#all of this is not even scraping the surface

[shokami]

jjk newest chapter leaks. + a blurb to vent my frustrations and sadness over the one and only gojo satoru. may he always be my one and only.

gojo satoru, i hope that in another universe you get to live as gojo satoru and not the strongest. my baby boy, what have they done to you :( so here’s a tiny blurb of words, for the king who deserved to live. curse you, gege akutami.

———————————- <3

It wasn’t enough.

Nothing… was ever enough.

Not when he got stolen away from you, sealed in a pit of Hell and trapped- cornered by the four walls of a tiny square box. What had he thought about in there? Was his mind riddled with thoughts of letting down his friends, his students that had become his children, or his lover who had spent every night and day weeping in their shared bed?

Not when you watched his life be stolen away. Oh, how foolish you are, my Satoru… You thought to yourself. No matter how much you had pleaded, and cried, he had gone and done it anyways. Surely, there had been another way than to face Sukuna himself, right? No. Everything you said, every word echoed down empty halls, and landed upon deaf ears. You weren’t a sorcerer, you didn’t know what they knew. Gojo was a weapon, a fighter, a rebel with a cause. Gojo was not a lover, not a gentle man who wanted to be loved.

To them.

… but to you? He was just that. A lover, one that your heart yearned to speak the words “I love you” to just one more time. A simple man, with a simple wish. One that meant protecting his loved ones, but coming home to a cozy bed full of laughter, warmth, sunshine, and security.

Satoru had never meant to fall in love with you, he promised that he wouldn’t ever feel that emotion. Not for just you, but for anyone who wanted to view him as a love interest. Oh, but his heart was so stupid; tripping and fumbling right into your delicate soft hands.

Not enough.

It’s not enough.

Why was I not enough?!

Those words replayed in your head, every moment of every second, as you blamed yourself. The man lied to you. Those stupid blue eyes, that silver tongue, and those flowy white strands of hair that whisked and blended in the winter breeze. Of course he lied, how was he supposed to tell his girlfriend, his partner, that if he died… he’d face a fate that was sick, and twisted? So, he did what any “good man” would. A letter, left upon your nightstand that read every detail, every plan, with leaving everything he had to you.

Once upon a time, Gojo was asked a question that would unknowingly become his fate but a few years later. So foolishly, he answered with “I’d win.” You liar! Deep down, he must have known he wouldn’t and if he didn’t… he was damn near psychotic for trying.

Now, you lost it all again. Not only had you been forced to watch your one and only die at the hands of the King of Curses but this? This was sick. You wanted to throw up, you wanted to crawl into a hole and forget that the world outside existed. How could he forfeit his own body? How could he not have peace, even in death? How could the Jujutsu world take an already broken man, and force a sense of views that would define his entire life? It wasn’t fair, but then again, what was?

It’s never enough for any of you! You silently screamed in your head, banging against every surface, rattling the bars of a cage you locked your heart in. This wasn’t your lover, but an inexperienced boy who had taken his body as if it were a mere puppet.

Your heart ceased in your chest, and you clutched at it desperately as you dry heaved in your bedroom floor. Your knees hurt from the fall, as they scraped against the carpet. A loud, broken scream escaped your dry lips. Every thought in your head hurt, and every heart beat felt like a knife straight to your core. Every single part of you felt as if it was being ripped apart, and you wished for it to end. A sweaty hand reached for your cellphone, and through blurred vision you found your voicemails as a sob choked out desperately.

“Hey there, princess! I’m not too sure how this is going to play out,” A weak laugh echoed through the phone, his tone of voice knew. He knew he wouldn’t win. “I wish that I would have had time to hold you one last time, and tell you how much I loved you. It’s funny you know… how time works? I thought by now, I’d be back home and get to see that warm smile of yours. I never told you how much I loved it, and your laugh. Goddamn, your laugh was like music to my ears, baby.” A quiet sigh left his lips, and you began to cry even harder. “I never meant to fall in love with you, y/n. I knew I’d hurt you somehow, just didn’t know this is how I’d do it… This is how it has to be, sugar. So, don’t me upset with me, mk? I’ll always be with you.”

There was a long pause, one that hurt your soul as it wished to feel his touch and his love one last time. “I love you, y/n. Goodbye.” The voicemail ended.

“LIAR!” Your voice screamed, cracking in the process as you threw your phone across the room; watching it shatter into tiny little pieces on the ground. “Liar… Liar… Liar… You’re a liar, Satoru! How could you do this to me?”

For the first time in what felt like years, you were alone.

“You weren’t Gojo Satoru because you were the strongest… You were the strongest- because you were Gojo Satoru.” Those words left your mouth, sounding cold and distant. After a heart beat, your tears began to fall again as you laid there broken.

“You were just Satoru to me, my love…”

In another universe… Maybe you will know peace.

[sapphichotmess]

Absolutely Smitten

Modern!Ellie Williams x Plus Size!f!Reader (not really specified but that’s what I write)

Name inspired by Dodie’s song Absolutely Smitten

Even though this is not 18+, I am an 18+ blog, mdni

Warnings/Tags: horrendous writing (not edited) with very little dialogue (idk how to human), fluff, meet cute, rushed ending, reader is able-bodied

~2.7k words

I am up to doing more parts of this! Maybe? 

The melted-butter-colored morning sun filters through the windows of a quaint bakery, casting a warm glow across the wooden-floored interior. Birds chirp their songs, squirrels scutter up trees, causing the rustling of leaves, and an owl up too late calls out one last time. Such a beautiful sight is cause for a relaxing morning.

“Fuck!”

You curse as the all-too-familiar clatter of metal hitting the floor pierces the peaceful atmosphere of the bakery, abruptly drawing your attention away from the serene scene outside. Your brain still wanders as your non-stick shoes squeak on the tile flooring of the bakery, and it doesn’t catch up until you’re nearly toe-to-toe with disaster. Flour dusts otherwise pristine countertops like a fresh layer of snow and cascades like a white waterfall onto the floor. Bread dough clings stubbornly to multiple places in the kitchen: the countertop, the edges of the mixing bowl, and even the crevices between the tiles on the floor. Amidst the mess stood the culprit—a temperamental mixer that seemed to have a mind of its own recently.

