#ladder illusion

[acourtofquestions]

The Cadres dynamics in Chapter 57:

"Courtesy of the Lord of Anielle."

Lorcan gave him a look that said he knew Rowan was full of shit, but began efficiently donning the armor, Gavriel doing the same.

Whether the soldiers around them marked that armor, whether Chaol recognized it, no one said a word.

Lorcan indeed muttered, "Someone better tell her to stop primping and get here."

Rowan snarled in warning.

Fenrys unslung the bow across his back and nocked an arrow into place. Rowan kept his own bow strapped across his back, the quiver untouched, Gavriel and Lorcan doing the same. No need to waste them on a few soldiers when their aim might be needed with far worse targets later in the day. But one of them had to be noted felling soldiers. For whatever it would do to rally their spirits.

And Fenrys, as fine an archer as Rowan, he'd admit, would do just fine.

Rowan followed the line of Fenrys's arrowhead to where he'd marked one of the bearers of a siege ladder. "Make it impressive," he muttered.

"Mind your own business," Fenrys muttered.

Lorcan said to one of them "Save your breath for the battle, not the gods."

Rowan shot him a look, but the man, gaping at Lorcan, quieted.

"Someone better say something inspiring," Fenrys said through gritted teeth, firing another arrow. "Or these men are going to piss themselves in a minute." For a minute was all they had left, as the first siege tower inched closer.

"You've got the pretty face," Lorcan retorted. "You'd do a better job of it."

"It's too late for speeches," Rowan cut in before Fenrys could reply. "Better to show them what we can do."

[venigni]

Walker of Illusions gives me a hard time in every single playthrough :/

[fantastic-mr-corvid]

it may be the autistic tranny fag in me. but gender roles and the whole system of gender oppression is genuinely fascinating to me, partially because it is so complex. ive had some [in hindsight] fascinating looks into 'both sides' and how the rules and reinforcements work and differ, as well as what happens when the systems collide and people get caught in the middle.

[eight-solo]

[elinda96]

[ehj3]

SEWERS AND LADDERS

“Day by day, what you choose, what you think and what you do is who you become.” —Heraclitus What you see here is a lifelong version of the game of “Chutes and Ladders” going back from the 1943 americanized, infantilized version of a 19th century British game board game “Snakes and Ladders” to the ancient Indian game Moksha Patam when the “chutes” or “snakes” represented the consequences of…

[emmg]

At nineteen, Emmrich proposed to a fellow student, a boy with hair so dark it drank the light. The age itself was incidental; a number, an illusion, a neat division imposed upon a life that did not yet know how to divide itself. But still, nineteen was good. Good because it allowed for certainty, for decisions made with the heedless bravado of someone who has not yet learned how time can warp them.  

He remembered family in the way one remembers the texture of a childhood blanket: warmth not as an abstraction but as a sensation, something real enough to be retrieved at will, kneaded, reshaped, pressed into new forms. It was this warmth, this phantom of closeness, that he sought to recreate in the tender spaces of early love. No one stopped him. Nineteen was the age of indulgence, of watching without intervening, of murmured allowances. Let him. He will learn. He will unlearn. The world granted him this folly.

"Let’s wait until we’re no longer apprentices," the lovely boy said, and so they did. 

Then Minrathous for one, Ferelden for the other. Cities that, on maps, seemed no more distant than the span of a hand but, in practice, required whole journeys to cross. The change was slow. Small gaps in the correspondence, a hesitation in the ink, an unfamiliar concision where once there had been excess. 

The letters continued. At first, swollen with sentiment, words pressing against the margins, impatient, tumbling over themselves in their need to be read. Then, the same flourishes, the same intricate loops, but now with the care of one writing an alibi. The words became beautiful in a way that beauty becomes a substitute for feeling. Then, in the end, not at all. 

At thirty, he tried again, though this time without the formalities of a question. A gesture here, a remark left to linger, an invitation just vague enough to be ignored or accepted without consequence. The art was in the waiting: nets cast, lines slack, the delicate balance between reeling in and letting the current decide.

Gifts, unobtrusive at first, then a shade too particular, too attuned. Plans, not for next week but for some fogged-over point just far enough ahead to suggest permanence. A quiet test, a way of observing whether the word we would slip into conversation naturally or require a pause, a conscious effort.

Some entanglements stretched across years, some unraveled in mere months, some never took shape at all. But the process remained the same, a practiced routine, less an act of pursuit than a habit of expectancy, of waiting to see who would mistake the drift for direction. 

With Johanna, it had almost seemed possible. They were young, clever, bright enough to blind themselves. Where she rushed forward, he held back; where she burned bridges, he traced blueprints for new ones. They fit together, he thought. She chose him to fight with, to kiss, to mock, to fuck, to abandon, to retrieve, to champion when it suited her and dismiss when it did not. Out of all the others—so many others, so many better ones—it was him she turned to, and that was beyond exhilarating.

"You're a fucking idiot," she would tell him. 

"Perhaps," he would agree, adjusting his sleeves, "but you still should not do this, Johanna." Or that. Or the next thing. 

They did not balance each other. Balance suggested symmetry, some reciprocal give-and-take. Johanna was a force of nature; he, at best, a gust of wind. But in those days, he let himself believe they came close enough. 

"I could stay with you forever," he confessed to her once, drunk on sentiment, on whatever else had been in his glass. 

"Love. Romance," Johanna muttered, barely looking up from her notes. "Convenient, isn’t it? Always there when it suits you. Always such a lovely little supplement to whatever grand, important thing you’re doing. We could go anywhere, you and I. Climb every ladder, scale every rung. Publish together, argue in print, scandalize conferences, carve our names so deep into the spine of academia they’d have to chisel us out. For a while, it could even be fun." 

Tap-tap-tap. Her cigarette met its end against his desk. 

"And then, of-fucking-course, you'll be wanting more. Because you're a sentimental twat. It'll start with something small. A home, maybe. A study with matching desks. How adorable. Before I know it, I’ll be spending more time with you than without, and suddenly ‘we’ have ‘traditions.’ ‘We’ have ‘a life together.’ And the next thing out of your mouth will be that cursed, saccharine stupid word: family."

A wave of the hand, cutting off whatever nonsense he had been about to say. 

"Tell me, Volkarin, when that moment comes, when the great balancing act begins, who do you think will tip the scales? Who will step back? Who will compromise, just a bit, just a fraction, just enough that it becomes a habit? It certainly won’t be you." 

In the aftermath, he stopped collecting people—they had a way of slipping through, of vanishing between seasons—and turned to objects instead. Objects had the decency to remain where they were placed. Objects, too, could be tender. A frayed ribbon, a cufflink left behind in a hurry, the curve of a wine glass still faintly smudged. If flowers could be pressed between pages, why not the remnants of former closeness?  

