sitting at the table, one leg crossed over the other, typing away like she hadn’t just committed the ultimate disrespect.

Joe shut the fridge door slowly, deliberately. “And didn’t get me anything?”

“You were busy,” she replied with a nonchalant shrug. “Didn’t want to interrupt your little quarterback study session.”

Joe turned, leveling a look at her. “I’ve been home. All. Day.”

She glanced up then, smile faint and maddeningly fake. “I didn’t think you’d want sushi. You’re always talking about mercury levels. Brain health. All that boring stuff.”

He walked over to the table, jaw tight, frustration starting to simmer just beneath his carefully built surface. He didn’t speak right away—just stared at her, like he was trying to read between the lines of her expression.

Angel finally set her phone down, folded her arms, and met his gaze head-on.

“You’ve been doing this on purpose,” he said.

She tilted her head, mock-innocent. “Doing what?”

“Acting like a brat. All day. You’ve been trying to piss me off.”

Angel leaned back in her chair slowly, the smugness in her expression blooming like a satisfied cat. “Maybe I have,” she said. “What you gonna do about it?”

Joe stepped in, closing some of the space between them, shoulders squaring. “Why?”

She stood up too—deliberate, calm. Not backing down, not flinching. She moved toward him like a challenge incarnate, the edge of her voice dropping into something softer, silkier, yet still taunting.

“Because,” she said, stopping just inches from him, “you’ve been walking around here all peaceful and patient. Quiet. Like you don’t see me. Like I’m just background noise.”

Joe blinked. “You think I don’t see you?”

“I know you do.” Her voice dipped lower now. “But you’ve been treating me like I’m some tired wife with spit-up on her shirt and oatmeal in her hair. I wanted to remind you I’m still me. I still need attention.”

“This was your way of asking for attention?” he asked, voice low, incredulous.

Angel smiled then—but it wasn’t sweet. It was the kind of smile that came with danger. Daring. A trap that she knew he would step into. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Joe stared at her, jaw clenching harder. “You really wanna test me right now?”

Angel lifted her chin, gaze steady, unblinking. “I’ve been testing you all day, baby. The real question is—how long you gonna let me?”

That was it.

That was the moment the tension snapped like a stretched rubber band. Joe moved before he had time to think it through. One hand gripped her waist, yanking her close. The other slid up the back of her neck, into the thick curls she’d piled into a loose bun that was now slipping free.

His voice dropped, rough and warning. “You sure you’re ready for what you’ve been begging for?”

Her breath hitched—but there was no fear in her face. Just desire. Hunger. Victory. She’d poked the bear until it finally turned—and she loved that it was her who brought it out.

“I’ve been ready, Joseph,” she whispered, voice velvet. “You’re the one who's been dragging your feet.”

His eyes darkened. “Say one more slick thing.”

Angel’s grin widened, slow and triumphant. “Make me.”

And that was all he needed.

Joe didn’t just respond—he reacted. He pulled her flush against him, locking her in place with the kind of intensity he’d been holding back all day. Every little comment, every eye-roll, every subtle jab had been leading to this. She’d wanted the fire behind the calm. The man behind the quarterback.

And now she had him.

Fully.

Completely.

Undeniably.

Angel had pushed every button he had. Poked every nerve. And now, as she found herself exactly where she wanted to be—held in place, breath short, eyes wide with anticipation—she knew one thing for certain.

She was finally being put back in her place.

And she was loving every second of it.

Joe moved his hand from the nape of her neck to the front of her throat—not gripping, not squeezing, just placing it there. Wrapping around it. Not enough to even slightly cut off her air supply, but enough to make it clear that he could.

It was enough to send a wave of heat straight to her core.

“You wanna play this game, babygirl?” he murmured, eyes boring into hers. “You think you can take it?”

“I know I can,” she replied, voice steady despite the tremble in her legs. She couldn’t help but smirk. “In fact, I’m gonna win it.”

That earned a snort from Joe, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Big words for someone who can’t even last five minutes without running that pretty little mouth of hers.”

Angel felt the challenge spark between them, hot and immediate. “Then why don’t you shut me up?” she said, voice dropping to a taunt. “If you can.”

Something feral lit in Joe’s eyes, and before Angel could take another breath, she was being turned around, her back flush against his chest. She could feel his erection pressing against her lower back, hard and thick through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. His hand stayed at her throat, keeping her in place, while the other gripped her hip, holding her close.

“Is this what you wanted?” Joe growled, his breath hot against her ear. “You wanted me to lose control, didn’t you? You wanted me to snap.”

Angel licked her lips, her heart pounding. “Maybe I did,” she breathed. “Maybe I wanted to see the real Joe. Not the controlled quarterback, not the calm, composed husband. I wanted the man underneath it all.”

She could feel his grip tighten on her hip, his fingers digging into her skin. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he warned. “The man underneath it all? He’s not always pretty. He’s got rough edges, dirty thoughts, and a hunger that never quite goes away.”

Angel shivered, a thrill running down her spine. “Then show me,” she whispered. “Show me all of it.”

Joe let out a low growl, his hand moving from her hip to the front of her thighs, pushing them apart. “Spread your legs,” he ordered, and Angel complied without hesitation, her breath coming faster now.

His hand slid up, fingers tracing along the seam of her leggings, finding the wet spot between her legs. “Look at you,” he murmured. “Already soaked for me, aren’t you? So ready to be fucked.”

Angel couldn’t speak, her voice caught in her throat. All she could do was nod, her hips moving involuntarily against his hand.

Joe chuckled, the sound low and dark. “But you don’t get to come that easy, babygirl. Not this time. This time, you’re gonna work for it.”

Angel felt a surge of heat at his words, but she couldn’t help but push a little more. “Work for it?” she repeated, glancing at him over her shoulder. “I thought you were going to shut me up, not make me work.”

Joe’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint in them. “That’s it,” he growled. In one swift motion, he picked her up, tossing her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing. Angel let out a surprised squeal, her legs kicking instinctively.

“Joe! What the hell—”

But he ignored her protests, carrying her out of the dining room and down the hall to their bedroom. Angel’s heart raced, her mind buzzing with anticipation and excitement. She’d pushed him, and now he was pushing back.

Hard.

Joe kicked the bedroom door open, then slammed it shut behind him. He set Angel down on her feet, then sat down on the edge of the bed, looking up at her with dark, hungry eyes.

“Strip,” he said, his voice low, not playing around.

Angel felt a shiver run down her spine, but she didn’t hesitate. She reached for the hem of her shirt, slowly lifting it over her head. Joe’s eyes followed her every move, drinking in the sight of her exposed skin.

“Faster,” he ordered, his voice rough.

Angel bit her lip, her hands moving to the waistband of her leggings. She hooked her thumbs underneath and began to push them down, slowly revealing her panties. Joe’s eyes locked onto the sight, his jaw clenching.

“Keep going,” he said, his voice strained.

Angel stepped out of her leggings, then reached back to unclasp her bra. She let it fall to the floor, her breasts bouncing free. Joe’s gaze was fixed on them, his eyes dark with desire.

“Panties too,” he said, his voice husky.

Angel complied, sliding her panties down her legs and stepping out of them. She stood before him completely naked, her heart pounding, her body trembling with anticipation.

Joe didn’t move for a long moment, just looked at her, his eyes roaming over every inch of her exposed skin. Angel felt exposed, vulnerable, but also incredibly turned on. She’d never seen Joe look at her like this before, with such raw, unfiltered desire.

“Come here,” he finally said, his voice low.

Angel took a step forward, her legs trembling. Joe reached out, gripping her hips and pulling her closer. He looked up at her, his eyes locked on hers.

“You wanted to know the real me?” he said, his voice dark. “This is it. This is the man you married. Now bend over my knee.”

Angel felt a surge of excitement mixed with a hint of fear. She knew what Joe had in mind, and while part of her was nervous, another part of her—the part that had been poking and prodding all day—was eager to see where this would go.

She bent over Joe’s knee, her ass up in the air, her face burning. Joe’s hand rubbed over her buttocks, the touch firm but gentle.

“You ready, babygirl?” he asked, his voice low.

“Ready for what?” Angel shot back, her sass coming through even in her vulnerable position.

Joe’s hand stilled, then he brought it down hard on her ass. Angel let out a yelp, her body jerking at the sudden impact.

“What was that?” Joe asked, his voice firm.

Angel bit her lip, trying to catch her breath. “I’m ready,” she said, her voice muffled.

Joe’s hand rubbed over the spot he’d just spanked, the touch soothing. “Good girl,” he murmured. Then, without warning, he brought his hand down again, this time on her other cheek.

Angel let out a moan, her hips moving instinctively. Joe spanked her again, and again, each blow landing in a different spot. Angel’s ass began to burn, the pain mixing with pleasure.

“You gonna keep being a brat?” Joe asked, his hand pausing to rub over her heated skin.

Angel nodded, her eyes squeezing shut. “Yes,” she whispered.

Joe let out a low laugh. “We’ll see about that,” he said. And then he started again, his hand coming down hard and fast, alternating between her cheeks.

Angel’s moans filled the room, her body jerking with each impact. The pain was intense, but so was the pleasure. She could feel her pussy throbbing, wetness dripping down her thighs.

After what felt like an eternity, Joe stopped. Angel lay over his knee, panting, her ass on fire.

“How many was that?” Joe asked, his hand rubbing over her sore skin.

Angel tried to think, but her mind was fuzzy. “I… I don’t know,” she admitted.

Joe let out a sigh. “Then I guess we’ll have to start over,” he said.

Angel groaned, but before she could protest, Joe started again. This time, he made her count out loud.

 “One,” she said after the first spank. “Two,” after the second. She made it all the way to eight before losing count again.

Joe sighed again. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

Angel shook her head, her face burning with embarrassment.

“Well, we can’t have that,” Joe said. “So for every time you lose count, you get five more.”

Angel groaned again, but didn’t protest. She knew she’d asked for this, and a part of her wanted it—wanted to be pushed, wanted to feel the sting of Joe’s hand on her ass.

•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ

Joe made her start over three more times before he finally stopped. By then, Angel’s ass was bright red, the skin hot to the touch. She lay over his knee, breathing hard, her body trembling.

Joe’s hand moved over her sore flesh, then dipped between her legs. Angel let out a gasp as his fingers traced over her slit, feeling her wetness.

“You’re soaked,” Joe murmured, his fingers teasing her entrance. “So wet for me, even after all that.”

“You want to come, babygirl?” Joe asked, his fingers continuing their torment. He circled her clit with one fingertip, feather-light. Angel jerked at the touch, a small sound escaping her.

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Please, I need it.”

He chuckled, the sound low and dark. “I know what you need. But do you know what I need?” He didn’t wait for her to respond, dipping two fingers inside her again. Angel’s back arched, a whimper escaping her lips.

“You need to admit it,” Joe continued, his fingers moving just enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. “Tell me what you are.”

Angel frowned, confusion cutting through the haze of pleasure. “What I am? What are you—”

“You know what I’m talking about,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “Tell me why you’ve been acting out all day.”

Angel bit her lip, trying to focus through the pleasure. “Because I… I wanted your attention?” It came out like a question, uncertain.

Joe shook his head, fingers stilling. “No, that’s not it. Try again.”

She squirmed under him, trying to get him to move his fingers. “I was bored?”

Another shake of his head. “Wrong again.”

“Then tell me!” Angel snapped, frustration mounting.

