#Writing & Scripting for brand

[theladyofbloodshed]

Featuring Nesta Archeron as the beautiful, but witchy leading lady and Eris Vanserra as the tall, quirky investigator.

Chapter 1 of 6

In the bosom of a spacious cove, which indented the eastern shore of the Hudson, lay a small market-town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but it is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there was a little valley, or rather lap of land, amongst high hills. It was one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glided through it, with just a murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, was almost the only sounds that ever broke in upon the uniform tranquillity.

Along one side of the valley was a grove of tall walnut-trees. If one ever wished for a retreat, to steal from the world and its distractions or to dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, no land was more promising than the little value. From its listless repose and the peculiar nature of its inhabitants, the sequestered glen was long known by the name of Sleepy Hollow.

A drowsy, dreamy influence seemed to hang over the land and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say the land was bewitched by an ancient settler. The place held a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie.

Others held the view that the land was cursed.

It was on the first Monday of the tenth month that Eris Crane was called upon to attend matters in Sleepy Hollow from the constabulary department of New York City. Three murders, most vile, had occurred. A father, a son, and a widow, all murdered. Such crimes occurred regularly, as was the state of the world, but three murders within a week in the small glen of Sleepy Hollow was unheard of.

Eris turned the missive over in his hands as the carriage rattled over uneven stones.

Three bodies. Decapitation. No blood loss. Heads not recovered.  

The decapitation did not move him, however the missing heads did. A lack of blood loss did not marry together with arterial bleeding either.

Eris Crane would solve this mystery, for all unexplained situations were merely waiting to be unravelled.

When his carriage stopped, the dark had settled into the peaceful village. A chill was in the air of Sleepy Hollow. Tendrils of mist stroked the hard earth as he pressed a coin into the hand of the driver then proceeded towards the home of the town’s lord and lady – Rhysand and Feyre Van Tassel.

A party was being had. Lights lit up all of the downstairs windows and music seeped towards him. Eris was not a man who revelled. The arts were a waste of an education. He would make his greetings then depart to his room using the excuse of a long day of travel to escape.

A circle had formed where a young woman was blindfolded. A tall, strapping male with an arrogant gloat about him held her by the shoulders to spin her five times before releasing her into the centre with a low laugh.

‘The pickety witch,’ she said. ‘The pickety witch. Who’s got a kiss for the pickety witch?’

As she spoke, she made lunges for people who dodged her with a giggle. Eris, whom the game was unknown to, remained rooted to the floor as she grasped his waistcoat.

‘Aha. Who do I have?’

Her cold, delicate hands roved over his face while the circle fell silent. Even with the blindfold on, Eris could make out the scrunch of her forehead.

A child cried, ‘A kiss! A kiss!’

‘She has to guess first,’ replies a woman, with pleated curls and dark eyes.

Reverently, the woman caresses his face one more time. It was most unusual for Eris who had not been touched with any sort of warmth since the day he entered an orphanage in the heart of the city.

‘Is it Azriel?’

Laughter ripples about the circle.

‘Pardon, ma’am. I am only a stranger,’ replied Eris.

‘Then have a kiss on account.’

She cupped his face again then tipped up onto her toes to press a chaste kiss to his lips. When the woman released him, she peeled away the blindfold. She was the most beautiful woman Eris had ever seen. Her eyes swirled with a silver glow. Her fair hair reminded him of the luminescence of the moon. It was braided neatly into a coronet to highlight the elegant angles of her face. His eyes traced her skin, followed the downward curve of her neck towards-

Eris swallowed and tore his eyes away from the pale blue gown and ample chest.

She did not smile or laugh as the others did, but regarded Eris as one might an opponent.

‘I am searching for Rhysand Van Tassel.’

‘I am his wife’s sister, Nesta Van Tassel. Upon their marriage, he took our family name.’

‘Most unusual,’ Eris concluded.

‘Quite,’ she agreed.

The male who had spun Nesta stepped forwards. A hand settled on her waist. ‘And who are you, friend? We have not heard your name yet.’

‘I have not said it.’

‘You need some manners.’

Nesta removed the hand from her waist. ‘Enough, Cassian.’

She escorted him through the party-goers to her brother. Where Eris had been expecting a man of stout figure who had indulged himself through many years of gluttony, he found a slim – remarkably young – Lord of Sleepy Hollow. Dark hair was slicked back and matched the sable clothing he wore. Beside him, drinking a glass of wine and speaking to others was his wife, Eris could deduce due to the exceptional resemblance to her sister.

‘Lord and Lady Van Tassel.’

‘Even if you are selling something, you are most welcome here.’

Eris straightened his tie and stood a little taller. ‘I am constable Eris Crane sent to you from New York with the authority to investigate murder in Sleepy Hollow.’

A silence fell across the room.

‘Thank God you’re here to arrest the culprit,’ Cassian called which was met with a smattering of laughter.

‘What good will a constable do?’ Another voice asked.

‘I am quite certain this case will be unravelled,’ he replied, directing his attention to the Lord and Lady of Sleepy Hollow. ‘I daresay the day of travel has been ill and I should prefer to retire rather than enjoy the festivities.’

‘I shall see Constable Crane to his rooms,’ Nesta swiftly said, cutting in before the others.

The house had a second floor followed by a conversion of the attic into a living quarter for receiving guests. Nesta swept through the room to ensure all was up to standards whilst her lips remained pursed together. She stared from the window towards the mist-covered forests that encompassed the village, bar the single road, then promptly drew the curtains closed.

‘Miss Van Tassel,’ Eris said, halting her before her departure. ‘If I may confirm details with you: Three persons murdered. Atwell Van Garrett and his son, Tamlin Van Garrett, both of them strong, capable men. They were found together. Decapitated. A week later, the Widow Briar. Their heads were unable to be located.’

Nesta’s grey eyes sought the closed curtains again then flitted back to his, a wariness settling in. ‘Their heads were not found because their heads were taken, Mister Crane.’

‘Taken?’

‘Taken by the Headless Horseman. Taken back to Hell.’

Surely a woman of sound mind and education would not be taken in by ghost stories.

‘There is a scientific explanation for everything, Miss Van Tassel.’

Nesta squared her shoulders. ‘I assure you that in any other regard I would agree with your sentiments. But not in this. The Headless Horseman is real.’

There had been laughter when Eris had spoken of apprehending the suspect.

‘Indulge me,’ he said.

‘The Horseman was a mercenary, sent to our shores during the war. But unlike his compatriots who came for money, the Horseman came... for love of carnage... and he was not like the others...’ She shook her head. ‘His name was Jurian. He rode a giant black steed. He was infamous for taking his horse hard into battle... chopping off heads at full gallop.  To look upon him made your blood run cold, for he had filed down his teeth to sharp points to add to the ferocity of his appearance.’

She told the story in such a way that Eris could not stop himself from being lured in by her voice. It was a siren’s call. He forced his hands into his pocket to keep from reaching for her.

‘This butcher would not finally meet his end till the winter of seventy-nine not far from here in our Western Woods. He had lured a general, Clythia, into his tent and tore her to pieces. He paraded her head through an enemy encampment then they captured him. They cut off Jurian’s head with his own sword, Clythia’s sister among them. To this day, the Western Woods is still a haunted place where none will dare venture for what was planted there was a seed of evil.’ Nesta spread out her hands. ‘And so it has been for twenty years. But now Jurian wakes -- he is on the rampage, cutting off heads where he finds them.’

If it were not for the austerity in her voice, Eris might have scoffed at the tale.

‘Miss Van Tassel, you cannot believe in such stories.’

‘It is no story,’ she vowed.

Eris shook his head. ‘We have murders in New York without the benefit of ghouls and goblins.’

‘You are a long way from New York, sir,’ she said, sweeping her head into a bow.

‘I shall discover the motive of the murders, Miss Van Tassel. This mystery will not resist investigation by a rational man.’