"Of all the mornings for this to happen," you mutter, placing one hand on your head and one on your hip in frustration. This wasn't how you envisioned starting your day, but in the unforgiving world of small business ownership, setbacks like this were all too common.

With a resigned sigh, you set to work cleaning up the sticky, floury mess. You grab a towel and begin trying to wipe down the countertops first. The flour wipes off easily, some getting caught in the towel and some falling to the floor to be swept up. However, the dough sticks to the granite countertops no matter what you do. Your brows pinch in and your lips pull down at the edges as you realize that the dough is proving to be far more stubborn than anticipated. You try scraping it off with the edge of the towel, but it only smears and clings to the counter. Each attempt to remove it seems futile, making your blood boil.

Glancing over at the mixer, you can't help but feel a twinge of resentment towards the outdated piece of shit equipment. It had been a constant source of trouble lately, breaking down at the most inconvenient times and causing endless headaches.

Shaking your head at yourself for being mad at a machine, you step back, put your hands on your wide hips, and let out a controlled breath. You have to figure out how to fix this. And fast. Your bakery opens in—you look up to a clock and read the hands—shit! It opens in three hours!

Looking over the kitchen, you contemplate what you should do, trying to find an approach to cleaning up and getting a new batch of dough ready in three hours. As you focus on the mixer-made mess, inspiration strikes, and you bustle around to find a small bowl and a sponge, filling the bowl up with warm water. Your chest never rises, and you take slow, deliberate steps toward the mess with the full bowl, hoping it doesn’t tip and make an even bigger mess. When you make it to your destination, you dampen the sponge and gently dab at the dough, hoping that the moisture will help loosen its grip on the countertop.

To your relief, the tactic seems to work, albeit slowly. The dough begins to soften under the gentle pressure of the sponge, gradually loosening its hold on the granite surface. With careful persistence, you continue to work, methodically removing the stubborn remnants of dough until the countertops are once again clean and smooth. Once the dough is removed from the countertop, you get on your hands and knees to begin scrubbing it from the floor. This takes only a few minutes with the sponge and hot water. Finally, once all the pesky dough is removed from each and every nook and cranny, you grab the broom and start sweeping the flour from the floor.

As you sweep, your mind drifts to the tasks still left to do before opening time. Glancing at the clock, you realize you have less than three hours left. You nearly drop the broom from shock, not realizing that 30 minutes had gone by—you still need to get the new dough ready and finish the rest of the opening tasks.

Owning and managing this bakery by yourself is fucking difficult but you love it.

The aroma of fresh coffee fills the air as you start brewing a batch, ensuring that your customers will have their caffeine fix ready when the doors open. Meanwhile, you preheat the oven and begin preparing the day's first batch of pastries, expertly shaping dough into delicate croissants and twisting it into intricate shapes and florets for cinnamon rolls.

Trays of pastries fill the shelves, their golden crusts glistening invitingly in the soft morning light, now higher in the sky. The sound of the oven timer beeping signals that the first batch of cinnamon rolls is ready, and you quickly remove them from the heat, the tantalizing scent of warm cinnamon, brown butter, caramelized brown sugar, and yeasty bread filling the air.

With the rolls cooling on the counter, you turn your attention to the display case, arranging everything with steady hands and care to showcase their deliciousness to potential customers. The final touches are added—a dusting of powdered sugar here, a drizzle of simple syrup there—before you step back to admire your handiwork with a satisfied smile.

With only minutes to spare before opening time, you quickly tidy up the kitchen, wiping down countertops and washing dishes with practiced efficiency. The last of the flour is swept away, leaving the floor sparkling clean and ready to welcome customers.

Finally, shoes squeaking, you make it to the front entrance to unlock the door and flip the ‘closed’ sign to ‘open.’

But as you turn to walk back behind the counter, you hear a familiar bell ring.

The bell hanging above the door you just unlocked. The one you still stand in front of, back turned.

Suddenly, the floor is flying towards you, just a blur of dark hardwood before your eyes flutter closed, and all you can see is darkness.

When your eyes flutter open, pain explodes through your body, your eyebrows scrunching and eyes clenched back shut. Your chest heaves with labored breaths and your heart races like it’s trying to break from your ribcage. Stars dance behind your eyelids as you struggle to regain your bearings, disoriented and dazed from the sudden fall.

What the fuck just happened?

Slowly, agonizingly, you manage to push yourself into a sitting position, blinking away the haze of confusion to assess the damage. Your head throbs with each accelerated heartbeat, a dull ache spreading through your limbs as you tentatively move to check for visible injuries. But before you can fully process what has just happened, a shadow falls over you, and a voice cuts through the fog of pain and confusion.

"Shit, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

The raspy voice is laced with concern, tinged with a hint of panic, and it takes a moment for the words to register. When they do, you turn to see a figure kneeling beside you, their features blurred by the remnants of your fall.

Struggling to focus and blinking hard to try and clear your vision, you manage to make out a pair of piercing green eyes staring back at you, filled with genuine worry, auburn eyebrows drawn in, causing worry lines to appear between them. As your vision fully clears, the face comes into sharper focus, and you realize that you've never seen this person before.

She sports a somewhat slender jawline, high cheekbones, proportional top and bottom lips—both somewhat plush—and fair skin smattered with freckles the looked like an artist took their brush and flung paint at them.

Despite the pain pulsing through your head and the disorientation of the fall, you find yourself momentarily captivated by the stranger's striking features. There's an undeniable warmth in her pale green gaze, a kindness that puts you at ease in spite of the awkwardness of the situation. Her eyebrows are still pulled together, the sight of the lines in between them making you want to reach out and smooth them away.

She cocks her head slightly, her short auburn hair swishing with the movement and catching a ray of sun, turning slightly red—the color reminds you of a brown border collie’s fur. As you follow the movement with your eyes, you register her earlier question. With pain still throbbing in your head you manage a weak nod, unable to find your voice amidst the chaos of the moment. The stranger's expression softens with relief at your response, the worry lines between her brows fading, and she reaches out a hand to help you to your feet.

"Here, let me help you up," she offers, her voice gentle as she assists you in standing. "I really didn't mean to slam the door like that. Are you sure you're okay?"

You manage another slight nod, though the throbbing in your head protests with each movement. Your eyes swim and something roils in your stomach, nausea curling up your esophagus. Taking a deep breath, you steady yourself with the captivating stranger's support, her hands gently holding you around waist height so as to not make you uncomfortable.

