#Had a clip account but alas-

[lil-miss-baka]

“I want someone to look at me the way Colby looks at Sam walk away in a dress.” (x)

#sam and colby #solby #sam golbach #colby brock #/clips #/posts #Machie and Amanda #Had a clip account but alas-

[unhonestlymirror]

I am horrified by how often I see people writing, "Well, we shouldn't take Holocaust into account when talking about Israel-Palestine war." Of course we SHOULD, and that's why:

"October 7 is getting rewritten and certain social media users are an active of the campaign to erase the atrocities.

I was barely awake on October 7th when news of the atrocities that were committed by Hamas began to trinkle in, horror by horror. With sleep still in my eyes, I had hoped it was a nightmare I could erase by burying my face in pillows and returning to slumber, but alas, reality was insistent. Hamas had butchered over 1,200 people, amongst them infants, pregnant women, the handicapped, and the elderly. Even dogs were not spared.

But Hamas didn’t just murder them in cold blood, they had tortured, raped, desecrated their bodies, and took hostages. Their depravity was limitless. And they were so proud of their crimes that they used GoPro cameras to record them, later releasing the sickening spectacles to the public as a form of psychological terror. Add to that the live streams, cell phone recordings, and CCTV camera footage, and you’ll probably have the most documented massacre in history—with a reported 60,000 video clips collected.

I’ve seen some of these videos, including those not circulating quite so widely in public. They will haunt me for the rest of my life—and that falls far short than the 47 minute “film” shown to select journalists and diplomats worldwide, a number of whom broke down and/or fell ill during the screening.

But as shocking as all of this deranged butchery was — which was entirely the intention — what stunned me in the aftermath is the world’s reaction.

Putting aside disputes of land and politics, it was jarring to hear such a blatant reframing of narrative. It started with calling Hamas the “resistance” and justifying the unjustifiable. A number of BLM chapters had put out “heroic” images of Hamas terrorists descending on parachutes. I half-expected them to release action figures of Hamas fighters too. Maybe they did?

And then came the "BUTs." Sure, some folks condemned Hamas, but it was always followed by a "BUT," justifying the unjustifiable. I've been asked, ad nauseam, "What would you do in their situation?" Well, my response remains steadfast: not commit random acts of murder, torture, and kidnapping. Call me old-fashioned. (For the record I’ve called many colorful words for my stance, but oddly that was never one of them).

It was a wake-up call for many, especially those of us in the global Jewish community. Overnight, the illusion of safety shattered, much like the dreams of anyone who's binge-watched a horror series alone at night. But now we were all collectively trapped in that nightmare, and couldn’t wake up no matter how hard with pitched.

The history of the Holocaust is taught in many schools around the world. “Never forget” and “never again” are sentiments that are echoed within that curriculum. Yet, while some might scoff at the persistent advocacy for Holocaust education, insisting that it’s hitting them over the head, a nationwide survey in 2020 reveals that the under-40 crowd seems to have missed the memo. Shockingly, one in ten respondents haven’t even heard of the word “Holocaust,” let alone being aware that as many as 6 million Jews perished in it.

Further, nearly a quarter of those questioned said they believed the Holocaust was a myth, had been exaggerated or that they weren’t sure. Meanwhile in Canada, one in five young people (under 34) either hasn't heard of the Holocaust or isn't sure what it is. And in Britain, one in twenty adults flat-out deny that it ever took place. Ah, the privilege of blissful ignorance.

Most who underestimate the number of Jews killed in Holocaust have neutral or warm feelings toward Jews.

But it's not just ignorance; there's an entire industry that has been propped up and dedicated to Holocaust denial, complete with books, “movies,” and groups. To make matters worse, alarmingly, fewer Holocaust survivors are around to share their firsthand accounts and counteract the flames of denialism.

Nearly half of the 1000 people surveyed had stated that they’ve seen Holocaust denial or distortion posts on social media or elsewhere online.

I’ve always thought that denials of genocide—such as the Holocaust —were something that happened over time, with history slipping away and being re-written.

However, I never expected to be observing this in real time.

While initially the so-called “resistance” was celebrated by a subset of society, this soon turned into full-fledged denials of Hamas’ actions on Oct 7. Despite overwhelming evidence in the form of videos captured and shared by Hamas themselves and shared on Telegram channels and elsewhere, I would read and hear people claiming that they had only targeted Israeli military. Absurd claims emerged using supposedly ‘leaked’ footage where an Israeli helicopter shoots at Nova music festival goers. That video was viewed over 30 million times on X alone. The video, which was actually originally shared by the IDF on Oct 9, was showing their attacks on specific Gazan targets—certainly NOT indiscriminate bombings of music festival attendees in Israel. (Here’s a great thread that details how this piece of disinformation spread and geolocation information that further confirms that the claim is fake).

I’ve heard countless denials of the rapes of women (and men), despite overwhelming evidence in the form of physical evidence, forensics, and a number of witness testimonies. Women’s rights groups, meanwhile, remained silent—thus offering a vacuum for denialists to fill. Proponents of “me too” also stayed silent. Worse, the University of Alberta Sexual Assault Centre’s director signed an open letter calling Hamas perpetrating “sexual violence” an “unverified accusation.” It took UN Women nearly two months to issue a lukewarm condemnation of the brutal attacks. “We are alarmed by the numerous accounts of gender-based atrocities and sexual violence during those attacks,” they wrote, following a letter writing campaign urging them to speak up. Better late than never though, right?

The roughly 40 dead babies claim was debunked as a lie. At least that’s what people on social media now declare as fact, citing a Haaretz investigation.

“Haaretz investigation EXPOSES all the ISRAELI LIES from October 7th just like I predicated (sic),” reads the post of one particularly large disinformation account.

These claims persisted despite Haaretz directly addressing that post and calling it “blatant lies” and insisting that it “absolutely no basis in Haaretz’s reporting.”

The denials continued regardless of the fact that a group of 200 forensic pathologists from all over the world had confirmed that babies were indeed murdered and that some babies were found decapitated, though it was unclear whether this was done before or after death. First responders also corroborated that they witnessed beheaded infants. Regardless of decapitation, these were babies, murdered.

The forensic pathologists also confirmed that humans were executed, bound and burned alive. Israeli police have over 1,000 statements related to the attack.

When some of the hostages were released, Hamas supporters claimed that the hostages enjoyed being held by them, that they hardly wanted to leave. That this was like a pleasant vacation for them, that’s all. Like sipping piña coladas by the beach. In fact, they would state that they were more concerned about their safety in Israeli hands. They even concocted stories of love affairs between a hostage who was shot in the leg and a Hamas captor. A sick and twisted take on reality where up is down, cats are dogs, and denial is truth. They dismissed the reality that many of these hostages watched their loved ones get murdered in front of them, and still had relatives being held in captivity. The hostages were also administered Clonazepam by Hamas, a mood-enhancing tranquilizing drug, before handing them over to the Red Cross, so that they would appear “happy.”

Meanwhile, the Yale Daily News published a correction of an opinion column stating that the “allegations had not been substantiated.”

The denials go on and on, and I can’t help but feel like I’m watching a version of Holocaust denial, except this time it’s happening in real time—not years after the fact. And this time, it has a Wi-Fi connection and a social media account.

The conditions for this were ripe. Moral relativism is why just several weeks ago, Gen Z embraced Bin Laden's 'Letter to America.' It has been building up for years across college campuses, a breeding ground for ideologies that support violent means to achieve political gains.

The perceived power dynamics play a role here too. In the eyes of many, the Israelis are seen as a superpower whereas the Palestinians, and by extension Hamas, are seen as underdogs. In their view, the underdog is always right because it is the victim, and the “power” is the oppressor. So how can the oppressor be a victim?

Israelis, despite the majority of the population being Mizrahi Jews, as well as 20% Arabs (who were also victims on Oct 7), have been framed as “white colonizers,” vs the Palestinians who are seen as “POC” in the context of this conflict. Never mind that Jews, including Ashkenazi Jews, can be traced back to the land through DNA, archaeological evidence, and historical documents.

An overall distrust for media is another factor, which has resulted in individuals taking the word of random influencer accounts as gospel over traditional media outlets. According to Gallup polls, Americans’ trust in media is near a record low. Only 34% of US adults have a “great deal” or “fair amount” of confidence as of 2022. This is a major hindrance to our sensemaking abilities.

And then, of course, there’s cognitive dissonance. When a group identifies so closely with the perpetrator and they commit heinous acts, confronting that fact happens to be uncomfortable. So, in an attempt to reduce that discomfort, they rationalize or deny the evidence. This means that they accept only evidence that supports their existing beliefs, while placing unreasonable demands on the other side.

But none of these factors would have gained as much traction if it weren’t for something that didn’t exist during the Holocaust: social media. This is the engine that helps drives this real-time historical revisionism and denialism. According to 2021 data from Pew Research, over 70% of Americans get their news via social platforms. A Reuters Institute report from 2023 found that 30% of respondents use social media as the main way to get their news.

We have a society that consumes sound-bites of information, both truth and lies (as well as lies based on grains of truth).

Social media algorithms—combined with human nature—tend to amplify outrageous untruths, which spread widely. Corrections, never make it as far as the original lie. They are just a faint hum.

Throughout the Israeli-Gaza war, we’ve seen AI generated images and bots used to paint a specific narrative—for evocative, emotional effect. But technologically sophisticatication isn’t a prerequisite for painting false narratives. Many “influencers” have taken to using existing images or videos and attaching misleading headlines to them—including sharing content that captures events in Syria while presenting it as taking place in Gaza. These networks of influencers have large reach, and can turn even the most blatant lie into a revisionist truth.

Researchers for Freedom House, a non-profit human right advocacy group, found that generally at least 47 governments have used commentators to manipulate online discussions in their favor, either via humans or bots. They’ve also recruited influencers to help spread false and misleading content, and have created fake websites that mimic actual media publications. Then there’s always Russia’s propaganda arm RT, and various other publications like Al Jazeera and Quds who have direct ties to Hamas and/or other Islamic regimes.

All of this has contributed to narrative confusion, and the erasure of unspeakable acts of brutality, and the denial of the facts of October 7, right before our very eyes.

If we cannot even share a common reality, how can have any hope of resolving anything?

“Never again” is happening now."

#jews #israel palestine war #hamas attack #russia finances hamas

[bearsintreesofficial]

a recreation of a sonic fanfiction i wrote when i was 10

ok y'all, some context is needed.

we have a song called cassiopeia coming out tonight. i made a tiktok that said if the sound for cassiopeia is used 100 times, i'll publish the sonic fanfiction i wrote when i was 10 that i joke about a lot but have never shared. anyway, this happened in an hour. i am shocked. i did not expect it to happen so quickly, if at all. i begin my search.

well, it turns out i can't publish it because the places it was published no longer exist, and 10 y/o me didn't back it up (although i thought i had). bummer. an early internet relic gone.

either way, the plot details are seared into my memory because honestly? for some reason, that small act of creativity was a core memory in my life. so while i can't share it, i can retell it, because it's silly and pretty accurately captures what it's like to be 10 and obsessed with a piece of popular media. so here goes.

enjoy, and stream our new single cassiopeia tonight.

SCENE OPENS

the fanfiction was about a page long. the story opens with me - in school, as i did most every day of my life up to that point. in the story, sonic/tails/knuckles live in the human world, and essentially function as superheroes. there's no explanation for it, they just are there keeping the earth safe and such. we are also friends. there is no explanation or backstory for that either.

with the setting established, we're straight into the action; an alien pod crash lands in our school playground after school. me and my friend are the only kids left. where are the teachers? who knows. as is evident, worldbuilding was not my strong point.

anyway, in this alien pod is...an alien. it was a spider that looked a lot like the facehuggers from the alien film franchise, because i'd seen a clip of that as a kid and it freaked the hell out of me. i call sonic (where did i get a mobile phone from?) and let him know something Serious is going down. sonic and tails arrive - knuckles is too busy trying to get the master emerald back from doctor robotnik in this instance.

my friend and i take a back seat and let sonic and tails deal with the weird alien thing. they deal with one, but as soon as they get rid of it 10 other capsules drop in the area. sonic and tails can't take them all, so me and my friend join in to help take them out. i didn't really account for how, but we're fighting all back to back and it's very epic. (sonic x was the prevailing sonic show at the time, and it was y'know - very dramatic. so this was like a scene from that.) tails even brings in the tornado two, his personal plane, to run rings around them. after we finish the final facehugger alien off, a final alien pod descends. but out of this pod emerges...

shadow the hedgehog.

the aliens had been sent by him, and he was here to take sonic down. this was all part of his master plan.

the piece then ended, because i suppose i was going to follow it up at some point. but alas, that did not happen.

moral(s) of the story:

archive the silly stuff you wrote when you were a kid, it'll be fun to look back on later.

stream our new song, cassiopeia. it has nothing to do with any of this, but i think it's neat regardless.

thank you.

[randomfoggytiger]

The Scully Family In-Depth (Part XIII): The Erosion of Scully’s Security, on Tape

Scully’s abduction is split into many mini arcs. Season 2 scratched the surface of her trauma with allusions to her and Mulder’s recovering stability (One Breath, Firewalker, Red Museum, Irresistible, Our Town, Anasazi); Season 3 taps into the loss of Scully’s family and innocence; Season 4 will dig deeper into her denial and loss of faith; Season 5 will twist her burgeoning confidence into a weapon against herself; Fight the Future will find her center; Season 6 will show her determination and growth; and Season 7 will shed the last of her self-consciousness with resolution. 

Each of these arcs showcase the impact of the wrongs done to her and the women (and people) by the Consortium, as well as her strength of character, righteous conviction, and unbreakable spirit and will. While Mulder initially crumbles under loss and heartache, Scully battles against it; and, once finally exhausted, leans against her partner for strength to move forward. Both of them fight hard in the coming years; and on the heels of Paper Clip, their reliance on each other is so unbreakable that Mulder and Scully never question their reciprocal loyalty, despite the allure of pretty faces or treachery of madness. The show may hinge on Mulder’s childhood trauma, but it takes equal (if not more) time to explore Scully’s pain and emotional turmoil properly-- which is fair and right.