Eris moved to lean against the table, in a display of casualness, but the table wobbled on its uneven legs. The empty glass she had placed there for him juddered onto its side and rolled off the table. He winced as it fell, but – mercifully – it did not shatter.

‘You may be as rational as you like. The Reverend Helion will even press a Bible into your hands so that God may be the salvation in this horror. I speak of what I have heard from the lips of those who have seen. Those whose word I trust.’

‘Then, pray, tell me what others have seen.’

‘Rhysand has set a watch since the first murders. Cassian circles the village night after night on duty. He saw the Horseman galloping away on the night the Widow Briar was found murdered.’

‘I had believed you to be a rational woman rather than one in league with the brute from downstairs.’

Nesta stepped back, appraising him with a scowl. ‘You cast a judgement on the first night of our meeting.’

Bashfully, Eris dipped his head. ‘Please excuse my manners. I am not used to-’

‘Female company?’

Blood burned in his cheeks. ‘Society.’

‘How can you avoid society in New York? How I should love the opera - and theatres - to go dancing... Is it wonderful?’

‘I have never been.’

‘But there is an art museum? A concert hall?’

‘I don’t know.’

She gave a disappointed sigh. ‘Then you have nothing to teach me.’

At once, Eris wanted to take back his words. Or to offer Nesta the opportunity to visit museums and concert halls where they could dance. He would learn for her.

‘Nesta, you cannot truly believe it is the Horseman.’

‘Not everyone does believe.’

‘Good,’ he replied, relief flooding him.

‘Some say it is the witch of the woods who made a pact with Lucifer.’

Eris closed his eyes as he sucked in a breath. ‘There are no witches or galloping ghosts. Is everyone in this village in thrall with superstition?’

‘Why are you so frightened of magic, Eris? Not all of it is wicked. There are ancient truths in these woods which have been forgotten in your city parks.’

‘If they are truths, they are not magic – and if magic, not truth.’

She threw up her hands, anger brimming in her gaze. ‘You are foolish. When there is fever in the house, it is well known that willow-herb roots and a crow's foot must be boiled in the milk of a pure white goat with special charms uttered over the fire then the fever abates.’

‘Next time, try the herb without the rest. And now I must ask you to leave.’

‘Gladly,’ Nesta replied. ‘I should not have interrupted our town’s saviour from his contemplation. Goodnight. And as for the brute you mentioned, he has proposed to me.’

How could it be? Although Eris did not know the pair, they were already at odds in his mind. She was fair and lovely to look upon. He was big and burly with a rough tongue and rougher hands.

‘I, I, I,’ he stuttered. ‘I am happy that…’

‘He proposed to me several times.’

She gave a faint smile after her ambiguous words then departed with a slam of the door.

[theweeklydiscourse]

I think it’s really silly for people to credit Noah Baumbach or even Ryan Gosling with Barbie’s watered down message and its strong emphasis on Ken’s character. People desperately want to let Greta Gerwig off the hook and avoid confronting the potential truth that maybe maaaaaaybe she wrote a less than stellar script that gave Ken more depth than the title character. It’s honestly a bit infantilizing, talking about her as though she has no mind of her own and was instead manipulated by Baumbach into making Ken the most engaging character.

Guys, she was the director and co-writer of this thing, I highly doubt that her influence on the film could be swayed by Baumbach. She’s a grown woman, so we should be able to judge Barbie as a product of her work and creative decisions and not shift the blame to slate her.

[horror-aesthete]

Saw III, 2006, dir. Darren Lynn Bousman

[waitmyturtles]

On the advice of @lurkingshan, and in support of one of the KINGS of Thai BL acting, Seng Motherfucking Wichai: I've picked up Knock Knock Boys for the time being, but I'm a little unsure if I'll stick with it. Thoughts, pros, and cons so far for episodes 1 and 2!

1) Seng Wichai is a god, I love him. His last show, War of Y, didn't necessarily do HIM dirty -- his piece of the show was utterly marvelous by way of his depth in acting as cringe -- but that show itself was overall indigestible, and as I'm learning about Thai BLs in general, the show's reputation does not always do well for the long-lasting image of the actors in it. Add on last year's controversial reveal of Seng's real-life relationship with Freen Sarocha, along with his departure from Idol Factory, and I can only imagine that Seng has really had a fucking time of it. Which SUCKS, because he was so masterful in Secret Crush On You and War of Y.

I can't tell if the Knock Knock Boys script is going to be one that is deserving of Seng's range -- in part because

2) it seems like Seng might be paired with Best Vittawin's character, Peak, and from MDL's repository of info, I've evidently seen Best before, in Love By Chance and Until We Meet Again. I'm specifically not enjoying Best's performance right now, because he seems to have been cast as an aloof... nerd? scared dude? running away from his responsibilities? coming to terms with his sexuality? kind of character, but the lengthy stares-into-space, without the comedic comebacks that those pauses require, aren't working for him at the moment. I kinda think Best's an actual cool guy in real life who's been cast as a nerd, but he's making the character less nerdy for his own real-life reputation, and the math of that performance is not adding up. I need Best to cheese Peak up. Peak as a character is falling flat for me at the moment, but the character clearly has a lot to realize about himself, so let me allow him some grace early on.

3) Who's really winning? This guy. Who's this guy? Jaonine Jiraphat. Bright Vachirawit's nong-doppleganger? (Dopplenonger?) THIS GUY! @lurkingshan hipped me to Jaonine's character, Latte, as a pansexual fun-loving dude of all trades. This dude Jaonine is EATING at the moment. Empathic to his roommate's, Almond's, plight to get laid by his crush (HI, PAK FROM THE ECLIPSE! Dang, you look gewd), Latte knows a lot about doin' it and he's gonna help his homey, Almond, through the motions of gettin' some. Alright! I like that straightforward storyline. Hit us with the pansexuality from the start, we know where Latte's coming from and what his deal is -- I like that clarity, and Jaonine is clearly comfortable in owning the role. Jaonine and his Latte are sensual, smart, fun, and sharp. Me likey!

I think I like this Jersey-Shore-Goes-To-Chonburi set-up, but when the four guys are sitting around and talking, all the moments when they drift off into their daydreams end up being a little awkward and keep the plot from moving forward (especially, again, as Best doesn't necessarily bring his character back in a convincing and comedic way). I'm cheering for Seng and Jaonine early on, but I hope this script can get a bit better for the guys who are showing up and really acting.

[randomnameless]

A Minor dispute.

Put it behind you. Deal with it.

No, this isn't related to devoted fans and their discourse lol (even if i had to take a jab at them with the title lol)

Ike: I have to ask, Sephiran. What are you after? What’s this all about? Sephiran: Why do you wish to know? You would achieve nothing by learning my reasons. You would help no one. I lost faith in lesser beings, and desire an end to them. That’s all. Ike: So why did you save me on that day? Sephiran: May I ask you a favor, Ike? Tell me how you feel about it now. Can you bear recalling those horrific memories? Ike: Yes… I’m fine, now. But I suppose at the time I wouldn’t have been able to take it. Sephiran: All beings endure tragedies for as long as they continue to live. It has always been the case that suffering is unavoidable. And this grim reality plays out over and over, in every country, under every ruler… As long as there are beings who feel, they will feel pain. Ike: So what? We should all just give in and die? Put it behind you. Deal with it. Sephiran: Do not make light of this… Ike: I’m not. Sephiran, I’m extremely grateful that you once helped me through a terrible time. But we have to accept that occasionally we all have to deal with hard times. I’ve had pain, I’ve had suffering, and I have gotten up and moved on. I don’t try to forget what happened that day. I just accept it… And neither that or anything else will ever stop me. Sephiran: You are a strong man, Ike, son of Gawain. But not everyone is as strong as you…

This scene is unlocked if you've seen Ike's FB.

Of course, Ike here doesn't know the fuck he is talking about, as he later expresses by wondering why Sephiran is suddenly called Lehran (maybe if the game left Miccy/Yune talk to him before the start of the map, instead of letting him do all the convo it would have been different?).