For a while, it sufficed. Once-beens do not grow cold. They do not tire of a familiar voice. They do not wake to discover that passion has gone. 

Then, one day, sudden as a fairytale, a little thing followed. A little thing made entirely of curiosity, of unguarded wonder. It assembled itself from air and light, slipped into its chosen shape, donned a backpack, adjusted its goggles, and, most importantly, selected him. It let itself be named. It let itself become. First an it, then a he, then a wisp no longer but This is Manfred. And once again, he thought: this is enough. More than enough. Did he really need more? Did he really dare ask for it? To ask was to tempt, and he had lived long enough to know that nothing is punished more swiftly than wanting.

It is a graveyard, he thinks now, standing in the Lighthouse, frowning at the accumulated debris of a life, at the weight of what he has chosen to drag with him. The artifacts of his years; the trifles, the curiosities gathered not for use but for the fact of their gathering. Books he cherishes and books he detests, bought because, once, someone he desired mentioned them in passing. His grave gold has been carefully curated. Each piece first chosen for its shape and luster, its particular delight, but also bright enough, costly enough, to be seen. Gold so pure it warps under a careless grip, so soft that teeth would leave crescent-shaped wounds in its surface if one were to bite. 

He wonders if Rook—whom he loves, though he will not tell her, not yet, not when love, spoken too soon, has the peculiar effect of making things disappear—might find some use for them. If she would accept one without knowing it was an offering. If she would take a second. If she would take them all. Books she cannot read, books she can set alight. If the gesture would amuse her, if it would tilt her just a hair closer, if, in some small, unnoticed way, it would make her stay after all is said and done and the gods are dead. 

He is vain, naturally. If the wind disarranges his hair, he will pause before a reflective surface to smooth it down. He will scent the pulse points of his throat, darken his lashes, adjust the folds of his collar. But vanity, like intelligence, like charm, is an instrument. He has wielded it since youth, when prettiness earned him gifts, indulgences, the interest of those old enough to give what he could not take. In his prime, handsomeness made students linger too long at his desk, made colleagues tilt their heads toward his in the candlelit hush of evening. And now, past fifty, he is something else altogether. 

Now he looks like a man who can provide. It is a new sort of attention, neither unpleasant nor pleasurable, merely a shift in expectation. He can no longer offer the prettiness of youth—fine, let it go. But there are other currencies. Stability, for one. A steady hand, a still point, a place to land when Rook, inevitably, falls. Because she will fall. It is in her nature to leap, just as it is in his to remain still, just as it was in Johanna’s to trespass. 

He is tired. Not old, not yet, though the distinction is beginning to blur. A little past his prime, a few paces beyond what once felt limitless. Still, the weight of it settles; a fatigue not of the body but of anticipation, of wanting, of that feverish, grasping giddiness that used to propel him forward and now only leaves him breathless. He isn’t sure when it happened, when the thrill sharpened into something sweeter, something he dared to call love. 

All he knows is that the Lighthouse has no hours, no division between night and day, only the endless lull of the in-between. And that in this strange, untethered time, he would very much like to kiss Rook for every second of it. 

"You look very good there," she says, watching him rearrange his books. 

Another night, when a tome slips, edges itself beneath his desk, and he is forced onto hands and knees to fish it out, she remarks, "I don’t like reading, but I like it when you read to me." 

"I like this, and I like that, and I like this even more." Her voice is drowsy as she traces the lines of his face in the dark. He doesn’t know what this or that are, only that she is saying it, only that it undoes something in him. He turns his face slightly, breathes in, and without meaning to, without even noticing at first, he cries.

"Oh," she says, and then, "Hm." A pause. A brief assessment. Finally, a careless shrug. "It’s fine. That’s fine. I like this too." 

Rook, Rook, Rook, he wants to say, you don’t need Rivain, you don’t need the sun. The sun burns you, always has, always will; your skin is too pale for it, you freckle, you scald. But Nevarra— 

Nevarra is softer. Nevarra has clouds, long grey stretches of them, merciful and cool. Nevarra has catacombs and tombs, stone corridors humming with history, names carved so deep they outlast memory. And everywhere—flowers. Tangled over crypts, spilling down staircases, curling at the hinges of forgotten doors. He has seen them all. He's collected them, commissioned their likeness in ink, dried them between pages so they would keep, so he could say: look, here, this one, still perfect, still intact. You don’t need the sun because they don't either. 

He feels selfish, but after all this time, surely, he is allowed. He is not certain if this is the love, grand and operatic, but it has the right proportions, the right density.

Then let him be selfish. Because one way or another, he will go before her. She is young; he is not. He will leave her everything—what he has made, what they will make together—let her wade through the excess of it, scatter it, burn it, gild herself in its remnants. Or perhaps it will be the other way around. Perhaps she will die first, and he will remain, the eternal, patient custodian of the Necropolis, throat slit in the name of lichdom. 

He will visit her bones, speak to her as he speaks to his parents, his voice flattening against stone, words meant for no one but himself. He will not whisper. Not to her. Not the way he does to the others, not in the hush reserved for the dead. Because what if she does not answer? Worse—what if she cannot? What if there is nothing at all on the other side, just a severance so complete that every Rook-shaped, Rook-possessed, Rook-claimed thing is erased, like a hand wiping chalk from a slate? And he, undying, would remain to witness it. So no, he will not whisper. But he will talk. 

He wants it, but he doesn’t want it, because he wants too much, all at once, all overlapping, all pulling in different directions. He wants to live, but he does not want to die. He wants to live with Rook, wants to kiss her, undress her, drag her down onto the floor of the Lighthouse, press her against familiar sheets in Nevarra, in Rivain, in places they have never been, in places that do not yet exist. He wants to pull her so close that the seam between them dissolves. 

More than that, he wants to buy her grave gold, not just because she would relish it—because she is a dragon, a creature drawn to glittering things—but because when she wears it, when her wrists flash with bangles, when her ears are burdened with gold, when her fingers are swallowed in rings, people will see. They will see and know. Know that every piece was placed there, deliberately, by someone who cares for her in the way that gold cares for fire—devotedly, completely, until it melts.

"I love you so much," he tells her one night, after a sip of whiskey too many, after something in his chest has tipped over and spilled. "I love you so, so much, and perhaps, oh, just perhaps, we do not need to die." 

She kisses his cheek, absently. She looks tired. "Not now?" she asks. 

"Not ever," he insists, giddy again, grasping her hands, pressing his lips against her knuckles. 

She exhales, leans back, undoes her braid, fingers brushing through. Inquires again, "How?" Not with disbelief, but with that particular indulgence she reserves for him. She humors, but she listens. She likes to listen. And so he will talk. 

"Me, in lichdom. You... I do not know. Not yet. Not entirely. But I will. Through artifice, perhaps." 

"Artifice?"

"You like gold, do you not?" 

"I suppose."