Well, fall would be an understatement—it was more like a push to the floor.

Assaulted by your own door.

God, could this morning get any worse?

As you gain footing, knees no longer shaking—though if you keep looking into those eyes, they might start all over again—the stranger lets go of you, her right hand swiping over the top of her nose before both hands are tucked in her pockets. A soft blush spreads on her cheeks, moving up from her neck all the way into her hairline.

She still seems concerned, though, softly asking, "Are you sure you're okay?"

A small smile tugs at the corners of your lips at her sheepish expression. "I think so," you manage to reply, your voice faint but steady. "Just a bit shaken up, I guess."

The stranger nods in understanding, her expression softening with relief, though the blush stays. "I'm glad to hear that," she says, her tone genuine. "I really didn't mean to barrel into you with the door like that. I was just in a hurry, and… well, I guess I wasn't paying attention."

Despite the circumstances, you can't help but chuckle breathlessly at her admission. "No harm done," you assure her, your grin widening, cheeks pushing up and making your eyes squint. "Just a little stumble, that's all."

With a shared laugh, the tension and awkwardness between you begin to bleed from the atmosphere. The stranger offers you a warm smile, straight white teeth glittering in the mid-morning sunlight, and a glimmer of amusement dancing in her eyes.

"By the way," she says, extending a slightly shaking hand towards you, "I'm Ellie. Ellie Williams."

You grasp her hand in a firm shake, a sense of gratitude washing over you at the charming introduction. You were nervous standing here in front of this… piece of art sculpted by the likes of Michelangelo, and you knew you would have stumbled and made a fool while introducing yourself. Besides, her slight awkwardness is cute.

You give her your name back, saying, "Nice to meet you, Ellie," with a small grin, the remnants of a chuckle still lingering in the back of your throat, threatening to creep up as she shuffles on her feet awkwardly. “Though I don’t know if it is very nice since you kind of slammed into me with a door…”

She jerks as though hit with something, eyebrows shooting up and eyes widening in shock. Her face darkens more, further showcasing freckles artistically splattered across her face. She stammers out another apology, her words tumbling over each other in her rush to express her regret.

"I-I'm so sorry," she says, her voice wavering with embarrassment. "I didn't mean to... I mean, I've been wanting to come into the bakery for a while now, and I guess I got a little too excited, and..."

Her words trail off into awkward silence as mortification registers on her face, her shoulders folding up towards her ears. She shifts on her feet uncomfortably, unable to meet your gaze. It's clear that Ellie is flustered, her cheeks flushed the deepest red you’ve ever seen as she struggles to articulate her thoughts.

Despite your lips turning up into a slight smile and choking on the giggles that tried to escape at the poor girl, you can't help but feel a surge of sympathy for her. "No harm done," you assure her, your grin softening. "Just a little unexpected introduction, that's all."

Ellie's shoulders relax slightly at your words, a shy smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Thank you," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

As Ellie continues to fidget nervously, hand dragging over her nose again, you sense that there's more to her awkwardness than meets the eye. So, you offer her a kind word of reassurance. "You know," you begin, "you're always welcome here at the bakery. No need to rush next time."

At your invitation, Ellie's eyes light up with gratitude, looking more like an excited dog by the minute. "Thank you," she says, her voice light and filled with genuine appreciation as she bounces on her heels, her auburn hair dancing with her movement. 

Feeling your cheeks heat at the depth of her stare, you find yourself fidgeting this time. There's something about Ellie's enthusiasm that's infectious, drawing you in despite the lingering discomfort from your fall.

Before you can gather your thoughts, Ellie reaches for a nearby pcake display, her eyes alight with anticipation. "I think I'll take one of these," she says, pointing to a freshly baked red velvet cupcake nestled among its companions.

You watch as she pays for her purchase, a sense of admiration growing within you for her unbridled enthusiasm. Despite the chaos of the morning, Ellie's presence has brought a ray of sunshine into your day, and you find yourself feeling grateful for the chance encounter.

Taking a moment to appreciate the way she lights up the room with her infectious energy, you can't help but wonder about the person behind the cheerful facade. There's a warmth in her eyes and a genuineness in her smile that speaks volumes, leaving you intrigued and wanting to learn more about her. And there's an undeniable chemistry between you, a connection that feels both unexpected and strangely familiar.

So, you summon up your courage to do something probably wholly unprofessional as a business owner. You take a deep breath and meet Ellie's green gaze head-on. "Hey, um, would it be okay if I got your number?" you ask, your voice tentative but earnest.

Ellie's eyes widen in surprise at your request, but her smile only grows wider. "Of course!" she exclaims with a small scoff-like laugh, her enthusiasm bubbling over. "I'd love that."

With a sense of relief flooding through you, you fumble for your phone, fingers trembling slightly as you input Ellie's number. As you exchange contact information, a sense of excitement blooms within you, fueled by the prospect of getting to know Ellie better.

With a final exchange of smiles and promises to stay in touch, you bid Ellie farewell, watching as she heads off down the street with a spring in her step. As you turn back to the bakery, a sense of anticipation fills your chest, mingled with the lingering ache of your fall. 

With a final nod of assurance to yourself, you straighten up and take a step forward. Despite the unexpected start to your encounter, there's something strangely comforting about Ellie's presence—as if fate had intervened to bring you together in that moment of chaos.

taglist

@les4elliewilliams @abbyshands

[couldsewyouastitchandsavenine]

Burn [Joel Miller]

this is my entry to Em's On Repeat Drabble Challenge by @dancingtotuyo. thank you so much for letting me be part of this and I am sorry for this took so long—life kinda got in the way—anyway, thanks for introducing me to Zach Bryan and for doing this amazing challenge.

Inspired by Burn, Burn, Burn by Zach Bryan

pairing: joel miller x reader

wordcount: 1K

warnings: none really

Joel Miller hasn’t let himself feel anything for a long while—not like this. 

For years he’s been a fortress of solitude—feelings locked away, emotions a luxury he couldn’t afford. Yet, in the midst of the chaos and the infected, moments slipped through—fragments that caught him off guard. Moments that reminded him he was still human, with a heart capable of beating.

Moments that often revolved around you.