Joe leaned down, his face inches from hers. “You’re a brat, Angel. You love pushing my buttons because you want me to put you in your place. You want me to remind you who’s in charge. Admit it.”

Angel glared up at him, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of anger and desire. “Fuck you, Joseph.”

But even as she said it, she knew he was right. She had wanted to push him. She’d craved this—his intensity, his dominance. She’d missed it, truth be told. With the baby, they hadn’t had much time for anything like this. And she’d been getting a little… restless.

Joe’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t get angry like she expected. Instead, he just sighed, resigned. “Alright, Angel. If that’s how you want to play it…” He pulled his fingers out of her, ignoring her whimper of protest.

“Joe, wait—” but she didn’t get to finish. In one smooth move, he threw her to land in the middle of their bed, flipped over on her back, pulling her to the edge. Before she could even process the move, he’d knelt on the floor.

He found his home between her thighs, and he made sure she knew it. Every lick, every suck, every tease was deliberate. It was a promise of what was to come—and a punishment for what she’d put him through. Angel had wanted a reaction? She had it. And more was yet to come.

Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him grunt against her pussy. The sound vibrated through her, drawing a guttural moan from her throat. He licked a broad stripe from her entrance to her clit, slow, savoring the taste of her. The way she shuddered, the way her breath caught—it was all fuel to the fire he’d been stoking all day.

Angel gasped, hips bucking involuntarily. Joe’s hands clamped down on them, holding her still with a grip that was anything but gentle. She tried to move, to grind against his mouth, but he was immovable. His control was absolute—and she hated how much it turned her on.

“Joe, please—” she broke off with a sharp cry as he sucked her clit between his lips, tongue flicking mercilessly. Her thighs trembled around his head, the muscles taut with the effort of staying still.

He pulled away, a string of spit still connecting his lips to her pussy. “Please, what? Tell me exactly what you want, Angel.” His voice was a dark rumble, eyes glinting with a mixture of desire and something far more dangerous.

Angel’s chest heaved, trying to catch her breath. “I want—I need—” She couldn’t find the words, her mind a haze of pleasure and need. But she didn’t have to find them. Because Joe knew. He always knew.

And with that, he leaned down and licked a long, hot stripe from her entrance to her clit. Angel cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair.

Joe didn’t stop there. He continued to lick and suck her, his tongue delving inside her and then moving up to circle her clit. Angel writhed beneath him, her hips bucking up to meet his mouth.

“Joe,” she cried. “Oh god, Joe. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Joe hummed against her, the vibration sending shocks of pleasure through her body. He continued to eat her out, his tongue and lips working her into a frenzy.

Angel was close, so close. She could feel her orgasm building, coiling tight in her belly. She was almost there, just a little more…

But then Joe pulled away. Angel cried out in frustration, her hips chasing his mouth. But Joe held her down, his grip firm on her thighs.

“Not yet,” he said, his voice husky. “You don’t get to come yet, babygirl. You have to wait until I say so.”

Angel whined, her entire body shaking with need. “Please, Daddy,” she begged. “I need to come. Please let me come.”

Joe smirked, his thumb brushing over her clit. “Not yet, we have all night. And I plan to take my time with you,” he repeated. “But soon. I promise.”

Without another word, he dove back in. This time, there was nothing teasing about it. It was all consuming, relentless. His tongue worked her clit in tight, focused circles while his fingers pressed inside her, curling just so. Angel arched off the bed, back bowed in a perfect arc of pleasure.

“Yes, yes, yes—” she chanted, hips moving of their own accord now. Joe let her, one hand releasing her hip to grip her thigh instead, spreading her wider. He sucked her clit harder, fingers thrusting in time with his tongue.

She was close. So close. She could feel it building, that coiling tension in her lower belly, the sparks of pleasure that started at her core and spread out to her fingertips. She was almost there—

Joe stopped. Pulled back completely, leaving her empty and gasping. His fingers slipped out of her with a wet sound that made her face burn with embarrassment and need.

She propped herself up on her elbows, glaring at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious.” He leaned in, crowding her space until she was flat on her back again. His weight pressed her into the mattress, his erection hard against her hip. “You’ve been a little brat all day, Angel. Pushing my buttons, testing my patience.” He nipped her lower lip, none too gently. “Now it’s time to take your punishment.”

Angel’s breath hitched, a thrill of excitement mixed with trepidation racing through her. She knew that tone, that look in his eyes. He wasn’t joking. And as much as she wanted to keep pushing, to see how far she could go… part of her wanted this. Wanted to give in, to let him take control.

Because when Joe took control, it was never just about him. It was about her pleasure, her needs, her desires. It was about pushing her boundaries and bringing her to heights she hadn’t known existed. It was about trust and vulnerability and connection on a level that transcended the physical.

And right now, she wanted that connection more than she wanted to keep fighting.

She whined in frustration, her hips bucking against his hand. “Please touch me,” she begged. “Please make me come.”

Joe’s chuckle was dark and sinful. “You’ll come when I’m good and ready for you to come,” he said. “Now be a good girl and take what I give you.”

Joe didn’t let her rest for long. His hand slipped between her legs, his fingers finding her clit. Angel let out a moan, her head falling back.

Angel wanted to argue, wanted to push back, but the way Joe’s fingers were moving between her legs made it impossible for her to think straight. She could feel her orgasm building, could feel it just out of reach, and she was desperate for it.

•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ

Joe kept her on edge for what felt like hours, his fingers teasing her, bringing her close to the edge, only to pull back every time. His mouth found her, tasting her, devouring her, but always stopping just before she could tip over into climax. He played her body like an instrument, knowing exactly which buttons to press, which strings to pull.

He looked up at her, lips glistening, eyes dark with lust and a hint of amusement. “What’s wrong, baby? Cat got your tongue?”

Angel groaned, frustration and desire warring inside her. “Why did you stop?”

Joe sat up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Because you were about to cum. And you don’t get to cum until I say so.” His voice was calm, almost conversational. But there was an undercurrent of steel in it that made Angel shiver.

He started again, this time with fingers first. Two, thrusting deep, while his mouth found her clit. Angel’s head fell back, a low moan escaping her. He was relentless, working her up again with practiced ease. She was sensitive now, her nerves alight with the aftershocks of her interrupted orgasm.

This time, when she started to get close, she felt it sooner. The tension built faster, the pleasure sharper. Joe noticed it too. He could read her body like a book, every twitch, every tremor. And when she was on the edge, he pulled back again.

Angel whimpered, hands reaching for him. “Joe, please—I need it. I need to cum.”

He caught her wrists, pinning them beside her head. “You need to learn your place. You think you can push me around all day and then just get your reward? That’s not how this works.”

His hips settled between hers, the hard length of his erection pressed against her thigh. Angel tried to tilt her hips, to get that friction where she needed it most. But Joe held her still, her wrists immovable in his grip.

Angel bit her lip. She wanted to come so badly, but a part of her didn’t want to give in. “I… I…”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “What’s the matter, babygirl? Too fucked out to speak? What happened to all that back talk earlier?”

Angel glared at him. “I don’t want to admit it.”

Joe shrugged. “Then you don’t get to come.”

Angel let out a frustrated growl. “That’s not fair,” she said, stamping her foot.

Joe chuckled. “Life’s not fair,” he said. “But if you’re a good girl and admit what you are, I might let you come on my cock.”

Angel’s eyes widened. The thought of taking Joe’s thick length after all this foreplay was too tempting to resist. Slowly, she nodded.

“I’m a brat,” she said, her voice soft.

Joe smiled, his eyes crinkling. “Good girl,” he praised. Then he stood up, lifting Angel onto her feet. He kissed her deeply, his tongue invading her mouth.

When he pulled back, Angel was breathless. “Now,” Joe said, his voice low. He began to strip off his clothes, his eyes never leaving Angel’s. Once he was naked, he laid back on the bed, his back against the headboard.

“Come prove to me you’re sorry,” he said, his cock hard and ready.

Angel didn’t hesitate. She crawled up the bed, straddling Joe’s hips. She reached between them, gripping his length and lining him up with her entrance. But before she could sink down onto him, Joe gripped her hips, stopping her.

“Only good girls get to look at my face,” he said, his eyes dark. “Turn around and watch yourself in the mirror.”

Angel bit her lip but complied, turning her back to Joe. He helped her, placing his hands on her hips and lifting her, then turning her so she faced the mirror that hung on the wall across from the bed.

Angel’s breath caught as she caught sight of herself—naked, legs spread, Joe’s thick cock nestled between her thighs. Joe’s hands gripped her hips, holding her in place.

“Bend forward,” he ordered.

Angel did as she was told, bending at the waist. Joe’s cock slid between her legs, the head catching on her entrance.

“Now ride me like you mean it,” Joe said, his voice rough. “Show me how sorry you are for being a brat all day.”

Angel didn’t need to be told twice. She slid down onto Joe’s cock, taking him to the hilt. The stretch burned, but it was a good kind of pain. She began to move, lifting herself up and sliding back down.

Joe let out a groan, his hands gripping her hips tighter. “That’s it, babygirl,” he praised. “Just like that. Show me what a good wife you can be.”

Angel rode him hard, her hips slapping against his. She could see herself in the mirror, her tits bouncing, her face flushed with pleasure. Behind her, Joe was moaning, his hips meeting her thrust for thrust. Suddenly, his hand came down on her ass, the slap ringing out in the room.

Angel yelped but didn’t stop moving. Instead, she rode him faster, her pussy clenching around his cock. Joe spanked her again and again, the pain mixing with the pleasure.

“Talked so much shit,” Joe growled in her ear, “now look at you. Taking my cock like a good little slut. This all you needed, baby? Your husband to fuck the brattiness out of you?”

“Yes,” Angel breathed. She was close, so close. She could feel her orgasm building, coiling tight in her belly.

Joe’s hand gripped the back of her neck, pulling her up until she was laying back against his chest. His other hand slid around to her front, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed her in fast circles as he fucked up into her, deep and slow.

Angel could feel tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. The pleasure was overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once. “Joe,” she begged. “Please, I need to come.”

“You need to come?” Joe repeated, his voice mocking. “Well, that’s too bad. I don’t think you deserve it.”

Angel let out a sob, her hips moving faster. “Please,” she begged again. “I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll be the best wife, the best girl. Just please let me come.”

Joe reached his other hand up, wrapping it around her throat. He slowed his thrusts, fucking into her with long, deep strokes. “Hmmm, are you done being a brat?” he asked.

Angel nodded frantically, her eyes wide. “Yes,” she said, her voice choked. “I’m done, I promise. Please, Joe. Please let me come.”

Joe chuckled, the sound dark. “Such a good girl now, aren’t you?” he murmured. “Eyes open. Keep looking.”

Angel did as she was told, her eyes opening to look at her reflection in the mirror. She saw the large hand splayed across her lower abdomen, the other wrapped around her throat. She saw Joe’s broad chest behind her, his muscles rippling as he moved. She saw his thick cock, buried deep inside her pussy.

And she saw his eyes, dark and intense, locked on hers in the mirror.

“Good girl,” Joe praised, his hips never stopping. “Keep those eyes open. Keep watching yourself get fucked. Watch yourself come undone on my cock.”

Angel couldn’t look away even if she wanted to. She was mesmerized by the sight of herself, by the pleasure coursing through her body. Joe’s hand on her throat tightened slightly, and his fingers on her clit moved faster. His teeth sank into her neck, biting down on the sensitive skin.