"Then gold it shall be," he concedes. "Fed into your veins, threaded through capillaries, chaperoned along the corridors of your body. A patient infusion, drop by drop, until the filigree of your arteries is lined with metal, until the marrow of your bones drinks it in like water. When your heart beats—" he presses his fingers to the pulse at her wrist, measuring it, counting. "It will push gold through you, coil it around your sinew, stain your blood the color of amber. It will settle in the soft places, the hidden ones. Behind your ribs, along your spine, between the cords of your throat. You will be a reliquary, a thing preserved, untouchable." His grip tightens slightly, just for a moment, before he releases her, watching the light catch at the faint blue of her veins. "And if your skin were ever cut," he murmurs, "nothing would spill. No ruin, no red, no proof of mortality. Only the gleam of permanence seeping through." 

Rook watches him for a long time, long enough that she seems older, the angles of her face sharpened by something he cannot name. Then he blinks, and suddenly she is younger; too young, younger than memory allows, younger than she has ever been. Paler, too. 

She takes his glass, finishes it without hesitation, grimaces slightly. Still wordless, she cradles his face in her hands, presses a kiss to one cheek, then the other. Her lips brush his eyelids, and he closes them for her, yielding. She lingers there, warm and silent, mouth against the thin skin, long enough that the room begins to shift, long enough that he thinks, drowsily, that he might simply drift into sleep. 

"I love you too," she murmurs, very quietly. Then, softer still, her lips moving against his temple, "But don’t speak like that again." Another kiss, this time to his jaw. "I will come to the Necropolis with you, if you like. In the next few days. You are not doomed, nor transcendent, nor anything half so tragic. You are homesick. That is all. You are simply homesick." 

He knows himself to be a man of excess: of reaching too far, of wanting beyond reason, of pressing his hands too deeply into whatever is offered. That was why the others left, wasn’t it? But Rook, Rook is different. Rook takes. Rook wants. Rook gives, recklessly, and he, in turn, cannot help but take. 

Bad jests, confessions that start careful and end careless. A first time beneath the covers, blood on the sheets, a kiss, the way her mouth moves against his, the way she lets herself be known in increments, in silences, in the cool of her palm against his cheek. Her favorite spot behind the waterfall. Because love, if it is anything at all, is the act of giving. Not just anything, not just for the sake of it, but precisely what the other cannot reach for themselves. 

And so, he wants to give her gold. 

In the morning, he will apologize. Will run a hand over his face, will mutter something about whiskey, about tiredness, about speaking without thinking. He will dismiss himself before she can. Will say that he does not know what possessed him. 

But tonight, he will think of her throat gleaming with gold. He will dream, as he always does, in metal. 

[defire]

Living weapon after they're rescued part 2

[awkward whumpee vibes]

Always checking to see if they did something wrong.

Whumpee is talking but they trail off as they realize everyone is staring at them. "What... What was it this time? The part about the crushing?"

Whumpee getting so terrified of losing this new-found safety that they start creeping around on eggshells trying to be invisible. It's too good to be true and they just want the illusion to stay for as long as possible.

"You can pretend to be my friends, lie to me, torture me, but I will never tell you what you want to know." "Whumpee, I just want to know if pepperoni sounds good." *Long pause* "...Is that like a meat thing or...."

"oh, fuck, i'm sorry, I got blood on your rug, shit shit shi--" "WHUMPEE YOU NEED STITCHES!" "Yeah but I can heal and the rug--" "forget about the damn rug!"

If someone raises their voice, whumpee flinches and responds with a "yes sir" before they can think a out it.

Protesting too much. "I don't take orders from you."

"I'm not just an asset!" "I'm not saying you are, whumpee--" "then put this back, I don't need nice clothes to have the same rights as you!"

"whumpee, you can stop looking out the window every five seconds. We're in a safe zone." "Yeah, for now," whumpee glances out again.

Patting people's backs to see if they're wearing a wire, disguising it really well as just sincere friendliness and warmth

And then losing all that when they sit down and take out their gun and just set it on the dinner table. "....What?" Whumpee frowns in confusion. "Can I not clean my gun? Do I not get to have my own weapon?"

"whumpee, can you not spray wd-40 right next to my plate. I'm eating here." "Come on, it's not even that poisonous. besides, this gun isn't gonna clean itself."

"Can you not have dinner like a normal person?!" "Already finished."

*whumpee points out a tactical advantage* "Calm down whumpee, it's just snakes and ladders." Whumpee stares at the board, feeling their sense of usefulness drain away.

Going over the times they were completely badass until it gets annoying.

When they realize they're only good at killing. And they almost want to go back to it, because at least then they had a purpose.

[nutterzebutters]

Honestly given the update I'd like to say a few thigns

First things first, white lily cookies separation!

This character is so brief that one might not think about it, however I do have it in mind that this Tower keeper had purposely reminded pure vanilla and white lily of the riddle in order to push Lily to make a decision sooner, rather than later as originally intended. I do believe it was a good decision for her to go off on her own, as we all know that pure vanilla is quite lost on the topic of dark enchantress vs lily- at this very time we are unsure if truthless recluse is a further repressed version or a version that has somewhat accepted it. Furthermore, if truthless recluse is a shard/illusion I do feel it may defeat a lot of storyline purpose, and do hope that it is truly a pure vanilla or part of him that has since transformed.

As for this sprite - I will not lie this is not the Sprite I was expecting to be edited for beast eyes! I totally expected the mental breakdown Sprite. I've seen a few say that this might not be pure vanilla as Shadow milk is tampering with memories- however!!!

Part of the tactic is to put pure vanilla in situations so that he may react himself in order for shadow milk to place the narrative that he will become just as bad as him. He can use these reactions and insecurities against pure vanilla- after all he poked at pure vanilla on the matter of Lily becoming dark enchantress. That she may have been more qualified to wield the power of Truth regardless, using pure vanilla's self perceived failures as the device.

This one's a little peculiar, I have a few ideas here.

Step one, I feel I should clarify if it's not already obvious that the implication of pure vanilla being Shadow milk is not a literal one~but one that works in tandem with the ladder truth of the story. Much like Shadow milk, pure vanilla does lie! Even if Shadow milk used it for his own game, pure vanilla is self-aware enough to recognize that he too has lied so that cookies may find a sweeter world. Even if it's about himself, or about the situation at hand regardless if it was for comfort it is always dug him into a hole and has even gotten him in trouble with friends. He too is somebody that has been shown to be skilled tactically- it is very reasonable to say that beyond the soul jam this was the sub-context shadow milk was bothering pure vanilla about back in episode 2 of beast yeast, "the biggest liar" as a means to place on pv.

Now let's talk about the sheer silent terror that Truthless recluse is bc I can't express enough how unnerving he could be.