EVIDENCE OF THINGS ONCE SEEN

Season 3 continues its focus on Scully’s losses, bookending the arc with the Syndicate and their video tapes, ala Nisei and Wetwired. 

OH, NISEI CAN YOU SEE IN THE CAR OF 731

Scully and Mulder get in trouble (again) when Mulder’s magazine alien autopsy video tape leads them straight to shifty activity and a suspicious Japanese diplomat. After further (officially discouraged) investigation, Scully stumbles upon a MUFON group where the women claim to know her. Here, the seeds are planted for her cancer arc in Memento Mori, complete with an introduction of Penny Northern.

One of the women asks Scully: “Did you have an unexplained event in your life last year? Were you missing for a period of time that can’t be accounted for?” 

This implies that Scully was part of the latest round of abductions; and that no one has been taken since their return last November (post here.)

“You may not remember-- you’ve only had one experience. Most of us here were taken many times.” 

“Taken where?” Scully asks. 

Their answer-- “The bright, white Place”-- unlocks a flash from her experiments. 

At her reaction, another member asserts, “You remember it, don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” she responds, shakily. 

“There are men there, performing tests,” the member continues. 

“What men?” 

“They don’t reveal themselves. They take our memories away; but somehow, they start to seep back.” 

“Some may have come back to you, but they don’t make sense,” Penny adds; an unintentional foreshadowing to her and Scully’s interactions in Memento Mori. 

When asked if she knows about regression hypnosis, Scully looks down, closing her eyes and answering, “Yes.” This is the first of several reminders of Melissa's impact on Scully-- it was Missy, after all, who'd urged her into hypnosis therapy; and Scully who'd bailed from the session right before her sister’s death. 

“Have you ever considered it?” the women press; and Scully backs away from the subject as fast as she can, regaining her scientific skepticism in the face of their probing: “I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m ready to discuss this.” 

“You’re afraid to remember, aren’t you?” the member from before questions, moving closer to Scully in understanding. “It’s okay. We were all afraid at first.” 

Scully takes in the women seated around her-- all different ages and stages of life-- trying to fit herself into a group so disparate yet united under one common tragedy. She doesn’t yet know these women have prepared to fight for their freedom and lives; and will all, in a matter of months, die before her own battle against cancer begins. 

“I don’t know: when I opened that door and saw you standing there, it was like a revelation-- the image your face was so clear to me,” the first MUFON women expounds.

The dialogue here is filled with biblical language, likely on purpose: image and revelation hand-in-hand-- a nod, perhaps, to the fated and religious undertones Chris Carter often works into his scripts. Scully and Mulder are often painted with allegorical higher callings and fated purpose, creating a contradiction between the mytharc fate versus stand-alone freewill episodes. Scully, in this case, seems fated to be abducted and returned, to meet these dying women, and to get cancer; but she turns out to be the only one to beat this fate, and survive. This could play into my hypothesis on breaking the soulmate curse inflicted on her, Mulder, and Melissa Rydell in The Field Where I Died, (post here), or fall in line with fate ala the Navajo’s White Buffalo prophecy (post here.) I think that topic requires more in-depth discussion than would fit here; and suggest we press on with Season 3 for now. 

“But why is it I don’t remember you?” Scully prods, shaken. 

“All you remember in the beginning is the light,” Penny consoles. “And then sometimes the faces of the men that performed the tests.”

This triggers another memory Scully forgot-- the stomach air pump-- and she scrambles for a different explanation other than the simple truth. “How do you know you’re a not mistaking me for somebody else?” 

“You have the mark, don’t you?” the other MUFON woman says, drawing Scully’s attention and showing her the recent scar on the back of her neck. 

Scully closes her eyes again, fearfully. 

The women then show their extracted implants, proving their words as one. 

Afraid to believe, Scully tries to flee, (her go-to trauma response, post here): “I have to go. I just came--"

“--to see Betsy,” the women chime in. 

“Yes-- to see Besty Hagopian. Why are you all at her house? Where is she?” Scully raises her arms, surprised she hadn’t questioned this fact before. 

The MUFON spokeswoman and Penny then take her to Betsy’s oncology treatment center, explaining she is in "the advanced stages of full-body tumors"-- a different type of cancer than Scully had. 

“They’d been taking Betsy since she was in her teens,” Penny reveals. “This is what’s going to happen to all of us.” 

“What do you mean,” Scully softly questions. 

“I don’t know if you understand this or not, Dana,” the spokeswoman spells out, “but we’re all going to end up like Betsy." 

“We’re all dying,” Penny confirms, “because of what they do to us.”  

It’s especially heartbreaking because this scene confirms two things: 

Scully is the only MUFON woman to be abducted once-- confirming that she wasn’t an intended target, only collateral decided upon on Sleepless because her expertise; and only returned alive because of CSM’s intervention. Meaning she, unlike the MUFON women, was intended to die in captivity. It’s a testament to her knowledge and skill that Scully was such a threat to the Consortium so early on: still green; and barely on the field before being yanked off of it. 

The MUFON women never realized their chips were the cures to their cancers. Each woman still had their chips intact-- only Scully’s had been damaged due to Pendrell’s tampering-- and could, probably, have had them reinserted. But would they have done so? Would these women have wanted their chips reinserted, allowing nefarious abductive forces to easily find and recapture them for test after test after test? Regardless, they were never given the opportunity to choose. 

When Scully reunites with Mulder, she’s both stunned by her experience and stunned that Mulder isn't curious about her discoveries (at first):  

“Why is the door locked?"

“I’ve got something to show you.” 

“Do you have any idea where I’ve been?”

“Allentown.” 

“I went to go see those MUFON members to find out about that woman-- Betsy Hagopian?”

Now intrigued: “What’d you find?”  

“I found out that she’s dying.” Scully looks down-- an instinctive response when facing information that is personally implicative, “along with a lot of other women who claim to be dying, too. All of them who say they have these implanted in them,” she adds, handing over one of their chips to Mulder.   

When Scully adds, “It’s the same thing that I had removed from my own neck,” Mulder’s head immediately snaps up, worried; and he quickly asks, “But you’re fine, aren’t you, Scully?” 

“Am I?” she parries, seeking as much assurance from him as he is from her. “I don’t know, Mulder. They, they said that they know me, that they’ve seen me before.” 

It’s a trigger response Scully has when lacking security, latching onto Mulder or “other fathers” or illusory footholds when science offers little clear-cut answers for her-- i.e. Beyond the Sea, Fresh Bones, Never Again, all things, etc. Scully largely expunges all outward traces of this behavior from Season 4 onward, thinking she must become what her mother calls “the strong one” in the face of Mulder’s fragility post Herrenvolk, The Field Where I Died, Paper Hearts, and Memento Mori.

“They know things about me, about my disappearance,” she rambles, watching Mulder scrupulously zero in on the chip in hand. 

This interaction also shows a parallel aspect of Mulder’s: when Scully faces a personal crisis-- her panic over glowing bugs, her fears, her cancer, her daughter’s illness-- he puts up a front of strength, grounding her focus with logical, provable facts, even if (and when) he suspects the worst. 

“That is disturbing,” he quietly agrees. “But I don’t think you should freak out until we find out what this is.”

Scully is hindered from a clearer admittance when the phone rings; and the conversation takes a turn away from the MUFON trip. 

As Mulder fills in Scully on his findings about Dr. Ishimaru’s ghastly experiments, she recognizes one of the men in the faxed photo; but is dissuaded (“I don’t think so, not unless you’ve been in Japan in the last fifty years”-- which she was, in 1966. Post here.) Four of the doctors in the photo were recently murdered; but Scully isn’t yet ready to draw ties between their and the Nazis' experiments to alien-human hybrids; and neither have connected the dots between these inhuman experiments and her recent disappearance.  

When she begins to discredit his theory, Mulder cuts in reproachfully-- “Scully, after all you’ve seen”-- before softening-- “after all you’ve told me you’ve seen, tunnel filled with medical files, the beings moving past you, the implant in your neck-- why do you refuse to believe?” 

At Mulder’s question, Scully looks down to hide her fear, continuing the pattern of avoidance begun in Beyond the Sea and The Blessing Way. “Believing’s the easy part, Mulder,” she insists. “I just need more than you-- I need proof.” Proof allows her something to cling to when the foundations of her beliefs are shaken. Scully eventually comes to term with that realization, shifting away from strict reliance on proof as learns to trust her instincts (all things.) 

“You think that belief is easy?” he retorts, a window into his naturally cynical, pessimistic view of life. That cynicism is eventually addressed in Amor Fati, and fully (or mostly) resolved in Closure. 

Scully can’t rebut his statement; and with nothing else to say, she sighs and hangs her head. 

“Well, we have proof,” Mulder reassures, switching topics to comfortable ground and revealing his ace: a picture of a secret government train car. When asked where he got it, he discloses “From someone like you who wants proof.” Weighing the cost of his next words, he decides to mildly confront her once more. “Who’s also willing to believe.”

Scully remains silent, both aware she’s not ready to take that next step.

Scully takes the chip to Pendrell, who raves about its sophistication and other scary technological advancements (and coming off a tad creepy.) The full weight of the government using computer chips to possibly monitor their test subjects appalls Scully, spurring her to take a more active role in the current investigation. 

Back in the office, she reviews the video Mulder bought, realizing her recollection of Ishimaru stems from her abduction. 

After Mulder jumps on the train car, Scully is contacted by a Syndicate shadow man (for the second time) and reiterates the (half) truth sold to her: government experiments, yes; but not alien government experiments. “It all makes sense, Mulder-- Ishimaru Zama, he was using the secret railroad to conduct his tests across the country….”  

The conclusion of the Nisei and 731 mini arc is the deepening of Scully’s denial. Without Melissa there to push her, and with Mulder (who is supposed to fill-in for her sister, post here) focused on the bigger mystery, her abduction trauma is shoved aside and minimized. 

As we will learn in Piper Maru and Apocrypha, Scully has yet to make peace with her sister’s loss; and those open wounds spur her burning desire for revenge-- becoming more and more apparent the more turmoil is piled on her plate. 

STEERING THE SHIP OF MEMORIES

Scully’s childhood is the backbone for these two episodes, from the first conversation with A.D. Skinner to her reminiscence on the base with her father’s friend. 

Skinner calls Scully into his office, informing her that the investigation into Melissa Scully’s death has bellied up. Stung and indignant, she confronts the FBI’s obvious oversight and his placatory platitudes.  

“It’s strange,” she bites, furious tears in her eyes, “Men can blow up buildings; and they can be nowhere near the crime scene but we can piece together the evidence and convict them beyond a doubt. Our labs here can recreate out of the most microscopic detail the motivation and circumstance to almost any murder-- right down to a killer’s attitude towards his mother and if he was a bedwetter. But in the case of a woman-- my sister-- who was gunned down in cold blood in a well-lit apartment building by a shooter who left the weapon at the crime scene, we can’t even put together enough to keep anybody interested.” 

“I don’t think this has anything to do with interest,” Skinner begins. 

“If I may say so, Sir,” she cuts in, unwavering, “it has everything to do with interest. Just not yours. And not mine.”  

When Mulder asks after Scully’s mood, she deflects his concerns back to their newest case, later impressing him by recognizing a submerged North American P 51 Mustang aircraft. She explains: “It’s the shape of the canopy. I watched my father and brothers build World War II model planes as a kid.”  

As we know, little Dana Scully was a tomboy; but it’s interesting to learn which activities she did and didn’t think were worth her time-- the Dana who shot air guns but didn’t play baseball, who memorized plane models but didn’t build them; and who learned Latin in college and always loved The Exorcist. 

While pursuing a new lead, Scully momentarily relives a happy memory with her and Melissa playing on a familiar military base sidewalk. 

Young Dana is triumphantly swung around by an exuberant young Melissa, both overjoyed by her unbroken hopscotch; and modern Scully’s smile slips back and forth between the somber present and nostalgic past as she slowly drives on.

Meeting up with her father’s old colleague, she introduces herself with a delighted, self-conscious smile. “I’m Dana Scully-- I used to live three doors down. My father was Captain William Scully. I, I went to school with your son.” 

The past is a haven for Scully, even now (for now): a place to become at home and centered in. Her father died suddenly, with words unsaid; her sister died tragically, with justice delayed; but still they bring a smile to her face in reminiscence. But more than that, Scully beams with pride at meeting a man so like her father in age and familiarity-- her Starbuck nature bobs to the surface, putting her best foot forward in her efforts to please. 

“I’m sorry, my memory isn’t what it used to be,” Commander Johanson says, a mirror of Teena Mulder’s pretend amnesia (post here.) At first, he assumes-- or pretends to assume-- Scully is asking after his son; but when questioned about his past with the Piper Maru, he again pleads forgetfulness. 

“Say hello to your father for me,” the Commander suggests as they shake hands goodbye. 

“I wish I could,” Scully remarks, her smile dropping a shade and (again) looking down out of discomfort. “He’s passed away.” In response to his “I’m… very sorry,” she gives a tight-lipped smile and walks away without comment-- fleeing the moment (again) as quickly as possible.  

An interesting thing happens next: Commander Johanson changes his mind, having his visitor’s car pulled over so he can quietly fill her in on the coverup courtesy of CSM, Bill Mulder, and other Consortium men. Captain Scully’s death hit him hard: it connects him to Scully, the fact that they have both lost a loved one to the dead; and it itches and itches at Johanson, driving him from the house and after his friend’s daughter for atonement and peace.

Scully, when commanded to pull over by Johanson, immediately obeys, surprised but not suspicious. Loyalty to her father and his associates runs deep, even after three years, a murder, and a Conspiracy.  

“I can’t give your regards to my son, Scully,” Joe wobbles, addressing her by name not only for the first time but also as an equal. “He was killed in a training accident.” 

It’s here that Johanson passes on a statement that rings true as it sinks and settles into Scully’s mind: “We bury our dead alive, don’t we? We hear them everyday-- they talk to us, they haunt us, they beg us for meaning. Conscience. It’s just the voices of the dead, trying to save us....”