When he met you, Joel wasn’t on a quest for companionship nor was he seeking an ally. Yet, there you were, bathed in the early spring mist—your presence painted with a brush of quiet desperation he knew all too well. Bruised and with a limp, you had asked him for help. And for some goddamn reason he couldn’t—wouldn’t—send you away.

Thus, you stayed, just long enough to recover, or so the plan went.

But plans, in times like these, are as fickle as a sudden summer breeze rustling the treetops.

Joel quickly learned that you were resourceful, observant, unassuming, and quiet on your feet, yet spectacularly precise with a rifle—a skill he discovered only days later when you came to his aid.

Since then, the two of you had faced near-death scrapes, saving each other’s lives more times than he cared to count in the short span you’ve traversed the landscapes together. This proximity, this forced closeness—it’s only natural that he finds himself curious.

It’s normal that most evenings, Joel finds himself watching you. The way the campfire light dances across your focused face, the methodical way you clean your gear. It’s calming, he finds, and scarily comforting. He hadn’t planned for this, hadn’t wanted it—perhaps that’s what makes it all the more dangerous.

Still, Joel can’t help it.

So, he observes and he wonders—if circumstances were different, if life had been kinder—would he have noticed someone like you? His old ideals of types and attraction have dissolved, and he hadn’t been in the company of someone for a long time, but Christ, you were beautiful.

And, Joel likes to imagine that yes, he would have noticed someone like you, would’ve asked you out, drawn you close, spun his favourite vinyls in his living room just to lure you into a dance, see if jazz sounded as good as he remembers it.

But not here. Not now.

So, Joel fights it, fights you, fights himself. Fights fights that leave him breathless—not from extortion but from the unspoken words that fill his lungs like smoke.

You don’t talk a lot, but he thinks that if he wasn’t the way he was—if he appeared less guarded, if his smiles came easier—you might share the slice of thoughts he often sees flickering behind your eyes ever so often. He knows this because he had watched you almost speak, lips parting, only to catch yourself with a fleeting glance his way a subdued smile before your eyes drop to your scuffed boots.

And he knows he isn’t an easy man to keep as a company. He had always been a man of few words, and with or without you, his silence somehow often stretches into days, creating a chasm that’s hard to bridge. He’s haunted by memories, shadows of the past that linger just out of reach but always present. Nightmares plague his sleep, and when he wakes, he’s more withdrawn, the walls around him fortified. His anger, though controlled, simmers beneath the surface, ready to flare at the slightest provocation.

Yet, despite all this, you still stay.

But there comes a night, one unlike the others, when the stars hang heavy in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the world. The campfire crackles softly, and the usual weight of silence feels different, charged with something unsaid. 

Joel sits across from you, eyes flickering between the flames and your profile, bathed in the soft light.

You look up, meeting his gaze, and for once, you don’t look away. The moment stretches, and something inside him softens, a wall beginning to crumble.

“Can you do something for me?” he asks, the words tasting foreign on his tongue.

You nod slowly, curiosity and something else—hope?—lighting your eyes.

“Talk to me,” he says, voice a low murmur, almost lost in the night’s quiet. “Tell me what you’re thinkin’.”

You hesitate, glancing at the fire, before meeting his gaze again. “I think... I think I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”

Joel’s breath hitches. The openness in your voice, the raw vulnerability, seeps into him, warming the cold recesses of his heart. He moves closer, the distance between you shrinking, the fire casting dancing shadows on his face.

“I’m not good at this,” he confesses, his voice rough. “But I want to try.”

You reach out, your fingers brushing against his. It’s a small gesture, but it speaks volumes. He takes your hand, his grip firm yet gentle, as if afraid you might disappear.

For a while, neither of you speaks. The silence is no longer a barrier but a shared space, filled with the unspoken understanding that something has shifted. Joel’s thumb traces circles on the back of your hand, a soothing, grounding motion.

“I’ve been scared,” he admits finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “Scared of feelin’... of losin’...”

You squeeze his hand, offering silent reassurance. “You don’t have to be scared alone,” you reply softly. “We can face it together.”

He looks at you then, and something within him clicks into place. The fortress he’s built around his heart begins to dissolve, brick by brick. He pulls you closer, his other hand reaching up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear you hadn’t realised you’d shed.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, his voice raw with emotion. “Please.”

Your answer is a soft whisper against his lips as you close the distance, and he allows himself to feel—fully and completely. 

And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure he minded.

[trulyumai]

To Destroy and Conquer

Pairing: Messmer x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of Death, violence, possessiveness.

Synopsis: Before his reckoning, the red haired protector was a husband; a caring one at that.

A/N: It’s been a little since my last update but im back! Thank you everyone for being so patient <3

Enjoy!

MTI

“In Death, I would rise and burn thy enemies; harmers of thy soul,” Lightly, the tall man brushed his fingers against his wife’s face.

With her lips parted slightly, tuffs of air dampened his pale cheeks as he blinked down at her with a longing, loving gaze.

His knuckles met with the skin of her cheek, moving them up and down his rougher skin met with the softened surface. he began to memorized each groove, each crevice.

His little wife didn’t know of his plans, his extortions for power.

She was unaware of the dead fleets that lay scattered on the field, just by the castle walls.

She was unaware of the burning hunger for strength that seemed to corrupt a new piece of his soul with every passing day.

No, for how could she?

She was ever the dutiful wife; cleaning, cooking, waiting patiently for her knight of a husband to come back, arms open with kisses to spare.

Tonight was the night he would regain his namesake, no more would he be shunned, forgotten in the shadow of his family.

Blinking he took his little wife in once more.

Dusting his lips across her neck he decided his next move.

He bit, hard.

A perfect red mark shined back at him, with red and purple blood vessels rewarding the man for his efforts.

The woman didn’t stir, for their night before was full of plenty roughness on its own .

Instead she leaned into him, and he coughed out a chuckle.

“Even in sleep Darling, thy craves violence, hm?”

Adoringly he placed dry kisses upon her cheeks, down to her lips and up to her nose.

“I will have it all. Yes, and thy own’s beauty will be there, baptized in flame.”

With his head leaned in, his eyes moved forward, to the open window that let in the petrichoric smells of the land.