Throughout the entire time, fortune teller cookie still kept a rather calm demeanor. Keeping pure vanillas soft spoken attitude and quick thinking when it comes to help- even when faced with his current self. He was silent, he was an observer and he did it without much hassle showing how cold and calculating fortune teller cookie operates. It's a different type of imposing presence than Shadow milk but I would imagine it isn't any less cold.

It does not seem that shadow milk had given him any power boost either, rather that he was holding back the first time gingerbrave and Co fought him. This is a character who is making moves with precision bearing a frigid expression not at all like the warmth that the characters have come to know. The safety that was pure vanilla cookie has been ripped out from under Earth bread at this point, as for a large majority he has somehow remained the catalyst/nexus for a lot of progress events in the main story..

-----------------

I don't have a screenshot of this part, but I do remember golden cheese appearing next to clotted cream in the Republic! I do feel that shadow milk had used the likeness of such figures to instill what may have been a previous anxiety of pure vanillas. Especially towards golden cheese, whom seeks comfort in the fact that he has experienced the same events regarding his kingdom. It shows that for pure vanilla there's always been a confliction and form of denial regarding Lily- losing the trust of everybody he has put every effort into protecting is definitely a huge fear.

I'd also like to point out in case some were confused, the doubt pv has of his power being Shadow Milks is not merely a ownership conflict despite the wording!!!!!! I can already smell the misinterpretations.

It's that everything pure vanilla has worked through was only really lent to him, his skills and anything else that may connect to the soul jam has created a permanent tether to the ladder: making it near impossible to escape. Even from episode 2, Shadow milk has set up the very open paranoia of forever watching pure vanilla- it's a consistency so we cannot say for sure that this part is a lie!! After all, in the developer commentary live stream it stated that shadow milk is more incomprehensible than the other beasts- and just unlike the other beasts his relationship with pure vanilla and the way their soul jam works is entirely different.

Pure vanilla is aware that now that shadow milk has been there the entire time, he needed to be extra careful. Now with this vision he feels that he can't use it at all unless he wants to bring danger to the cookies he cares for- damned if he does and damned if he doesn't! As if the soul jam attached to him is nothing but a tracking device with a chain.

Just like the countless appearances of Shadow milk you can only really go off of consistencies in a world of lies. One of these consistencies is the idea that pure vanilla is more connected to the other-realm/dark side of the moon then your typical cookie. It's hard to say if he inherently came from the realm, like some sort of magic birth such as candy apple but the fact that shadow milk left it so open ended leaves it as a possibility-

NOW. I will not be showing the awakened spoilers, as I am aware they are about and circling. For those who wish not to see it, I will not show it! However I will talk about a few details that I will keep for the sake of selective obscurity as I do believe that the pure vanilla Nation won💀

We all remember the theories?? Hell, even with the connections to moonlight and keys. Y'all he's gorgeous. I cannot WAIT until he gets patched in. It also seems that some of truthless recluse stayed! Hinting to the idea that pure vanilla did not escape unscathed and reinforcing the narrative that being somewhat more intertwined with Shadow milk is not a lie. That pure vanilla will eventually gravitate towards a different balance, Fun things!

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Before we had a very original Victorian. This 1900 red brick Victorian in Columbus, OH has been renovated and modernized, although it's not gray and white. 4bds, 3.5ba, 3,636 sq ft, $995k. What do you think of this reno?

My first impression, especially with the modern sculpture in the hall, was Law office conversion.

Well, I said it wasn't gray. The good news is that they didn't paint the wood trim, so if you don't like the orange, you can just paint over it.

I'm so happy to see the fireplace intact, the pocket doors, and the window.

For some unknown reason they made the dining room into a piano bar and put fabric on the walls and ceiling. The ceiling looks upholstered.

The revamped powder room.

They didn't overdo the kitchen, but it looks like it's missing something. It's bland and cold.

In the family room, they left the cabinet and fireplace original, but either added or just painted over, the shelving- it looks newer. They made the cabinet into a little bar.

The stairs look new and some of the wood was replaced or sanded to accommodate a lighter stain.

The primary bedroom is the largest and also has an ensuite.

Brand new bath. The mirrored walls around the window create an optical illusion.

This smaller room must've been used as a home office.

This bath looks more original. The tile is older, the tub is vintage and they left the original cabinet.

The upstairs rooms didn't escape the painting of the wood, but it's expensive to strip, sand, and re-stain it.

This room still has a fireplace, but it's non-functional.

The finished attic is like a studio apt. and includes a full kitchen. It looks like the ladder leads to a sleep loft.

It also has a bath with a washer/dryer.

The basement isn't finished, but someone has a bedroom and living room furniture down here.

There's a workshop in here.

A small porch in back and a decent sized yard. 6,534 sq ft. lot.

There must also be a 2 car garage around the block.

https://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-detail/130-Buttles-Ave_Columbus_OH_43215_M30967-25609

[angelsafa]

With no dualism, can you give how you would manifest, for example a bag with this?

I want to shift so badly but I can’t get the idea out of my head that I have to do something to shift

How would you shift

Hi love,

Okay I can totally help!! and I get you:

That feeling of “I really want this but it feels like I have to do something to get it” is the trap. That whole idea is actually the ego talking, and that's what we have to detach from, here in non-dualism.

It’s not about doing, getting, or becoming. It’s about remembering that you’re not the character in the story trying to manifest the bag or shift realities.

You're not the dream self. You’re the dreamer. The awareness. The whole ass screen where everything appears So how would I "manifest" a bag? Simple: I’d stop identifying with the version of me who doesn’t have it. That’s it. I wouldn’t do anything. I’d just chill in the knowing that I am the space where anything can appear — and the version of me who has that bag already exists right here in this infinite dream library (lmao i hope you get what Im trying to say).

Wanna shift? Same thing babe. You’re not shifting by effort. You’re not climbing any ladder. You’re just dropping the illusion that you’re stuck in one place. Because the moment you stop buying into “I haven’t shifted yet,” that timeline stops being yours. You effortlessly shift when there’s no resistance. No clinging. No chasing.

You’re not trying to enter a new dream. You’re realizing it’s all just dreams inside you — and you can flip through them like Netflix (i hope you get my examples?)

So whenever that little “but I have to do something!!” thought shows up, smile at it. Let it pass. It’s just a lil cloud in the sky. You don’t have to bite the bait.

You’re not the one who shifts my sweet angel. You’re the whole ass place where shifting appears to happen if that makes sense.

You're like the... pretty much everything.

Hope that helps, you got thiss!