So, in a way, it isn't as callous as Ike telling Lehran to put the genocide of his people "behind him" or to "deal with it", because he doesn't know what Sephiran is talking about.

But in a way, I have the feeling if Claude or Petra told Dedue to "put the massacre of his family" behind him or to "deal with it", Claude or Petra would have received a certain amount of shit, even if, when they would have said those, they wouldn't have known what the fuck Dedue went through.

Anyways, Ike later learns what, or who, Sephiran is, and talks to him. Maybe he will apologise for his callous words, spoken when he didn't realise what he was talking about ?

Ike: Sephiran... I mean, Lehran... Lehran: I can't apologize enough. I was so terribly mistaken, and now there's nothing I can do to help. Ike: Don't worry. Lehran: What? Ike: Wanting to do something that matters is enough. Sometimes, how you feel is more important than how you act. Lehran: Ike I... there's no one that I think more highly of... Ike: No time for compliments. We still have work to do here. Lehran: Yes... yes we do.

Lehran apologises for having wanted to destroy the world (and drops Altina in a trashcan because Ike is now the person he thinks the most highly of!) - and in the general scale of things, yes, Sephiran has much to apologise for, so he better start pulling his weight and try to make up for having tried to kill everyone.

But the "your people were genocided? No biggie, deal with it!" is completely ignored - or it is, again, another example of Ike talking shit and the game convoluting himself to make sure he never faces any consequences, even if, in this situation, the consequence would just have been an apology, like the one he gave to, iirc, Mordecai and Lethe after calling him subhumans but not realising calling someone "subhuman" was insulting.

Sure, the line he gives after the fight against Sephiran still holds value :

Ike: If death is what you really want, then I’m not going to let it happen on my watch. I don’t care what you’ve gone through. I don’t care how much you’ve suffered. What you’ve done is unforgivable.

It's not because you suffered, or went through the worst humankind can offer, that you can inflict the same on people!

When Lords like Marth, Seliph, Leif, Roy, Eirika, even Elincia try to understand people and what led them to act as they did - without ever giving excuses or wondering if they could walk with their respective antagonists - Ike here refuses to understand, and only condemns.

Is it because Ike isn't a Lord, so he isn't concerned with some general "making sure this situation never happens again"?

But then, he is the one to say those :

“But, even the dumbest creatures will love their family, their friends and… even love others. They will all have things that they can’t afford to lose.” “We know that we’ve messed up. We’ll do our best to avoid more war and to make peace our highest priority. Ashera, just give us one more chance. All we ask is for one more chance.” “You were like a mother to all of life– Your children still require a mother like you. When you watch over us, we don’t always do things that make you happy and sometimes we even disappoint you. Still, I think we would like you to continue watching over us. How about it?” “We all need to work hard to accept each other. As long as we don’t try and run away from our mistakes, then I’m sure we’ll be able to see each other again one day.”

How can you do you "best" to avoid more wars, if you don't even understand why the current one started, or don't care about the reasons that led the fucker who started this current war to, well, start it?

How can we talk about acceptance if we don't "care" about what the others live through?

So, on top of writing a check his ass can't cash - since he will leave Tellius and not be there to "avoid wars" or make sure people "accept each other" after promising the goddesses "we" will exactly do that - Ike's words here are empty.

-> In a nutshell, Ike reveals with those battle quotes and conversations that he is not ruler/leader material - but we knew that since RD's start since we followed Miccy and Elincia - and more importantly isn't the kind of person asking "why" things happen, they just happen but somehow everything will work out when it will happen again - because the why, or the cause, wasn't identified - and I think it's a perfectly fitting answer for the Tellius Saga and the larger Branded "issue" : we will never know why it happens, it just happens.

(can we say the epilogue, with Ashunera returning, is an ultimate "fuck you" to Ike's empty promises at the end of this chapter, since it starts with another war happening in the background?)

---

Back to that nonsense of a battle convo, I find it really interesting how Ike is basically thanking Sephiran for having wiped his memory when he was a child, to help him "deal" with the fact he witnessed his father stab his mother, because at that time (when he was a kid), he wouldn't have been able to deal with it.

But then, Ike tells Sephiran to "deal with" the tragedies he witnessed and lived through...

After thanking him for sparing him the "deal with it" step- he now asks Sephiran to take - when he was a child.

WTF?

Ike explains how he is thankful, but he ultimately had to "got up" and "move on" from the pain, and accept it. And that's precisely the point, Ike managed to take on that pain, "get up and move on" thanks to Sephiran's own meddling and help - else, by his own admission, he wouldn't have been able to "take it".

But now, he asks Sephiran to take his pain, without any magic amnesia to help, and deal with it?

And while I hate the idea of trauma olympics, grown-up Ike (even in POR) can now deal with the fact his dad killed his mother thanks to Lehran's magic amnesia - but he tells Lehran to deal with and get over - 1) the genocide of his tribe, 2) assassination of his great (etc) granddaughter because she had his blood, 3) the loss of his powers for a crap reason and the knowledge that laguz are bound to "die" if they mingle too much with beorcs as he personally witnessed it, 4) severe depression after realising he is not a laguz anymore but not even a beorc since beorcs will use pitchforks at him even if they regarded him 10 seconds before as sage, and the rest of Tellius' general fuckery? - without magic amnesia or plot hax?

Reyson was very close to pull something similar in FE9 when he tried to erase people in the Forest using "ancient magic", but abandoned the idea when Leanne was found - if PoR!Ike learnt that, would he have told Reyson to "get over" the heron genocide and Naesala's betrayal?

Of course not, because I'm pretty sure Ike knows, before meeting Reyson and even picking Leanne, what happened in Serenes.

And in RD, when he says those words, he doesn't know (but he later will!) that Sephiran is a heron.

Tl;Dr :

Supreme Leader's "minor dispute" is frowned upon by everyone, even if she might genuinely not know about what Nemesis did that made Rhea so enraged, in a doylist reading, Supreme Leader is a character who ignores a genocide to push her own specist agenda.

Doylist reading of that RD scene is, Ike telling Sephiran to man up and deal/get over the genocide of his people - but unlike Supreme Leader, when he comes to learn the truth of Sephiran's despair, he dgaf.

Thankfully, this scene is only triggered if Sephiran survives, so Ike can later explain his behaviour : he doesn't care what kind of suffering Sephiran endured, since nothing justifies what he was trying to do (kill everyone).

Even if the thing he should care, but doesn't want to, is, for part, a genocide.

[totentnz]

anyway i decided to make v a quick cummer (terrible word) why? because she can have some good things in her life (lies! its to annoy johnny)

[braingone]

Am I really writing about Ambrose if he isn't having a crisis of some sort?

I've got another snippet from this same little character study scheduled for later today, but I wanted to throw a few more bits out because it's been a long week for me too and writing helped a bit

[technologyequality]

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[relicsongmel]

Dena. Sweetie.

Pot, kettle.

[alygator77]

──little things like this

a/n. just something small i felt like writing ���🏻 what i imagine grocery shopping with satoru would be like.

cw. domestic fluff. dad! satoru. husband! satoru. and just... satoru being satoru. also, he's missing you (like, a lot).

You should’ve known better than to bring him.

It was supposed to be a quick trip—milk, eggs, veggies, rice, soy sauce. Easy. You had dinner planned and everything. His favorite—the one he always says you make better than anyone. The one he begged you to cook the first night he stayed over, back when you were still figuring each other out in that too-small apartment with the broken stove and mismatched bowls. He used to sit barefoot on the counter, freshly showered, stealing bites before you could plate anything.

But now?

Now you’re married to Satoru Gojo, and he’s pushing your daughter through a grocery store like it’s the highlight of his week—sunglasses shoved into his windblown white hair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a smug grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He’d just come off a string of missions, barely enough time to breathe between them, but when you mentioned needing to grab a few things, he immediately offered to come. Said he missed you. Said he wanted to do “normal stuff.”