The golden castle met his gaze, it laid in the distance with its bordering walls. Trees scattered before the land, and smoke began to peek behind the stone barriers, the aftermath of Messmer’s past display of power.

With squinted eyes he laid back, his wife’s head laid upon his bare chest as his gaze never left the castle.

Messmer sat there, idly scraping at his knuckles while his other arm wrapped around his wife and imagined; imagined a life of fire and smoke, in the middle of it all stood him.

With no enemies left, he could rein, and his little wife would wait just as she always did, for him to return home.

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

i think probably the core issue of lorien legacies, beyond anything to do with individual characters, is the mixed metaphors.

more specifically, about politics.

[longpost after the cut; a lot of talk about racism, xenophobia, fascism--including ecofascism--genocide, and all of the above being poorly handled. also some deeply upsetting anti-indigenous awfulness wrt the w-word.]

the writers try to make the series Heavy-Hitting and Deep and Socially Conscious by addressing real-world political issues like racism, fascism, religious fundamentalism, dictatorship, colonialism, genocide, and so on... and instead of trying to build it into a coherent dynamic with any kind of real statement about any of it, they just blindly grab at every political issue they can find and slap it together into a jumbled mess.

they don't actually understand any of the things they're talking about. and the most disturbing part is that they don't even limit themselves to drawing on bad neoliberal takes, and/or captain-obvious shit like 'genocide bad.' they ALSO draw on the politics of fascists and racists--sometimes unironically, sometimes putting it in the mouths of random protagonists without reason after establishing that it's supposed to be a bad thing, sometimes doing shit that strawmans itself into confirming the Bad Guy Fascism and what have you--and often they mix those metaphors in ways that are anywhere from bizarre to horrific.

('ya so the great replacement theory was completely right actually! the people you're genociding a hundred percent have dedicated their entire life, purpose, and remaining culture to exterminating yours. it doesn't matter if their survivors are down to the single digits, if you fail to kill even a single one of them they WILL successfully wipe you out. they will literally have your last few survivors rounded up and put into prison camps. three cheers for them!' jesus fucking christ.)

(don't get me started on shit like tossing blatant racist caricatures of north korea and its political issues into the mogadorians at some point, because why the fuck not, and then piling on the anti-japanese racism with a dump truck at the end of the first series and throughout the second. internment camps.)

(jesus fucking christ.)

and like. people don't react to this shit the way they realistically would. you cannot tell me that not a single one of the majority-POC cast in the second series would not rip a black hole into nine's irl-racist and scifi-MAGA, white-man-in-a-position-of-authority ass, or the shit that john's white-man-in-a-position-of-authority ass brings about himself under the guise of ~kindness and peace.~

and there's no logic to the kind of shit people will say and do about this stuff, especially in the sequel series. sometimes they'll express, like, basic antifascist/anti-racist/humanitarian/decent-in-general beliefs, and other times the most absolutely wild shit will come out of their mouths which either directly contradicts things they've said before--and might say after--or pulls from other blatant parts of that same horrific ideology. there is no rhyme or reason to most of it. it's just a clown car of racist/fascist/xenophobic nonsequiturs. what the hell.

and when i say nine is irl-racist in reborn i mean he casually calls a native american child the w-word as a '''lighthearted''' punny joke about his legacy. the kid is not even from any tribe whose culture they originate from; they never specify, because of course they couldn't be bothered lol, but miki is from alaska. on top of that, they had the dick ass and balls to have him randomly throw in a Very Special Episode scene where he talks about how his family are the direct-action variety of activists who he got separated from when they blew up an oil pipeline.

and he does not fucking blink at this. he doesn't say anything about it, he doesn't uncomfortably not say anything about it, he just goes on with the friendly conversation about his legacies which nine just called him a w-word for without missing a single beat.

and the ecofascism. good unholy fucking god the ecofascism. probably the most fundamental driving force of the entire first series is that if you don't ~take care of your environment~ your entire race/ethnicity/culture deserve to suffer and die slowly in the results. yes, all of them. it doesn't matter who was responsible. every last one. including the masses we see protesting on mogadore in flashbacks/visions.

also did i mention the Great Fascist Cult Leader who is responsible for the loric's genocide is a race traitor who took charge of wiping out his own? because that is a thing. it's a thing.

like. man i could go on. i could go on. and in other posts i probably will, because WOW is there a lot to unpack here. but it really does all come down to the fact that the writers wanted to sound meaningful and important and socially conscious, because that's what seems to be hip with the youth nowadays, and they don't have anything to say.

it's just gibberish. gibberish that arranges in some very telling ways as to the beliefs of their own that they are putting into the books. but gibberish.

and it pisses me off in a different way to have realized this, but god damn does it make it less tear-my-hair-out distressing than racking my brain trying to figure out what in the goddamn fuck am i looking at here.

(capitalism. capitalism is what i'm looking at here. and also racism, antisemitism, xenophobia, and just plain being fuckin stupid.)

lord.

[ovenproofowl]

His Dark Materials is a franchise that tackles so many branches of physics and even creates a universe where the main course of study is experimental theology which is all about identifying and explaining dark matter while also adding dimensions to string theory, the multiverse theory, and the very concept of the human soul. At the same time, it aggressively calls out the problem with the state being controlled by the church, how people are condemned for being different and religious fearmongering stops the chance at growth both on an individual and a societal scale. It’s a franchise where the heroes of the story are two children who aren’t allowed to know the prophecy they’re a part of, who save the world unwittingly simply by doing what they believe to be right. Meanwhile, the person who thought he was the hero all along, the person who rallied an army from multiple universes to FIGHT. GOD. HIMSELF. is ultimately consumed by his own ego and forced to take a back seat when he realises he’s just one tiny piece of a much larger story that’s true heart is his own daugher. The child he abandoned, the child he didn’t know or care to know how to look after. It’s a franchise about finding love even when your biological family abandon you, it’s about looking evil in the eye and seeing your own mother, it’s about good and evil not being black and white but instead a complex and cruel mixture of both. It’s about the two worst people you know banding together at the last second to save their daughter with their final breaths. It’s about exploration and learning how to grow through experience, it’s about kindness being shared across the multiverse, exchanging stories with strangers and saving the whole world by doing something perfectly ordinary and receiving no reward.