Lots of love,

Safa

[fixing-bad-posts]

Assumption: you don’t like pineapple on pizza

three hours soul-dead into my shift; i would’ve swallowed plaster if it meant i could leave. droning phones—sales script, etc. etc. (who here hasn’t been dehumanized by minimum wage?) my manager came in to send us all home. we’re closing early today because of the coup. the coup? the fucking coup? what fucking coup? born-again-nazis-illusioned-for-justice climbing the walls, apparently. brought ladders and guns, apparently. to washington, apparently. sir, we live in canada?? doesn’t really matter. we close (no, we’re not getting compensated, but it doesn’t really matter because see aforementioned statement re: plaster). at home (thrilled and confused) i find my sister cutting fresh pineapple on the laminate countertop, and take a big bowl as a reward for not eating plaster. i sit on the rug. i prop up my laptop and watch the news from five thousand kilometers away. the president tells his thugs that they’re “special people”. fun times. fun times. around then, swallowing (something i have historically been very good at) becomes as insurmountable as the american capitol building (a-fucking-pparently). pineapple is my forbidden fruit—because that was the day i finally realized i was allergic to pineapple :(

[roanofarcc]

WHO ARE YOU REALLY?

pairing: trevor lefkowtiz x ghost actress!reader

summary: being an icon of your time, cemented in history and remembered for your work on the silver screen was a dream come true. while having fame and fortune was a blessing, everyone had only seen you as a starlet. no one bothered to dig a little deeper, look a little closer at all of you and not just the polished pieces. that was, until you met trevor.

warnings:  reader has feelings of being inadequate, emotions are hard! hurt with some comfort. sad!reader

word count. 1.6k | masterlist

From the time you were a little girl, your face had been in the pictures. Bright eyed and flashy smile, your dazzling personality had wowed audiences. As you grew, so did your popularity. You morphed from the sweet little girl with ribbons in her hair to a beautiful adult who would be recognized a mile away. 

You were adored, and you loved it. The attention made you feel important. People knew you as the darling of Hollywood with a look men dreamed of and women tried to emulate. You attended grand parties, danced until your feet hurt, signed autographs of young girls who looked at you like the stars in the sky, and climbed the ladder of fame with a sweetness that made you impossible to dislike. 

On paper, your life was perfect. You were perfect, but your image in the eyes of the public barely skimmed the surface of you. You were a poster child, a teenage beauty queen, then a flawless depiction of a woman. Any imperfections, cracks in your glass, were covered up in heavy layers until you felt distorted. You felt as 2D as the movie posters plastered with your face and marquees flashing your name. It felt as if someone saw you bleed, the illusion would shatter. 

The more human you showed, the less they’d enjoy you, you believed. So you presented yourself like a walking movie poster or a smooth-skinned doll. All of your ugly, human parts you kept buried deep away from the public eye; it was exhausting. 

Your life felt like walking on eggshells, but you weren’t ungrateful. You loved being loved, being on the silver screen for all to see. You loved the little girls who looked up to you and the men who showered you with affection. But you longed for a way to be both, for your flaws not to break the illusion but only add to people’s adoration of you. 

Perhaps there was a future where that happened, but you died before finding out. No one remembered you for your unpolished parts, only your surface level appearances. You supposed that wasn’t a bad thing, no one could hate you for your mistakes or ugly parts, but the longer you mulled over it in the afterlife, the more you felt fake. 

Who were you really aside from your stardom? How did you become unpolished, raw, and real when you had spent your entire life playing a role? 

Those were questions you ran over and over again in your head but never dared to ask aloud. Even though your ghostly housemates, aside from Alberta, had never heard of you or delved much into your history, you still put on a front, a star who haunted the halls of Woodstone, glamorous as ever but forever stuck on the property until you figured out how to move on. 

There were times when you were overwhelmed. A wave of emotion washed over you with an ugly kind of vengeance. Instead of strolling the mansion with your head high and shoulders rolled back with an air of confidence, you hid away in fear of breaking your own illusion. When you were struck with a tightness in your chest and an ache for your life back, you were also hit with a deep-seated fear that one of the ghosts would find you in such a state and not see you the same anymore. 

Why is mattered so much, you weren’t even that sure. As much as you had wished someone had seen through your perfections when you were alive and regarded you as someone real instead of a walking doll or star, you were equally as terrified of it. Because as a ghost, you couldn’t escape their judgment. When you were alive, perhaps you could have, but you were stuck in the mansion, and what if the shattering of your image ruined you completely for them? 

Spiraling made you dizzy, a crying mess on the floor of one of the back rooms upstairs that no one ever ventured into. You sat with your mind reeling, knees pulled up to your chest. It was rare of you to make yourself small, but when you broke down, you wished to curl into yourself so tightly you vanished. 

It all was painfully contradictory, but you usually tired yourself out of your fit and returned to your ghostly friends as if nothing happened, as if there wasn’t a weight on your chest. But that day was different. Instead of hiding away until you finished crying, as your mother would call ‘ugly crying’ and frown at because you were supposed to be pretty even when you cried, someone had stumbled upon you. 

Trevor. 

You would have been more mortified if you could see through the tears that blurred your vision or could breathe properly through your aching lungs. 

Half of you expected him to turn around and pretend like he didn’t see you for both your sakes, but he didn’t. Trevor wasn’t the kind to turn a heel; he was too nosey for that. Instead, he knelt in front of you. 

You hastily rubbed your eyes, trying to clear your vision. You saw his frown, the crease between his brows as he peered at you. You could see his image of you being broken, and you started to panic. As much as you thought about someone seeing you as someone different than your carefully crafted role, it was different when it was really happening. He looked concerned, and you feared he’d hate it. 

You tried to make yourself stop, sucking in shallow breaths as you wiping the trails of tears streaked down your cheeks. 

Trevor’s fingers curled around your shoulder. “What happened?” he asked, voice careful as he spoke. 

You shook your head before dipping your forehead back to your knees to avoid his gaze. “This just happens sometimes,” you admitted. Your bottled-up and controlled emotions to the point where they eventually had to make their way out. It was an old habit, one you were told over and over to practice because no one wanted to see a young girl be anything less than perfect. 

“I’m sorry,” you said before Trevor could say anything. You cleared your throat and tried to revert back to your usual self. 

Trevor looked even more confused. “You’re sorry? For what?” 

You could hear the ghosts of those who always hovered over you during your lifetime. Their voices all telling you to suck it up, put on a smile, leave no trace of tears on your cheeks or sadness in your eyes. No one wanted to see that. No one cared to see that. 

“For you seeing me like this,” you replied. You fixed your hair back in place and smoothed out your blouse before brushing off Trevor’s hand on your shoulder and standing up off the floor. “It’s not flattering.” 

Trevor stood up too, his brows still furrowed, but his frown morphed into a thin line. “Flattering? You were crying. Who cares about flattering?” he asked, but it didn’t seem like he was looking for an answer. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” you answered without hesitation, a reflex with a smile. 

He cocked his head to the side, not believing you. “Bullshit.” 

You blinked in surprise, closing yourself off as you crossed your arms over your chest. “Excuse me?” 

“You were just on the floor, sobbing, and you expect me to believe you’re ‘fine?’ If something’s wrong, you can tell me. You know that, right?” 