“Come for me, babygirl. Show me how much you love your punishment.”

Angel couldn’t hold back anymore. She came hard, her eyes rolling back in her head, her scream echoing off the walls. She squirted all over Joe’s cock, her juices flowing out of her and down his balls.

Joe groaned at the feel of her coming, his fingers never stopping on her clit. He kept rubbing her, drawing out her orgasm until she was a shaking, sobbing mess in his arms. Then, after a few more thrusts, he came too, his seed shooting deep inside her.

Angel collapsed against him, her body spent. Joe wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. They stayed like that for a long moment, both breathing hard. Slowly, Joe released his hold on her throat, his fingers gently massaging the skin. He pressed a kiss to her neck, then her shoulder.

“Good girl. There’s the woman I married,” he murmured again.

Angel smiled, her body lax against his. “Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet.

Joe chuckled. “For what? Fucking you into next week?”

Angel laughed. “No, for putting me in my place.”

Joe pulled out of her, then turned her in his arms. He looked down at her, his eyes softening. “You’re perfect just the way you are,” he said. “Brattiness and all.”

Then Joe gently lifted her off his cock and laid her down on the bed beside him.

He pulled her into his arms, kissing her softly. “You okay, baby?” he asked, his thumb rubbing over her cheek.

Angel nodded, snuggling closer to him. “I’m perfect,” she said, her voice filled with satisfaction.

Joe chuckled. “Good,” he said. Then, after a moment, “You’re still a brat, though.”

Angel laughed, slapping his chest lightly. “Shut up.”

Joe just grinned, kissing the top of her head. “I love you, baby,” he said softly.

Angel looked up at him, her eyes shining. “I love you too.”

As they laid there together, wrapped in each other’s arms, Angel knew that she’d gotten exactly what she needed. She’d needed Joe to put her back in her place, to remind her who was in charge. And he’d done just that.

But more than that, she’d needed to be reminded that no matter what, Joe would always love her. That he would always be there for her, even when she was being difficult. That their love was strong enough to withstand anything, even a bratty wife.

•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ

Just as Angel’s eyes began to flutter shut, the soft haze of sleep tugging at her, she felt herself being lifted gently off the bed. Joe’s strong arms wrapped around her, his chest warm against her cheek as he cradled her with practiced ease. She murmured something unintelligible, half-protest, half-contentment, but he only kissed the top of her head and kept walking.

The en-suite bathroom was softly lit, the overhead light dimmed to a golden glow that made the marble countertops gleam. Steam curled up from the large soaking tub, where fragrant bubbles danced on the surface of the water. Lavender and eucalyptus filled the air, wrapping around them like a warm embrace.

Joe knelt beside the tub and slowly lowered her into the water, careful to ease her in rather than startle her with the heat. Angel let out a long, luxurious sigh as the warmth seeped into her muscles, dissolving the aches of the day. Her head fell back against the edge of the tub, her curls brushing the porcelain.

“Hold still,” Joe said gently, grabbing a silk scrunchie from the counter. He gathered her curls with care, tying them up into a loose bun to keep them from the water. “There we go. Perfect.”

She watched him move around the bathroom, his steps quiet but purposeful. When he turned toward the door presumably to go change the sheets on their bed, she made a small noise of protest, eyes fluttering open again.

Joe paused in the doorway and looked over his shoulder. “Shhh,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’ll be right back, baby. Just gonna get the bed ready.”

She let him go, the sound of his footsteps fading. In the silence, the soft pop of bubbles breaking on the surface of the water became almost meditative. The warmth, the scent, the quiet—she could’ve stayed there forever.

But only a few minutes passed before he was back, stepping carefully into the room with two tall glasses of ice water balanced in one hand and his phone in the other.

“Hydration, my love,” he said, placing the glasses on the ledge within reach. Then, with a contented groan, he climbed into the tub behind her, water lapping up the sides as his weight settled in.

Angel shifted slightly, nestling herself between his thighs, her back resting against his chest. Joe’s arms came around her, one hand finding hers under the water, fingers intertwining.

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, then nuzzled into the curve of her neck. “Music?”

“Anything,” she murmured, her voice nearly a whisper.

Joe chuckled against her skin, the vibration of it soothing. “Dangerous thing to say to a man with questionable taste.”

“You’re lucky I’m too relaxed to argue,” she said, smiling sleepily.

He opened his music app and started scrolling. “Let’s see… Jazz? R&B? Or are you in one of those movie-soundtrack-mood kind of nights?”

“Surprise me.”

He started reading off a few titles, his voice deep and warm, the cadence of it washing over her. By the time he settled on a mellow playlist and set the phone aside, her eyelids were already growing heavy again.

•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ

Minutes passed—or maybe longer—and eventually Joe reached in front her and pulled the plug. The water gurgled and swirled, draining away in a slow spiral. Angel shivered as the steam dissipated and the cool air of the bathroom returned.

Without a word, Joe stood and stepped out, wrapping himself in a towel before returning to help her up. He grabbed a warm towel from the towel warmer and wrapped it snugly around her, patting her skin dry with gentle hands. “You good?” he asked, his eyes meeting hers.

She nodded, still wordless, letting him take care of her.

He lifted her again, as easily as if she weighed nothing at all, and carried her back to the bedroom where the bed now lay freshly made, the sheets crisp and cool. He laid her down carefully, smoothing a hand over her back before returning to the bathroom to hang the towels.

When he came back, he had the ointment in hand. Angel was already on her stomach, her arms tucked under her pillow. He sat beside her, uncapping the bottle, and squeezed a generous amount into his palm. The smell of menthol mixed with something floral rose into the air. He rubbed a generous amount onto her ass, the coolness of the ointment soothing the heat there.

She winced at first as he began to rub it in, but then her body gradually relaxed, melting beneath his hands.

“Mmm… thank you,” she mumbled into the pillow.

He smiled and didn’t reply, just continued the slow, soothing motion of his hands until every trace of tension was gone. When he was done, he wiped his hands off and tossed the towel into the hamper with practiced ease.

Without missing a beat, Joe grabbed one of his oversized T-shirts—soft and worn, smelling like him—and helped Angel into it. Then, from the nightstand drawer, he pulled out her satin bonnet.

She looked up at him with a grateful smile as he gently slid it over her curls. “You know I hate waking up looking like a madwoman,” she murmured.

“Which is why you never do,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

With that, he shed his towel and pulled on a clean pair of boxers. Then he climbed into bed, pulling the comforter over them both and wrapping his arms around her.

Angel curled into his chest, her cheek resting over his heart. The steady thump of it was her favorite lullaby.

“Love you,” she whispered.

“I love you more,” Joe replied, kissing the crown of her head.

Sleep claimed her swiftly, the weight of his arms and the beat of his heart anchoring her in a safety she never took for granted.

•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the car windows as they cruised down the highway, soft music playing low from the speakers. Angel’s phone buzzed in her lap. She picked it up, swiping the screen, and smiled instantly.

Joe glanced over from the driver’s seat. “What’s got you grinning like that?”

She turned the phone toward him. A picture filled the screen—Zariyah, their six-month-old daughter, laying on her little baby gym. She wasn’t playing with the hanging toys like usual. Instead, she had her head turned to the side, her eyes closed in serene contentment, a smile tugging at her lips as she sucked her thumb.

Joe chuckled, his eyes flicking from the road to the image and back. “Looks like our girl’s a little brat… just like her mama.”

Angel gasped in mock offense, swatting his arm. “She’s a baby, Joseph! Don’t even start.”

“She is your daughter though,” he teased, clearly trying to hide his grin now.

“Whatever,” she muttered, rolling her eyes—but her cheeks were flushed with affection.

Joe reached over and took her hand, lacing their fingers together with a gentle squeeze. “I love you,” he said, the words simple but deeply felt.

Angel looked at him, her heart full. “I love you too.”

And in that moment—sunlight on their faces, laughter in their voices, and love thick in the air—everything felt exactly as it should be.

[sgiandubh]

'Premiere' vs. 'preview'

When you are an absolute charlatan, but still want to look sophisticated and use Google Translate to prove your point.

There is some furious gloating across the street about C finally 'confirming' Tony McGill attended the London premiere, despite her clearly stating the contrary in that BBC Four interview. Source allegedly being this interview for the French weekly women's magazine Marie-Claire:

[Source: https://www.marieclaire.fr/caitriona-balfe-rencontre-interview-coulisses-informations-saison-finale-8-outlander-the-amateur,1493219.asp - 11 April 2025]

Except... she never said what BIF's non existent knowledge of French, offered as a legit translation and sarcastically commented upon:

I will translate, if you allow me:

'Her husband did not recognize her in this new role

The actress, who was 'very excited to play this deep and complex woman' and 'to work with Rami' Malek, who plays a brilliant CIA cryptographer who considers her as his ally and his moral counterpart, was also able to persuade her own husband. 'He discovered the movie at the preview screening and he confessed he did not notice it was me, Inquiline, in the first scene where I hit the screen. I take that as a great compliment', she quips with a smile, when we ask her what is the most beautiful compliment she ever got for this new role''

So she did not lie to BBC Four's Nuala McGovern, because an 'avant-première' is just a false friend in French, Google Translate is not really able to recognize as such. It means:

[Source: https://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/french-english/avant-premi%C3%A8re]

It means 'preview showing/screening'. Not premiere, hence the 'avant-' prefix: it means 'before' in French.

Avant-première. Before the premiere. -> Peel your eyes on this and eat crow, darling

Something we know happened on March 30, 2025. Not the next day, when @asilookedupatthestars-blog-blog thought, in all good faith, she saw McGill in front of the Leicester Square cinema:

[Source: https://www.gettyimages.com/detail/news-photo/caitr%C3%ADona-balfe-and-laurence-fishburne-attend-a-special-news-photo/2207642520?adppopup=true]

As for the 'compliment', well, well, well (ROFLMAO) ...

As far as I know, Inquiline looks like this in that movie, and consistently so:

[Source: https://uk.news.yahoo.com/exclusive-caitr-ona-balfe-reveals-111200469.html?]

You can't say there is a stark difference from real life C, like for example...

Count László de Almásy before the accident...

and...

...Count László de Almásy after the accident. Yes, The English Patient, one of my top 5 movies ever. I am a huge fan of Ralph Fiennes and yet, I did not recognize him, when the first scene he appears in that movie hit the screen.

But I never met Ralph Fiennes in real life, only his Doppelgänger of sorts (a.k.a Someone). The very Someone who, believe me, I would immediately recognize on the Maracanã stadium filled to the brim. For obvious reasons, mind you, and despite anything else.

So yeah, I never met Fiennes in real life, let alone pretended I was married to him. Apparently not a joy, either - but hey, stick to the work, not the person, right?

Color me confused. 'The husband' doesn't see her enough? Is she that forgettable? Or is it such an OTT (fabricated?) compliment, that can easily backfire? And in my book, it did.

Because it is important for Caitriona Mary Balfe to be perceived as a 'serious actress' in France. For many, many reasons. But yes, France - it just had to be there and believe me, I bet people in the know probably had a good laugh at what can ironically be construed as her endearing, sentimental clumsiness.

But the most important thing is still this one: a French 'avant-première' is never an English 'premiere'.

And that makes all the difference between a superficial idiot and all the rest.