Oh, and it’s also a franchise rich with fantasy, with giant talking polar bears, witches and ghosts, angels and daemons, and a mammal-like species from another world that travels exclusively on roller skates. 

And it fucking. rocks.

[dorkfruit]

i was wondering what would have happened if ianthe had successfully cut her own arm off and regrown a flesh magic one on her own, so i did some doodles to play around with different concepts for it.

my thoughts on the matter below....if u even care

my initial idea was like, to do a very noodley string of flesh. something very rubbery, sticky, and stretchy. because anything she created wouldn't have the support of bones, i thought maybe it could be very flexible to compensate. she doesn't have a regular hand, and so the "string" wraps around the base of objects to give her a grip on it. for heavier objects, she fuses the veins on the string to the handle of the object, as well as adds more veins on the "shoulder" and "elbow" sections for more support. also i thought it'd be funny to watch her try and slap someone, so she winds her shoulder back and smacks them like an arcade sticky hand which is hilarious to visualize for me LOL

^ arcade sticky hand

anyways, i figure she made the noodle arm as a Oh My God I Just Cut My Arm Off I Need To Replace It Quick type of solution. it's temporary, but sort of works. then it's like. okay we need more muscle on this because this is kinda impractical, so she adds onto the base (near the shoulder), and it eventually forms into a weird tentacle thing, throbbing and veiny and gross, that tapers into a thin strand near the end, to keep the whole Wrapping Around Objects To Grab Them (although this sacrifices some of the stretchiness in favor of strength) but it is kinda interesting to have her switch between the two (and perhaps other shapes i didn't think of yet) based on which is more appropriate for the situation, sort of like a swiss arm knife but made of meat.............. and so yea that was just my idea on how she would have done a flesh arm as opposed to having harrow's bone arm (: lots of fun concepts and much more to explore but this is just my first attempt .. for now maybe

[pizzee]

Can we talk about that issue? Let's talk about that issue, I wanna talk about that issue. (Btw I love u @tiptapricot​ thank you for screaming back at me 💋❤️)

This is an analysis but before that, it fucking sent me. Incredible, amazing issue. Imo, the best of this run so far. The art is amazing as always, the writing is peak, and Mr Mackay understands the characters so well I want to ARGHH.Anyway, analysis

I wanna talk about Marc's need to be 'normal'.

Smells like internalized ableism and self hatred and guilt to me. A lot of it too, bottled up from years of serving a manipulative asshole god who takes advantage of him (among other things) that Marc absolutely refuses to acknowledge.

No one trusts him because they think he's 'crazy', he can't trust himself because he has to be in control of everything 24/7 and that's kind of not possible when Jake or Steven are fronting, he can't trust anyone else because he doesn't believe he's capable of anything more than violence. This is the guy who was a mercenary, a war criminal for years until he ‘spontaneously grew a conscious’. It took him dying in a desert at the foot of a moon god and being resurrected to flip a switch for the semi-better. How the hell is someone like that capable of anything remotely good?

But instead of acknowledging that guilt and resentment he has for himself, Marc redirects it into blaming everything on having D.I.D. No one trusts him because they think he's 'crazy', he can't trust himself because he has to be in control of everything 24/7 and that's kind of not possible when Jake or Steven are fronting, he can't trust anyone else because he doesn't believe he's capable of anything more than violence.

Which, back to pushing people away. Marc doesn't believe he's capable of love or being loved. So, he does what he does often, deny deny deny. He ‘never wanted to be loved’ and that makes him a winner, because he never had anything to lose. But like Jake correctly calls out (god his and Steven's fucking call outs were so on point I want to kiss them), Marc's a liar.

“Everyone wants to be loved. Even you.”

They're a system, a team, parts of a whole. Jake loved Marlene, Steven loved Marlene, Marc loved Marlene. They all love Diatrice,  they all love Frenchie, they all love everyone they've brought into their lives as friends and lovers and teammates. Marc has loved people and has always wanted to be loved but he can't imagine the same ever happening to him because in his mind, Marc Spector is unlovable. Marc Spector is a bundle of contradictions who his father was ashamed of and sent away to a psychiatric hospital to try to fix. Marc Spector is the guy who punched his dad and killed his brother and cut off people's faces and puts everyone in danger all the time.

He’s scared of getting close to people, letting people in, but then is just as terrified of losing it all, of Steven or Jake swooping in and being ‘better’ than him, of taking it from him because they somehow deserve it more. He perpetuates his own endless cycle of violence by never allowing himself to think he can be better, think he already is better. He wants to reinvent himself rather than change. He continues to want to be anyone but Marc Spector (hence his insistence on always being referred to as Mr. Knight, hence why we rarely see him out of the mask in this run aside from when he’s at his most vulnerable. Spilling his heart out to Greer or recovering from almost dying. And the most interesting thing is, the first thing Steven does once he fronts aside from, you know, not killing Zodiac, is turn around to face Reese and take off the mask. And what do you know, the first time Reese sees their face, the first time he’s completely vulnerable, is when Marc isn’t in control.)

So surely, anyone who's ever seen anything remotely good in him must be lying, anyone who's ever loved him back must be delusional or just as 'crazy' as him and they’d come to their senses soon enough. It’s an endless cycle that Marc has no control over because he’ll always find a way to fuck up and drive them away. So he pushes everyone away and tries as hard as he can to be normal because that's the only thing left for Marc to be the one thing he wishes he was. He wishes he was likable like Jake and charismatic like Steven, he wishes he was a decent human being, someone worth anyone’s time of day, but he'll always be Marc Spector 'who makes the wrong choice every time.'

Buuuut, he isn't alone, he isn’t unlovable. Yes he’s made mistakes, done terrible things, and he’ll continue to make mistakes and be flawed. But. He isn’t the worst version of himself and Jake and Steven aren’t better versions of him. They aren’t anything but themselves, no worse or better than the others because they all exist for each other.

He's never been alone and never will be, which is the beauty of it. He had Marlene and Frenchie and Crawley and Gena before, and he's got Reese and Soldier and Greer and Dr. Badr now. And of course, ✨urbane, sophisticated, charming and avuncular scoundrel my beloveds✨

Marc is so busy trying to fit into the archetypal role of stoic antihero, the guy who doesn't work well with others or need anyone else and gets shit done on his own, he's so busy trying to cast off the old image of 'crazy, unpredictable, uncontrollable, violent' vigilante that he forgets he doesn't have to fit into anything. It's like that thing he said earlier in the run, he's not Spider-Man or The Punisher. He doesn't have to be anything except who Marc Spector is, they don't have to be anything but Moon Knight, together. Which means giving up some control, letting himself be loved.