No one had ever called your ‘bullshit’ before. Your ‘fine’ always smoothed everything over. Why didn’t it work on Trevor? It almost made you want to cry again, but you refrained the best you could. 

“I already told you, it just happens sometimes. I don’t…” You trailed off, sniffling into your hand in a lame attempt to hide your bubbling emotions that threatened to spill over. But no one wanted or needed that. “I don’t need anyone to see me like that. That’s all.” 

“Why?” Trevor pried. 

You were confused; you thought the ‘why’ was obvious. “Because, like I said, it’s not flattering. No one wants to see that. It could make people think differently of me, or less of me.” 

“Because you cry sometimes? Do you know how insane that sounds?” Trevor’s tone wasn’t mean; he couldn’t see to wrap his head around your words, confusion clear on his face. 

“It’s not insane,” you argued, but your voice was horse and tired, it held to bite either. “It’s about image.” 

“Your image to who?” Trevor took a step closer to you. “We kind of lost the right to judge each other when we died and became ghosts, stuck here with each other for…forever maybe. You can’t care about image for eternity; that’s crazy.” 

Your frown deepened at his words, and he was quick to continue. “Not that you’re crazy! It’s just, you know, you’re allowed to cry without worrying we’ll think less of you.” 

“You don’t think less of me?” 

Trevor laughed, not in mocking or malice. It sounded rather sweet, actually. “I don’t think I could ever think less of you,” he said. “I was actually starting to worry you were a pretty robot for a little while, but I’m glad you’re not.” 

Your lips curled upwards in slight amusement, but your eyes shone with surprise. Was that it? Was Trevor the one to peer through the cracks in your image? Could you really handle that? Could he? 

The idea of someone seeing you, no matter how much you longed for it, was still terrifying. But maybe it was supposed to be terrifying, to be seen. 

“Would you want to stay?” you said after a beat of silence, a small thread of bravery you extended from your heart. “Just for a little longer? With me?” Because you still felt heavy and off balance from more than just Trevor’s words. 

He nodded and flashed you a smile, the two of you returning to sit on the floor in your slipping facade. 

[eqt-95]

Easter put together an amazing flash fiction challenge that I've finally gotten around to attempting incorrectly*:

Genre: crack

Premise: sentenced to community service

Trope: in vino veritas

Subject: paint samples

*it is definitely longer than 1,000 words. my hand slipped.

also on AO3

----------------

Luthor Green

HOUR 1

"This would go a lot faster if someone picked up the tempo a bit," Alex said with a side-eye.

"Superspeed won't teach us any valuable lessons," Kara explained, carrying an armful of painting supplies.

Alex's side-eye became an eye-roll. "Listen, we aren't some rag tag group of teenagers who graffitied the centennial monument-"

"The Tag Teens," Nia whispered.

"-we are superheroes who-"

"Who caused seventy-three million dollars in damages fighting off an illusion," came a stern but familiar voice from behind Alex.

"Lena!" Kara exclaimed. Her hands sent the supplies sprawling across a drop cloth as they lifted toward the LuthorCorp CEO.

"It's Ms. Luthor, Supergirl."

The same hands fell lifelessly back to Kara's sides. Nia grinned mischievously. Alex was already over the entire thing.

"And she's right, Agent Danvers: powers won't teach any valuable lessons nor are they permitted," Lena continued, heels crisply clacking across the empty lobby floor. "Court orders."

"Rich coming from a Luthor," Alex mumbled, knuckles whitening as they tightened a paint roller to a long reach pole.

"But that'll take all weekend," Nia scowled.

"50 hours, actually," Brainy advised.

"Good thing you're getting an early start," Lena offered cooly. "Friday nights tend to be rather quiet around here-"

"I'm sorry, what?" Alex said, eyes fluttering with disbelief. "As in five-zero?"

"Correct," Brainy nodded. "Assuming no breaks except for the advisable pause between paint coats. That, and we should each average 300 square feet an hour for the base layer which is approximately 50% faster than the average professional painter - aggressive, but I have confidence in us. It also requires 20 square feet an hour for the rather intricate mural Ms. Luthor's marketing team has requested; however, I have gone ahead and simplified it to project as a paint-by-number scheme which seems quite popular among-"

"Mural?" Alex gawked. "No, no, we did not agree to a mural-"

"You agreed to paint LuthorCorp's lobby in preparation for the NC Science Summer Camp we are now hosting because a rag tag group of superheroes destroyed its original venue," Lena interrupted, gaze stern and voice in a tone that felt like an undressing. Alex glanced toward Kara whose chest was puffed out like she was jealous it wasn't directed at her.

"But I had plans," Nia huffed, eyeing the red cooler she was sitting on.

"That's hardly my concern and frankly, the task hardly fits the crime," Lena replied, fingers tapping against her crossed forearms. "If it were up to me, you'd be reinstalling the LuthorCorp signage you destroyed as well."

"It wasn't a crime," Kara grumbled. "And you were replacing that anyway."

"There's scaffolding in the corridor," Lena continued, "try not to turn this into a total circus."

HOUR 4

"What are you shaking? Is that spray paint?" Kara asked from the top of a questionably supported ladder.

"We can use spray paint?" Alex called from the other end of the wall.

"Interior use without proper ventilation is frowned upon," Brainy chimed in from his own end of the wall.

"Relax. It's a shaker," Nia answered.

"For what?" Kara asked.

"From what?" Alex added.

"Court orders said nothing about doing this sober."

HOUR 9

"Here champ," Nia said. A hand offered an ice cold beer.

"No thanks; I don't plan on being here that long," Alex replied stubbornly.

Nia examined an imaginary watch and shrugged. "Suit yourself," she continued before turning toward the questionably supported ladder: "Hey red, wanna do shots? I've got rum."

HOUR 10

"I'm telling you, it's the wrong color," Kara repeated.

"And I could care less-"

"Couldn't," Nia corrected. A drop of condensation fell from her latest concoction as the scaffolding creaked under her movements above.

"I don't care," Alex said, eyes narrowed toward the blue-booted feet dangling from overhead. "If they gave us the wrong paint, that's on them."

"But-"

"And it's 2am. Name a paint store that's open at 2am."

"If I just hop over to Europe and-"

"Oh!" Nia exclaimed, head peering out overhead. "That's a great idea. Maybe you could grab some scones-"

"No, nope. No powers," Alex glared at Nia who pouted and retreated from view. "I am not about to get called out on a technicality by a Luthor."

"She's just doing her job," Kara defended with flushed cheeks that screamed Kara was at least two shots deep.

"Are we just ignoring the whole trapped-in-kryptonite bit now?" Alex gawked.

"I just think we need to take a different perspective: new timeline, new me, you know?" Kara offered.

"Perhaps when we're between coats Supergirl can acquire the correct paint," Brainy suggested.