Which might’ve sounded sweet, sure—until somewhere between produce and frozen foods, he completely veered off-script. And now, fifteen minutes in, your cart is a sugar bomb. Sour gummies. Five flavors of Pocky. A jumbo bag of marshmallows no one in your household has ever requested.

Though here he is, your husband, pushing your cart with one hand, lighting up in pure joy at every little treat you come across through the aisles.

“Satoru Gojo…” you deadpan as he reaches for a pack of cookies. “That is not on the list.”

Clicking his tongue, he holds them up like a sacred offering.

“Buuut… neither were you,” he hums, batting those ridiculously pretty blue eyes. “And yet—best thing I ever brought home.”

Narrowing your eyes, he smirks.

“’toru…” you sigh. “I really don’t think we need more sugar in this cart.”

Tilting his head, he pretends to ponder. “Need? …nah,” he tosses them in the basket anyway. “But, deserve? Absolutely.”

Rolling your eyes, you turn back to the list on your phone. You have… what—three items checked off? You’re pretty sure Satoru has added at least seven more. And, he seems to be multiplying his haul by the minute.

As you make your way down the next aisle, your daughter’s delighted squeal draws your attention. Glancing over your shoulder, there is Satoru—holding up two bags of candy to her like a game show host.

“Mmkay princess… choose wisely,” he whispers, low and dramatic. “Red or blue. You get one.”

Babbling, her little hands reach forward, grasping for the blue one.

“Ahhh… strong choice,” he nods, handing it over. And then, with zero shame, he drops the red bag into the cart behind her back.

“Ahem…” you squint, and he straightens. “You said one?”

“What? She picked hers,” he says, all innocence, sliding his sunglasses down onto the bridge of his nose. “This one’s mine.”

You groan, laughing despite yourself, as he resumes pushing the cart—now like it’s a racecar, swerving down the aisle while your daughter giggles.

“Please don’t teach her to shop like you,” you call out.

“Too late~” he sing-songs, vanishing around the corner, muttering under his breath, “Drifting into dairy… snack thrusters engaged…”

You sigh—but there’s no real frustration in it. Just warmth. Familiarity. Love.

Because sometimes you forget—you’re not in that cramped apartment anymore, counting coins and comparing brands. Not since Satoru. You still catch yourself reaching for the cheapest option, still instinctively scan barcodes and double-check price tags. But he never even looks. He just fills the cart like it’s second nature. Like full shelves and soft snacks and mochi picked on a whim are things you deserve.

You’re still learning how to live like this—where love doesn’t feel like a debt, and money isn’t something to fear. And even though he could buy out the entire store without blinking, he still treats picking out snacks with you like it’s the most important thing he’ll do all week.

Shaking your head, you turn back to the list. Soy sauce. You still need soy sauce for his dinner.

But as you round the corner, you don’t find the aisle you’re looking for—you find him instead, crouched in front of the freezer, elbows resting on his knees, two tubs of ice cream in hand.

Why is he studying them like he’s trying to defuse a bomb? He looks… entirely perplexed.

“Satoru…” you step up beside him, brow raised. “You good?”

“Oh. Yeah.” He doesn’t look up. “Just, uh… evaluating options.”

Glancing down at the tubs—matcha and black sesame—you fold your arms.

“Umm… you evaluating them for fun, or is this, like, an actual crisis?”

“Mmm… crisis is a strong word,” he mutters, still avoiding your gaze. “It’s just… strategy. Y’know. Ice cream strategy.”

Crouching down beside him, you rest your hand on his knee.

“Uh-huh…?”

There’s a pause.

Then, he sighs through his nose. “Alright… fine. I… couldn’t remember which one you liked more,” he admits. “I thought it was matcha. But then I remembered that one week you wouldn’t touch it, so now I’m stuck here like a dumbass, spiraling in the frozen aisle…”

You try not to laugh. “You’re spiraling over ice cream?”

“I’m spiraling because it’s you,” he huffs. “I wanted to surprise you… thought maybe we could stay up late and eat it in bed like we used to?”

Your teasing slips away, replaced with something soft.

“Oh… Satoru.”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but there’s something in the way his voice lowers when he speaks again.

“I just… dunno. It feels like it’s been forever. Between missions, work, parenting—you’ve been running around nonstop. I just wanted tonight to feel kinda normal again. After dinner—after the princes goes to bed. Just… us? Even if it’s just ice cream.”

You watch him for a beat—your husband, who can bend reality, stand at the edge of the world, and still get hung up over picking the right tub of ice cream for you.

“I… like them both,” you mumble, bumping his shoulder gently against yours. “So why not both?”

He exhales like it physically relieves him. “Oh, thank god.”

You both stand, and without hesitation, he tosses both tubs into the basket.

“But… don’t go picking at mine and then pretending you didn’t like that flavor, okay?”

Grinning, you step ahead of him.

“Oh, I will steal yours. That’s marriage, babe.”

With a quiet laugh, he falls into step behind you.

“Brat.”

By the time you reach checkout, your cart holds three kinds of mochi ice cream, a suspiciously large bag of seaweed snacks, and absolutely no bread. Your daughter’s holding her bag of candy like it’s a stuffed animal, fussing while you try to scan it, and you’re juggling a reusable bag, along with what’s left of your patience while she begins to cry.

Noticing your frustration, Satoru slips in, insisting on scanning everything himself—for you. But when the self-checkout machine beeps loudly, his brows furrow and he pouts.

“The fuck? I did scan the damn carrots…” he mutters, narrowing his eyes, fumbling with the touch screen. “Don’t gaslight me... stupid thing..."

You sigh, somehow his presence makes the monotony feel… warm. And though this ‘quick trip’ has become what feels like an all-day event, you can’t deny how much you have also missed this man.

Outside, the air is soft with the promise of evening. Your daughter’s nodding off in her car seat, still hugging the candy bag like a teddy bear. Satoru loads the bags into the trunk with a proud little huff, dusting off his hands like he’s accomplished something huge.

“See?” he says, flashing a grin as he climbs into the passenger seat. “Told you grocery shopping as a family would be fun.”

You glance at the receipt. Then at him.

“You spent more in the snack aisle than on actual food….”

“I live off sugar and love. You know this.”

You roll your eyes, laughing under your breath as you slide into the driver’s seat. But as you buckle your seatbelt and glance down at the grocery list again, your heart sinks a little.

Did you…? Fuck.

You forgot the soy sauce.

Exhaling slowly, your gaze drifts over to Satoru in the passenger seat—slouched comfortably, eyes closed, perfectly content. The fading sun glows across his face, catching the edges of his smile.

“Y’know… I was gonna make your favorite tonight.”

His eyes open slowly. “Oh yeah?”

You nod. “But… we forgot the soy sauce.”

"...oh." He grimaces, genuinely. “Shit… I really thought I grabbed it,” he scratches the back of his head. “Want me to run back in real quick?”

You pause, then look at your daughter sleeping in the rearview mirror. Her gentle snore. The quiet hum of the car. The warmth in the air.

“No…” you murmur. “It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

You look at him again, and it hits you—not the ice cream, not the dinner. Little things like… this. Him. Her. This whole imperfect evening.

“Yeah… let’s get takeout,” you say, shifting the car into reverse. “We'll cuddle in bed. Split some ice cream.”

He smiles again, slow and warm.

“Deal.”

[stellarsturniolos]

━━ ⟢ ‘good in bed’ ╰ C.S.

・ ˖  ✦ ⋄ . in which.. you and chris drive each other mad. but that's what makes you good in bed.

warnings: smut, unprotected sex, riding, light dirty talk, i think that covers it !