“…We’re going to have to do it together.”

When he says that at the end, yea, fuck yea. Because there's no other way he— they could do it but together.

[ilostyou]

i am literally. going a little insane lol sorry guys

[last-flight-of-fancy]

It’s my birthday so I decided I’m allowed a little salt. As a treat.

“Sora and Riku haven’t been paralleled to any canon disney couples”

“The only sora and riku parallel is Elsa and Anna, which goes directly against your argument lol”

“It’s so annoying that Soriku’s ignore all the So////k//ai stuff”

(meanwhile)

“Disney won’t let it happen!”

[evansbby]

poyt 5 is now 8k words long 😌😌

[slippery-minghus]

i want to paint, but autism is hungry and needs to be fed 8hrs of skyrim a day

[therevengeoffrankenstein]

another thing we don't talk about enough: just how fucking weird van helsing number one (1)/lawrence/abraham/j van helsing/the one from horror and brides is. he's meant to be the Straight-Laced, Level-Headed Voice of Reason but he's also kind of a weirdo???

i've always been struck by the scene in Horror of Dracula (1958) when a servant or whatever comes into van helsing's office after vh is studying audio recordings of himself while reading jonathan's diary. vh is all 'send this letter out tomorrow :^)' and the guy is like 'Ok. Bro. But were you just talking to someone?? i could've sworn i heard you talking to someone 👀' and then. Instead of giving him the simple answer that he was listening to a recording of himself. no biggie that's not that weird lol. van helsing instead says 'Of Course I Was :^) I was talking to Myself :^)' totally straight faced like that's a normal thing to say. and the guy is like 'O_O ok. kinda weird but ok.' bc that isn't a normal thing that people do I Guess. and they never touch on it again. i assume it's in reference to seward's voice recordings in the book? but it's a weird thing none the less.

much less weird but still notable as Something We Don't Talk About Enough: later when arthur asks 'oh but what happened to jonathan's body???' vh is all 'it's ok he was cremated :^) he told me like a week ago that that's what he would've wanted 🙏 rip lol' which makes sense enough bc he doesn't want arthur and mina to find out yet about the whole Jonathan Became A Vampire So I Had To Stake Him To Death thing. but idk i think it's funny to imagine van helsing running a bunch of scenarios through his head trying to figure out how to make jonathan's sudden death without a corpse sound plausible.

Van Helsing is meant to seem like the Normal Guy™ but he's also fucked up basically and like *twirls my hair* he could be read as a subversive masculine hero type, couldn't he? whether accidentally or not, he kinda fits the bill, doesn't he??

[je-suis-problematique]

If you think you're broke, you should see our bank account. After wasting thousands on drugs, I assure you that by comparison your account balance is better than ours.

– Chris

[fishyfishyfishtimes]

While researching for upcoming fish facts I ended up going down a rabbit hole on parrotfish teeth, and I need to share this information in another form than just a fish fact. This stuff is unbelievable. You know the beak of the parrotfish, right? It's formed from the fused teeth of the parrotfish, as an adaptation to have ample biting surface to scrape off and chew on coral, their main food source.

A close-up of the beak of a parrotfish. It has this honeycomb pattern which I find very cool.

Well. To constantly chew on coral, they must have some pretty hard teeth, right? And they indeed do: the teeth of the parrotfish are made up of a mineral called fluorapatite, which forms intricate, chainmail-like woven structures on a microscopic level. Fluorapatite just so happens to be the second hardest biomineral found. This stuff, the parrotfish's teeth? A square inch of the parrotfish's teeth can withstand a whopping 530 TONS OF PRESSURE!!! That's the weight of 88 ELEPHANTS on top of a single square inch!!!! That's crazy, right!!?? The only biomineral that is tougher is the teeth of chitons, that is the single tougher biological thing in the whole world!!! Not only that, but the stiffness and hardness of the teeth increases the more we get closer to the tip (as the mineral fibers get closer and closer to one another), the very tips of the teeth even surpass the chiton teeth in stiffness!!!

Here are pictures produced through a process called PIC mapping, which shows the size and orientation of crystal fibers at the tip of the teeth.

That feels like it shouldn't be right, no? You'd think that the toughest biominerals in the world would belong to, like, the skull of an animal that rams into rocks or maybe the shell of some animal, not the teeth! The teeth of chitons and parrotfish out of all animals no less! Who would've guessed that the diet of "rock animal" would make the parrotfish require some of the toughest dentition the world has ever seen, huh? That right there is one super good reason why you should never stick your finger in the mouth of one.

Every day I am blown away by how amazing fishes are....

[eilidh-eternal]

“Single mom x Johnny” this, “single mom x Simon” that.

I want single dad Johnny/Simon and the single reader next door who is helplessly in love with them and their kid.

18+ MDNI

You never wanted kids. You’re convinced you would turn out to be just like your parents. That’s probably why you don’t have a ring on your finger or any sort of boyfriend or partner to speak of.

You never wanted kids.

Until Johnny goddamn MacTavish.

You’re in love with the man who always walks his little girl to school every morning, crooked pigtails flouncing with each too-big step she takes to keep stride with his long legs.

Madly in love with the way he smiles down at the tiny girl, even tinier hand held firmly in his as she dodges cracks in the pavement, and the shriek of her laughter when he lifts her by the arm, swinging her through the air to the next chunk of concrete.

Hopelessly in love with the broad shoulders he hoists her up on, little legs swinging with arms wrapped tightly around his neck and her chin resting on top of his head, blowing stray hairs of an overgrown mohawk out of her face.

Dangerously in love with the way he lets her cling to his front when it rains, like a little koala wrapped around this tree of a man who holds an umbrella in one hand and has a firm hold on her with the other.

Happy. He looks so happy with her. Like she’s the sun he orbits; the star that lights up his world.

You’re just a comet who occasionally passes them by.

——

Johnny never thought he would be doing this alone.

He’s so far out of his depth. Never even had the chance to dip his toe in the water before he was shoved into the churning ocean.