[avifaunaa]

stars blind [ they fall and leave the sky ] [ f.a.+ r ] [ pt.2 ]

Authors Note: I’m so incredibly glad everyone seemed to enjoy the first part of this series! If anyone has requested to be put onto a tag list for this series, I’ll try to remember to add it in. Also to add: apologies for the shorter update -- this is meant to be a bridge between One and Three, so it fills in some gaps.

Masterlist

PART ONE | PART THREE | PART FOUR

Pairing: Feyre Archeron x fem!reader x Rhysand / Platonic!Inner Circle x fem!reader

Summary: Feyre and Rhysand find their own mating marks that are duplicates to your own — perfect matches — and have a discussion on what that means. Amren and Mor make a decision together. Windweaver hides.

Content Warnings: Mating bonds + discussion thereof [ reminder: this is canon in nature, but i take liberties and play around with mating bonds thus deepening the meaning of this AU ], Court politics, mentions of Windweaver’s past trauma that is not directly gone into this chapter, cliffhanger [ sorry ]

Word Count: ~3.7k

You wait in the spacious entry way of home turned daycare belonging to Iris — a chirpy blonde High Fae who was incredibly well-known for watching children for a fair price while parents worked or tended to other matters.

Your daughter’s slot within the class was no mere coincidence, especially so late in the solstice when the children of the current class already knew each other so well.

It had been Mor — amazingly kind, determined Mor — who had gone to Iris to plead your case and request a spot herself, face to face.

Allegedly it had grown increasingly difficult to get into the quickly growing daycare and the fact that Mor put in a word for you was a kindness and a favor you were not yet sure how to pay back.

Mor had rebutted multiple attempts at your prompting; she didn’t want you to concern yourself with anything other than getting your feet on the ground. That’s part of why this program exists, she had told you, frowning but soft lines instead of hard edges, so that those things aren’t considered in your mind.

So here you were in the grand entry way of the nice manor just on the edges of Velaris, waiting for Iris. You were normally the last to arrive and you had told the woman up front your schedule. You expected rejection, but she shrugged and simply understood your position in this new world and was accommodating.

And it was once more a kindness that you couldn’t afford.

You refused to look at yourself in the large mirror hanging above the entrance to the side on the wall — despite the call it made to you. Now that you knew what was engraved into your skin, you would never be able fully hide it from yourself even if you could pretend to cover it up in the face of others.

Nor could you escape whatever bond thrummed on the other side.

It left you with a pit of emptiness, unease, and fear.

The mating bond was quiet and dark. Nothing but empty black loneliness when you reached out to where your mother told you mating bonds usually rested in that part of the soul, in that part of the heart, in that part of the mind.

There was no awareness within that pit, like a bundle of dead nerves that had no reactivity to touch. It stung like nettle to know that the other half of the bond went unnoticed of it, but at the same time you couldn’t fight the soul-aching relief. It meant that whoever the Cauldron found you worthy to mate with was perhaps not aware of a bond.

Until they found their own marks, you supposed.

“Here she is!” Iris sang, walking out with Astraea sleeping soundly, drooling on her shoulder.

“Oh, she’s knocked out,” you said with a smile, heart warming soundly at the sight of your daughter. Black hair and pale skin — features of your mother, her eyes belonging to a man long since gone.

“We painted today,” Iris told you as she made the exchange, sliding Astra into your hold. The tiny little thing wrapped arms around your shoulders, snuggling in close and sighing but not waking a second. “Next time you come in I’ll give it to you. Our High Lady will be coming in soon to teach a class.”

“The High Lady?” You didn’t hide your surprise. She hadn’t been seen out since the birth of her son — unless it was to walk through the Rainbow. You knew little around the events of the little one’s birth, other than rumors about wings and pain.

“Oh yes. She decided she’s going to come help out with the children — and bring Nyx, too. He needs socialization with other children his age. But it seems Astra is the closest to it right now.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, a nervous tick unsettling the heart within your chest.

"Oh, that will be wonderful," you say out loud instead of voicing your fears. You had yet to be approached by the High Lord or his Lady about your heritage — or at all, in fact — but Mor and Amren had both been as welcoming as members of the Inner Circle can afford to be to newcomers.

You exchanged a few more pleasantries, your payment is given to Iris, and you are quick to whisk your sleepy daughter off. Once outside the home you are greeted by the chilly air and your scarf does little to keep the bite from your cheeks that comes with the breeze.

The walk to your rented apartment is five minutes from Iris' home; an aspect of your new life you considered a luxury. You enjoyed the feeling of easily getting everywhere within manageable walking distance and not having to use your magic to speed your walking along.

Not that you would have used your magic at all.

Thoughts keeping you busy, your trip is swift and you make the approach to your home before realizing it. The climb up the side stairs of the building is steep and it’s a walk to the third floor.

Your door was the first on the right and the bulky key was heavy and cold in your jacket's pocket when you pulled it free and pushed it into the key hole, twisting, unlocking, opening.

The apartment was nearly bare. It was furnished with the help of Mor -- thanks to her kindness to you. But it was basic and non-matching. You weren't here all the time -- either you spent time here with your daughter or slept. You preferred to take Astra out to explore the world and enjoy her surroundings while simultaneously exposing her to new things.

Astra's room was the most decorated, the most furnished, and the most cared for. You laid her down in her bed and got her dressed in her pajamas, all the while she hardly woke. She stuffed her thumb in her mouth and sighed as you pulled the covers over her.

You started toward the bathroom, removing earrings and clothes as you went.

That's the mating mark of a High Lord.

You find yourself standing in front of the dingy mirror in the bathroom — which was otherwise beautifully designed. Clean. Better than what you were once used to after Armantha’s takeover.

But when had it appeared? Mating marks were incredibly rare -- to the point that they were often forgotten about in history. They were connected to the more biological parts of Fae -- back when mating was more led by survival and the need to breed. Only those with very old bloodlines had mating marks anymore; bloodlines that predate much of even Old Prythian.

You pushed yourself off the sink, still tracing the outline you found yourself memorizing as you leaned over the tub to get the water started. It felt no different on your skin, had no way of showing itself other than its appearance.

You waited for the water to fill all the way to the top with near boiling heat. You never wanted to touch cold water again — even to drink. You drank it warm or you drank tea. You sank into the tub and shivered as the heat encased your skin and filled all the chilly, empty parts of you.

To have a mark that now only really ran through the lines of High Lords . . . that did not bode well on your end. Mostly because you've seen how angry High Fae males get when females have already been mated once before, but because it would force you to reveal your location to the very people you've been ensuring never find you.

Rhysand was frowning at her and Feyre did not particularly enjoy it. Still she kept rubbing her body cream into her hands while forcing herself to ignore him altogether.

He had been so fussy lately — more than their young son. While on some end it was fun to tease and pester him over, she was starting to feel the grating irritation that came with Rhysand’s fussy temperaments.

She would not be clawing it out of him, she had decided. He could come to her if it was truly making him itch.

She settled under the covers with her book half-opened, getting comfortable against her lower back. After Nyx even with Nesta's wish, she still retained an ache from her pregnancy that still required work on her part to keep at bay. While manageable most days, it was a reminder of what could have happened if she had not been luckier.

She manages three pages before Rhysand finally cracks.

"Feyre, darling," her husband starts, voice cloaked in cautious questioning, "when did you get that?"

Feyre turns the page of her book once before she humors him and even then she takes a long moment to remove her wandering eyes from the page to tilt her chin up to her husband.

The Illyrian is sat on the edge of the bed eyeing her, purple eyes twinkling with surprise — shock, perhaps.

Feyre’s lips twitch.

"The book?" she asked slyly, shutting it and running her fingertips along the spine. "Nesta lent it to me. She said—“

Rhysand rolled his eyes. "I do not need to know what sort of filth your sister has you read when I'm not there to chaperone. I can't begin to think."

"It's a female on female romance with sex."

Rhysand paused, blinked and choked on whatever words had been about to leave his mouth, then rubbed his face with his hand. "We will address that at a later time. I have questions I think I will want answers too." He then raised a hand to caress just slightly to the left side of her face. "I meant that, just under your ear, of course."

Feyre reached her fingers up to trace under her ear as Rhysand had pointed out to her. She felt nothing but her studded earrings, a decidedly new adornment done sometime after Nyx’s birth. “I don’t feel anything,” she said slowly, raising one of her brows at her mate.

He got to his feet and walked around the side of the bed and held out his palm. “Come with me, darling.”

Feyre hated to get out of bed now that she had gotten comfortable, but she put her book aside anyway and took his hand. Her mate was as gentle as he was in love with her: tugging her to her feet and gliding her toward the other end of the room that hosted the floor length mirror, twirling her as they went.

Feyre laughed at him and could not stop the bright smile lighting up across features as he swung her to his front, arms wrapped around her just under her chest. He pressed a warm kiss to her cheek as they locked eyes in the mirror.

“My beautiful Feyre darling,” he said. His gaze was so soft, a rare sight that not many in the lands got to see. He reached up and began moving her hair away from the side of her head he had previously pointed out to her.

“Mm.” She watched him lazily, fingers tracing designs into his arm. She stopped her playing when she noticed what he had initially wanted her to see.

“That’s new,” she said, pulling herself out of his arms so she could lean forward and peer at the twirls and markings that cornered themselves behind her pointed ear. “I don’t think I’ve had that before. Did I?”

He shook his head, rubbing his jawline. “It’s . . . No. It’s an old magic . . . usually attached to High Fae with very, very old bloodlines.”

Feyre stared at him. “Okay,” she said slowly, “but I didn’t get it when we first mated.”

“You wouldn’t have, no,” Rhysand agreed, staring at the mark nervously as though it would set aflame. “I think . . . Well, I have an idea already on what it could mean and why you have it.”

Feyre turned around and bit her lip, peering at him with just as much nervousness as he was putting out. “I would appreciate if you shared your thoughts with me, because if it’s connected to some ancient bloodlines that means it’s connected to yours, does it not?”

“The marking itself indicates a connection, I suppose I should say, to old bloodlines,” he told her, scratching his head as he thought over his words, “From a point in our history wherein we were instinct-based creatures rather than reason-based. A time where magic was more alive and lended itself to our primal needs. One of those needs was good breeding; there’s evidence to suggest that it would connect bloodlines that were stronger, more resilient.”

Feyre ran a finger down her chin in thought. “So a magical breeding program. And you’re from that line long ago?” she clarifies.

“All High Lord families are. Many high society families are, actually. It’s how we got as far as we did. The marking wouldn’t have appeared on you initially because it takes a while for a Cauldron made Fae to settle into their new skin, magic, and form. It’s likely that the bloodline marking is now showing up as you get older. However the old magic that runs in bloodlines like mine is thought by scholars to be being bred out over time.”

Feyre crosses her arms, resisting the urge to reach up and scratch the skin there, as though suddenly itched now that she knew she had shiny new glamor there. “It makes sense if it would have been genetic for you, but why would I have obtained one even with my connection to you? My blood is still human, still Cauldron made. I do not carry the ancient magic you suggest causes this. Especially if you believe that your family line has long since bred out that older magic.”

“You don’t,” he admitted, “but the marking will appear under . . . other circumstances. When other factors come into play.” He folded his hands, rubbing them together and not meeting her eyes.

“Rhys.” She reached her own hand out, hoping her touch soothed him. “Together. We can face whatever this is together — and you can tell me anything.”