He tells her his tragic, paid-off history, concluding with: “Whatever killed them, I was allowed to live: to raise a family, to grow old. None of us ever got an explanation why.” 

Skinner is shot and Scully rushes to his side, bouncing from Mulder’s room to his while advocating for his interests. When he admits the shooting might be a coverup to permanently halt Melissa’s murder investigation, Scully flares up: “You’re saying that they closed down my sister’s case not because of lack of evidence but because they didn’t want us to catch the killer.” 

In the last twenty-four hours, Scully’s trust in her country’s higher ups has eroded so rapidly she now concludes, rightfully, that Melissa is disposable collateral in their latest coverup. 

Ignoring Skinner’s warning, she presses for more details, fuming over Krycek’s involvement.  

“Listen to me,” Skinner warns, “anger is not a luxury you can afford right now. If you’re angry, you’re gonna make a mistake-- and these people will take advantage of that. …Scully, if you can’t keep your head, it’s all right to step away.” 

“That’s exactly what they want.” Scully’s anger is fueling her thirst for vengeance, driving her to more dangerous potentialities.   

After returning on Mulder's hunch, she finds Skinner mid-relocation to another hospital; and quickly hops on the ambulance in time to counteract another attempt, intercepting the gunmen and forcing him to give her answers at gunpoint.  

“Are you Luis Cardinale! Are you the man that shot my sister! You shot my sister! TELL ME!” she screams over his pleas, weapon drawn with lethal intent. Her motions are erratic, aggressive, and unhinged, tears building as her voice climbs higher and higher. 

Cardinale bargains for his life and Scully wavers, hunched over her prey while an inner voice screams shoot him, shoot him repeatedly in her head. She is so unstable, so unsure, that she looks like her younger, greener self watching the fabric of her world fall apart in Luther Lee Boggs’s cell (post here.) But the cops appear, yelling at them both before she can decide; and, with one final struggle, she lowers the weapon in anguish and retrieves her FBI badge. 

Luis is toted away in handcuffs, leaving Scully alone with the equal horror of her loss of control and opportunity. 

She calls Mulder, confessing his instincts had been right and relating that they’d caught Melissa’s killer; but immediately cuts off his potential sympathy by turning his attention back to the mission. 

In the end, it’s all in vain: Scully and Mulder lose the salvaged UFO and Krycek, nullifying future leads for the case. Grateful to at least have Luis behind bars, she visits Melissa’s grave with flowers, taking a moment to commune in the language of the dead: with her conscience, in silence. 

Mulder arrives with a bouquet of his own; and she bites her lip, moved by his gesture and frustrated with her surfacing emotions. Pulling herself together, Scully smoothly stands, accepting his consideration and shoulder touch with a genuine though fleeting smile. 

“I was just thinking about what a man said to me. That the… that the dead speak to us from beyond the grave. That that’s what conscience is.” 

“It’s interesting. I never thought of it that way,” Mulder considers. 

“You know, I thought-- when we found him, this man that killed Melissa-- that, that when we brought him to justice, I would feel kind of closure. But the truth is, no court, no punishment is ever enough,” Scully confesses-- a follow-through to her Paper Clip closing line: “I’ve seen the truth, Mulder. Now what I want are the answers.”

And Scully is denied even that, having to listen to another victim of these men in power admit that justice was derailed, that Luis Cardinale was murdered in his cell before he could face trial. To Mulder, the end of Cardinale’s existence is a form of justice; but to Scully, it is a cruel circumvention of the system she believes in and fights for.  

“I think the dead are speaking to us, Mulder. Demanding justice. Maybe that man was right-- maybe we bury the dead alive.” 

Mulder considers this, too; and is silent. 

In this episode, the darkness infesting Scully’s life stained backwards to her childhood: her brother and father building WWII planes that were sunk by the Consortium, her father’s friend a bought-and-paid-for Syndicate witness, her hopscotching sister murdered by a hired gun. Those incidents may not have directly touched the Scullys’ lives as they were then, but the innocence she was able to escape to is no longer afforded to her without darker shadows crying out from the corners. 

HERE BE MONSTERS

Wetwired is the last straw. 

During her investigation into malevolent mass hysteria, Scully thoroughly watches each and every infected tape she and Mulder recover from the crime scene. Slowly, it eats away at her security, eroding the last shred of credibility the infested, corrupted system had to offer her: the valor of moral individuals. And the last moral individual she could trust-- the man in the trenches with her, who lost and fought and continues to fight for a brighter day-- was Mulder.

Hallucinating Mulder feeding intel to CSM, she spends the next morning, afternoon, and evening harboring heightening paranoia against her partner; and finally snaps when he ignores her command to stay away, shooting at him through the door of her ruined motel room and running away. 

Mulder calls Maggie after the sun is up and the investigation is already in full swing, having probably put it off until the last second in hopes of recovering Scully first. Maggie, still in bed at 6:01 AM, picks up the phone the phone, giving us an opportunity to scope out the family pictures displayed on her bedroom table.  

An interesting revelation: Melissa’s photo is placed most prominently, perhaps to honor her death; then Dana’s; then her and a mystery baby… which leaves one of her children off of the table.

My guess? Charlie is missing, as he is likely absent from his mother’s life at this point. If this is true, Maggie seems to use her photos as an indication of her children’s interest in her life, not as a showcase of her favorites.

How can we prove this?

Melissa is dead; but while her eldest daughter was alive, Maggie was constantly rubbed the wrong way by her insistent, unmoderated proclamations at the tensest moments (posts here and here.) Yet, her picture takes center-stage. 

Bill Scully is often the Scully child most likely to cater to her whims or speak in a language she understands (to be explored in Seasons 4 and 5.) Yet, his picture is placed at the back. We know he is often at sea during this period, pointing to infrequent contact between himself and his mother; and probably even less contact than that, because he would more likely call his wife Tara instead. 

Scully’s picture is of second “importance” on the table, despite Maggie’s reliance on and openness with her daughter (acting as her comforter in the following scene and calling her “the strong one” in Memento Mori.) There is often a loving side she reserves for her baby girl, sensing that Dana needs it more than Bill does, or Melissa did. 

Which leaves Charlie. Scully doesn’t mention him after Roland-- except for a slight mention in Piper Maru-- until Home (stating she babysat her nephew for the weekend.) Very little is known about Charlie other than the brief glimpse we see of him in Beyond the Sea (post here) and One Breath (post here); and it’s Maggie’s fond flashback of him we are privy to in the latter episode. So, what’s Charlie’s deal? Is he estranged by his own choice; or does Maggie keep him at arm’s length, only remembering him in childhood when he fit her expectations? 

From what we know of Maggie Scully thus far, it seems unlikely she would cut a child off for a personal decision they made-- in fact, her actions prove the opposite (i.e. reconciling Dana to Captain Scully in Beyond the Sea, putting up with Melissa’s New Age speeches, trusting a Navajo medicine man to watch over her dying daughter, and celebrating the anti-Church conceptions of both Bill’s and Dana’s sons.) It seems out-of-character for her to isolate the youngest Scully from her affection, no matter his choices. 

Or an alternate theory presents itself: the baby is an old picture of Maggie's only grandson-- the nephew Scully babysits in Home. That would mean only one of the two boys flanking Charlie in Beyond the Sea is biologically his... which makes an interesting other implication about his possibly older wife and her own son. Theories, theories.

“Mrs. Scully? Hi, it’s Fox Mulder.”

Maggie immediately knows something’s wrong, her voice dropping an octave. “What is it, what’s the matter?” 

“I was hoping that you’d heard from Dana,” Mulder responds. It would seem Mulder calls Scully “Dana” to Maggie, either for Mrs. Scully's comfort's sake or because he and she communicate so rarely he's yet to fully define his and Scully's partnership.

“No, something happened?”

“I’m not exactly sure there’s… there’s some confusion here.” Mulder hunches slightly, pursing his lips and looking down ashamedly-- a posture he's exhibited on a larger scale to his father (post here.) At Maggie’s “What do you mean ‘missing’?”, he stumbles over his words-- “Well, she ran off last night-- screws up his face, and beats at his thigh, anticipating a disappointed or angry reaction-- “We, we’re looking for her as best we can, but we are a little concerned.” 

Skinner arrives, and Mulder knows it’s time to go. “Look, Mrs. Scully, I hate to do this to you, but I’ve got to hang up on you right now.” 

“Fox, would you please just tell me what’s going on?” Maggie asks, respect and civility barely keeping her from demanding an immediate reply. 

“Hang by the phone, I’ll call you as soon as I know something,” he answers, disconnecting the call immediately after.

It’s only after hours of frantic search and heartache that it dawns on him where Scully might have gone. 

Where does Dana Scully run to feel safe whenever her life spirals out of control? Home.

Sure enough, Maggie opens her door strung out: jumpy and tense, unwilling to let Mulder in. 

“Is she here?” he asks, hopeful. 

“Uh, no,” she refutes.

“You haven’t been answering your phone,” Mulder prods, not unconvinced but still suspicious.

It’s Maggie’s exit-- “Well, I’ll call you when I hear from her, okay?”-- that gives her away, too smooth and too quick to slam the door in his face with a daughter missing for the second time. 

“I need to see her,” he insists in desperation; and when she still refuses, Mulder ignores her pleas and barges through, halting only when met with the barrel of Scully’s gun.

Maggie isn’t afraid, only scared for him: getting into his face as he carefully pushes past, then shutting the door behind him to prevent someone else from walking in.

“Dana, put down the gun!” Maggie shouts, only drawing Scully’s attention momentarily from Mulder. 

“I’m here to help you, Scully,” Mulder announces quietly.

“I told you, Mom-- he’s here to kill me,” she warns, quivering and shifting her stance for a surer shot. 

“I’m on your side, you know that,” he replies. 

“Put the gun down, Dana,” Maggie repeats, more calmly. 

Scully’s eyes, wide and panicked, lessen only slightly when they glance toward her mother, growing wilder when Mulder tries to advance. She warns him back while cocking the trigger.

Maggie, sensing Dana has reached the end of her rope, backs him up: “Dana, he’s telling you the truth.” 

“It’s not the truth, Mom,” Scully wobbles, betrayed. “He’s lied to me from the beginning. He never trusted me” Despite Mulder’s heartfelt, “Scully, you’re the only one I trust,” she rebukes, “You’re in on it. You’re one of them.” 

Pausing, she gears up for her most wrenching accusations: “You’re one of the ones that abducted me. You put that thing in my neck! You shot my sister!”   

“That’s not true, Dana,” Maggie repeats. 

“It is,” Scully insists, voice weakening in heartbreak. 

Maggie steps forward in spite of her daughter's escalating cries, beginning her attempts to talk Dana down.

“You trust me, don’t you? You know that I would never hurt you. That I would never let anybody hurt you.” 

Scully begins to sweat, wavering between fear for her life and belief in her mother. 

“That’s why you came here, isn’t it? You’re safe here. Put the gun down, Dana.” 

Scully slowly points it up and away, but doesn't relinquish it even as she collapses, sobbing, in her Maggie's arms. 

Later, Mulder joins both happy ladies in recovery, sticking up his arms in comedic effect for their (vague) amusement. 

Mrs. Scully, sensing they need space to reestablish their equilibrium, soon after leaves the room.  

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

And in expected Starbuck fashion, her first response is: “Ashamed.” He waits, letting her fill in the silence at her speed. “I was so sure, Mulder. I saw things, and I heard things. It was just like the world was turned upside down. Everybody was out to get me.”

“Now you know how I feel most of the time,” he jokes-- a balm of understanding. 

She smiles, continuing her train of thought with less discouragement. “I thought you were going to kill me.” 

“I’m not surprised,” he nods, leaning forward to summarize his theory on paranoid mind control: “...a virtual reality of their own worst nightmares.”  

“Like me thinking you were going to kill me.”

The knowledge that any action of his holds that much weight in Scully’s life is a fearful realization in itself; and Mulder tries to ward off the power of it (and the last twenty-four hours) by leaning on his shaking, folded hands. 

“I was so far gone, Mulder, I thought that you had gone to the other side.” 

Sinking further into his posture, he asks, “What do you mean?” 

“That Cancer Man-- the man that smokes all those cigarettes-- I was sure I saw the two of you sitting in your car in the motel parking lot. You were reporting to him. You handed him a video tape.” 

And while Mulder runs off to check out that lead, we conclude where we began: the video paus de deux, a rectangular reel that bookends the beginning and end of Scully’s media madness. 

CONCLUSION

Scully concludes her erosion arc with Mulder's steadfast loyalty, the one stable variable in her insane, topsy-turvy world. The past may be lost, the present may be shifting, and the future may be uncertain; but Mulder is her assurance.

Season 4 then shifts that upends that assurance by turning dependable into dependent.

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

#txf #meta #The Scully Family In-Depth #mine #In-Depth #Part XIII #The Erosion of Scully’s Security on Tape #xf meta #Scully #Maggie Scully #Melissa Scully #Bill Scully Sr. #Bill Scully Jr. #S3 #Nisei #731 #Piper Maru #Apocrypha #Wetwired #Mulder #the x files #x-files #xfiles

[phantomenby]

Stalkers

Poly!tlb x reader x star x michael

TW// stalker themes, yandere, idk general creepy vamp shit

It started a month after you moved to Santa Carla.

The notes that is. And the gifts, the sounds of footsteps on your roof top, flashes of faces in the corners of your vision, the feeling of being watched at every moment.

You dreaded the night. The sun was your only solace.

You hadn't wanted to move here, having grown up in Alaska where it was significantly colder and known more for its amazing forest views than anything. But work had dragged you out here, and so you traded your snow for coarse, dry sand.

At least food was cheaper.

The house you had been given was quaint, you couldn't think of a better way to describe it. Set just half a mile from any other civilisation, the garden lush with grass and vegetatio despite how dry the land was else where. Your favourite was the large trees which built a wall around most of the property, giving you some shade from the sun when you were still getting used to the head.

It was a bungalow, of sorts. The attic had been converted by the old couple who used to live there, and naturally the upstairs was all your own private space, a bedroom-office combo with a beautiful round window that let the light shine in.

After a week you were settled, and you could see it becoming your very own paradise. You were young after all and there was no point in fretting over a home that you might be dragged out of in a few months.