A/N: reblogs and likes are appreciated! i do NOT give consent for my work to be copied or uploaded to any other platform. thank you. for @bernardsbendystraws music writing challenge. divider by rose also !

got me thinkin' it'd be better if we didn't stay together. then you put your hands up on my waist. the apartment is silent, a raging mix of anxiety and tension filling the minimal space as you sit on the couch and wait for chris to come over.

you haven't seen him or heard from him in almost a week. you're used to your boyfriend, if you can even call him that anymore, being busy. filming with his brothers, preparing for their tour, working on his brand.

but you've never gone this long without at least hearing his voice. and you don't like it.

you know you need to talk to him. you need for him to understand that he's messing with your head. you need him to know that he's hurting you.

you know exactly what you're going to say to him. you've practiced, time and time again, in the mirror. you've got it all scripted and memorized, every syllable has been perfected.

you perk up when you suddenly hear a key turning in the lock and the harsh thunk of the latch, and then your apartment door swings open. and there he is. as frustratingly handsome as ever.

you stand up and walk over to greet him. you open your mouth to speak, but you don't get the chance.

because chris plants his hands on your hips and gently tugs your body closer to his. he captures your lips and it's immediately hungry. frantic. you gasp as his tongue explores your mouth. he licks at your teeth, the roof of your mouth — like he's trying to devour every inch of you that he can.

his mouth travels down to your neck and his lips linger on your skin, warm and inviting, sucking gently behind your ear and making your knees go weak.

"chris," you want to pull away but you're entranced. you can't do it. "we need to talk."

he lets out a dramatic huff against your neck. "later. s'been so long since i've had you, baby. just wanna make my girl feel good. please?"

and you've never been able to tell him no.

we drive each other mad, it might be kinda sad, but i think that's what makes us good in bed.

his hands roam all over your body, and as much as you don't want to want this, you do. you crave his touch the way an addict craves their next fix.

you swallow hard, trying to push past the lump in your throat, and your hands unconsciously slide up his chest and loop around his neck.

a quiet hum rumbles deep in his chest and he grabs your hips even tighter. his voice is rough when he speaks again. "c'mon. bedroom, now." you pause for a moment, trying to remember everything you wanted to say to him. but your mind is blank. all you can think about is how much you need his touch.

so you push aside your hesitation, ignore the angel on your right shoulder and listen to the devil on your left. you let him lead you into the bedroom.

he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside before reaching for the hem of yours. "want y'to ride me, baby. that okay?"

you nod dumbly. he takes your shirt off and his mouth immediately latches onto one of your nipples. for an ass guy, he always loved to tease your tits.

you slip out of your pajama shorts and peel your damp panties off before shoving him down onto the bed. you pull down his jeans and underwear in one go and then climb onto his lap. you grip his cock with one hand and rub the tip over your puffy folds. he hisses and you whimper as his dick brushes against your clit.

you don't want to waste anymore time. you settle on his lap, lowering yourself slowly as his cock slides between your folds and sinks into your heat. you whimper as he stretches you. he was right, it's been so long since he's had you. too long.

your gummy walls squeeze around his cock as you slowly rock back and forth, carefully grinding against him.

"fuuuuck," his voice is gruff, his hands move down to squeeze your ass as you ride him. "so fuckin' good, baby. so tight. so wet f'me."

an airy whine slips from your lips as you bounce, picking up the pace, sinking back down to the hilt before repeating the motion again and again.

one of his hands slides up your body to play with your hardened nipple. pinching and massaging your breast as his eyes darken further. "shit, baby. jus' look at you."

sweat glistens on your skin as you continue to fuck yourself on his cock. "you're s'big, chris. fuckin' me so good."

you bounce up and down wildly. your pussy clenches around his cock. you feel so full.

"m'gonna cum soon," he says, his voice strained. "gonna fill you up so fuckin' good, baby."

"please.." you're panting as you look down at him, locking eyes. "fill me up. i need it."

you cry out as chris thrusts upward and tugs you down at the same time, fucking into your harshly. you can feel his cock pulsating as he spills inside of you, filling you to the brim. you whimper as his release triggers your own. your inner walls spasm as he continues to pump his hips and thrust into you.

you tremble and shudder, collapsing against his chest. his fingers trail up and down your sweaty back as you both try to catch your breaths.

he drives you mad. but at least he's good in bed.

we don't know how to talk, but damn, we know how to fuck.

[thealchemistbae]

Part of Fortune Degree Meanings 🍀

Disclaimer: This post is for entertainment purposes only.

thealchemistbae © do not copy, redistribute, or edit my content.

If you enjoyed this post, you can leave me a tip via PayPal at goddessguapa@gmail.com or via Venmo @goddessguapa. Thank you.

The POF is about how and where you strike GOLD, feel naturally lucky, and effortlessly attract abundance when you lean into it.

🌈: 0° -> You're a natural talent at creating wealth from scratch or inheriting a legacy. New beginnings bring big wins. Every time you try something brand new, the universe rewards you. First to market, early investor, or building a brand from the ground up.

🌈: 1° -> Success comes when you stand alone. Your independence is magnetic. People are drawn to your solo vibe. Think: Solo entrepreneur, lone creator, self-made mogul.

🌈: 2° -> Money follows when you're in the right vibe. You attract wealth through community, aesthetics, or softness. Think: content creator, artist, or someone who gets gifted just for existing.

🌈: 3° -> Your voice, content or writing = gold. Speaking, podcasting, scripts, books, or anything with your words brings the bag. Pitch ideas...they'll hit.

🌈: 4° -> Money flows when you connect to your roots. Family businesses, real estate, or honoring your ancestry could unlock generational wealth. Sentiment = success.

🌈: 5° -> You get paid to be seen. Charisma, entertainment, and creative expression make you $$$. Think: acting, modeling, influencing, or running a show.

🌈: 6° -> You're the queen of systems. Passive income from routines, health regimens, digital products, or service-based offers that solve problems.

🌈: 7° -> Wealth flows through relationships. Business partners, romantic collabs, or social connections open doors. Think: referrals, collabs, marriage to money.

🌈: 8° -> You get luck through shadow work, sex, appeal, and taboo wisdom. Therapy, transformation, manifestation coaching or $ex work = actual income paths.

🌈: 9° -> You get luck and fortune to teach, travel or publish. Courses, online education, spiritual teachings, or anything that expands mine is your jackpot.

🌈: 10° -> Boss energy. You’re here to run empires. Real-world success through business, status, long-term investments, and strategy. Get corporate or build your own.

🌈: 11° -> You make money by being ahead of your time. Tech, trends, astrology, or community-centered biz is your path. Think: influencer meets innovator.

🌈: 12° -> Spiritual, psychic, artistic, and dreamy income streams. You can literally get paid from dreams, intuition, art, or divine downloads.

🌈: 13° -> You profit when you shake sh*t up. Say what people won’t, do what they fear. Your authenticity is rebellious and people PAY for your truth.

🌈: 14° -> There’s something magical about your wealth. You’re protected. Money shows up just in time. Trust the divine timing; you’re spiritually aligned with success.

🌈: 15° -> You are magnetic AF. People want to watch you, follow you, and throw money your way just for showing up. Fame, clout, and visibility = wealth.

🌈: 16° -> You profit by solving deep problems — either through service, healing, or creative problem-solving. Fix a broken system, and you’ll build your fortune.

🌈: 17° -> Your ideas literally turn into income. Brilliant, future-forward strategies = passive cash. You may also attract benefactors who fund your vision.

🌈: 18° -> You turn pain into profit. Period. Your hardest experiences become the very thing that makes you rich. Use your transformation to help others.

🌈: 19° -> Your voice is a weapon. You inspire, influence, and sell with speech. Speaking, hosting, consulting, or coaching can bring you massive wealth.

🌈: 20° -> You’re here to do soulful, purpose-driven work. Your fortune is tied to your spiritual calling. Money comes when you follow your mission.

🌈: 21° -> Main character energy. Luck finds you in the spotlight, in front of a camera, or when you embrace your larger-than-life personality. Fans = funds.

🌈: 22° -> You’re meant to build wealth through serious mastery. Authority, certifications, and real-world expertise = your golden ticket.

🌈: 23° -> Networking queen/king. You meet one person and BOOM…doors open. Events, socials, and group energy = money magnets.

🌈: 24° -> You’re here to make soft, sensual, and intuitive money. Feminine energy, aesthetics, and pleasure-based business = jackpot.