“The only way I think the marking could have become present on your skin is if there was more than one ancient bloodline connected to you,” he admitted quietly, like saying it too loud would upset their peace. “Our mating bond may not have been enough to trigger if . . . But say another Fae with a bloodline of similar power comes into play. . .”

Feyre caught onto what Rhysand was saying very quick, the shock slapping into her, “Then it would trigger a reaction to my newer Fae genetics?” she guessed breathlessly. A third mate?

Her husband nodded and she reached out to enclose her hand with this. The warmth was a comfort to both of them in that moment. “It does not mean we aren’t still true mates,” he started, looking at her carefully, “but we must have somehow picked up her scent at some point.”

“Rhysand I —“ Feyre began to reassure him, to console him, but then paused, “— her scent?”

“It’s . . . different with the old magic. It lies dormant,” Rhysand explained as he led his wife back to bed and sat next to her on the mattress. “It only activates when a suitable mate has been scented. Like I said, it ties back to when we were living on baser instincts and our mating bonds were less decided by fate and the Cauldron, and more on this ancient, living magic.”

“So my mating bond to you is different than the mating bond we have with this person?” Feyre clarified, not angry, simply confused.

“In how it is formed carnally only, it will never change my bond with you nor will it make me desire you any less,” Rhysand assured her firmly, cupping her cheek and rubbing the jutted bone, beautiful and perfect in his eyes. “All I know is that we have a third, but because we’ve been out of the public for months . . .”

“It could have been anyone our friends’ scents dragged in,” Feyre finished, understanding. She felt comforted by Rhysand’s words but . . . But now that she allowed the words to fixate in her mind, she couldn’t help but lack anxiety in regard to her stability with Rhysand, only . . . Curiosity. Perhaps a need to understand.

Rhysand smiled sadly. “Yes. And whoever lies on the other end of the bond won’t be able to form a connection to us like we have to one another until we can . . . Consummate the bond, not unless we want to use our Daementi powers on them.”

“Is that more old magic at work?”

Rhysand nodded at her, and Feyre bit her lip. She thought over the entire binder of information Rhysand just threw on top of her. But honestly — thinking it over, it didn’t create an ugly animal of jealousy to think of their unnamed mate with Rhys. Or with her. Or with her and Rhys.

It was a lot, and maybe they needed to sleep a bit over it. To digest what this will mean for them as a couple, and for their dynamic, and for their family.

But Feyre’s gut told her nothing terrible could come from this — not if her mating with Rhysand was anything to go on.

Amren and Mor stared at each other three hours after Windweaver had made a hasty escape from the tavern, leaving them in her dust.

Rita had pretty much closed up around the two of them. She lived upstairs and Mor was someone who was trusted with a key if they stayed longer than Rita stayed open.

It was just them at their table, still sitting in complete silence as though afraid to speak aloud what they had experienced hours ago. What Windweaver had experienced.

“We should tell them,” Amren said for the fifth time as Mor brought the entire bottle of wine to her lips and drank.

“Why? I mean, I agree. Nothing comes from keeping information from our High Lord and Lady,” Mor said, head tilting back over the chair, “But do we want to put this stress on them? They were just discussing coming back out in the world. Feyre wants to take Nyx to meet other kids.”

“She has a mating mark of status. Old status, but status,” Amren ground out, and Mor could almost hear her canines gnashing against her other teeth.

“Yes, this is true.” Mor takes her feet off the table and leans close to Amren. “But do you know what bringing attention to this might mean? What it could do to her?”

Amren spun a ring — one of many and of little value to her, likely from Rhysand back when she was still a darker force much more dangerous than this one — on her index finger, long nail unbreaking against the metal.

“There are consequences to whatever actions we plan to take,” the darker haired female acknowledged begrudgingly. “But I dislike the ones that come with keeping this from Rhysand and Feyre.”

Mor hated to agree, but she couldn’t find it in her to disagree. She wanted Windweaver’s safety put at the top of their to-do list, but they’ll have to find a way to ensure that without keeping their High Lord and Lady in the dark about this.

“Fine,” Mor said, “we’ll bring it up. Tonight?”

Amren stole the bottle from her blonde friend, taking a swig from it. “If the girl’s still awake. She seems to go to bed early these days after the prince was born.”

Mor tapped her fingers along the tabletop. “Fine, tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow,” Amren agreed.

They stayed to finish the bottle, falling into a silence of two respected comrades and friends.

You wake with a gasp as sweat soaked your forehead and dripped down your temples like raindrops.

You clutched your chest where the weight you felt in your nightmare had struck you and glanced around you rapidly as the heartbeat in your ears timed with the feeling in your chest.

Enclosed walls, four. A wood flooring with a soft rug in the middle of the room. A soft thick quilt, patched, that you gave birth in and carried your daughter around in for two long years before carting her here in it.

Not in the Spring Court. Away from the sickly smell of fresh flowers in bloom all year around and constant lukewarm weather that was too little for you to feel alive.

It was still dark outside, but you could see the hints of dawn beginning to reveal itself over the horizon. No sun.

Your favorite time of day.

You pushed the sheets and quilt off, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes and sighing shakily as you gazed out the window for a moment to just take in the view.

You eventually got out of bed entirely; if you didn't you were at risk for not getting out at all for the rest of the day. That was not a type of day you could afford to have.

You went to the kitchen and started preparing breakfast for Astra, and while the eggs cooked you got her up. "S'ello Mama," she garbled.

"Hi, baby," you greeted, kissing her forehead and smiling warmly as she stretched her little arms out. She blinked sleepily at you. "Eggs?"

"Eggs," you agreed, holding out your hand in offer. She looked at it with hesitation as she normally did when it came to touch; she was not a child who welcomed it on a normal scale and the first two and a half years of her life play a large role in that.

She finally deemed it acceptable to place her tiny hand in yours and you smile at her, guiding her into the kitchen where smoke was now rising in the pan. "Oh no," Astra dolled.

"Shit." You set her in her chair and race toward the burnt crisps that were once eggs sizzling in the pan. You looked forlornly at the charred bits and dumped them in the sink, and instead turned to your daughter.

"Do you want to go to Caspian's for breakfast, Astra?"

Immediately the little girl's eyes lit up and she attempted to stand in her chair, "Cassie! Cassie," she garbled as you quickly went over to grab her and set her down like she wanted.

"Okay," you laughed quietly. "Lets' get you and myself dressed and we'll go see Cassie."

One hour, a toddler trying not to crawl away from every outfit you picked out, and a faceful of makeup later, you found yourself walking down the street with a babbling Astra in your arms. She was fired up now that you were well and truly on your way to her favorite place to eat.

"Oh, really?" you asked her as you passed the glass displays in the large windows. She then stuck her finger at the particular pastry that was always displayed and remained her tried and true favorite.

You opened the door and pushed your way in, causing the bell above the entrance to ring out your arrival. It was a busier morning than usual -- you tend to come before the rush so that Astra doesn't get overwhelmed, but for some reason today you weren't able to beat such a rush.

You were behind two people; both of them were huddled together and had a small babe between them. A male and female, whispering to the giggling, pudgy faced youngling.

"Windweaver!" Cassie called as she came at a brisk drift out of the kitchen, covered in sugar and flour, "Welcome! And little Astra, too!"

Just as you made to greet her back, you were cut short by the couple turning around and looking you in the eyes.

"Windweaver?" The High Lord of the Night Court repeated softly, tilting his head in interest while his wife narrowed her gaze at you.

TAG LIST: @motorsp0rt , @lifetobeareader , @hjgdhghoe , @mystirica-blog , @skyler129

PART THREE

[winged-thinged]

I've seen a lot of talk in the vein of, even if you're not a Christian, you have to admit that Jesus was a wise teacher/a brown hippy socialist/a cool guy, your problem with God only applies to the God of the old testament, but Jesus gave us a new covenant which is better, “Jesus is my homeboy, but God has a lot to answer for” and I just really disagree with that take. Yes, I think that telling people to be kind to their neighbors is a good thing, but…

Incomplete list of things I think Jesus* was wrong about:

That you should always walk the extra mile, turn the other cheek, and be passive and obedient in the face of mistreatment and abuse

That the world was going to end before the year 100 A.D. 

That there is only one god, one true religion, and that venerating other gods is wrong

That those who don't follow God deserve fire and death

That Christians should spread their gospel and try to convert everybody in the whole world to Christianity 

That you should place God as your highest priority, even over love for your own family and neighbors and your own well-being 

That the best way to deal with injustice is to wait for God to end the world and let Him sort out the chaff from the wheat 

That Jesus had any special power to perform miracles or heal the sick or raise people from the dead 

That Jesus had any unique insight into God or the nature of reality and the world

That people who believe in God will be saved from death

That it is just for a supremely-powerful God to save all those who follow Jesus's teachings and believe in him, and only those people

That you should forsake your life and livelihood and material possessions and family and all sources of happiness, apart from God

That prayer will supernaturally grant you favors from God or grant you insight into truths about the world that you could not have discovered by yourself or through other means

That mental illness, suffering, and misfortune are caused by demonic forces 

That everybody should aim to be meek, be like a little child, be poor and powerless and helpless and at the mercy of those greater than themselves, to erase themselves, and to die, and that this is the path to a good and meaningful life

*Allegedly Jesus taught these things. We cannot be 100% sure what the historical Jesus actually said during his lifetime, but these are all at least things attributed to him in the Bible (which is not a historical document but which nonetheless is the best source we have to use to try to guess what the historical Jesus might have actually believed and preached).

Additional things the historical Jesus almost certainly never said, but which Christians teach, that I think are harmful and wrong:

That humanity is/was doomed and/or damned and that Jesus died to save us/forgive us/erase a debt

That Jesus rose again from the dead

That everything in the Universe was created by and is maintained by a supernatural force

That that force became human around about the year 0 to recapitulate our broken human nature

That humans can't make our own decisions about how to live our lives and need a supernatural force to tell us what is right and what is wrong

That eternal conscious suffering torment exists after death

(Catholic-only edition) That Mary the mother of Jesus lived a life free of any kind of mistake, and that she lived and and died a virgin

[rinkrumours]

What are your thoughts on the sunday chirps podcast video where people think theyre talking about the hughes brothers towards the end of the video?

*posted the unedited version earlier! so if you saw that please disregard it! i've added more information and detail to this one*

VIDEO CLIPS

3 part clip allegedly regarding them: !!!!

full podcast episode: !!!!

you don’t need to believe the rumours or gossip they’re talking about, but based on what i’ve pieced together, there’s no doubt they're talking about the hughes bros.

personally, i don’t think there’s any real reason for these two to lie... especially when their podcast is super small and niche and barely gets views.

plus, their mannerisms don’t give off the vibe of people just pulling stuff out of nowhere, especially not on the spot. most people are bad at lying or improvising made-up stories, so for both of them to somehow deliver a fake story well and in sync like that? kinda unlikely.

i’ll admit i don’t follow the hughes bros that closely, or at all really... so feel free to add or correct anything, but your girl was seriously doing mad research for this lol. it also makes it clear i’m completely biased in this whole situation.

edit: ^ meant to say unbiased!!

PODCAST GIRLS DETAILS

for starters, emma (girl in the podcast) is from birmingham, michigan. she mentioned that her grandma lives on the same lake they do, and they're there all summer and sees them often. she also said that she goes to the same country club as them.