Then, one Sunday, May twenty-second, the first of them arrived.

-

You never wanted to leave your bed. I mean, it was a cheap mattress you had bought on sale at some shoddy store, but it was just so so soft.

That was down to the bedding you had - sweet cream coloured brushed cotton, even your teal toned quilt and pillow covers were made of it. If a sheep was kept clean all its life you were sure it would feel like this.

But alas, your dumb human brain wouldn't let you mooch for too long without guilt.

The house was still and you could hear birds chirping in the morning hours as you climbed down the narrow, steep steps from your upper floor abode.

It was still a little messy since you had been on a little shopping trip the day before. But you needed new clothes since you had few things for this kind of heat, nor anything of real fashion.

You didn't really care for fashion, if you liked how it looked and the feel of it didn't make your skin crawl you were happy. But your new and only friend, Gina, had insisted on taking you to some of the cheaper shops she knew you would be able to find a few nice pieces in.

Now your bank account crying at you.

Instinctually you went to the coffee pot in the kitchen, prepping enough for the day and turning it on, enjoying the scratchy broken sound the ancient machine made as you went to open the backdoor and let air through.

"What to do, what to do..." putting away shopping was the furthest thing from your mind, it was the last day of the weekend before you had to go meet clients all week. You wanted to do something fun.

The machine stopped and you went to the freezer, pulling out an ice tray from the top shelf and bringing it to the counter. You grabbed a glass and began prepping your chosen beverage, sweet iced coffee with condensed milk and cream. You were bound to die before you reached thirty but by god, your taste buds would be satisfied.

As you worked you glanced out the window towards the driveway, your boxy yellow beetle still safe and sound, albeit covered in dust and sand but still cute.

You grabbed a spoon and muddled the ingredients together, heading to the front, it wasn't mail day but you also hadn't checked since Wednesday. Maybe you'd recieved something fun from your boss, she was known to send you silly magazine clips that she thought looked cool, it was a good thing she was an office gal and not someone in control of the arts department.

It was already hot outside, the summer months would be worse. At least you'd never worry about rickets. A small win in the murder capital of the world.

Taking a sip you nearly moaned. Recently you had been visiting a little market stall that came round the other side of town every Tuesday, some sweet old man called Tom bought beans of every variety with him, but this was a special brew and tasted like heaven in your morning cup. And your midday cup, and your dinner cup, thinking on it you might have a problem.

Oh well.

You could make sight of it now, your little blue mailbox, still standing proud now that a metal beam connected it to the ground. It was the only way to get those dreadful skaters to stop knocking into it with their cars as they headed down the backstreets.

And it was most definetly there before you moved in, yes thats right officer its not funny that their car wrapped around it.

It was very funny, you would happily do it again.

"Oh hell yes," there was something there, a small bundle and a few tiny envelopes, they were new. Maybe Marie was trying a new thing, maybe she was becoming human at last and learning to communicate like one too. Wouldn't that be a sight.

You didn't spare another glance at them as you strolled back home, regretting the decision not to wear a hat as the sun blinded your poor corneas.

Pushing the door open you gave yourself a moment to enjoy the heat leaving you, fortunately, the house had good airflow, could have done with curtains too but oh well.

When you placed down the letters you immediately went for the thick stack you recognised, inside was enough clippings to make a whole new magazine, and you were particularly enjoying some of the more colourful clothing hidden within. One thing about this part of the US was how eccentric things could be in terms of style.

It didn't take long to sort through them, and by the time you were done your coffee was almost void of ice so you added some of it black to help with the wateryness, the dark liquid now alot cooler than before.

What next caught your eye was the small number of light, dainty letters. They were pretty, the paper thin and almost seethrough to the point you doubted you needed to do more than hold them up to the light to know what was written on them.

Though, there where were stickers holding them closed. Flowers, kiddie shaped ones, even one made to look like melted wax.

This was...most unlike Marie.

You opened one with a daffodil sticker on it, feeling the smooth edge as you lifted the cover and pulled the letter out.

It was one sided, glancing at the envelope you saw the words 'our love' written, scrawled in beautiful calligraphy.

"What the hell..."

Maybe this wasn't for you, maybe the old owner. No. You shook your head. They were dead, passed almost a year ago and having lived in the house for half a century.

You unfolded it, eyes raking over the words a thousand times.

It was, poetry? It was beautiful, but you hated poetry, your grandmother made you recite it to her every Sunday after church and you despised how obsessive people became over words which could hold nothing, or everything. It was always too hard to decipher, to analyse. Never something you saw as affectionate.

My carnation,

the air in my lungs,

I wish to breathe.

Wont you come home to me?

What the fuck.

You reached for another, one with a pink heart sticker. Christ.

There was a lipstick print, still rosy and smelling faintly of chocolate, thick and plump.

I will be your starlight,

your moonlight,

your sunlight,

your lifeline.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. No thank you.

You didn't touch the other two, leaving them on the counter and stepping back.

-

It took an hour of pacing and another cup of coffee before you opened the final ones.

One held some dried pressed flowers, and the other with the words 'we'll be waiting for you, our little love'.

Your little paradise was now a prison, more letters came and things unexplainable kept happening.

Thing got better after some time, after you went to the police. They were basically useless though, telling you they couldn't do anything unless your stalker(s?) threatened to harm you.

Which the letters never did.

At one point they stopped. And you thought you might finally be left alone to recoup your mental state. But no, instead, when they started again they were werse.

Obsessive. Deranged.

They talked about personal things, what you had been up to, the changes you made in your home, everything you wore, when you cut your hair, when you changed roles at work.

One time there was money in one of the envelopes, a thick stack of twenties with a note saying it was for your car, which had been hit by someone why you were down at the boardwalk with it. The damage wasn't bad but you had been pretty bummed by the large scratch and dent marring the pretty pale yellow paint.

You supposed that was the only positive thing to come out of it.

But in the end you couldn't do it. You couldn't take the money and fix your sweet little bug, choosing to look at the dent sadly each day as you continued to work.

Soon enough you would get paid anyway.

Then you would fix it.

Today you had headed out into town, wanting to pick up some groceries since your fridge and cupboards were pretty bare and the last thing you needed was to be a grumpy rat while taking calls for the rest of the week.

The sky was already growing dark and you decided to be as quick as you could, hating the idea of driving down the pitch black roads late at night.

When you arrived at the 24-hour-has-everything-you-could-ever-need store it was almost desolate, just a truck driver and some bikes parked out front.

Walking in soothed you, but the AC kept making an awful rattling sound that made your spine tingle.

The trucker was talking to the attendant, clearly happy to have someone to mellow out with for a small while before he had to get back on the road.

In the back by some drinks fridges was who you assumed to be the bikers, a tall blonde with wild hair and a long dirtied coat, his smaller counter-part adorning much more colourful attire.

As you walked around with your cart they kept glancing at you, their wide, bright eyes burning into your back.

Your cart was already pretty full by the time you had made it halfway through the store. Stacked high with snacks and cupboard food that would last you a long while.

Honestly, you probably should buy some plants, you were going to be here a while and it wouldn't hurt you to grow some of your own food, maybe even start a little garden.

"Something catch your eye sugar?"

You jumped with a squeak, dropping the can of coffee in your hand, watching as it was caught by a pale hand just before it hit the ground.

"Gotta be careful hun, gonna make a mess."

Looking up you were met with pale blue eyes, wide and bright like a puppy's with something darker shining within.

His brow was arched as you continued analysing him, leaning down closer to you til his lips met your ear, "I think you dropped this."

Before you could respond the cold can was pushed to your chest, your hands instinctively coming up to hold it.

He left you with a smile, yanking on his friend's jacket as he brushed past you.

What the hell

-

A week later, there was $56.23 in your mailbox.

The exact amount you spent at the grocery store.

#tlb x reader #the lost boys x reader #tlb #the lost boys #marko the lost boys #the lost boys fic #dwayne tlb #marko tlb #the lost boys imagines #poly lost boys x reader #david tlb #the lost boys 1987 #michael emerson #star x reader

[mrs-monaghan]

https://www.tumblr.com/mrs-monaghan/722488809141452800/do-you-think-that-jikook-are-bolddaring-enough-to

Well I definitely still think it was jikook here, definitely sounded a bit like jungkook but 🤷🏽‍♀️ I couldn’t find the video so I think u might know what I’m talking with the picture instead and use that to find the video if u want. and it couldn’t have been jin n yoongi bc they were filming smth or doing their own live (one of those) and apparently in the live they talked about jungkook n jimin joining them later (not sure tho) so don’t quote me on that. so if u put 2 and 2 u get…….

https://twitter.com/nicole54140165/status/1400861682524508163?s=46

MY SEARCH RESULTS ON TUMBLR ARE BRINGING UP NOTHING AND IT'S SO FUCKING FRUSTRATING!!!!!

Fuck me!

Anon this isn't public though. Bts members are not public. They are their friends and family. They don't just kiss infront of them they prolly make out and sit on each other's laps and PDA to high hell. The Tannies are not public. Some have probably even seen and heard more than they bargained for (looking at you Jhope)

Yes that was Jikook who kissed behind the camera. Aint no doubt about it. If this is what u meant then we're definitely on the same page.

I've talked about this moment twice and if tumblr search results would start working i would link u both posts but alas! I'm about to loose my shit y'all I swear

Any asks that need links I'm putting them in the back banner for now guys. Sorry. Tumblr is driving me mad.

This is the moment you're looking for though. Jin and Suga had been accounted for, yes. And I believe that's JK's voice you hear when someone walks into the room. Thats why Jikook end up kissing. Coz JK comes in and guess they were saying hello and didn't expect it to be that loud??

#ask shaz #bts ask #jikook #kookmin #minkook

[remy2fang]

So about them Season 2 SF6 Leaks

If you’re curious what the leak is, it can be seen here:

https://x.com/daryo1989/status/1769861372740042895?s=46&t=iEGeYIIN_aP028wRnoVcUQ

There were a mixture of reactions for this. The people who main those characters are happy while everyone else, which I think it’s the majority, were really upset. The leaker is supposedly Vergeben, who actually had a hit or miss record in leaking info. But his leak for the SF6 season 1 characters was almost 100% accurate, down to “Cammy wearing pants.” To me, if there’s a short written description of the characters’ appearance, they tend to be true as oppose to just naming the characters. But I read that this Vergeben may be an imposter because that’s not his real Reddit account. His real account is DasVergeben while the most recent one is shinvergeben. But the DasVergeben account hadn’t posted anything in the past 2 years, so who knows if shinvergeben is the same guy or not, but created a new Reddit account.

Ngl, when I saw the list, I was kinda sad. F.A.N.G’s purpose in Street Fighter 6 is to revive Bison and Shadaloo. This was known since the TOXICITY story was released in 2018. I’d like to see how his revival journey would unfold in his Arcade or World Tour Mode because it sounds like a compelling character story. But if Bison comes back as a DLC before a playable F.A.N.G, that could mean FANG’s moment to shine in SF6 would become unlikely because his goal had already been met, so what’s the point. Sure, we might see FANG’s revival journey through Bison’s story, but it would be much better if it was through a playable FANG. It would give more meaning and significance to his story. Alas, I guess I’ll just accept FANG as an NPC for the entirety of SF6. FANG would be happy for Bison’s return, at least. But I’d still be salty that Capcom decided to steal FANG’s thunder. It would be nice if both FANG and Bison were to some back to SF6 in the same season…preferably FANG coming before Bison. Oh well. Dee Jay and Ed spoiled me so much because they proved that characters don’t have to be super popular in order to come back to a Street Fighter game.

Anyway enough of my rant. Regardless if the leaker source is true or false, I personally believe the Bison part is true. Back many months ago in October, I found unused voice clips for F.A.N.G. I had a feeling they’ll eventually be used in a later dlc. At first I thought they would be heard in the Ed DLC, but that didn’t happen. So I have a feeling they would be used in the Bison DLC instead. F.A.N.G did say Bison’s name twice in unknown contexts, and they were not heard during the AKI dlc. I’m assuming he either thinks about Bison or he finally sees Bison alive again. You can listen to extracted unused voice audio here, starting at 0:39 :

Now I have my own thoughts on what may happen during the Bison DLC. Based on the voice lines above, I think the avatar would be helping F.A.N.G in finding resources to revive Bison and Shadaloo. Unused lines like “You have my gratitude” and “Splendid job” sounds like you’re doing some tasks for him. I did mentioned about this in an older post:

If the avatar is indeed helping F.A.N.G revive Bison, then the avatar is both hero and villain!

#street fighter #f.a.n.g #m. bison #m bison #street fighter 6 #sf6 #sf6 world tour #sf6 thoughts #sf6 leak #Youtube

[inkofamethyst]

December 23, 2023

November/December is kind of screwing me up a little because money anxiety (which I feel like I'm definitely exhibiting signs of) makes me want to maintain consistently high saving levels each month, including my "bonus savings" at the end of every month. By most/all accounts, I'm literally doing fine when you consider my age and the fact that I'm in graduate school. I need to write this out to remind myself that not having "bonus savings" at the end of this month does not mean I did not save anything for this month. This should be obvious, but alas. I do all of my monthly saving (for all goals) at the beginning of the month and have consistently (even this month !!!) allocated a relatively big chunk toward my brand new Roth to get it off the ground. So it's okay that gifting has limited the amount leftover for "bonus savings" because I'm still very much on track to reach my goals before the mostly arbitrary deadlines I set for myself.

God, sometimes the overachiever energy is just too much. It feels like.. like a cavity. Like how too much sugar without proper cleaning will lead to a cavity and potential infection, maintaining overachiverness without regular reminders of how I'm doing in reality will lead to that awful "never good enough" feeling because I keep raising an arbitrary bar to keep it ever out of reach to maintain the sense of a "challenge".

So, to reiterate, it is fine and okay to not have much in the manner of bonus savings, as long as I 1. saved at the beginning of the month and 2. did not actually spend more than I earned that month (emergencies and planned purchases excluded).

