#but i don't endorse leaning into it or encouraging others to lean into it

[lexidius]

so when is the tumblr algorithm going to stop showing me alterhumanity posts from p-shifters already

[lemotmo]

I thought this was an interesting ask and a very interesting and true answer.

Q. Okay Ali, turn on your PR brain and sell Tommy to the audience. If he was going to stick around how would the show be selling him?

A. The obvious answer is Oliver. Everything would hinge on Oliver 's cooperation. A significant portion of their audience are Buddie or bust. The only way to have a shot at getting at least some of those people to move over would be Oliver going all in and selling it to them. He's not doing that. And him fully embracing it would absolutely be required to make it work. Not only is he not endorsing it or promoting it, he's counter promoting it. He's promoting the other ship. If Tommy was a long term plan they would have done this entire off season differently, whether Oliver liked it or not. They would have at least had one joint something together. One of the interviews Ryan did this off-season would have been done by Oliver and L instead. They would have let L continue is off-season activity. They would have asked Oliver to dabble, at least a bit, in the fandom and 'like' a post or tweet here and there. The journos would have been instructed to promote the Buck/Tommy pairing. And in turn would have been encouraged to stop the Buddie talk. None of those things have happened or are happening. He would also be at least present in some BTS content because people would definitely need to see him with Oliver. Instead we have Oliver and Ryan content. More so than ever before. Way more than ever before. We have Lou 'liking' very particular posts and, very publicly, ignoring anything Oliver related. Instead of trying to show that the pair get on and everyone loves everything, the show, and ABC, seem content with letting it be pretty easy to see that they don't seem to care for one another. None of this helps Tommy. Because all anyone is talking about are Oliver/Ryan and Buddie. That would be the opposite of a good PR campaign if their interest was in selling a different ship. They would need to distance Oliver from the Buddie chatter. Instead they've allowed him, and the journalists, to lean into the chatter. And Ryan has been heavily leaning into and promoting the chatter. Selling Tommy is not the goal and it's fairly clear.

It is an interesting ask. You're right Nonny! Thank you!

I'm just going to let this speak for itself. Ali explained it perfectly. 😊

IMPORTANT! Please don't repost this ask and/or a link that leads straight to my Tumblr account on Twitter or any other social media. Thank you!

Heads up! For anyone who is giving me the shifty eyes for reposting Ali's updates instead of reblogging. Read this.

Remember, no hate in comments, reblogs or inboxes. Let's keep it civil and respectful. Thank you.

If you are interested in more of Ali’s posts, you can find all of her posts so far under the tag: anonymous blog I love.

[destiel-wings]

Not only the fans but the show itself ruined their brother relationship 😝 "I've always laughed very loudly at the wincest jokes in the show"

I kind of get it. But for me, the worst thing the show did in that sense was Dean's death in 15x20. But even then, i didn't quite feel it "that way" when i fist saw it. At all. I was way more concerned by the fact that Dean was dying and that it was the final episode, and I was busy brainstorming what was gonna happen next. So even that scene wasn't leaning on wincest per se (in my opinion) but the problem is what that part of the fandom did with it, raising it up as their manifesto for their victory or whatever 😒😖

... which contributed even more to taint an already cursed finale.

Anyway I can't even watch that scene now. I mean i do, if i have to, but there's a part of me that cringes so hard at it.

I don't think the writers ever intended to put wincest in the show. I think they put the jokes there to appeal to that part of the fandom because in the end a network will do anything they deem can bring them more money, but it was just a nod in their general direction, without intent of endorsing it.

They encouraged it this way, and this is where the show is guilty, because there is some subtext there for that unserious reasons, but they also denied it repeatedly (see when Dean finds about it and is rightfully disgusted "do they know we're brothers?" And Sam replies "they don't seem to care.", or in the musical episode in s10, when Dean sees the two actresses that play Sam & Dean in the play and yells "Hey you! Don't stand so close to each other!").

Anything else the show did with Sam & Dean falls into the category of toxic/codependent and unhealthy. But it can be all those things and still not be in any way sexual.

I think it's easy to mix those things for us in the fandom now, unfortunately, because toxicity and negative things go very well together, but it's mostly because we've been scarred for life by the things we've seen by those shippers, and it distorted our perspective on the show and their relationship.

Like a virus.

[dizzy-and-hard]

I'm familiar with the concept of protest votes and safe seats. I've probably voted in more UK general elections than you have.