*jack and quinn own a lake house down in orchard lake, in west bloomfield.*

*the have two lake houses. one is in new hampshire (families) and ones now in michigan (bought by the 2 boys)*

link: !!!!

below is a screenshot off emmas ig profile being at the lake at her grandmas. she also has other post being here.

she also does go to same country club as them, there is two main countryclubs in that area... emma a long with her family have posted being at both of them (i wont include her families profiles).

1. bloomfield hills country club. 15 mins away from their lake-house.

2. orchard lake country club. just minutes away from them.

^ i know it's confirmed the boys go to orchard lake country club because jack posted a photo dump with his gf (samantha) last summer, and in the background it's orchard lake's cc.

ALLEGED LUKE DRAMA + V-CARD

emma mentioned that the "younger one" was hitting up her bestfriend for a while, they hooked up and seemed to be talking... she also described how caught up her friend was about him and didn't understand why she liked him so much either.... the friend she's most likely reffering to is @/sashasuper12. she's the only one that adds up in their friendgroup + sasha and luke are mutuals on ig too.

(im sure there is luke girlies aware of her that can back this one up)

allegedly sasha has a couple re-post on her tiktok that people assume is about luke doing her dirty.

^ emma also makes fun of him for looking a certain cartoon but felt too mean to say who lol… i can put $$$$ she thinks he looks like hey arnold.

now onto jarrod (guy in the podcast) mentioning that one of his friends allegedly took "the youngest one's" virginity *cough* luke, after meeting at a bar during spring break... and even claims he has a photo of his friend and luke together too.

he explains his friend met “the 3 of them” at a bar during springbreak back when "only some were in the league." if you pay attention to his wording (and honestly most of the grammar in the pod) he basically confirms it’s three brothers in the league. and the only existing trio of known brothers in the nhl that everyone knows are them...

this ordeal happened about 3–4 years ago he said, which lines up with the timeline: both jack and quinn were in the league then, but luke didn’t debut until 2023. so this story had to be from around 2021/2022ish.

direct quote from the pod: "one of the brothers of the person we are talking about, all of the brothers... like the family went down on vacation during spring break, at the same time as one of the college spring breaks, so our spring break lined up with theres."

^ that part is a bit confusing, not gonna lie... it raises a bunch of questions. jarrod's a new york/long island guy who went to binghamton university in ny. and i believe his friend (the one who allegedly met them and slept with luke) went there too. i even looked at past academic schedules, and binghamton's spring break is usually during the first week of march.

their was also no clarification where this specifically happened either (location wise) which also doesnt help put things together.

if we assume this situation happened in 2021–2022, you also have to consider the covid factor. plus, 2/3 hughes brothers were already in the nhl at that point, and while the league does have breaks, they never land in march. that makes the timing even more questionable.

luke in early march 2021 also suffered a laceration on his foot, this is when he was still with ntdp, and needed surgery. don't think he'd be out and about.

also at this time luke would've been 18/19 and in a bar, even though the legal drinking age in the states is 21... but! you have to understand that some of these nhl guys do get into bars underage, especially if they’re already in the league or are recognized. if he showed up with his brothers and other guys who are well-known, odds are the bar isn’t going to deny a group like that, especially if they know they’re about to spend money. also they can bribe bouncers with $$$. it's not farfetched. this happens.

^ edit: luke would've actually been 17-18yrs old.

^ so i won't lie that certain details are a bit murky with this one, but the way jarrod explains it doesnt sound like he's making it up... i think he may also just be getting some things mixed up due to recalling something that allegedly happened years ago.

PEE??????

emma states she had one of her guy friends, tell her that they knew someone who was a shitty to their well i assume to be ex girlfriend, she described it in past tense. she starts off slightly vague but goes more into detail.

she starts off by saying:

"he's from michi- *stops and corrects herself*… he's not from michigan, but lives in michigan now."

^ this makes sense because all the boys aren't born and raised in michigan, like most people assume... all the boys are born in different places due to their fathers work... but mainly stayed in toronto until 2016... thats when they made the move to michigan for the boys hockey and school, for them to attend usntdp...

then she moves onto explain the incident + has some details regarding this guys background (clearly in the league) + touches up on his physcial apperance...

direct quotes from emma on the pod: "so this guy huge in the nhl, all-star, everyone knows his name. so, he had a girlfriend apparently he treated her like shit. everyone knows the inside scoop around here, cause he comes here a lot. so he was dating a girl... this guy telling me this story he's like yeah this dude treated his girlfriend like shit, hes a fucking weird guy. apparently he pissed on his girlfriend while she was sleeping because she made him mad, and dumped 2 drinks on her head at a bar."

"i never thought he was cute...*jarrod chimes in for a quick second saying girls go crazy for him too* i don't understand why... i don't understand it at all, i swear he has a lazy eye, and he has acne. he's just not the cutest guy you can get in the nhl... apparently they're all weird like that group of guys."

^ now this has led people to speculate which brother it could be. the only 2 of them who have had girlfriends are quinn and jack. we also do not know the timeline in which both of these incidents happened, could've been long ago or even somewhat recent.

my assumptions and observations:

if it's about jack, this could potentially be about him and sienna schmidtz.

if it's about quinn this could be about olivia bonn or kennedi draper, ive been seeing people kind of lean towards kennedi. but i have a bit of doubts with the kennedi one. anythings possible though!

jack and quinn are both all star players. also both are relativley big and known. id consider jack more known all around compared to quinn.

she states this guy "has" a lazy eye, but it seems more that she just thinks his eye shape is weird and it looks like a lazy eye to her. all the boys do have that "odd" certain eyeshape and stare.

both do have acne too, you can argue that quinns more noticable and seems to breakout more frequently compared to jack.

if you didn't catch on she says "apparently they're all weird like that group of guys." it seems like she's referencing the umich and usntdp boys that all hang together, possible reference to guys like trevor and cole etc?

^ but it's obvious the bar incident took place in michigan (hence why she says "people around here know") and i believe all the guys have taken their girlfriends back home at some point and had some gf's that lived in michigan. keep in mind their was no specific timeline mentioned regarding these events, it could be about any of their previous girlfriends, not just the ones i've mentioned or speculated!

BACKTRACKING

so allegedly people were saying the hosts were "backtracking"… on my end, i never saw either of them make a public announcement or post anything on their personal socials, the pod’s media accounts, nothing directly addressing what they said or clearing it up.

the most i've seen was emma commenting on a tiktok that reposted their segment. some consider this backtracking, but to me it doesn’t come off that way, she seems amused that people found a random niche podcast she's on and now it's making news on tiktok while hughes fangirls flip out in the comments lol. she doesn't confirm nor deny anything either.

even if they did backtrack, it'd make sense to avoid conflicting issues regarding the potential parties that everyone assumes its about. and as mentioned i dont think they expected people to find out about this.

all screenshots from a tiktok comment section, that reposted the clip of their pod. emma's in the comments under @/emmascrazylife. the search bar being "quinn hughes lazy eye" is crazy lmfao.

[undreaming-fanfiction]

What I Wouldn't Do

This fanfiction is a Valentine's Day exchange gift for the lovely @henderdads. Cass, Eddie absolutely hates Valentine's Day, but for Steve? Well. He's willing to make an exception. Have an amazing Valentine's Day, you deserve it so much!!

Sometimes, it is difficult to reconcile several different truths in our lives. 

Eddie currently has this dilemma. 

Truth A: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson’s boyfriend, allegedly loves sappy romantic things, Valentine's Day included.

Truth B: Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington's boyfriend, feels like if the world ever has to end, it should do so on February 14th, for this is the worst day of all days, the day of heart-shaped chocolate that tastes like crap, couples exchanging sweet words and bodily fluids, sometimes even semi-publicly, and don't even get him started about that horrible romantic music. 

After swearing on the Munson doctrine he won’t sell his soul to consumerism for anything and anyone but Steve, Eddie Munson decides to ignore Truth B. Steve Harrington deserves the best Valentine's day in the history of this idiotic holiday and Eddie has a hunch, a massive, Everest-sized hunch, that in all of his previous Valentine's days, Steve was always the one to do all the work. His beautiful and brave people-pleasing boyfriend. 

Then Eddie realizes another very uncomfortable truth. He has no idea how to celebrate Valentine’s Day. He spent the twenty one-ish years of his existence avoiding the holiday, so now he has to do some research. 

He starts small. When they walk together in the Hawkins center, careful not to touch or hold hands because Hawkins still remains a backward hellhole, he notes what Steve looks at. If his eyes linger on a certain flower for a few seconds, he makes a mental note. A mental note means in Eddie's case that he repeats the name of the flower ad nauseum, quickly excuses himself and scribbles it onto his forearm not to forget. He even buys a permanent marker for this. He can't forget anything, not when it's important for Steve.

When Steve asks about the scribbles, he claims it's for the next campaign. He even draws a sword and a shield next to the notes to avoid suspicion.

He asks many questions, most of them under the pretense of helping Gareth with his dates. "I swear, Steve, when he's lovestruck, he gets completely stupid. Not stupid stupid, Gareth's smart, but he can't hold rhythm and we need him to hold it, he's our drummer! So save this suffering aspiring rockstar and tell me, what do you think is the best type of chocolate? Milk chocolate? Okay, and is that like, universal? Did your previous dates like it? I see, a majority then! Sooo...are you a part of that majority?" 

Very smooth. 

See, Eddie doesn't give a flying demobat about chocolate types, he's more into hard candy. He doesn't like cut flowers, they die anyways because you cut them, how is that fair to that flower, huh? To die for being pretty? And of course, he hates the whole EXPECTATION of Valentine's Day. 

But the more he asks, the more he finds out, he doesn't see it as participating in the mindless machinery of lovestruck idiots. Instead, he sees the flush on Steve's cheeks when he talks about dark chocolate with dried raspberries and how his parents once brought it back from dad's trade conference, how it was love at first taste. He scratches out the idea for a bouquet of flowers when Steve mentions he’s always hated them because the flowers are so beautiful and vibrant, but they’re cut for an obligation in their prime. “It sounds stupid when I say it,” he chuckles, “but I want them to live until they’re ugly and withered, you know? They’re worth way more than their looks.”

Eddie could kiss him right there and then. And he does. 

He brings it all together, prepares all of Steve’s favorites with a silly twist because it’s Eddie, and Eddie lives for silly things. It really needs to be his favorites because Steve once admitted to him that most people with the exception of Robin and Dustin don’t really know what he likes, they just assume. And Steve is happy that people even thought about him, he thanks them and treasures those things that don’t mean anything to him. To Steve, being thought about is enough. 

Well, not to Eddie Munson. 

He asks Steve not to plan anything for their Valentine's Day. Or more precisely, he asks him to stay free and available and not worry his beautifully hairy head. He knows that if he didn't say this, Steve would have gone above and beyond for him, he would have likely taken Eddie to a concert with music so loud he’d get a migraine, but he’d suffer through it. So Eddie has to stop that from happening.

On the actual day, Eddie prepares everything. He sends Gareth ("You owe me so much for this. SO MUCH, MUNSON. I actually wanted to watch this tonight!") to rent Steve's favorite movie and goes himself to get access to the Hawkins High with…almost completely legal means, just a little bit of bribing here, some promises for a lengthy D&D campaign there, and of course lots and lots of nougat. 

He gathers everything in his van, waits for the kids and the janitor to get out and then starts setting the scene. 

There are two more incompatible truths that Eddie Munson grapples with: 

Truth A: Eddie Munson fucking HATES the Hawkins High. He wants it to burn down in flames, with only the theater room staying intact. 