[edit: I'm also ever thankful for familial help financially actually because it's only due to their assistance that I've been able to save so aggressively these past few months without ever worrying whether I was going to be able to buy food or something (campus events with free food are also helpful). I mean I still clip coupons and watch for sales but if I want to be a little frivolous and buy frozen dumplings or something I still can, you know? I mean yes, sure, I could probably still get by without their help on my stipend, but the fact that I have help means that it may not be a totally financially ruinous decision (in a year or so, I'm sure, I will have settled into a comfortable routine and will not be as nervously obsessive over all of this, but what am I if not a bundle of obsessive nerves).]

Today I'm thankful that the discord chat gathering I hosted yesterday went really well!!! I haven't hosted anything big at my house in eight years and of those who came (all seven of us in the same place for the first time since 2019--four years!!) only my dnd-friend had actually been in my house before lol. I was lowkey anxious about hosting but my parents helped me set up a lot so I'm thankful for that too. We had a potluck which was lovely and we chatted and played games and it was just nice to see everyone again without having to work around a time zone spread of eight hours (though that's going to last for at least a couple more years). (Also thankful that the two dishes I tried for the first time went really well! Love adding new foods to the arsenal.)

Working on mini twists, should all be done tonight or tomorrow. It'll be nice to have them back in but the shrinkage is still crazyyyyy. Like my hair is def mid back length (though in need of a trim) but if I let it be after washing then it looks like it's three inches, and even with twists in it barely reaches my neck. I want a silk press so baddd. May have to add another savings goal for a $200 silk press at a salon somewhere near my school :/ UGH but I haven't been to a salon in like ten years and I'm so dreadfully tenderheaded. But I need to find someone to trim my ends.

Last thing: started reading Tress of the Emerald Sea by Brandon Sanderson and it's very.. quaint, so far, I'd say. The narration is very storybook-y which can be fun to read though wasn't quite what I was expecting (but some lines are just so silly and out of the box that they put a smile on my face, and I love somatic reactions to media so much). I'm about a third of the way through after three days, so going steadily. Getting faster lol.

Actual last thing: Superman TAS is fun and interesting, but the music doesn't feel quite as special as BTAS. Like it's fine, it's heroic in the ways that it should be. I do like the animation a lot though, and maybe that's just the nostalgia haha it can be a lil visibly jerky sometimes :P

[adultswim2021]

Tim & Eric Nite Live #9: “Dunnder the Covers” | February 12, 2008 | S01E09

A very really strong episode with a few really sublime moments. It’s a very romantic night in the Night Live studio. This one starts out the way every episode starts out, with the high-energy opening sequence prefaced by an announcer billboarding tonight’s guests. There are two key differences on this episode; no Ben Hur (it sounds like DJ Douggpound doing a Ben Hur impression but I’m not certain) and also the guest announced for this episode, John Mayer, turns out to be REAL - in every other episode the announced guests are totally bogus, like Dave Chappelle’s twitter account. 

The set and our “the boys” are festooned in Valentines Day regalia. Tim and Eric are wearing blonde wigs and pink makeup to appear more lovely. This is, indeed, the Valentines Day episode. Tim and Eric begin by competing over who got the most Valentines sent to them, and take turns reading them aloud. Tim’s first one reads something like “what does your sex look like?” which seems like a discarded or blown cue to go into a bit that happens later.

Both of them are actually quite popular, and are ecstatic for most of the messages they receive. Things take a turn when Eric reads one that says “Dear Eric are you into threesome”, Eric, completely pervily stoked, looks up from the valentine to say “yes!” completely beside himself. His enthusiasm wanes when he reads that it’s from a guy, and it continues “my uncle and I want to experiment”. Nasty! Also Tim starts pouting because it appears that Eric is getting slightly more love letters than he is. What’s a Nite Live co-host to do?

This isn’t just vanity; this is an actual contest that they are having wherein the winner gets to go on a Tunnel of Love ride with a beautiful young woman named Gabby whose in the studio. The loser has to go “Dunnder the Covers”, meaning they have to get into a bed with Richard Dunn and canoodle. We are introduced to “Dunnder the Covers” with a title sequence sung by Dunn himself. It’s literally the hardest he’s ever had to work for the show, belting out the title “Dunnder the Covers!” to the tune of “Pop Goes the Weasel”. It is haunting, and it’s one of my favorite things ever in a Tim and Eric project. So funny. 

Gabby is actually waiting with Dunn, so she is effectively Dunnder the covers at the beginning of the show. Richard Dunn seems genuinely horned up, and his sweet talk is just as haunting as his title song. There’s a moment in here where Tim encourages the couple to go as far as they want to, and that the entire studio has agreed to allow them the space to actually make love during the show if they want. It’s insanely funny, but a tad dicey by today’s standards; putting a woman on the spot like that. It’s an obvious joke, but it’s not a “great look” as the kids say. I’m guessing that this is why they elected not to include this bit in the abridged clip of the show that they used in their recent Valentines Day Watch-along.

Tim is egged on to demonstrate “having sex” by Eric, who accuses Tim of being a virgin. Tim stands up in his seat and obliges by lowering his pants and squeezing his balls (back to the camera, but Eric can supposedly see the whole thing). His idea of sex (really masturbation) is to squeeze his balls so hard that eventually sperms come out. Tim asks for a paper towel and acts arrogant towards his staff for not having another chair for him ready to go. Alas, his original chair now has cum on it. 

John Mayer is the guest, and he’s real. I remember despising him in 2008, and I think I considered his appearance her a bit of an affront to what Tim and Eric normally do. He would actually go on to appear in an episode of Awesome Show. He may have been shooting his sketch that very day. In retrospect, he’s perfectly serviceable, and he has really good instincts for somebody who isn’t particularly funny: he spends most of the time there just sitting in silence. In 2023, a time where I no longer consider him a threat, I gotta say he comes off just fine in this. I’m not pissed off about it.

John Mayer and Eric have bought Tim a prostitute in another gag that is probably considered dicey by today’s standards. The woman they procured is seemingly a muscular black man in drag. I hesitate to say that she’s a transwoman because that muddles the time-honored (until somewhat recently [unless you’re a Louder with Crowder fan]) comedy trope of a big, muscular, masculine man masquerading as a “natural” woman and the fundamental understanding that “this is obviously NOT a woman” being the butt of the joke. It’s not as bad as it could be (Tim is only ever enthusiastic about his date and never experiences gay or trans panic), but it’s notable because I don’t think this sort of humor defines Tim and Eric and it’s more of an exception. The fact that this bit is also excised from the recent Valentines Live Stream is rather telling. Different times!

Again: you are not a bad person if you are older and you remember humor like this fondly and still laugh at it. All you have to do is treat trans people with respect. If this seems like a tough sell to you, just remember: you could become bimbofied at any moment by a magic book you find on the floor planted by the Biden administration and it could cause you to become transamorous, so being nice to them today could pay off for you tomorrow. Just something to think about.

Michael Q. Schmidt plays cupid in a skimpy diaper, and he shows up to tally up the valentines. Tim actually winds up winning the Tunnel of Love ride with Gabby, but opts to take his ride with Shelly. Eric must go Dunnder the covers. Gabby is seen bored in the green room with nothing to do. And the credits play over John Mayer just sitting in his seat, looking like he’s contemplating his life. 

This is a very good episode, though I understand if the presence of transphobia, or worse, John Mayer spoils it for you. I do think the strongest part of the episode is everything that happens before John Mayer shows up. One of the more notable things missing from the episode are Skype calls (which didn’t appear in the politics episode either - there was one in the HD episode but it was during the picture getting squished), and also David Liebe-Hart and James Quall. I’m not sure if they were dis-invited to this taping to protect Mayer or perhaps Gabby. One thing is for sure, we could all use a break from these awful men.

MAIL BAG

please answer this ASAP: do you like French Stewart or do you find him annoying like rainn wilson

GOOD QUESTION. The fact is, I haven’t encountered French Stewart to the same extent as I have Rainn Wilson. Rainn Wilson was part of the cast of a television series that I watched the entirety of. French Stewart, on the other hand, has been part of multiple series and films that I’ve only looked at momentarily, and never really spent a whole lot of time with. I’ve also not heard French Stewart be an unfunny douchebag on a DVD commentary track, or witnessed him inserting himself into comedy programs that I revered. 

I guess this means Rainn Wilson is the winner. I have no beef with French Stewart, but I’m also not familiar with him. I hope this answers your question. Thanks.

#adult swim #adultswim2021 #tim and eric nite live

[rain-fluff]

Journal Six

Everytime I sit myself down to write in these journal entries, I can't help but feel like Roxas from in 358/2 days; the wee lad had only come into existence for about a week and you expect him to just journal his feelings out when he doesn't even understand the concept of emotions until much later in the game. I'm aware I'm not some playable character in some JRPG but that doesn't mean I can't relate to his lack of experience when it comes to journalling. Well, not that I had zero experience prior to this course assignment but it's not like I ever bothered to even make it a habit! I don't really write down what I do because most of the time I'm relatively super unproductive doomscrolling my social medias.

Well, to say I was super unproductive is also a stretch because this week was the week I decided to finish and start my overdue art commissions which I will not share because A. I like the animosity of my "professional" art account and B. One of the commissions is probably something I should not disclose to the public willy-nilly on an account where my IRL friends can also identify me very easily (no, I will not elaborate on the content and if anything you can thank me for shielding your eyes of the horrors I get paid to draw).

I'm pretty proud of the work so far though, it feels like I've improved just a little bit more anatomy-wise and I should really get around to downloading different brushes online instead of relying on the default ones that IbisPaint has to offer. The defaults aren't bad per say, I just want to more variety that I'm comfortable using with. I'm also happy to hear that my clients are happy with my finished results/sketches and bless their patience because my slow ass could do better with my time management for this work. There's also another potential client I may have with a friend of a friend but I promised to finish my current ones before I could continue theirs.

What else have I done this week that doesn't make me look like a horrendous and chronically-online nerd? Not that it matters since many are aware I am one but it's not exactly something I'm 100% proud of either. I used to have complex but embraced being a nerd but now I feel like I should mask myself around certain folks when I joined my current uni. There's something about the environment that makes me want to shield myself from exposing too much. I do have friends from the uni that I can open up to but the level of comfort isn't necessarily on par with the comfort with my more introverted or high school friends.

Speaking of high school friends, One Ok Rock had recently released their vlog for their performance in KL last year and I could see my friends silhouette in the background of one the interviews they had with some of the concert-goers. I was kinda envious of those being interviewed but at the same time I also feel glad I'm not blasted on the official YouTube channel for thousands to see.

I still can't help but reminisce going to the concert though. There were some hiccups that I wish I hadn't started but the night itself was an experience I'll cherish just as much as when I went to see them the first time back in 2013. I also wish I had photos from the 2013 concert but alas the event organisers actually threatened the audience to shut down the whole performance if anyone was caught recording. I'll cherish my personal photos and clips of the 2023 concert where I can. It took a huge chunk of my Google storage though and I should really move them to hard drive when I can.

While we're on the topic of concerts, Final Fantasy has just announced today for their orchestra tour plans for Final Fantasy VII's soundtrack. Exciting right? It's not so exciting when you learn that's it's one of those occasions where they skip over Malaysia just to perform in Singapore instead. Tickets don't actually go on sale until sometime in May but I highly doubt I'll be able to save up enough for the entire logistics of staying in Singapore and purchasing the concert tickets themselves.

They used to come to Malaysia pre-covid so I'm both surprised and really dissapointed that they decided to skip over this time around. I really would've liked to hear One-Winged Angel live. For now I'll just settle to listening to the recorded versions online. I'm finally getting tired. It's 2:30 a.m. and I should get some shut eye where I can.

-rain

#Spotify

[rinisinsides]

The head's been getting too cluttered lately. For ages I was afraid I could only talk to him in my ahead and suddenly there were so many voices that it drowned him out entirely. I have been looking for an outlet for ages. Something to articulate to, maybe something to learn from, and maybe something even that could ignite that little creative spark again.

My first thought (which was, of course, but the 11102023rd thought of 29999999 thoughts in a sequence and perhaps even occurred simultaneously at the point of origin of a later thought, thus making it maybe the one true one even--) was to keep a journal. The classic. Intimate and intentional and impeccable. Pen strokes and the feel of paper on your skin. Shifts in handwriting that reflect the state of your mind, and your heart. Doodles in the corners of pages. All the pretty things that people would adore if they found it after you died.

But alas, journal I could not. For starters I was finding it incredibly hard to choose a notebook that would be my journal. No amount of books I looked at felt right and the ones that maybe kind of did, were too expensive for me to invest in without the guilt gripping me by my throat. Next, I just felt a physical handwritten journal would limit my writing abilities. It's crazy how at some point in time I made the shift where typing became the more common activity in my daily life over writing, and I just never looked back. I also think I would feel more at ease writing humorously on text and I kind of require that in order to talk about things because of my inability to talk about anything painful without 4 humorous clips for padding. Also, my hand would hurt. You get it. Just excuses surely, but somehow excuses enough for me to never actually get to it. But most importantly: When have I ever been able to do something that would be just for me? And perceived just by me? What's the point of doing anything if I won't be seen and loved for it, and what is the point of creating anything if it can only be seen and loved by me?

(Side note: Its been a while since I properly typed like paragraphs in this way and my fingers feel a little achey and it feels like a rusty old (trusted old?) machine being creaked back into action. maybe its just the w33d though)

The next idea was just to keep a google docs type virtual journal but I could not feel the vibes aligning on that so that was out of the window as well.

Next was to create an Instagram account, and I considered this but it would be a hassle when it starts popping up on people's suggested. And then I would feel the need to start letting people on to the account due to the aforementioned challenges regarding seeing and loving. Plus I usually would have pictures to accompany my words but I would get too caught up in the appearance of it (as I would feel it could potentially be seen and loved at some point) and I'd feel the need to say less or more or prettier or uglier or lofty or dreamy or or or other different things just for the picture. And I want it to be as unaffected by external stimuli as possible, at the time.

Next was less idea really, or maybe just a good idea that I immediately implemented. Which was to keep little notes on my phone! And it has been working great! I already have so many (not so many really but it's nice to have any at all) ideas and thoughts and poems written down that I can't wait to keep adding to and delving back into. And it can definitely been combined and worked into...