Kara's eyes widened and head nodded like a bobblehead. The only thing missing was a lolling tongue. Alex lungs expelled in a slow, centering sigh Kelly taught her. "Fine. New us, whatever."

HOUR 15

"You missed a spot."

"And you could help," Alex muttered, pressing her forehead to the extension pole dripping SW 6364, Eggwhite. "New us," she whispered until her eyes caught sight of something giant and purple: "Is that a bean bag chair?"

"Can't," Nia explained from within the giant purple bean bag chair that also arrived just as mysteriously as the Mary Poppins cooler offering up an endless stream of drinks. "M'waiting for my section to dry."

"There are other sections."

Nia shook her head. "Uh-uh," she managed between handfuls of popcorn. "Those are Supergirl's."

"She isn't back yet?" Alex balked. "How long does it take to get paint?"

"Maybe she's stopping by Noonan's for some sticky-buns," Nia said dreamily.

Brainy cleared his throat: "Accounting for typical Saturday morning traffic and the quantity of paint to be mixed-"

"And don't forget she'll want to learn how the paint mixer works-" Nia added.

"Fair point," Brainy replied and gave due thought to his recalculation. "With that in mind, my estimates indicate she is twelve minutes overdue."

HOUR 18

"Where the hell are you?" Alex hollered the moment Kara picked up.

"They were insisting it's right," came Kara's voice over speakerphone.

"Which is exactly what I told you eight hours ago. Now get back here-"

"So now I'm trying to get them to tweak the recipe and-"

"Absolutely not, Supergirl."

"But-"

"Get back here. That's an order."

HOUR 23

"Hey, Supergirl, help a girl lift that bean bag chair up here, will ya?" Nia called out.

"You've got paint in your hair," Brainy said from Alex's left.

"Gee, I wonder how that happened," Alex said, glancing up between the slats of scaffolding where Nia was humming the latest pop sensation and taking long sips of her self-named mixed drink.

"Initial deduction would indicate it's coming from-"

"I was being sarcastic."

"Ah, right."

HOUR 34

"Where did you get that?"

"Dreamer," Kara explained after a pull. The bottle sloshed with far too little liquid. A paintbrush lay forgotten on the floor. Paint drops were everywhere but the wall they'd been sentenced to complete. "I wonder if she still has any Red Vines. Ooh, or maybe Goldfish."

Alex's gaze scanned for the youngest superfriend who had most recently been adlibbing science puns about the phallic-looking test tube Brainy had painted. It was purgatory bordering on hell.

"And what if someone sees you? Did you think about that, Supergirl?"

"No one works this late on the weekend, Alex," Kara slurred, rubbing at dripped paint on her cape, "'cept Lena." A hiccup followed. The cape was now stained a moss green. "Lena," she continued in a sing-songy way that made sober Alex want to hurl.

"Dear god," Alex sighed, reaching for the bottle of Alderbaran Rum. "Give me that. You're done-"

"Not unless you admit the color is wrong," Kara pouted. Another hiccup. More spilled paint. Mrs. Fischer was going to be pissed.

"Do you ever think maybe we shouldn't be allowed to operate life-saving missions?" Nia posited from her perch two storeys up.

HOUR 39

"Ok, the Pewter on the beaker and microscope is finished. With any luck we can all be home by dinner. How are we doing with the rest?"

"The Polished Concrete has been applied to the shaded regions," Brainy advised. "I will commence outlining with the Charcoal Dust to the mitochondria and rocketship."

"Beautiful. Dreamer, how is the African Violet and Passionate Purple coming along?"

"Well…" Nia began from the depths of her cooler, "the DNA, bunsen burner, and solar system would be done," she continued, reappearing with a bottle of neon blue liquid.

"Would be? What do you mean 'would be'?" Alex asked, jumping with a thud from the scaffolding to take in the three-storey wall.

"I can't exactly do my portion until someone finishes her part."

"Finishes?" Alex repeated.

"'Start' would be more accurate," Brainy corrected, swirling his own Nia-Nal-authored cocktail.

Alex didn't have time to give that a double-take. Instead she backed up to survey the progress. Sure enough not a single paint stroke of green had been applied. A forefinger and thumb found the bridge of Alex's nose. The slow exhale didn't work as well this time.

"Supergirl?" she called and waited. And waited. "Supergirl? Super- where is she?"

"Follow the paint splotches," Nia answered before the rattle of a shaker interrupted further conversation.

HOUR 45

Alex let her brush drop into the empty pail. She rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck before checking the time and letting out a tired sigh. So much for dinner at home.

"How are we looking?" she called warily. "Any chance we'll be finished before the sun sets?"

"Nearly there," Nia called, somehow uninhibited by the conveyor belt of drinks she'd been knocking back all weekend.

"I've begun disassembling the scaffolding," Brainy affirmed, slightly more inhibited by the string of beverages he'd been knocking back.

"And Supergirl?" Alex asked. It was met with silence. Alex's hope vanished. A grimace took its place. "Supergirl?"

"This still isn't right."

Alex looked upward. To what, Alex wasn't sure - heaven was too far away because this was most definitely the last level of hell. "What isn't?"

Kara waved a handful of paint chips at the group. "This green - the paint sample still isn't right."

"How?" Alex huffed, landing with a thud from the scaffolding. She glanced between the chip and the sample they'd been given. "Looks right to me: foreboding, villainous, manipulative; it's 'Luthor' in color form - it's even written on the can. See? SW-6921, Luthor Green."

"And there's only one?" Kara continued, ignoring Alex's running commentary.

"Maybe it should glow in the dark?" Nia offered through the crunch of a cheese puff.

Kara's frown deepened. "I'm going to mix our own."

"Supergirl, hang on, no; and Dreamer will you please stop mixing drinks and pick up a paintbrush - Brainy, a little help here?"

"Far be it from me to tell Nia Nal what to do," he slurred from what was the vacant bean bag.

"Guys, can we please focus. I want to go home."

"And I want to run…" a hiccup, "run this to a head."

"She means 'ground'," Nia clarified before the sound of ice cubes jingled into an empty glass.

"Is that another bottle of Rum?" Alex asked. "Nia!"

HOUR 53

"Ok, guys, I'm close."

"To finishing?" Alex begged. Her head hadn't left her hands in an hour. "Close to finishing, right?"

"I've narrowed it to four different shades for the left half. I'm working with greys and purples which like, isn't ideal, but I think it's close. Now, the right half will be a bit trickier-"

"It's one color!" Alex erupted. "It's a single green. Why are we talking in multitudes when it is one - one - color," she shouted, stretching one extended finger for emphasis.

"Perhaps Supergirl is simply considering the lack of color neutrality coming through the glazing due to the slight tint of the low-e coating," Brainy postulated.

"Right," Nia snorted. A used lemon wedge sat in one hand and a salt shaker was held in the other. "It's the quality of the Sherwin Williams Luthor Green that Kara's all hung up on."