🌈: 25° -> You get paid from the cosmos. Astrology, energy work, divination, or being your weird, wonderful self attracts wealth from magical places.

🌈: 26° -> You’re meant to pass something down. Building a brand, inheritance, or generational wealth is your path. Think: queen of the family empire.

🌈: 27° -> You create wealth with intention. Your mindset is your moneymaker. Vision boards, rituals, scripting? They actually work for you.

🌈: 28° -> You know how to mix seduction with success. Business + pleasure = $$$. You’re intuitive, strategic, and irresistible in the boardroom or bedroom.

🌈: 29° -> You’ve lived many lifetimes and now you’re here to collect. This is master energy; your fortune shows up through power, endings, and full-circle moments. One big transformation will unlock your ultimate bag.

What degree is your POF at ? Drop in the comments.

thealchemistbae © do not copy, redistribute, or edit my content.

If you enjoyed this post, you can leave me a tip via PayPal at goddessguapa@gmail.com or via Venmo @goddessguapa. Thank you.

[deansbeer]

♡ under wraps ⎯⎯ jackles.

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

📖 LIBRARY !

SYNOPSIS. you and jensen keep your fiery, forbidden relationship secret—until lingering tension threatens your composure.

WARNING(S). smut | f!reader | costar!jensen | costar!reader | rough sex | secrecy | forbidden relationship | explicit language | descriptions of lingering physical sensations | dressing room sex | mentions of jensen's cum (?) | sexual tension | teasing | slight power imbalance | light objectification | no use of y/n.

kari talks ◞ everyone thank daddy dolly for giving me the idea of fucking costar!jensen behind the scenes <33 he's so yummy in this photo and what i had envisioned in my head the entire time writing it :) am i slut for daddy jackles ??? fuck yeah i am. n a proud slut too.

it's a dangerous fucking game you're playing with jensen.

you'd known it from the start. the second you walked onto the set of countdown—a brand-new, high-stakes action series—you felt the pull. it wasn't just his looks, though those were undeniable. it was the way he carried himself, the way his eyes lingered just a beat too long when you first shook hands, the way his deep, gravelly voice curled around your name like it belonged to him.

you weren't supposed to fall for him. hell, you weren't supposed to even look at him like that. but he made it impossible, especially when the two of you were cast as love interests on the show.

the chemistry was instant, explosive. every scene you filmed together felt like a live wire, and it didn't take long before you crossed that unspoken line.

it started with a kiss that wasn't scripted.

you were supposed to pull away after a brief, chaste kiss during a rehearsal, but neither of you did. his lips pressed harder, his hand sliding around your waist, pulling you closer until the director called cut.

"jesus christ," jensen muttered under his breath that day, his voice low enough only for you to hear. he didn't let go of you right away, his green eyes dipping to your lips.

that was the moment everything shifted.

now, weeks later, you're tangled up in a secret relationship that's equal parts thrilling and dangerous. nobody on set knows, or at least you don't think they do. you and jensen are careful—no lingering touches in public, no stolen glances when others are watching.

but behind closed doors?

he's got you screaming his name, your nails raking down his back as he fucks you so thoroughly you can't see straight.

like now.

you're in his dressing room, pressed up against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist as he thrusts into you. his hand is gripping your ass, the other tangled in your hair as his lips claim yours in a bruising kiss.

"you're so fucking perfect," he growls against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged. "can't fucking get enough of you."

your nails dig into his shoulders as you moan his name, your body shuddering as he drives into you relentlessly. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the small room, mingling with your breathless cries and his low, filthy grunts.

you're so close, teetering on the edge, when there's a knock at the door.

"jensen?" a voice calls out. "they need you on set in five."

he freezes, his forehead dropping to yours as he lets out a frustrated groan.

"fuck," he mutters, his voice laced with irritation.

you're still clinging to him, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps as you try to ground yourself.

"you've got to go," you whisper, your voice hoarse.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his green eyes dark with lust.

"you're lucky we don't have more time," he says, his lips quirking into a smirk. "because i'm not done with you."

he sets you down gently, his hands lingering on your hips for a moment before he steps back. you quickly fix your clothes, your cheeks flushed as you try to compose yourself.

"you good?" he asks, his voice softening as he watches you.

you nod, though your legs feel like jelly, and your pulse is still racing.

"yeah," you manage to say, your voice steadier than you feel.

he leans in, brushing a quick kiss against your lips before heading toward the door.

"see ya out there, sweetheart," he says with a wink before slipping out of the room.

the interview is with one of your other castmates, a lighthearted segment for a popular entertainment show to promote the series. you're sitting next to jensen, the two of you positioned on a plush couch with your co-star on the other side.

you're trying to focus, you really are, but your body is still buzzing from what just happened in his dressing room. every time you catch a whiff of his cologne or hear the low rumble of his voice, you feel heat pool in your stomach all over again.

it doesn't help that he's sitting so damn close, his thigh brushing against yours every time he shifts.

but the worst part?

you can still feel him.

you'd barely had time to clean yourself up before rushing out of his dressing room, and now, sitting here in front of the cameras, you can feel the ghost of him between your legs. the dull ache he left behind, the way your panties are damp, not just with your own arousal but with a little of him. it's driving you insane, every slight shift in your seat sending a fresh wave of heat curling through your body.

you cross your legs, trying to ignore it, but the movement only makes you more aware of everything—how sensitive you still are, how wet you still are, and how much you need him all over again.

the interviewer is a bubbly woman in her early thirties, her smile bright as she asks questions about the show.

"so, jensen," she says, turning her attention to him. "your character and [___]'s character have this incredible chemistry. what was it like working together to build that connection?”

you can feel his eyes on you, and you force yourself to smile, keeping your gaze fixed on the interviewer.

"oh, it was easy," jensen says, his voice smooth and confident. "she's an incredible actress. makes my job a hell of a lot easier."

you can feel the heat creeping up your neck, and you hope it doesn't show.

"what about you, [___]?" the interviewer asks, turning to you. "what was it like working with jensen?"

"it was great," you say, your voice steady despite the way your heart is pounding. "he's so talented and professional. he really made me feel comfortable on set."

jensen smirks at that, and you can feel his eyes lingering on you.

"so there was no awkwardness?" the interviewer presses, her tone playful. "no funny moments during the more, uh, intimate scenes?"

you let out a small laugh, shaking your head.

"not really," you say, though your voice sounds a little higher than usual. "we just tried to stay focused."

jensen chuckles beside you, and the sound sends a shiver down your spine.

"we're professionals," he says with a wink at the interviewer, who blushes slightly under his gaze.

you shift in your seat again, trying to ignore the way your body is reacting to him. but jensen notices. of course he does.

his hand is resting on his thigh, his fingers drumming lightly against the fabric of his jeans. it's a small, subtle movement, but it's enough to make your breath hitch.

he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips when he sees the way you're squirming.

"something wrong, darlin'?" he murmurs under his breath, low enough that only you can hear.

you shoot him a glare, but it lacks any real heat.

"asshole," you mutter back, your voice barely audible.

he chuckles softly, turning his attention back to the interviewer as if nothing happened.

the rest of the interview passes in a blur, your focus shot to hell thanks to the man sitting beside you.

the second the interview wraps, you grab jensen by the arm and drag him back to his dressing room, ignoring the curious looks from the crew as you pass.

"someone's in a hurry," he teases, his voice dripping with amusement as you shove him inside and close the door behind you.

"shut up," you snap, your voice breathless as you push him against the wall.

his hands are on you in an instant, pulling you flush against him as his lips crash into yours. the kiss is rough, desperate, and you can feel the smirk on his lips as you tug at his shirt.

"needy lil' thing, aren't you?" he murmurs against your lips, his hands sliding down to grip your ass.

"you started it," you shoot back, your voice muffled as you kiss him again, your teeth grazing his bottom lip.

he groans, his grip tightening as he spins you around, pressing you against the wall.