The last idea. Had this exactly (maybe not that exactly) around 30 minutes ago. I think earlier in the day I had seen the mention of personal blog type posts on someone's instagram, then later I was thinking about multiple things that kept running through my head (just phrases and sentences endlessly echoing out of nowhere) that I wanted to write down and introspect on and something else-- that I really had to say and for the life of me cannot remember now. Anyway, I think I considered posting on my Instagram story about this thing. WAIT! I think I remember, it was about wanting to make an Instagram posts about certain songs and lyrics that have really been sticking to me (my heart and all over and very specific spots like the crook of my neck and the insides of my wrists) but it felt too personal and vulnerable and also just a little lame and I thought about how the whole thing would feel more like a blog anyway. And then it me. A blog! And I'd have it on tumblr over medium or wordpress or something because it allows me more provision to just be informal and silly whenever I feel like it, and it scratches the itch for the seeing and loving as it will be just open enough. And maybe I'll put a little link on it on my Instagram someday and if people click on it and bother reading it, it would really mean that they want to know me. And that would be good for me to know.

So here we are. Thus begins my little loser blogging girl moment and I begin it in the lamest of ways by making it a long, rambly post about the beginning of said loser blogging girl moment and how I arrived at the idea for the moment to be in this form, and then referenced it again in the immediate next paragraph. God, she's insufferable.

At the time of writing this, the name of this blog is rinisinsides. Which is a very apt name and an ensured blog name availability. And you know, whatever goes on here is going to be my insides, which is the plan at least. But I'm already feeling a shift to the name mayorofloserntown, which is probably already taken and kind of does not look good for a blog url, but it's one of those stuck in my head phrases recently. And while I've been typing this I remembered blogs can have titles! And thus my title will be mayor of losertown. Maybe subject to change.

Anyway this is me ending this post! If you read this and you do not know me in real life. how strange for our paths to cross this way. Thank you for scratching the seeing part of the itch, at least. I do not feel assured enough to think that anyone would've loved reading this, and it feels too presumptuous to thank a hypothetical someone who did. If you do know me in real life, I think I feel just a little bit more assured enough to say thank you for scratching the seeing and loving itch.

P.S. Just gonna post this now! Not really rereading or editing anything, except just fixing some red squiggly lines without reading around them much. Just rawdogging it, dog.

#writing #journal #hi if you see this #not sure how if i feel about tagging

[theyearthirtytwo]

Day 55.

I know I am a writer because it is the only thing I will not do. 

I will not sit down and write something worth publishing. 

Instead of writing I google “how to be a writer” and “how much do writers make” and “how to stick to a daily practice.” I have never stuck to a daily practice in my entire life. I would love to know how, but alas, I do not know how. 

Instead of writing I create elaborate excel sheets I will fill out once and never look at again. I will decorate a pinterest board full of inspiration for lives I won’t live, houses I won’t buy, and books I won’t write. I write an email to my boyfriend apologizing, again. I aimlessly scroll twitter because I deleted instagram. I distract myself. I distract myself. I distract myself. I come up with excuses. I distract myself. 

Why won’t I write?

What am I afraid of? 

Failure? Success? Writing something so good I could never write another thing as good? Writing something I think is so good but no one else seems to notice or care? Writing something bad that actually gets published and then having to live with my name attached to that bad thing forever? I wish I knew what it was so I could etch-a-sketch it away in an ayahuasca ceremony in Montana (something else I have googled while distracting myself recently).

I just saw a clip of Bo Burnham, yes, the comedian, talking about the monetization and colonization of our attention by social media companies. Not to brag, I had already deleted my instagram, but upon watching this clip on Twitter (a social media site recently purchased by Elon Musk, a supreme jackass, that is apparently headed for total destruction), I deleted my Twitter, Facebook, and Pinterest accounts too. I don’t need to spend another moment comparing my life to anyone else’s, especially on a hamster wheel dedicated specifically to making me spend as much time as possible comparing my life to other people's. It feels awful, and quite frankly, I'm pretty good at feeling awful all on my own.

To quote myself "I can't even come up with a succinct way to end this rant... I barely even know what the word succinct means."

I will, however, leave you with this:

I would love to find a way to stop getting in my own way. I would love to find a way to stop wasting my own time. I would love to find a way to write and I would love to find a way to get paid enough to live my life by putting words on pages.

To quote my tax attorney "I am a good girl."

(that has nothing to do with this, it's just the mantra I've been carrying around with me lately)

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - “Love and Glory” (Rated E)

Summary:

Now that Armageddon is over and Aziraphale and Crowley are free agents, Crowley finds himself drawn to Hell more and more. It's fun to be bad every once in a while. But while investigating Hastur's latest bordello enterprise, Crowley's life gets complicated by a new, presumably demon, lover. Presumably because Crowley wouldn't know. He's never seen their face.

Notes: Written for @likearumchocolatesouffle, who graciously bid for me to write them a fic through Fandom Trumps Hate, and with my deepest apologies for how long it's taken to finish.

Read on AO3.

Chapter 1 (2433 words)

"Well, well, well... wot have we here?" Crowley asks, addressing the lock securing the door in front of him. He traces the outside with a pointed fingernail, searching for a way to open it.

An alternate way. He knows what’s required, but he’s hoping to find a slot for a key (which he doesn’t have) that a paper clip or nail file might fit into. 

Nope.

Nothing.

The lock is a solid, square block of black metal with no indents, no cracks, and no holes, glowing red in the low light.

The side effect of a powerful hex.

Magic won't work on it. That would backfire phenomenally - take off his ear or singe his hair to the roots. Magic doesn’t work on a hex when you haven’t cast it. Supernatural problems require mundane solutions nine times out of ten. 

Like a sledgehammer. 

But Crowley doesn’t have one, and there isn’t a home improvement store for miles. 

"A sigil lock.” He sighs. “Don’t that fuck all?"

Crowley doesn’t like locks he can’t pick, doesn’t like the existence of a door he isn’t meant to open. 

He sees that as tremendously rude.

The lock is Hastur’s handiwork. For a demon who doesn't know what a computer is and has never used a cellular phone, Hastur is a master locksmith. Maybe because locks, even hexed locks, are simple in their execution and binary in their intent. 

You can either get in or you can’t.  

A sigil lock means Crowley will have to sign in, and he hates accountability. 

He should turn around and leave. If he stays, he runs the risk of arriving late for his next appointment. But curiosity gets the better of him. He's heard too much buzz about Hastur's latest house of debauchery to not sneak in and grab a peek.

If nothing else, maybe Hastur will have stocked one or two bottles of decent whiskey.

Crowley takes a final drag of his ciggy, flicks away the ash, then chucks the filter, obliterating it with a snap of his fingers before it hits the pavement. The move is an unnecessary waste of magic. It'll attract attention, announce his arrival, but who cares at this point?

If he can’t sneak in through the back door, he might as well kick down the front.

He licks his fingers and draws his sigil on the lock. Flames flare over his fingertips, scorching his skin, causing him to pull back.

But nothing else happens. 

Crowley’s lips part in surprise. He’s been loitering outside smoking for the past fifteen minutes, watched several demons come and go already. He knows this is how the lock works. Could Hastur have gone so far as to block his sigil specifically? 

Not a chance. Hastur loves any opportunity to show Crowley up, prove that the old ways (sex and perversion) are the best at getting the job done.

He doesn't have to get with the times to be a better bad influence than Hell’s Golden Boy.  

Another beat of silence passes as Crowley considers whether forcing the issue is worth the price of admission when gears start to roll. Mechanisms click, and the door pops open uneventfully. How cool would it have been if a disembodied voice had said, "Welcome, Anthony J. Crowley," like in a James Bond movie?

Alas, no.

The door swings in on its own, allowing Crowley entrance. He saunters inside, like a wealthy alumnus heading to the trophy case of his old uni to check in with his Varsity photo and remember when. That’s how Crowley walks into Hell when he visits - strutting about with head held high.

Aziraphale would say that he's taking his reputation as "untouchable" too far, but Crowley thinks he's taking it far enough.

After he, angel, and that tribe of ankle-biters thwarted Armageddon, Crowley steered clear of Hell, as Aziraphale did with Heaven. They were done being pawns in God’s divine game of Yahtzee. Aziraphale is fine with it. Retirement suits him. But it had a strange effect on Crowley.

After weeks of staying away, Crowley found that he missed Hell.

The only reason he avoided work in the first place was because of his superiors. Now that he no longer has them, Crowley wants to be evil for fun. Not horrible evil. Not ‘start the next world war’ evil. More like ‘short the sheets on hotel beds’ evil. Or ‘boot the cars parked on Savile Row’ evil. Or ‘steal the flakes from the ice cream carts’ evil.

Traveling to Hell's establishments has ceased to be a job and has become Crowley's dirty little secret. Without Beelzebub breathing down his neck, he finds joy in dabbling with the taboo.

Dark shapes pass Crowley in the halls as he journeys into the deep. They reach out to him, fingers flexing in the air, beckoning to him, but he waves them away. He has to chuckle at the atmosphere of Hastur's latest enterprise. He takes the construction of these underworld bordellos too seriously. 

But that’s why they work.

For mortals, atmosphere is the thing.

The dim lighting, the velvet-upholstered furniture, the red-painted walls with their strategically drilled holes, the veil of dread in the air - for mortals locked into dull existences, living the same life day after day after day, a pinch of excitement is more enticing than self-preservation.

The staircase Crowley descends spirals further and further, leveling off after a solid three minutes. The temperature has changed, gotten cooler. The air smells musty, has a dampness to it. Did Hastur build his bordello in a wine cellar?

Or a catacomb?

Since thinking about a demon too much inevitably causes them to appear, Crowley finds Hastur haunting the bottom of the staircase as if he’s been waiting for him.

“Good evening, Crowley,” Hastur drawls like a dusty-throated vampire. “Glad you could make it.”

Plot twist, Crowley thinks. He sounds far from glad.

"Wot is this place?” Crowley strolls up to the Duke of Hell, giving the room a good look around. “It feels sort of… familiar." 

"Figures. Used to be a church," Hastur digs, poking fun at the amount of time Crowley has spent in the company of an angel. "We scrubbed the walls with Hellfire, of course, but the priests wot ran it were some of ours, so the holy water weren't even dangerous. The blessings on the stones didn't give us much of a fight. If you breathe in deep, you can catch the faintest whiff of holy. We sprayed the whole place down with bear pheromones to mask the odor."

Crowley scrunches his nose. "Charming." He had taken a big sniff when he walked in and did indeed catch a familiar scent, one he sampled a second time to identify. The pheromone thing is more info than he needs. "Still, this would have been consecrated ground. If this was a church, how come we can walk around in here?"

Hastur gives the stones beneath his feet a triumphant stomp. "Ground's been deconsecrated. We kept the old furniture, too. Useful for a bordello. The pews for one. Those padded benches make it easier on the knees. Gotta keep the customers happy."

Crowley snorts. “I’ll bet.”

Hastur side-eyes Crowley while Crowley scans the room, sizing up the writhing occupants, stuck to the wall like flies on flypaper, unwilling to move while unspeakable pleasures ripple through them.

Crowley wets his lips, nibbles the lower one in repression of his own desires, and Hastur hides a grin.

He’s got him.

Crowley is so simple-minded. How did Hastur never realize this before? Too much time spent with those accursed humans, indulging in their vices, has turned him native.

Native is as native does.

And humans have never been a match for Hastur.

"Come on. Have a go." Hastur pats the wall of holes with the flat of his grimy palm. "For old time's sake."

Crowley sinks his teeth deeper into his flesh, fidgeting with his hands in his pockets to keep from taking Hastur up on his offer too quickly.

"Nah.” Crowley is intrigued but not eager to give Hastur, of all demons, the satisfaction. “You know how it is."

"No, I don’t. I don’t know nothin’ about you!"

"Nor I you. Let's not go ruining a good thing."

"Too good for us now? Is that it?" Hastur asks, leaning on implications that would make most demons hiss in disgust. Crowley shrugs them off without further acknowledgment.  

"Do they know who we are?" he asks instead, moving the conversation along.

Hastur’s lip curls in a silent snarl, but he drops the subject all the same. "Some."

A tongue sticks through one of the holes on the far end, searching, attempting to entice another victim. "Are they human?"

"Some," Hastur repeats impatiently. "Stick your dick in one and find out! It's not brain science!"

Crowley shakes his head. Hastur loathes him, but he’ll let Crowley sample the merchandise, train the little minions out of their gag reflexes. That task isn't Hastur's speed. 

Crowley definitely doesn’t hate it.

“Brain surgery,” he corrects, walking down the length of the wall. He runs his fingers over the holes, stopping to investigate the willing mouths on the other side. Fifty holes in all, and Crowley makes it a point to pause at every one. When he reaches the end and begins to circle back, Hastur loses his patience.

"Pick a hole, Crowley! Any hole! They're all the same!"

"Wot's your rush? Gotta take a pill?” Crowley shoots a look over his shoulder at a seething Hastur when he doesn’t get an answer. “Or are you waiting for a show? You gonna stand there and watch? Is that how you get your rocks off?" Crowley stops himself, momentarily befuddled. Has Hastur ever made an effort? He seems to get his jollies from putting mortals in sticky sexual situations, but does he partake in his own poison?

Probably not, Crowley resolves. If he did, he wouldn’t look so damned constipated all of the time.

“Fuck you,” Hastur mutters as if he read his mind. He cuts his losses and storms off. Let the bastard take his time. It's no concern of his.  

He has the arsehole where he wants him. That’s all that matters.

Crowley watches Hastur stomp off into the shadows, then goes back to his work. He’s not shy, doesn’t give a rat’s arse who watches. He assumes Hell has got their eyes on him every waking hour anyway. But he’d rather not have Hastur at his shoulder.

He wants a moment alone. 

Because Hastur has it wrong. 

They're not all the same. 

Power lurks beyond the wall that Crowley can't see. But he can feel it.

It calls to him.