He still remembers every life-altering detail of that day. The phone call after the 16 hour flight back to base. The frantic drive to the hospital. The impossibly tiny, wailing little girl, all alone in the social workers office.

She’s all he has left of her. Of them.

His best friend. His partner in crime, for more years than he can remember. The person who understood better than anyone who he is, saw him through his darkest moments, and loved him with her whole heart.

Gone.

But he smiles for her. Because of her. Isobel is the light in the abysmal darkness that he’s drowning in. The buoy he clings to when he can no longer hold his head above the surface. She’s everything. His past, his present, and his future. And she’s sitting at the table refusing to eat her dinner.

“’s not right.” Her little nose scrunches, turns up at the meal, and she pushes the bright green plastic away, matching miniature fork sent skittering across the table by the force of it

Johnny lowers his own fork and swallows his frustration with a sigh. “‘s yer favorite. Wha’s wrong with it? ”

Her brows knit together as she studies the tray, little creases forming between them and she slumps in her booster seat. “Mommy didn’t make it.”

No. She didn’t.

Johnny was never the cook in the family. That was all her. She’d chased him out of the kitchen after he’d burnt one of her expensive pans and he was thus forth relegated to chopping, and occasionally peeling, duties.

“I know.” His chair scrapes against the floor when he pushes back from the table, moving to crouch down where she sits beside him so that he’s at eye level with her, and he pulls the fork and tray back towards her. “But mommy wouldnae want ye to go to bed hungry, aye?”

“I wan’ somethin’ else.” He watches her little bottom lip jut out, brows still pinched and face twisting into a stubborn pout.

“Wha’d’ye want?”

“Quesadilla.” She drags out the ‘ee’ sound, emphasizing her clumsy command of the foreign language in her already thick Scot’s accent.

He enjoys Mexican food. Loved the tacos Alejandro and Rudy shared with him and his team during his time in Mexico. She’d learned how to make them for his birthday.

Nowhere in Glasgow made anything like it. Not then, and not now.

“I cannae make a quesadilla, leannan.” Her little lip wobbles, eyes turn glassy, tears already welling up in the corners and threatening to spill down chubby cheeks. She sniffles, drags the backs of her hands across her eyes, and Johnny feels what’s left of his heart splinter, another little piece of it withering away to nothing with each fat tear that rolls down and collects at her chin. He unbuckles her from the booster and gathers her into his arms as he stands up, taking her with him to sit in his own chair at the table.

Her little shoulders shake, hiccuping with each muffled sob against his shoulder and tiny fingers fist the material of his shirt. “Miss ‘er,” she warbles, and his arms tighten around her small frame.

“Ah know, leannan.” More hiccups. More tears that seep through his shirt and brand his skin.

You should be here. You’re supposed to be here. With her. With him. With them.

“How ‘bout we go down to the shops? Ye can pick whatever ye want for dinner. Dinnae think they’ll have quesadillas, but I’m sure we can find somethin’ ye like.” She lifts her head from his shoulder, tips it back to peer up at him with bleary eyes and sniffles. Wipes her hand across her eyes again.

“Cheesy noodles?” It’s thin and reedy, poor little throat still tight and full of grief that he knows feels impossible to speak around.

“Aye, we can get cheesy noodles.” He brushes an errant strand of hair away from her face, tucking the unruly curl behind an ear where it probably won’t stay. Just like her mum’s. So much like her mum. She considers him, his offer, and toys with his shirt.

“And sticky pudding?”

“Whatever ye want, leannan.” She really shouldn’t have something so sugary right before bed but he doesn’t have it in him to deny her. Is just glad the tears have stopped. That she’s willing to eat, even if he has to bribe her with junk food and sweets. He sends her to put her shoes on while he cleans up in the kitchen and grabs his own shoes and keys.

——

He’s there.

He’s standing in the pasta aisle with his little girl in the buggy, smiling at the way she makes grabby hands at the dismal selection of boxed macaroni, and he pulls one down from the shelf to hand to her. She inspects it, turning it this way and that way, pointing to something on the packaging and saying something that makes him laugh.

You’re frozen in place, jar of pasta sauce halfway to the basket in your other hand, and you can’t move because the sound of his laughter causes something in your brain to misfire. Causes the electrical signals between neurons and synapses to jumble together and sets your nerves alight. You think you might really be frozen, body unwilling to move an inch away from where you stand now, by your beautiful neighbor in the middle of a goddamned Tesco, until a little voice is addressing you.

“Hi miss neighbor!” Johnny’s head whips around and when his gaze lands on you it feels like your stomach’s turned to lead. “We’re havin’ cheesy noodles f’r dinner!” She holds up the box in her hand and kicks her feet excitedly.

You’re currently kicking yourself for making what you’re sure is an expression closely resembling that of a fish out of water. Mouth agape, brows raised and eyes slightly widened in surprise. When your mouth finally remembers how to move you smile at the little girl waving her box of noodles and powdered cheese in the air. “Hello, Isobel. That sounds like a lovely dinner.”

His brows knit together, one of them quirked at a curious angle. “And how d’ the two of ye know each other?”

Isobel’s foot connects with his thigh and his head jerks back around. “She’s our neighbor. She gave me the tablet,” she whispers a little too loud, cupping a small hand in front of her mouth. He turns back to you with the same jaunty brows and a quirk to his lips.

“So ye’re the one responsible for the wee heathens late night sugar-induced marathon.”

“M-marathon?”

“Aye, she was bouncin’ round the house all night, the little devil.” He ruffles her hair and she swats at his hand.

“I- I’m so sorry. I didn’t know…” You don’t really know what you’d been thinking when you’d given her the Tupperware full of sugary confections to take home after she’d spent the morning helping you root around in the flowerbeds in front of your home. She’d been watching out the window for hours until she was suddenly right next to you, asking what you were digging for.

“‘s alright. Ye’ll just have to make up f’r it.”

It’s your turn to pinch your brows and tilt your head in confusion. “Make up for it?”

His lips part in a full, genuine smile, like the ones he gives Isobel, and your leaden stomach suddenly feels like it’s lodged in your chest, full of butterflies and other fluttering things you don’t dare to name.

“Oh aye. Reckon ye owe us a dinner since ye’ve skipped right to dessert.”

Next>>>

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