"you're right," he says, his voice low and rough as his lips trail down your neck. "'n now i'm gonna finish it."

his hands are everywhere, sliding under your shirt, tugging at your jeans, leaving you breathless and trembling as he takes exactly what he wants.

and you let him.

because with jensen ackles, you'll gladly play the dangerous game.

every. single. time.

ϑ𝛠 SPECIAL TAGS. @titsout4jackles @floralscented @aileenunfiltered @deanswidow @lacydollette @beausling @figthoughts @frosttbitessam @bluestrd @florchids @honeyryewhiskey @bluemerakis @deansbite @rafespreciosa @voidsuites @abox-of-rocks @whisperingdaze @inspiredangel @deanssun . . . ☆

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Got a feeling in heart that Erik would love to corrupt a pretty pink coquette girl - hidden piercings, his name tattooed but in some pretty font she likes etc etc

A/n: I fucking love this...also I am sorry if you were just telling me a hc , and you wanted nothing.

Light nsfw, nothing to explicit

You were his sweetest contradiction.

Dressed in soft pink lace and glossy lip balm, you looked like you belonged in a fairytale—fluttery lashes, ribbons in your hair, and a voice like sugar when you called him “baby.” But Erik knew better. He Knew the way you squeezed his hand tighter when he whispered something filthy in your ear, the way warmth would creep up your neck, he knew how your thighs trembled when he promised you something permanent.

And he meant it.

The first time he pierced you, you squirmed in his lap, breath catching when the needle slid through your nipple. He held you close, fingers petting your hair as you whimpered prettily, the delicate rose gold barbell glinting under the light. You clutched his hoodie, tears at your lashes, but when he murmured, “You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart,” you only moaned leaning into his embrace more.

You started wearing thinner tops after that.

And then came the tattoo, it was an off handed comment at first, how your fingers traced over his gently saying that you wanted something, something small. Dainty. Feminine..something cute. Erik had kissed your neck and said he had an idea.

Now his name sat just above the swell of your ass, inked in a soft, elegant script that matched the stationery you used to write him love notes. Erik. A pretty brand in a pretty font, all yours—and all his.

He fucked you in front of the mirror that night, hand pressing at the base of your back so you could see it every time he rocked into you.

“Look at that,” he rasped, voice smug as your lips trembled with a moan. “My name looks so fucking good on you.”

You couldn’t speak—not with how deep he was—but you nodded with tears in your eyes, your lipstick smeared and your legs shaking.

His sweet little coquette. Corrupted. Claimed. And so goddamn proud to be his.

[micer2012]

a reflection on MatPat's plagiarism

Hello, my name is Della, or micer2012, and 2 years ago Game Theory plagiarized three Tumblr posts of mine, making a video that now holds almost 6 million views.

My posts explaining his plagiarism made their rounds on Reddit, Tumblr and Twitter, but despite the Hermits and Pooka commenting on it (generally in support of me or saying they don’t know enough details about the situation to say either way), MatPat and his team have never owned up to anything, and no mention of my name is present on the video. The one Reddit post they made denying it (which was made before my detailed takedown, which they have never responded to (though the mods on the r/GameTheorists Reddit were kind and made sure it stayed up)) didn’t even mention me by name, just referring to me as “a tumblr user”. (Though one of the screenshotted comments in the body of the post does say my name)

This experience was baffling, but it’s overall had a positive impact on my life. r/Hermitcraft gave me a Golden Apple Award (post of the year, 2021). My inbox was filled with excited fans, wanting to ask me questions or pose their own theories, far more than the hate I got. (Though the hate I got from Game Theory fans was VERY funny. I wondered why none of them gave me shit about saying “MatPat misgendered Evil Xisuma” before realizing none of them read that far into the post.)

And getting on a more personal, and much more important note, I met most of my current online friends through this, including my partner. It helped me grow closer with my irl friends as well and gave me an entertaining story that I tell whenever I have the chance. It was one of the first things in my life that really made me feel like my talents, my autistic hyperfocusing and analyzing of things I love, could be valuable. Useful. Exploitable. It blew my mind that MatPat thought an autistic kid’s ramblings about a Minecraft Youtube joke character were good enough to steal. To put an audible sponsorship on. To get 6 million views off of.

And that’s why I’m writing this post, this update years later. As you might’ve been able to guess, Hbomberguy’s Youtube video on plagiarism reopened this wound. It was really hard for me to sit through, it took days of pausing and taking breaks, because I had experienced everything he was talking about firsthand. 

In my 10 page long takedown post, I wrote about how his rewording of my sentences made him say things that were incorrect, just like Filip did. The content farm production style that made big companies like Cinemassacre take one creator (AVGN/MatPat) and turn him and his content into a brand, a voice that reads out scripts by other people with other opinions/theories, is a history shared with Game Theory. What really hit me was Harris talking about how big creators only do this to people they think they can get away with doing it to. How they view their victims as lesser, as not deserving of their words, repackaging them as their own to give to an audience that can gain from hearing them, but deserves better than to have to listen to the original victim.

That’s the thing, I 100% think a video version of my theory to expose to a bigger community than “Evil Xisuma Fans on Tumblr” is a great idea!! Near the end of the video Harris talks about how video adaptations of things could be a great market, even an accessibility tool, and I completely feel that about my posts. I wrote them quickly assuming the reader was someone well versed on Evil Xisuma lore, after not even watching most of the CarnEvil series, and the diagrams I made to explain them are even less comprehensible. Harris makes a joke that I completely agree with, 

“I’m sure some of my videos would do very well if someone translated them into English.”

I don’t think I would’ve ever made my posts if I didn’t have autism, and a special fixation on Evil Xisuma and Hermitcraft. I made them because I felt the character was being done an injustice, and because I wanted to share with other superfans this theory that might explain it away. I do think that MatPat plagiarizing me was ableist. I used to wonder a lot if this would’ve happened if my posts were articulated better, if they had been peer reviewed, if the posts themselves had been spread to a wider audience before MatPat made his video. At one point when the discourse was fresh (before I had the time to write out my 10 page rebuttal), a bigger YouTuber (100k subs at the time) messaged me and started talking on Discord, interested in possibly making a video on the discourse, but I think my style of typing and general enthusiasm drove him away. You can tell by a single look at my blog (or my original 3 posts!) that I don’t usually type like this. This post you’re reading now has been peer reviewed and edited, and took me hours to format correctly. That video could’ve been huge, the entire outcome of this MatPat situation would probably be much different.

I also used to stress a lot about “being the one who ruined Evil Xisuma’s story”. If you didn’t know, to me S8 Evil Xisuma’s story got wrapped up pretty quickly and unsatisfying (in my personal autistic opinion). (though this might’ve been due to s8 being experimental and ending early with moon big) There was no real culmination of the plot points and arcs going on, and I don’t want to blame myself, but when Xisuma said on stream (when the MatPat thing was first going on) that he didn’t want to focus on the discourse or draw more attention to it, it makes a lot of sense to me that he just wanted to wrap it all up as quickly as possible. For a while I beat myself up about it, of ruining the story of this character I love, but it’s not my fault. If anyone’s, it’s MatPats, but I don’t think it’s useful to just blame someone else. That’s how the story ended up going, and that’s fine. This is Evil Xisuma we’re talking about, their inconsistent lore is what made them such an interesting character. And notably, Pooka made an animation with an awesome culmination of Jeff, the Dreamer, Evil Xisuma, and his own sona’s story, and it makes me so happy to watch. Whatever Pooka does is of course his own choice, but I’m glad he got to give this personal story his own ending (if it is an ending, and not just the start of a new chapter!). 

Typing this all out and getting it off my chest has made me feel a lot better. For a while I wanted to make my OWN video essay about Evil Xisuma’s lore and CarnEvil’s lore, actually going episode by episode to explain it instead of just assuming you knew as much about Evil Xisuma as I did. That idea is still not off the table, but MCYT isn’t something I’m that into right now. Maybe if something else comes out about Evil Xisuma I’ll get back on it, but for now I’m fine with letting that go. But I want to make other videos, share other theories and analysis… if I have the freetime I’d love to make YouTube videos, and if I don’t have the time I’ll continue posting to my tumblr and infodumping to my friends. Apparently my infodumping is valuable enough “content” to steal! Writing this out has made me feel a lot better though, I’m really glad I got it out.