Crowley stops at the hole with the beckoning tongue and slides his middle finger in slowly. Heat surrounds it immediately as he enters. He reaches the back of the tongue and pushes in further, but the mouth offers no resistance.

No gag reflex. 

Interesting.  

That should make his mind up for him. He should move on, find an untrained mouth to violate, but he doesn't. His finger lingers, and during the time he spends contemplating, soft lips close around it, suck the intrusive digit gently. Threads of prickly heat chase one another up and down Crowley’s arm from that one point of contact. They gather around his throat, tighten slightly, and his breath catches. He swallows as the blood in his veins rushes away from his brain.

Yup. This one. He chooses this one.

Crowley steps up to the wall, unzips his trousers, and slides his hardening cock through the hole. Hot breath brushes his skin, and Crowley inclines towards it. The owner of the mouth wastes no time. Crowley rests his forehead against the wall and lets that mouth work its magic.

And magic is definitely the word for it.

Plush lips close around the head and slide down. An inquisitive tongue maps out dips, planes, and ridges, and Crowley moans loudly into the open air.

Satan help him. It’s been a while.

“Jeez… us… “

Crowley isn’t a sentimental demon. He doesn’t need connection the way humans do, with touch and eye contact and syrupy confessions of love. 

He just needs to get off every once in a while. 

Glory hole bordellos have, historically, been his favorites. These holes, with their tantalizing favors, offer the perfect compromise between intimacy and anonymity, along with ease of access. He doesn’t need to persuade or seduce. He can walk up, plug in (as it were), get what he needs, and go.

Like a petrol station convenience store.

He tries to picture what is happening on the other side of the wall, tries to picture who - human or demon - is doing this to him. Is it someone he’s seen? Someone he’s palled around with in the break room, or whose mind he’s touched in the fulfillment of his demon duties? Is it one of Hastur’s zombies, working off their useless penance on their knees? 

Speed increases, suction intensifies, and Crowley’s brain data dumps - any attempt to reach across the divide with his mind ceasing when he feels the wash of an orgasm creeping up his chest.

“That’s it… “ he whispers into the cold, hard wall as if he’s whispering into his lover’s ear. Whether or not the person on the other side can hear him is irrelevant. This moment belongs to him. The fact that it involves someone else is inconsequential. “Easy does it… “ Crowley melds to the wall, every inch pressed to the plaster in an attempt to get closer. He balls his fists, clenches his teeth to keep from fucking the hole in his need to have more of that mouth torturing him.

Too late to stop time, he fights to stay his body as he comes, cursing himself for not lasting longer, though, in this windowless void, hours could have gone by, and he’d scarcely know. 

Hours of this exquisite torment, his mind repeats. Why would that be a bad thing again?

"Fuck… " he moans, drifting down from his incredible high with a full-body shudder, knuckles knocking involuntarily against the wall. That was it. The out-of-body experience he’d been craving when he saw that tongue tasting the air. "F-fuck… " His head rolls back and forth while the unseen mouth licks him clean. His eyelids flutter open, a loopy smile lifting his lips… until he catches sight of his watch. He jerks away from the wall, and that sinful mouth, as if he’d had his cock bitten off. "FUCK! I'm late!"

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #likearumchocolatesouffle

[honoredbastard]

ෆ self indulgent and entilted

characters — bonten!rindou haitani  + *yakuro nanami (oc) .

content and warnings   — mentions of drugs ( yo sanzu ), clubbing, stalker mention, mention(s) of drugging, yelling, angst(?), swearing, and so on.

note  — sorry for the dark content hhhhh, it came with the idea of ackerman being a yakuza that hated bonten and wanted yakuro gone. it may actually be apart of the fic i’m outlining..... these men hold my heart and WILL NOT LET GO OF IT. also they just like dive into my brain 24/7. help i had a fit over what looked best for three hours- at this point i’mma probably make a lil sum’ for sanzu. i love this man and i can’t stop having him appear in my stories that involve bonten. like this guy is 24/7 in the back of my mind.

                                         *Yakuro Nanami.                                            he/they/bun! 

                  Now playing ayanami  — by satin

rindou woke up first to yakuro wearing his bunny ears and a bunny pajama set that he seemed to just slip on before marching into bed. it was cute, but there was still smudges of makeup on his face and the dark circles of terrible inconsistent sleep. rindou sighed, brushing away blonde parts of hair that yakuro was chewing on. 

“yakuro.” rindou lightly pushed yakuro’s shoulder, trying to wake the boy in his semi bunny work attire. “rindou? rindou....” yakuro groaned, his head searched for rindou’s lap or hand that he could lean into. just exist near, to feel his skin and be aware of his warmth, that he was alive and not dead. that he stayed the whole night. “morning doll.” rindou smiled quietly, brushing his fingers over the boy’s hair. 

there was a knock on the door, “come in” as if that was a full offer to entangle himself with the couple he busted through the door and made a running start to jump onto the couple. “HI!” “i don’t do the touching, i’ll sit and pour you your drink and be your personal bunny. please treat the bunny well and we will have no problems. if they bunny feels uncomfortable the bunny has full rights to leave and find a new client. if you understand these rules please enjoy your bunny.”

yakuro stated as if he was at work. it was grilled into his brain and always had to repeat it infront of new clients. working at a bunny suit club was not it, almost rolling over onto sanzu. “bad work day?” “bad work day.” rindou confirmed sanzu’s suspicions with three simple  words. “yaku..” “no.” “yakuuu.” sanzu scooted in between the two, poking yakuro’s cheeks aggressively. he seemed sober, thank god. 

rindou shrugged the mans presence off and trudged to the bathroom to wash and whatnot. “you have another shift, ran told me to wake you up. “that’s not my problem. tell my boss to go fuck himself with a dildo filled with nails.” sanzu’s eyes widened, that was aggressive. although at the same time sorta funny?

“he said he’d cut off your shift times and cut back on how much money you make plus tips.” sanzu repeated what ran had informed him of, with a quite frustrated appearance.  “THAT FUCKER WILL NOT!” raising up from his laying position, yakuro ran into the hallway stumbling here and there from improper pace. 

“i’d love to see him try i swear if he even tries reducing my pay i’ll quit the whole fucking job how about that? i never liked this bullshit bunny shit anyways, it’s annoying when the customers try to touch and then you get stalkers.” yaku was mumbling to hell and back from his bosses call, waving to ran who nodded. making himself a bento before heading off on a small mission.

yaku threw open the washroom door and started searching for his bunny suit attire. the club’s theme was rainbow today so he washed a deep red suit with a black add-on tail and clip on black ears (which were foldable too. yakuro always folds one ear.) when yakuro made it back to his room, sanzu was gone and rindou was crouching near the bottom drawer.

“whatcha lookin for?” yakuro asked curiously, sitting beside the man who made a mess beside him “looking for a red suit now, i’m trying to match with you subtly.” cute- that was the only thinking yaku could think of this man who is a part of a criminal organization/gang. who woulda thought?

“i think you might be better with either a red with black tie or a deeper red of a suit.” yakuro suggested, getting up from his sitting position, joints cracking. “or black would go well, after all i’m only wearing red heel, a red body suit, and red makeup. the rest is black!” yakuro called out to rindou who was still crouched as he exited the room. taking into account his suggestions, he went with a more black with red accents attire.

           ާlocation, bunny palace! ෆ             late night, 11pm.

“here in bunny palace we have many bunnies to suit your taste! male, female, and even those who do not define themselves! run and created by the ackermans.” bunny palace is under the hands of those with the ackerman name. mikasa, the current owner, is softer on us than many. although the music blaring is not something you can get used to.

“hello! i’m moonie! it’s so good to meet you, are you new here?” yakuro was tired, it was about 4 more hours until he shift ended and he was already hungry again. salad’s really don’t fill you up especially when you wolf them down. his feet ached and cried out each time he took another step, he wanted to lay down and use rindou as his personal body pillow.... rindou! ‘i hope he’s okay.’ he thought, placing himself beside the very important client his boss claimed. “oh i am! it’s nice too meet you moonie.”

“it’s so good to meet you too! we have a few rules here that our bunnies tell each new client: i’ll sit and pour you your drink and be your personal bunny. please treat the bunny well and we will have no problems. if they bunny feels uncomfortable the bunny has full rights to leave and find a new client. if you understand these rules please enjoy your bunny. please keep touching to a minimal. do not force your bunny drinks or food. respect your bunny. is that doable?” yakuro asked with big puppy eyes, a big smile, and high pitched voice. “of course!” the customer happily said, hand already on his thigh.

i am SO uncomfortable was all that yaku could think about, his eyes flicking between the customer and each place his gross hands laid upon. squeezing every-so often like it was a pleasuring act for yaku. before he removed the man’s hand, he restrained himself. drawing a large breath before responding to the customer. “i’m so sorry sir! shall i get you something to drink?” yaku pouted, “if you’d like, moonie!” i’m saved.

yakuro smiled and stood up, “why of course! i’ll be right back!” like a breath of relief, he rushed to the staff room. he waved to some girls, “not on stage today moonie?” one asked, a baby stripper new to the bunny palace club. “yeah! boss was all: ‘act cutesy, be close, allow touching this once. there are really important customers here today.’ like thanks for threatening my paycheck and then saying that!”

“oh my, that’s rough babe. ackerman is always like that, it’s like she has a stick up her ass.” one of the older strippers that had been with yakuro since he started chimed in, “you’re right!” yaku chuckled, leaning closer into his vanity mirror to adjust his lipstick and have a chance to message rindou. 

40 missed messages. “i’m so fucked.” “why’s that babe?” “i may have forgot to message rindou telling him ackerman added hours onto my shift.” the room grew tense, “that’s awful? read his messages.” sei suggested, “might cool him off if he’s angry.

“alright!” yaku sighed with a smile, opening the messages. to his surprise, rindou wasn’t angry but instead worried that a client had gotten too touchy and triggered yakuro. after all, ran did inform rindou about the bits and pieces that sanzu did not tell yaku. “whew, i’m good! i’m safe. he’s just worried....” sei and bab took a loud sigh and began laughing. “BUT I’M FUCKED.” “really? that’s great! now go out! your client must be waiting.” 

yup the girls took it that way. “i will! don’t worry don’t worry. i just hope sanzu doesn’t buy the whole club.” “he won’t now go!” sei pushed out yaku who glanced over at the client who finished the previous bottle. his nose was red and was slightly swaying back and forth.

walking up to the bar, yakuro ran into polaris. “polar!” “moonie.” “can you get something for my client? he seems to be a lightweight.” “sure, i’m sure he wouldn’t mind beer.” polar sat down the cup he was wiping back and forth to keep busy.

“the bar isn’t very busy huh?” “oh no, it’s just we got our best girls today dancing and the waitresses and working ten times harder. it works out for both of them and neither of them have to fight each other about unfair pay. tomorrow you’ll be our best so good luck.” polar smiled earnestly to add to the words of encouragement, sliding over the foaming beer over the black marbled counter. 

“thanks! i’ll need it.” turning with the drink in hand, yaku noticed the man’s disgruntled face. he looked as if the whole world was going to blow up and he was watching the countdown. ‘act cutesy, act cutesy, act cutesy.’ it was a constant mantra in his head before he sat down and opened his mouth.

“what could be wrong sir?” yaku felt like rolling his eyes into oblivion, he could care less. “oh it’s just something wrong with the gang.” “oh my, a yakuza?” boring, yaku fake gasped handing over the bear to the angered man. “yeah!” he said pridefully with a chuckle, gulping the drink down and slamming it down. “something about bonten this and that and one of our men died.”

now that’s interesting. yaku felt like walking out to just go see sanzu, it felt like everything was reminding yakuro of him. hell even the purple lights were. but alas he was stuck eyeing the entrance while the man babbled on and on about this whole yakuza shin-dig he was in. he decided to slip off his shoes because the waitresses’ assured the man that they would handle getting drinks.

it felt like hours, drink after drink the world became more hazy. yakuro grew a high tolerance because of his job but he seemed to be losing himself while the client seemed more than sober. “you.. slipped somethin, huh?” the client beside him flinched, clenching onto his bag. “w-what? are you sure you don’t have a low tolerance m-mr. moonie?” the man stammered, through gritted teeth yaku managed to huff out a ‘whatever’.

“miss. ackerman set you up? thought so, the bitch never liked me because i have a bonten member for a partner. guess i’m finally leaving this hellhole. send her my best regards, yeah?” he asked with a agitated tone. his words were laced with threats, raising slowly. “mr. moonie?” “i’m leaving, i want to leave. i have to go see rindou.” he dug the acrylic nails that were done just recently into his thigh. fuck the shoes. 

whatever was in the drink didn’t seem strong but it had yakuro in and out of conscience. the man who was once his client seemed nowhere to be found, leaving a stumbling yaku to himself. sei noticed this and dropped her waiters plate, running over to the bunny who was just about to fall. “MOONIE!” 

          ާlocation, the bonten loft.             early morning, 3am.

blue eyes fluttered open, fighting the urge to close once more. “they’re awake! rindou, they’re all good!” a familiar voice echoed throughout yakuro’s head. his body felt numb, in an attempt to speak he noticed his voice was gone. every one of his senses felt like they were being drowned under water. his eyesight was the only thing that was significantly normal.

though his contacts seemed to be taken off, leaving the blue and purple hues of yaku’s true eye colour roaming free. rindou’s footsteps were heavy and had a quick pace, the vibrations went through the bed. “yaku?” his usual docile purple eyes were filled with worry and anger mixed together, forever burning until yakuro got better.

all the man managed to do was a weak smile, his eyes blinked slowly while he stared at rindou. the two conversed, rindou’s agitation growing as his jaw clenched harder with every muffled word sanzu spoke. “i am very upset sanzu, yakuro was drugged. AGAIN!” “we can’t do anything but sit it out! we don’t even know who it was. rindou you need to calm down.” sanzu too was frustrated beyong belief.

the whole loft was filled with tension that was denser than a brick wall. everyone considered yakuro a part of bonten after two years. he even got a bonten tattoo per mikey’s request. it lays on his right shoulder which he covers up during his job with makeup despite his hatred, it was the only condition ackerman gave him before he could work at bunny palace. ackerman and bonten hated each other, seeing a bonten tattoo at the ackermans would start a war. 