"What do you mean?" Alex pressed.

"I mean that-"

"I realize your limited competence lies in your powers, but I honestly thought you'd all be further along by now."

Alex looked up to find Lena standing, once again, in the middle of the lobby. "It is midnight on a Sunday, Luthor."

"Precisely. In less than eight hours this lobby will be bustling with children, their parents, and a hoard of my employees. This is what you've got to show for a weekend of work?"

"Look, see?" Kara exclaimed, finger pointing toward Lena. She stumbled to her feet, cape tangled around her and other hand gripping a dozen paint-filled brushes.

"See what?" Alex shouted. Her wits had ended hours earlier.

Kara marched toward Lena who lifted a single eyebrow in silent judgement. "It's not just one!" Kara slurred. "It's… a lot."

Alex looked between Lena and Kara's outstretched hand of brushes with dawning realization.

"Hang on: you thought 'Luthor Green' meant Lena Luthor's eye color?" Alex fumed.

A quiet 'ohh' from Brainy was interrupted by a howl of laughter from Nia.

"Um… yea?" Kara confessed, expression sheepish and confused.

"'Luthor Green' is part of LuthorCorp's marketing color scheme," Lena clarified curtly though her cheeks flushed red.

"Wait, it's not…" Kara started, nose scrunched in thought. "But why not? It'd be so much prettier. See? Lena, don't you think it'd be so much prettier?"

Alex's mouth fell open. "What?"

"I expect this finished before registration opens tomorrow," Lena continued through a crack in her voice.

Kara nodded eagerly. "So does that mean-"

"Use the 'Luthor Green', Supergirl."

[stormborns]

Chaos isn't a pit. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail and never get to try again. The fall breaks them. And some are given a chance to climb but they refuse. They cling to the realm or the gods or love. Illusions. Only the ladder is real. The climb is all there is. GAME OF THRONES, SEASON 3

[spirk-fic-recs]

any recs for fics where spock is very sweet and affection seeking? tos preferred but aos okay as well!

Hey Nonny!

Haha your ask is perfect, exactly the kind of ask that I would love to answer on my birthday:D I’m a sucker for these kinds of fics as well, so I’ll try my best to compile a comprehensive list!

Never and Always, Holding and Held (TOS, 5526 words) by Bibarian

The entire galaxy think Vulcans hate being touched, but that's not the complete truth. Vulcans simply don't like to be touched by strangers. In private, with the people they care about, Vulcans can't get enough physical affection.

warm (TOS, 2014 words) by Sir_Bedevere

"You're going to look after me?" Jim said, suddenly a little shy. Jim Kirk, shy? He must be more tired than he thought.

"Come," Spock said, turning on his heel and leading the way to the bathroom. "I will administer to your needs."

After a tough day in the field, Jim is feeling more than a little overwhelmed when Spock offers to help him through it.

Home Renovation (TOS, 5581 words) by noodleinabarrel

Shortly before his first mission to Romulus, Spock buys a fixer-upper house with Jim. Although Jim is excited to begin renovating their new home, Spock worries it’s only a matter of time before his husband falls off a ladder and breaks his spine. Not to mention, the house’s derelict state is preventing Spock from enjoying his remaining time with Jim.

Count Your Days (TOS, McSpirk, 3076 words) by lenin_it_to_win_it

Spock plans a delightful anniversary surprise for Jim. Meanwhile, Jim is being threatened by a mysterious assassin. Surely the two are unrelated.

love, i think (TOS, 2999 words) by snek_of_eden

Nobody knows who professor Spock’s husband is. All they know is that he really loves him.

You're the Area 51 For Me. (AOS, 3807 words) by Meanderingthrough

Spock Greyson is an alien. Why won't anyone acknowledge this but Jim? Spock Greyson can not be human. Between the ridiculously good grades, the shiny hair, and the dexterous fingers that Jim just knows have an extra alien joint in them, there is no conceivable way that Spock Greyson could be anything but extra terrestrial. Jim is going to prove it.

just a human (TOS, 3137 words) by rhapsodicalfreddie

Proposal: prospect of selecting the captain (James T. Kirk) as mate, by Commander S’chn T’gai Spock.

Either Once Only, or Every Day (TOS, 2850 words) by scioscribe

They had said their vows—and every day since then, Spock had presented him with some small token of regard.

Pleasures of the Mind (AOS, 930 words) by whiteraven1606

For a prompt from the LJ community tarsus_iv_fic: 7. Spock loves Jim's mind. Even the parts of it that Jim doesn't want to let him see.

Quiver (AOS, 2661 words) by Jaylee

Jim is hesitant to allow Spock to meld with him.

beautiful (TOS, 687 words) by sunshine_captain

Jim thinks he isn't beautiful anymore. Spock begs to differ.

A Comedy of Errors (TOS, 6655 words) by yeah_w_r_i_t_e

“We’re gonna start with the classics,” he told Spock over their chess board. “Knock-knock jokes. Knock, knock!”

Spock looked at him with an intense expression for several seconds before saying, “Is this funnier to one with English as a native language?”

OR: Jim tries to teach Spock human comedy, Spock goes overboard, and the crew thinks they're going insane.

Eye of the Beholder (TOS, 6152 words) by WeirdLittleStories

Vulcans have very different standards of beauty than humans do, but it truly doesn't matter to Spock that Kirk is physically ugly by Vulcan standards, since Kirk's mind and character are so very beautiful. And as time goes on, Spock finds that love begins to work a sort of magic...

It's Not An Illusion (AOS, 118714 words) by Borealisblue

The Enterprise comes across a mysterious planet with a series of caves that manifest copies of loved ones. These copies are taken from a person’s mind to allow them to confront and heal the turmoil in their heart.

Jim is shocked when a copy of Spock shows up professing love for him and while he had never considered falling in love with his first officer, this copy allows him to explore the possibility. The real Spock would never have to know. The copy’s touch is electric and his body is warm and inviting, there’s just one problem, Jim doesn’t realize, it’s not a copy.

throwback (TOS, 695 words) by sunshine_captain

Spock is fixated on Jim's stomach; Jim wants to know why.

Special Delivery From The Stork (TOS/AOS, 12143 words) by NightOwl1

Spock is lonely and wanted a baby brother, after a misunderstanding and an accident a baby Jim is dropped into his lap courtesy of a stork. Taking this to mean that Jim is his new baby brother he takes Jim out for a day of fun.

Fulfilling the Needs of the One (Or the Both) (TOS, 8741 words) by plaidshirtjimkirk

Spock begins to wonder if his relationship with Jim has been one-sided in his own favor.

Um. I’m sorry if they’re so diverse? Like some kid fics and some OMS in the mix, but in compiling I just really thought of ah. Spock being affectionate HAHAHA I hope you still enjoy nevertheless.

Happy Reading!

—M