If anyone ever wants to talk to me about the things I’m obsessed with, or reach out to me as a source in a bigger discussion about Game Theory or other channels, my inbox is more than welcome :] Thank you for reading! 

Sincerely, a tumblr user.

[noirscript]

his silent script

Pairing: Yandere!Actor x Smut Writer!Reader Description: You never meant for your words to become real, but Dorian Shaw—celebrated actor, relentless shadow���has stepped straight out of your pages. He watches you like he knows you, like he’s living the life you created for him, and when he speaks, it’s with the certainty of a man who refuses to be just fiction. Warning/s: YANDERE | Stalking | Psychological Manipulation | Power Imbalance | Implied Coercion | Implied Threats | Note/s: Happy 900 followers! Actually, it already exceeded 900. I hope I can finish Sovereign's Reign on or before I reach 1,000 followers. ^^ Anyway, enjoy reading!

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The first time you met him; it wasn’t with flashing cameras or red carpets. It was raining—of course it was raining—and the bookstore’s leaky ceiling made a steady plip-plip onto the laminate floor.

You’d come for peace. You found him instead.

He was in the back corner of the romance section, hood low over his brow, fingers grazing the spines like he was choosing a victim rather than a novel. Tall, still, silent. The kind of presence that made you aware of your own heartbeat.

You didn’t recognize him. Not really. Maybe you’d seen him once, in passing on some trailer auto-playing on your phone. But the name meant little. The face meant nothing. You weren’t in the business of idolizing men who wore fake faces for a living.

Still, you noticed the way his eyes lingered too long on the shelf where your name sat, your series nestled between glossier, brighter titles. You saw the slight twitch in his jaw when he picked up the second book in your “Sin & Silk” trilogy. And then—he smiled.

Not like a fan. Like a man who’d just found something he’d been missing.

“Is this one any good?” he asked, holding up the copy. His voice was deep—velvet laced with smoke—and you immediately felt heat crawl up your neck.

“I wouldn’t know,” you said, brushing past him to the counter. “Never read it.”

He laughed—just once. “Liar.”

You turned. He was still watching you.

“You’re her,” he said. “The author.”

Your stomach sank. “So?”

He didn’t answer. Just flipped the book open, letting the pages fan out beneath his fingers, stopping on a dog-eared chapter. You knew exactly which scene it was. Chapter 17. The one your editor almost didn’t let you keep. Too dark, too raw, too real.

But you’d fought for it. And won.

Now he was reading it. Slowly. Deliberately.

“This scene,” he murmured. “The way he talks to her. Makes her feel like she’s drowning even when she wants more.”

You stiffened. “You make it sound creepy.”

He smiled again. This time, it didn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s not creepy if it’s real.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You didn’t think much of it. A strange encounter. A nameless man in a bookstore. A slightly unsettling comment.

Then a week later, your book shot up the charts.

Overnight, your inbox was flooded with messages. Your social media exploded. Edits. Fanart. BookTok girls screaming about the “Sin & Silk” trilogy, especially Chapter 17. You didn’t understand why—until you saw the video.

Him. The man from the bookstore.

Only now, the hood was off. The world’s most sought-after actor, Dorian Shaw, was staring into a camera, book in hand, reading your words.

“I couldn’t put it down,” he said in a quiet interview, caught between questions about his next thriller and a luxury brand endorsement. “There’s something real in this writing. Dark, yeah. But honest. Like she’s not afraid to tell the truth.”

Dorian Shaw. Award-winning. Obscenely handsome. A man with a face built for obsession and a voice that bent crowds.

And now, he was yours.

Your book, your name, your words—on his lips.

It should’ve been thrilling. You should’ve been grateful.

But when you watched that interview, it wasn’t his praise that stuck with you.

It was the way he looked at the camera.

Like he wasn’t just recommending your book.

Like he was speaking to you.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The next time you saw him; it was at your signing event. Your publicist was buzzing, hands fluttering as she arranged stacks of books and fixed your hair between signatures.

“He promoted you,” she whispered. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

You did. Your Amazon page had crashed. Pre-orders were climbing. But all you could think about was the way his fingers lingered on your words.

He showed up without fanfare. No entourage. No disguise. Just Dorian, dressed in dark tones, leaning against the end of the line like he belonged there.

People turned. Whispered. Phones clicked.

And still, he waited. Twenty-three minutes.

When he finally reached you, he didn’t hand you a book.

He slid a black envelope across the table.

“I read them all,” he said. “But I think you already know that.”

You stared at him. “Why are you here?”

His smile was slow. Purposeful.

“I want to talk. The real kind. About the man you wrote.”

“I write fiction.”

“You write truth in disguise.”

He stepped back, letting the crowd absorb him. But as he disappeared, he called over his shoulder:

“Open it when you’re alone.”

Inside the envelope was a script. Handwritten. Raw. A scene lifted straight from Chapter 17—but with differences. Subtle, unnerving ones.

The villain won.

The heroine didn’t run.

And at the bottom, scrawled in ink that had bled through the page:

You wrote him. I became him.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You tried to avoid it after that. Ignored the surge of followers. Declined interviews. Turned adaptation offers.

But Dorian was persistent.

He posted again. A black-and-white video of him reading a monologue from your latest release. The comments were chaos. His fans demanded a collab. Your sales doubled. Your publisher offered a new contract. Your name was trending.

And through it all, he watched.

At first, it was distant. A like. A repost. A subtle nod during his press tours.

Then he started commenting. Small things. Quotes from your work. Direct lines. No context.

Then came the invitations. A book panel he was hosting. A charity gala “in your honor.” He even showed up at a local café reading where you’d been assured anonymity.

You finally gave in at a networking event your agent guilted you into attending. He was there before you. Waiting at the bar.

“You never answered my messages,” he said as you approached, drink in hand.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“No,” he said. “But you created me.”

You shook your head. “You’re not him. He’s fiction.”

Dorian leaned in, voice lowering. “I’ve played gods, killers, kings. But none of them fit like him. None of them felt like me—until your story.”

You hated the way he said it. Like it was fate. Like he truly believed it.

“You don’t know me,” you said.

“I know you better than anyone who’s ever touched your skin,” he said, his voice almost reverent. “Because I’ve read the parts of you no one else dares to look at.”

You walked away.

But something tethered you there.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

And now, you were in the backseat of a car. One you didn’t remember getting into. Rain blurred the windows. Your hands were shaking.

The partition slid down.

Dorian looked back at you from the driver’s seat.

“You shouldn’t get in strange cars,” he said.

Your mouth went dry. “This isn’t my driver.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s mine.”

You reached for the handle. Locked.

“Please,” he said. “Just listen.”

You swallowed. “You stalked me.”

“I followed the story.”

“There is no story.”

“There is,and you know it.”

His voice was quiet, almost broken.

“You wrote me. I was fragments before you. Empty roles. Hollow scripts. But then I found your words. And I felt something. For the first time in years, I felt alive.”

He turned in his seat, eyes meeting yours.

“Don’t take that from me.”

The knife was beneath the seat. You knew it. He didn’t reach for it.

Instead, he took your book from his coat. Your first. The one that had started it all.

“Let me show you what this means to me,” he whispered. “Let me be him.”

Your heart pounded.

“I don’t want him.”

“Yes, you do,” he said. “You buried him in fiction. I’m digging him out.”

Silence sat between you like a second presence.

Then, softly: “Give me one scene. Just one. Let me prove I understand.”

And you, against everything rational, nodded.

He didn’t touch you.

But he looked at you like you were the final line of a monologue he’d rehearsed a thousand times.

And when it was over, you went home.

And picked up your pen.

And rewrote the ending.

This time, the villain stays.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

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