Truth B: Steve Harrington sometimes wistfully mentions how he wishes he could have dated Eddie Munson in high school. How they’d share lunches, trade secret kisses in the hallways. He wishes himself and the world had been different. 

And so Eddie Munson grits his teeth, walks those cursed hallways he only managed to escape a few months back and counts on Robin Buckley to deliver his invitation with flair. “Extra points if you get him a trumpet solo, Buckley!” 

Robin apparently delivers because only half an hour after the expected invite, as he is smoking his fifth cigarette - don’t blame the guy, he’s nervous! He’s got a big date! - Steve arrives with a smile that’s equally excited and nervous. He keeps running his fingers through his hair and overall looks just biteable. 

Steve walks up to him and brushes his fingers against Eddie’s wrist, discreetly as they have established. It’s their own version of a kiss. “I thought you hated Valentine’s Day?” he asks and he looks so apologetic that Eddie promises to base all villains in his new campaign on all the people who ever made Steve feel he wanted too much. 

Eddie glances around, deems it safe and pulls Steve into an actual kiss. "It might be Valentine's day for you, Steve. For me, it's the "Steve Harrington Appreciation Day." He winks at Steve and relishes in the slight blush that has crept into his cheeks. “The name is already registered and all. No changes possible or accepted. Follow me, big boy.” 

Steve laughs when he sees a set cafeteria table with something that brings back so many memories. How did Eddie get two portions of school lunch?! The man has to be magical, he decides. They eat together, chat about their day, and then Eddie decides feeding each other is off the table because they’re giggling so much he almost stabbed Steve with the fork. 

They walk the hallways together, hand in hand, and Eddie sometimes turns around, sticks his tongue out at an imaginary girl and sneers “back off! He’s mine!”. 

Steve turns after Eddie and nods. “What he said,” he whispers and squeezes Eddie’s waist. 

Eddie then hands Steve a sports bag he stashed in the changing rooms and winks at him. “What are you waiting for, Harrington? We have some balls to toss! Baskets to score. That.” And before Steve has a chance to protest, he gets his own bag and starts changing into those awfully familiar PE shorts in all their green and white glory. 

Steve just watches him, mouth hanging open. “Now I get why I never saw you in these,” he mumbles as he also starts changing. “I would have realized I’m bi like, at that moment.” 

But Eddie just laughs and pulls his hair into a loose bun. “Oh, Steve. You have no idea what those shorts on you did to the little closeted me. The thoughts they gave me.”

“Lucky for you, baby,” says Steve and pulls Eddie to his feet, “this time you’re allowed - and strongly encouraged - to both watch AND touch.” Then he cocks his head to the side and adds: “Well. If you score at least one point.” 

Eddie tries. Fails. Tries again, even with Steve helping him. Eventually, they settle for a quick game of tic-tac-toe which Eddie wins and happily squeezes Steve’s butt. 

Their final destination is the only class they ever shared, history. All desks are empty, except for one - the middle one in the second row, where Steve used to sit. There’s dark chocolate with dried raspberries, Steve’s favorite, and a pot of flowers. Yellow, another favorite. 

“The lady in the flower shop said they should live, like, really long,” shrugs Eddie and moves the chair for Steve so he can sit down. “I forgot their name the second I got them, but Buckley knows and she was asked to deliver a booklet with how to care for them.” 

Steve drags him down to his level and kisses Eddie, deep and long. He’s either crying or laughing into the kiss, maybe both. “I don’t know what to say,” he whispers into Eddie’s cheek. “All of this…is right. It’s me. You remembered.” 

“Eh…kinda. Tried to.” Eddie gives up and lets himself be seated on Steve’s lap. “Actually, I had a small…cheat sheet. Let me show you.”

Steve watches as Eddie takes off his bracelet and watch and sets both on the desk. He gasps as he sees a coiling pattern around Eddie’s wrist, something that looks like a dotted or scratched tattoo all around, but that’s not it. Because then Eddie moves his wrist closer and he can read all the words on Eddie’s skin. 

DARK CHOCOLATE WITH RASPBERRIES

NO CUT FLOWERS! YELLOW IS GOOD

COFFEE WITH ONE DROP OF MILK

NO ICE IN DRINKS - TRIGGERS MIGRAINES

BELTS AND SHOELACES - GOOD GIFTS TO WEAR

FREDDIE MERCURY

GOOD OLD FASHIONED LOVER BOY

NO KETCHUP! 

STRAWBERRY ICE CREAM

These and so much more. All of Steve’s favorites, all what made him feel like himself, forever preserved in Eddie’s skin. 

He buries his head in Eddie’s shoulder and holds him so tight Eddie has trouble breathing, but then he decides that oxygen is overrated. “You’re so crazy,” sobs Steve into his shoulder. 

Eddie laughs again into the quiet of their former school. “I know.”

“And I love you so much.” 

He kisses Steve’s forehead. “I know. And I love you too. That’s why I had to do this, you know. Because even when I’m old and ugly, just like these flowers will be one day, when I’m senile and can hardly remember my own name, I will look at my hand and I’ll know all that is important.” 

Steve holds him even tighter if that’s possible, but maybe oxygen is needed just a little. Eddie gently kisses Steve’s head again and whispers: “We’re not done yet, love. Can you let me go so I can play us a movie? Something nice.” 

The arms crushing him loosen their hold and Steve briefly turns away to wipe at his eyes. “Sure. Sorry, I just…this is new for me. But good. So good.” 

“You deserve the good. All of it.” Eddie means it. And if seeing Steve appreciated as he should have been all of his life is redeemed by something as mundane as ignoring some truths about himself? Eddie is ready and willing. 

As he puts Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom into the VHS player, he realizes something terrifying - he’s actually LOOKING FORWARD TO THE NEXT VALENTINE’S DAY. 

Oh well. Time to adjust the Munson doctrine. After all, it might become a Munson-Harrington doctrine one day, so it deserves some revision.

[vintagesimstress]

Northern & Southern European Dyes Palette(s)

It's been almost exactly two years since I made my Iron Age Palette. To celebrate that anniversary... No, you know what, actually not, it's a total coincidence 😅 I was working on a new thing and started wondering about this and that; to not bore you with the details, let's just say that one thing let to another and of course I ended up revisiting the very basics. So here it is! Not one, but TWO new colour palettes for our oldtime-y sims. Based on the lives of my Britons at some point in 1st century CE, shortly before the Roman conquest.

An important note: the southern palette is actually rather an add-on than a separate palette. As in, Romans would surely have access to the dyes from the northern palette as well. But as stated above, I made this whole thing from the viewpoint of a British Celt, hence we have two palettes: one with dyes which he could just obtain from native plants and the other with those he'd have to import. The southerners were more blessed in this aspect :]

You can download PDF files for both of those palettes and .txt files to be used in Paint.net (put them in Documents\paint.net User Files\Palettes). EDIT: the amazing @kyrassimhoard went ahead and made the .aco version of the palettes for all the Photoshop users! Thank you so much Kyra (also, special thanks to @aheathen-conceivably for double checking them for me 💗)

DOWNLOAD them on my Patreon! (always free, no early access etc.)

Apart from a bunch of visual changes (maybe the font will actually be readable this time? Gasp!), there's some new stuff in the palettes themselves (duh). Let's take a quick look, shall we?

undyed wool - hard to call it a dye, lol, but ofc it had to be here. The so-called primitive sheep of the Brittonic era looked quite different from what we imagine when we think 'sheep', and they most certainly came not only in white, but also in many shades of brown or even black. Perfect for making a colourful garment even without any dyes;

birch leaves - easy to obtain, easy to dye; almost no changes here, other than one added shade which used to be under 'mixed ingredients' before;

birch bark - OK, I don't remember where I took the old colours from, but I'm afraid I was being too optimistic. Birch bark gives rather pinkish than reddish shades; actually, it needs a looooooong soak and proper pH to turn anything but very bright, subtle pink. But it seems you can get them and they don't wash out that easily, so - there you go;

elderberry - here I was for sure being too optimistic, especially with that one pretty, saturated blue shade which got thrown away. From what I've read (and seen in photos...), elderberry is a very tricky dye, not particularly water- and lightfast. 'Not particularly' is mildly put - it just washes out in no time, leaving you either with a very pale or very greyish shade of the once vibrant colour. Adjusted accordingly (and they're still too pretty tbh);

apple leaves/twigs - that's a bit of a tricky point, because the Internet claims it was only Romans who brought apples to Britain. But at the same time apple cider was Britain's national drink allegedly already during the Celtic times. Heck, Welsh mythical island of Avalon literally means 'isle of apples', and mythology tends to be... you know... old. Huh? After a bit of research on the topic I'm inclined to believe that what Romans really brought with them were big, sweet apples and their organised cultivation; but small, tart, 'untasty' varieties did exist in Britain even before, growing in the wild. Perfect for making cider - or dyes 😉;

nettle - no changes here. Easy, cheap, grows everywhere, just that the colours are probably not something you'd wear to a party;

hedge bedstraw - seems it's growing everywhere in Britain, so it's plausible the ancients would've made use of it;

lichen - aaaaalriiight, now, that is a big discovery! Beautiful shades and absolutely possible to obtain from the varieties growing on the British Isles. One of the most crucial omissions from my old palette, here finally in its full glory.

That was it for the northern palette. And the southern? Glad you asked:

weld - previously called 'dyer's rocket', but no one in the whole wide natural dyeing Internet calls it that. Beautiful, vibrant, very steady yellow; won't give away even if you overdye it with indigo or woad. It's native to the Mediterranean and while it was cultivated in Britain in later centuries, I have no reason to believe that was also the case in 1 c. CE. I dub it imported;

madder - I keep reading that it's giving saturated red shades, but I have yet to see anyone dye a skein of yarn deep red with madder only. All that keeps popping up in pictures are gentle, pinkish reds, so that's what I included in my palette too. The orange comes from changed pH of the water;

woad - OK, that's my most epic fail of all. To make a Celtic palette and not include woad?! Putting aside the whole matter of Britons possibly maybe but actually maybe not using it to paint their faces (a very controversial matter, let's not go there 😅), woad was the blue dye in those times. Indigo was far away and while it was being imported to Rome, afaik it was used mostly for painting, not cloth dyeing; and besides, as crazy as it may sound, woad seems to do the job better. Seriously. Higher water and light fastness. The question is, was it cultivated in Britain or imported? Just like weld, it's native to the Mediterraean. There is a British find of a bunch of woad seeds, from 1 c. BCE - but then again, it's just one find. So... Mostly imported but slowly being introduced to the Isles? Maybe?

mixed ingredients - the ingredients specified in the PDFs are given in the order they're used - that makes a difference! My biggest discovery of this whole natural dyeing research is that, surprisingly, vibrant green is the absolutely most difficult colour to obtain. That dark green you see at the bottom - so-called Lincoln green - requires super high levels of both weld and woad, and you must put your yellow skein in the blue dye asap - if you're too slow, you get a lighter shade, e.g. like the one above it. The Hightowers surely knew how to show they're rich, huh...?

and last but not least, the luxury dyes! Some imported from far away (turmeric), some from nearby lands (Tyrian purple), some even grown locally (there were saffron plantations on Sicily. True story), but nevertheless, all super duper expensive. Tyrian purple was actually legally reserved for the emperor only - even if you could, by some miracle, afford it, you'd probably get arrested if you dared to dress in that particular shade of purple. Good that lichens could always come to the rescue!