“he’s quitting that job and working at our club. this is the last time i’ll EVER see him like this again.” this wasn’t the first time rindou raised his voice when he was angered by the way yakuro looked in this condition. unable to move, speak, only look plainly at the wall with a weak smile here and there.

it tore him apart from the inside out each time, it did every member living in the loft. finally after whatever happened between those two. sanzu left, rindou left as well but returned with water and began to cuddle the numb and quiet yakuro.

#toyko revengers #tokyorev #tokyorev imagine #tokyo revengers rindou #rindou haitani #rindo haitani #x oc #fanfiction #tokyorev fanfiction #tokyo revengers fanfiction #bonten #tokyorev bonten #ran haitani #sanzu haruchiyo #angst #soft ending #angst with a hopeful ending #𝄖entiwrites

[firstfrostfall]

A Cold Lament - Chapter Two

a tommy shelby fanfiction

In the winter of 1918, the Shelby brothers returned home from a war-torn France. In the winter of the following year, the middle brother, Tommy, recognizes an opportunity for his family to move up in the world, and it came in the shape of a misplaced crate of weapons.

In the meantime, per the request of his aunt, he gives a struggling young woman a job.

Little did he know, that like the smell of snow on the wind in late autumn, everything was going to change, and it wasn’t just because of some stolen guns.

Takes place during Season One.

Somehow, Anna had collected quite a bit of jewelry in her twenty-three years of living. She never necessarily went out of her way for it- it would just find its way to her. She was enamored by shiny things. You know, the things that glimmered when you held them in the sunlight the right way. Stones, sea glass, gems. Really whatever she could get her hands on. But she was especially fond of sea glass. She always loved sea glass.

It started off with small things at first, like sea glass, when she was a little girl. Because of this love, Magpie was the nickname her grandmother had given her.

Her grandmother would say things like, be careful, you’ll cut your hands on the sea glass, my little Magpie.

When she got older, more so into her teenage years, she would be gifted with various pieces of jewelry for her birthday or other special occasions. Each piece was beautiful, surely. She couldn’t deny the appeal that came with a pair of diamond earrings, those certainly caught in the light well, but she would’ve been just as happy with a particularly glossy stone from a rocky beach. Jewelry, or whatever stone it was, didn’t have to be expensive, she just liked how they glinted in the light. Like a magpie. She felt quite silly about it.

Nevertheless, she preferred sea glass to anything.

Growing up, she kept her entire collection in an ornately carved hope chest at the foot of her bed. There was no organization, no rhyme or reason for the placement of any of it. Of course, she kept the most expensive pieces tucked away in a separate gaudy jewelry box, nested in swaths of black velvet. The hope chest, on the other hand, was entirely in disarray. Anna liked it that way. It was her big box of things.

She brought the hope chest with her when she went to live with her aunt. It was a nightmare to travel with, surely, but it was hers. For the past year it remained at the foot of the bed she shared with her five other cousins. Living with her aunt and cousins under one tiny roof was an adjustment for her. It was different. The war changed a lot.

The war changed everything.

A family torn apart, and a girl sent packing off to her aunt’s home in an unfamiliar factory city hours from the only home she ever knew.

Anna remembered the day vividly. It was in the middle of summer, 1917, and the trip was dreadfully rainy. She traveled by train and cab to get to Birmingham.

When she eventually arrived at her aunt’s doorstep, she was soaked. The brim of her hat drooped under the weight of the rainwater. She knew her aunt was barely scraping by, she had so much on her plate already, she didn’t need the additional burden of a niece added to that roster. Her aunt had five children of her own, a husband away at war- but Anna had nowhere else to go.

So she stood there, surrounded by luggage and suitcases and trunks full of whatever she had left, waiting for her to answer her pleading knocks. When her aunt did open the door, she quickly ushered her niece in and helped her get settled with all of her belongings.

A few weeks later, word reached them that her uncle died in France. Her aunt was frantic after receiving the news, and understandably so. Not only had she lost her husband, but another source of income for the family. There was no one coming home to work in a factory.

Anna began selling whatever items she could to make extra money to cover the cost of a sixth mouth to feed. She sold dresses, silver hairpins, and combs, shoes, miscellaneous books. She sold almost anything and everything. Her belongings were finite, however, and soon enough, she had sold as much as she could.

Except for her jewelry, except for the hope chest.

She had accumulated enough valuables in the chest to scrounge up a few months rent for her own flat. A shabby little place, not too far from where her aunt lived. She even had a little extra money leftover to tuck away for her family, just enough to help them get by for a little while longer. There would be more space at her aunt’s house now that she was gone, too. More room for her cousins in their bed, one less mouth to feed, one less body to clothe.

It pained Anna to look at the chest. It pained her even more to open it. Almost everything she had collected was gone. Of course, she kept a few things, the items that were the most precious to her. An opal ring, a pair of diamond earrings, a golden bracelet, a jar full of sea glass. Each unrelated, but with their own meaning.

There was no point in moping around about it. She could spend another twenty-three years collecting more shiny things.

She was learning to make do with what she had.

Of course, now with her own expenses, she was also learning that her money was finite as well. This made her aunt worry for her terribly.

Finding a job had been difficult, to say the least. She spent hours reading through newspaper after newspaper, clipping away at any job advertisement that she thought she could even remotely qualify for. Most of the time, she wouldn’t receive an interview or would be flat-out rejected on the spot.

It was discouraging- but made sense to her. She really was just a girl, from a village barely anyone had ever heard of before, with a resume that was, to put it plainly, terrible. She never held a job before, and her only experience came from a few accounting courses from a couple of summers back. Truthfully, the courses were something to pass the time, to keep her from boredom while the days were long and hot. She never expected to actually need those skills.

One morning, however, there was a series of frantic knocks at her door. It was no one other than her aunt, giddy and exclaiming that she may have found her a steady job.

“I have a friend from church who can help you,” Her aunt said. “She set up an interview for tomorrow, three o’clock. You’ll be speaking with her nephew. She’ll pick you up from the house. She’s a good woman.”

Anna hugged her aunt tightly at the news, a wave of relief washing over her. Until, she realized, that she wasn’t sure what exactly she was interviewing for. That was when the panic started to settle in.

But alas, when fortune drops something valuable on your lap, it’s best not to question it.

That was where she found herself currently, a few days after the interview, staring at her reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror while she got ready for her first day. She was brushing through her hair, smoothing out the curls from the rollers she had slept in. The wan morning light made it a soft auburn that curled down past her collarbones.

She had been ready for work since dawn, and truthfully, even before then. She had a hard time sleeping and chalked it up to be a culmination of nerves for the day ahead of her, and the fact that her flat didn’t feel like a home just yet. In time, she hoped it would.

All throughout the night, the floors creaked, and the pipes hissed. She barely had any furniture, except for a wire bed frame and a hand-me-down mattress she had gotten a deal on. She was also pretty sure that the lock on the front door was broken, so she propped up a chair against the knob and hoped for the best.

Despite all of this, for better or worse, this place was her own. It eased the burden on her aunt.

Anna stood by the window while tucking her cream blouse into the waist of her maroon skirt. She spent the better part of her morning ironing out her clothes, desperately trying to ensure that the linen was fine and creaseless. Her iron was one of the things she couldn’t part with. At the very least, she could look her best with it. Or at least try to.

She glanced at the window one last time before slipping her shoes on by the front door, watching as tiny flurries of snow began to fall onto the city below. She smiled.

It was early this year.

Anna promptly knocked on the door to The Garrison at nine o’clock that same morning. The snow was still falling, each flake thick enough to catch in her hair, a contrast of white on red, but soft enough that it would not stick to the ground, instead, it melted on contact with the muddy pavement. Harry, the barkeep, answered the door.

“Miss Caldwell, good morning.” He took a step to the side so she could enter. His face and nose were flushed red, he must’ve arrived not too long ago himself.

“And to you, Mr. Fenton.” She smiled, her breath turning into clouds as she spoke. “Quite the weather we’re having.”

“I’ll say,” He closed the door behind her and turned the lock. “Haven’t seen snow this early since I was a boy.”

“It’s good luck,” She replied while shrugging her coat off. “They say an early snow brings good fortune.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when my toes are freezing off in the morning,” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Follow me, you can leave your things in the back room.”

Once Anna was settled, she stood behind the bar with her own apron tied around her waist, (already stained, mind you) given to her by Harry. The remainder of the morning was another lesson in “making do” for her. The pub wouldn’t be officially open until noon, so this extra time beforehand was for her to get a feel for everything. To put it plainly, it was additional time to practice.

No matter how hard she tried to mask her nerves and keep her composure, it was like she had two left feet. Spilling drinks, forgetting the difference between vodka and gin, pouring a pint incorrectly, and causing the foam to rise over the rim of the glass.

Despite the extra time she had spent on her appearance, smoothing out any wrinkles on her skirt, curling her hair, and flashing a smile at all times- she couldn’t have felt any more out of place, and painfully unprepared. There was so much on the line for her. She had her own place and an aunt who needed financial help. She would keep trying, she didn’t have any other choice.

Harry was kind to her, and as patient as he could be, but it became quite obvious that she was a terrible bartender. Embarrassingly so. Terrible enough that he insisted that she just watch him for the rest of their shift, assuring her that it was for the best.

“It will be a slow night,” He said, wiping down the remnants of the third pint she had spilled. “A good way for you to learn the ropes. Nice and easy.”

Anna nodded, accepting her wounded pride. In the late afternoon and early evening, business was slow. It was quiet, a few patrons here and there ordering a drink or two. She was able to observe Harry interacting with the regulars and took mental notes of what people seemed to like. She thought it was quite pleasant.

Until it wasn’t a slow night.

Evidently, there was a football game earlier in the day, and all of the men came trailing in afterward. The pub became boisterous and loud. It was overwhelming, to say the least.

“Just work on collecting the empty glasses,” Harry motioned with his head to the cluttered tables from across the bar. “I’ll take care of everything up here.”

Anna nodded, typing the apron around her waist tighter. She weaved through the crowds, deftly trying to avoid any leering gazes or comments. Of course, she made quite a few spills, and mentally kicked herself for being so clumsy, for letting her composure waver. In the beginning, she was slow going back and forth from table to bar, but eventually, she was able to get into a rhythm.

She placed the last few glasses on the bartop, exhaling heavily. The pub was finally empty. She glanced down at her blouse. This morning, the linen was freshly pressed and the color of cream, but this evening, however, it was stained with splotches of beer and other liquors. She frowned.

It was late.

Harry wiped a forearm across his brow. “You did well.”

“You’re very kind,” Anna wiped her hands on her apron, shaking her head. “I did terribly.”

He laughed, quite loudly.

“I’ll finish cleaning up here,” He nodded. “You go catch a breath in the back.”

“No, no, let me help with the clean-up. I made most of the mess.”

“You had a long enough day today, and you’ll have a longer one tomorrow.” He smiled, waving her off with his hand. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you.”

Anna walked into the back room and sighed, collapsing onto a chair. She held her face in her hands. Her body ached, her feet especially, and her head throbbed. But more than anything, she was embarrassed. She was tired and wanted to weep. It was silly. Her first day of work and she wanted to cry. She swallowed sharply and stood up, untying the apron from her waist and tossing it over the back of the chair.

There was no point in crying, she would make do.

When she stepped back into the main room, Harry wasn’t alone anymore. It was the man who she spoke to a few days before, Mr. Shelby, standing by the bar with a glass in front of him. A cigarette dangled between two fingers, the smoke curling in the hazy lights above the bar. He didn’t notice her at first, and if he did, he didn’t make it known.

It wasn’t until Harry cleared his throat, that he tilted his head toward her.

Anna glanced down at her beer-stained blouse and grimaced. She certainly felt like a mess, she could only imagine what she looked like. With a sheepish smile, she combed her fingers through her hair and smoothed it all over one shoulder.

“Miss Caldwell,” He nodded.

“Good evening, Mr. Shelby,” She smiled, folding her coat over her forearm.

“Heading home?” He turned away from her.

“Yes, just about.”

“Mrs. Gray instructed me to walk her home on these late nights,” Harry quickly interjected. She could've sworn Mr. Shelby scoffed at that.

“Ah, waiting on me then?” The other man raised an eyebrow.

“No, no, of course not Mr. Shelby.” Harry’s voice wavered. Anna noticed his eyes widening, like he was nervous, almost.

“I’m sure you’re both tired,” He finished the rest of his drink in one swig, and then fully turned to her. “First day, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Anna could feel her face flushing. A disastrous first day, she thought. “Harry was an excellent teacher.” She could see Harry beaming at that comment.

“Ah,” Mr. Shelby nodded, stacking a few coins beside his empty glass. He placed his cap on his head and tipped the brim to the barkeep, “Goodnight.” He paused for a moment, and then he tilted his head toward Anna. “And to you, Miss Caldwell.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Shelby,” She smiled, her cheeks growing warm. “Thank you again, for this opportunity.”

He hummed in response, shrugging on his coat as he walked to the door.

By the time Harry and Anna had locked up the pub and were outside, Mr. Shelby was halfway down the street. She watched as he walked away, unable to tear her attention away from his retreating form.

As if on cue, it started snowing again. The little white flecks looked more like the ashes that spewed from the factory chimneys.

“This way, Miss.” Harry’s voice interrupted her musings. She blushed, feeling silly for mooning over a man she hardly knew.

Just as she was about to look away, she saw Mr. Shelby stop short. Anna’s heart skipped a beat when he turned around and looked at her from over his shoulder.

All was and quiet and cold.

#tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby fanfic #peaky blinders fanfic

[shoezuki]

i thought everyone had forgetten about the 'help i'm getting chased' clip! i know this can sound weird but if i wanted to i could do such a better job at cancelling people than the people cancelling them are. (but also that proves to me that they don't actually know techno content since they find the obvious easily found on the surface things)

SBODRBRIODDBDB YEA. TBH i think that clip is so fucking funny n im SO surprised no one used it as a weapon

Alas they will dig years back on his account but dont even watch any a his content or things w him in it huh

#anon #discourse