Guess that's enough of behind-the-scenes trivia, isn't it? Props to you if you managed to get to this point, lol. Have fun with the palettes and happy recolouring!

***

Sources:

dzikiebarwy.com - in Polish, but the pictures should speak for themselves. Here you've got a post about dyeing with summer plants, including birch leaves, here - elderberry, here - apple leaves and twigs, here - nettle;

https://woolandpalette.com/blogs/news/making-vibrant-green-with-natural-dyes was my first step in finding out how to obtain a proper green shade with natural dyes;

wooltribulations.blogspot.com - dyeing with birch bark (here), another failed elderberry experiment (here) and overdyeing weld with woad for a deep Lincoln green shade (here);

www.jennydean.co.uk - an absolute godsend, especially two posts: 'Dyes of the Celts' (here) and 'Colours of the Romans' (here);

https://craftinvaders.co.uk/making-dye-from-lichen/

https://earlychurchhistory.org/fashion/colors-dyes-for-clothing-in-ancient-rome/ - on the posh dyes for the rich;

https://www.butserancientfarm.co.uk/gallery - except for the general vibe (*chef's kiss*), the 'animals and nature' section of the gallery has pictures of the 'primitive' sheep which they keep at the farm;

...and a bunch of others which I didn't save in my bookmarks 🙃

[sgiandubh]

The Scottish Play

I am pretty sure this made the fandom headlines today and I am definitely late to the party...

But here are my two cents on it, also based on Baz Bamigboye's very comprehensive Deadline report, featuring some pretty interesting insights from S himself:

(Source: https://deadline.com/2025/06/sam-heughan-macbeth-royal-shakespeare-company-debut)

The 'I told you' thing is always a questionable rhetoric weapon, but I think I really gave you a pretty accurate opinion on S's potential. A very long time ago, even:

[Source: https://www.tumblr.com/sgiandubh/725752526214971392/we-few-we-happy-few-we-band-of-brothers?source=share -posted on August 15, 2023]

It is always easy to be a sad, trolling bitch when your cultural access range stops at Bridgerton, because it is almost too easy to disparage and disregard what you are clearly unequipped to understand, for a start. Also because showing empathy and trust was never on your agenda, as far as S goes. And because your worst lies have now been shattered, all you've got left is to slam 'the Mommies', who will allegedly break havoc at the RSC's Stratford-upon-Avon venue.

You know what? I am pretty sure those Mommies, whose existence I never denied, the ones who stand in line by Arctic temperatures in front of obscure liquor stores, do not have - with all due respect - the social and economic profile to travel to Stratford for the RSC's new Macbeth show. This might sound blunt, but I think you will see no shouting, catcalling crowds. It's too far away. It is, realistically speaking, way too expensive. And it is, one more time, out of their range, for Macbeth is, after all, one of the most intricately sinister plays that ever existed. Plus zero chances for a shirtless lollapalooza - so no, I predict no eccentric happenings, this time.

I am over the moon for S and I will be there to decently clap, if the Box Office gods would allow. In the meanwhile, here are the logistical details, as per the RSC's website itself:

[Source: https://www.rsc.org.uk/macbeth/]

Macbeth will be on from October 6 to December 9, 2025 and the tickets will be available for the public on June 25. Already bookmarking these and I will keep you posted.

Two other things, for the road, to keep it simple and clear - from the Deadline paper:

So, it was her, on that photo taken by the Three Brazilian Stooges, the next day after her brutal disappearance from the Landcon. Despite the pathetic guessing game, featuring his mother, some mystery woman grossly hinted by the OG Troll, and probably even Evita Perón, if only she could have been available (no dice, for very obvious reasons). So yes, they absolutely do not hate each other, which is really an understatement, if you see what I mean, here. Because yes, she is 'obviously in London as well' (what a peculiar choice of words, by the way), because they are 'obviously not together' (this reminded me of that particularly feeble denial, for some reason and my left foot they aren't). And because this probably was the perfect occasion for S to quietly slide the cursor towards a 'nothing to see here' narrative, allowing for further twists and turns down the road (yes, mark me, LOL).

Finally, of course she is in London and not in GLA, where the Taj Mahal stands forlorn and forgotten and not under repairs at all, which is really strange for such a hefty real estate investment, unless (heh)... And yes, these are very fresh news I am bringing you, with my thanks to the kind informer - you know who you are and I am grateful for the share.

Last, but not least, for the hair fetishists who abound in this fandom:

'A new skin and a new me and new beginnings'. In his own words, ladies and gentlemen.

This made me grin, but in the best possible way. As for The Gathering, yes - I have thoughts and possibly even questions. A bit later tonight, though.

PS: Shakespeare is not my favorite playwright (Tennessee Williams is the lucky winner, and by far). But yeah, I'll make an effort.

[creature-wizard]

What the Project Monarch alter programming conspiracy theory is (and what it's not)

When I talk about alter programming conspiracy theories, people often get confused as to what I mean, so I figured I'd write a post to clear things up.

First of all, I am not saying that DID systems can't be indoctrinated or conditioned the same way literally any other human being can be, or that abusive people would never try and manipulate or exploit specific alters. That's not what I'm saying at all.

What I am talking about is a set of alleged practices first described by a number of far right conspiracy theorists, who claimed that the CIA was operating a program called Project Monarch, which was allegedly part of Project MK-Ultra.

Now, the existence of Project MK-Ultra is very well-known. The CIA did in fact conduct unethical human experiments in an effort to actually practice mind control. However, it didn't work out because drugs and the human brain don't actually work the way they thought they did. It's worth noting that these experiments were in part fueled by a fear that Russians were already masters of mind control, because as far as they were concerned, communism had to be more than just a political ideology that was at odds with America's own capitalist system; it had to be something so evil that it could only be forced on people using the most diabolical of methods. They were terrified that American POWs were being turned into Manchurian agents, and they figured that if this a thing the Russians were doing, then they should try and take advantage of this, too. Again, Project MK-Ultra was horrible, but it didn't produce the results they wanted, because Manchurian agents are nothing more than the fever dream of a terrified western capitalist.

Meanwhile, there is no evidence that Project Monarch ever existed. None. Nada. Not a shred. Despite allegedly being practiced by thousands of people in all levels of society since at least the mid-20th century, not a single piece of primary literature or documentation has ever turned up. Keep this in mind going forward.

If you've never heard of Project Monarch before, here's the gist of this conspiracy theory: Supposedly, Nazi scientist Dr. Josef Mengele wasn't actually performing eugenics experiments, and the Holocaust wasn't actually about genocide at all. It was actually a cover for mind control experiments. After the war, Dr. Joseph Mengele was brought over to the US in Operation Paperclip, where he taught the CIA everything he knew. Project Monarch was established by the CIA in order to plant programmers and programmed slaves everywhere in society for the purpose of establishing the rule of the New World Order, which had supposedly controlled Nazi Germany and had now infiltrated the US government. Supposedly, one of the New World Order's big goals was to destroy American conservative Christianity, especially Protestantism. Literally anything that a white American Protestant hyperconservative would find objectionable was supposedly the work of the NWO.

The alleged practices conducted under Project Monarch were broadly labeled "trauma-based mind control," or TBMC. While some people today use this term to refer to any form of punitive conditioning, the term originally had a very specific meaning. Let's talk about how TBMC in its original context allegedly worked. The basic concept goes like this: a very young child (sometimes even a baby) will be put under brutal torture in order to force them into dissociation. If the procedure is successful, the victim's mind will split and form a number of completely blank alters. Somehow, the programmers know which blank alters are potentially useful for programming, and which aren't. Each usable alter will be programmed with a code or trigger that will allow programmers to access the alter (force it to front) later. Supposedly, the host alter will have no memory of any of this.

During each programming session, the victim will be tortured into a dissociative trance, and the desired alter will be accessed. At this point the alter will be taught (typically as traumatically as possible) whatever they're supposed to learn, like how to assassinate someone, how to do complex mathematics at superhuman levels, or how to pose as the perfect Christian housewife.

So theoretically, someone who's basically your regular churchgoing mom could be sent a greeting card with a picture of something like a cute little Scottish terrier, have her assassin alter triggered, and go kill some local politician with some futuristic piece of technology that makes it look like he just died of natural heart attack.

Allegedly, millions of people have been programmed like this, and the average Monarch slave has an average of 1000 alters. Meanwhile, the supposed symptoms of alter programming are so broad that just about anyone with any kind of trauma or mental health issue could be diagnosed with it, and there is nothing they could do to falsify it.

Again, there is literally no evidence that Monarch programming is real. Josef Mengele was not brought to the US in Operation Paperclip; he fled to South America and died in Brazil. The Nazis (including Mengele) were very much all about those eugenics, and claiming otherwise is laughable. Not a single group, institution, or individual has ever been found in possession of programmers' manuals, nor in possession of the codebooks and books of programming records that supposedly (and would have to, if this was really happening) exist out there. Not a single person claiming to be a deprogrammed slave has ever demonstrated any of the numerous skills they were supposedly trained to be hypercompentent in.

Additionally, once you start digging into the actual sources of this conspiracy theory, you start seeing the exact same tropes that feature in The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion and early modern witch hunt manuals. They've been given some updates to resonate with the fears of post-WWII American WASPs, but it's ultimately the same scapegoating and fearmongering that sent millions of people to their deaths.

It's obvious that most of the people who believe that Monarch programming exists haven't actually read works like Trance-Formation of America (1995) by Mark Philips and Cathy O'Brien, and They Know Not What They Do: Illustrated Guide To Monarch Mind Control (1995), The Illuminati Formula Used To Create A Total Undetectable Mind-Controlled Slave (1996), and Deeper Insights Into The Illuminati Formula (1997) by Fritz Springmeier and Cisco Wheeler. If they did, they'd be pretty hard-pressed to deny that these books are some of the most hateful garbage ever written. These books are chock full of xenophobia, racism, and a general hatred of anyone who isn't a hyperconservative Protestant. Pseudoscience and pseudohistory are rampant throughout, as are now-failed predictions about the alleged future plans of the New World Order.

Some people out there have asked me, "well, what about this other person talking about it?" I promise you, the stuff they are talking about ultimately comes from these books, which were published throughout the 1990's. This includes Unwelcome Ozian, whose books Chainless Slaves and Rules of Programming contain text that's straight-up copied from some of these books. People like Dr. Alison Miller and Dr. Ellen Lacter cite Svali, and Svali's own work describes the exact same NWO conspiracy theory as the works of Springmeier and Wheeler.

I encourage anyone who isn't likely to get triggered by talk of extreme violence (including sexual) to actually read these books so you can see for yourself just how bad they are. A huge part of the reason this conspiracy theory has so much traction is because few people actually know where it comes from, and just how completely ridiculous the whole damn thing is. Just about everything QAnon was on about is packed into these books.

And finally, while dissociative amnesia does indeed exist, we also have evidence that people can confabulate memories of events that never actually happened. Rock-solid evidence, in fact. This is literally what happens every time someone goes under hypnosis to try and remember a past life, and "remembers" a past life in the medieval period filled with anachronisms and historical misconceptions. If you'd like to see some extremely obvious examples of memory confabulation for yourself (some of which don't even involve hypnosis), you can click here and here.

(By the way, the terms "RAMCOA" and "OEA" were created by the ISSTD, for the purpose of making these types of conspiracy theories sound respectable within legitimate psychiatry.)