I'm not suggesting that if you vote for a party, that you support all their policies. I'm saying that if you make it known that support for genocide is not a deal breaker for you, then that's taken by the party as endorsement enough for their purposes. A reluctant vote counts just as much as an enthusiastic one, they don't care how you feel about voting for them. This is because everyone but you understands that your vote *is* your leverage. Withholding your vote is the *mechanism* by which you influence a party, if there are enough of you, and you let them know in writing why.

In many seats, pro-Palestine independents won or nearly won. Before the vote, someone with your mindset and attitude to voting would have called it irresponsible to even try to achieve something like that.

It was 5 seats out of over 600. It is also a different system to the US, where if an independent wins one seat, it ultimately still has an impact on the larger democracy. They also won the seats in Labour constituencies where the chances of a non leftist win were low, so tactical voting wasn't as necessary. It was also an election with huge odds on a labour landslide, so people had more liberty to vote for what they actually wanted to represent. I deliberately didn't vote for Labour because I knew I was in a safe leftist seat, which is usually labour, but if the vote was split, it would still be a left leaning candidate who won. My mindset 100% agrees with the people who voted independent in the UK elections. But the UK and US electoral systems and systems of government are not the same, so it is a false equivalent to draw parallels to my views on that and my views on US voting.

In a 2 party state, where you only vote for one candidate to be in charge, and both support genocide, but one is also a fascist, you don't have the luxury of voting so freely, in my opinion. I fully support US citizens voting for independents in their state representative elections. In fact, I actively encourage it, as a more diverse Congress and senate would only better represent the values of the country. In a presidential election of this magnitude, however, I do not think you can afford to split the vote. I think threatening to withhold your vote in this case won't work as they know you have no other real option to go for for president. We've seen that they won't blink on this, like in 2016 when they didn't.

I just think the risk of a split left and Trump winning is too great. As I said though, in another post, I hope I am wrong. We all have the ultimate same-ish end goal, so I hope we get it somehow. I just think it's too easy to suggest someone voting for one of 2 realistic options is complicit in a genocide.

I think we are better off judging people by what they've protested for, what they've financially put their weight behind, and what their ideals are than who they've voted for in what is essentially a 2 party presidential race.

[write-and-wander]

FAQs

some answers to some commonly asked questions, and a little more :)

general fic info:

the norm: - I tend to write in 2nd person or 3rd person POV, usually focusing on the relationship between an OC/reader (with which I avoid using Y/N) and a fictional character. I'm open to doing ships on occasion, but as an aspiring author, I enjoy the creativity of OCs more, so I lean that way. my boundaries: - I won't write for real people- only fictional characters. I also only write for characters I feel I know well; I like to try to keep characters consistent with canon. - I'm asexual, and feel uncomfortable with writing smut, so sexual intimacy will only ever be implied. however, I don't shy away from mature/heavy topics, so be sure to pay attention to warnings. - I don't endorse censorship or policing of any kind. this is fiction! remember: don't like, don't read.

schedule:

- I'm currently working on my doctorate in counseling psychology, and as with many fanfic writers, life happens sometimes. because of that, I don't have the capacity to commit to a writing schedule. however, I love what I do, so I write as often as I can!

asks & dms

- my asks are always open- I enjoy feedback, am happy to answer questions, and will always appreciate requests, along with just about anything else. I may not get to writing your requests (I can only follow inspiration when it strikes), but I appreciate it all nonetheless. obviously, harassment and spam are not tolerated. - DMs are always open for chats- so don't be a stranger!

fandoms:

- I tend to write for Marvel, Star Wars, and Baldur's Gate 3. I'm also a huge fan of The Witcher, D&D, DC, Critical Role, Attack on Titan, Invincible, and Lord of the Rings, amongst a variety of other things. I may post about my other interests intermittently, and will always reblog a good fic or fanart for my top fandoms when I come across them.

Ao3:

- I don't maintain tag lists; subscribing to my profile or my works on Ao3 is the best way to keep track of when I update works or post something new.

- I bookmark fic recommendations to my Ao3 profile if you ever want to know what I'm reading & what I recommend!

- my fics on Ao3 are locked (only visible to registered users) due to repeated issues with bots scraping & stealing fics. it's a means to do what little I can to protect my work. please be encouraged to take this opportunity to make an account! it only requires an email (even a burner) and grants you plenty of perks- like subscribing & bookmarks :)

etc.:

- this isn't my main blog, so I use reblogs, chats, and comments as often as I can. this doesn't mean I keep my main a secret; I just like to keep things organized by blog :)

- I try to tag things pretty consistently and thoroughly:

my miscellaneous posting will always be queued up under #queue sweet generous thing.

to support writers, I reblog my favorite fics here, queueing them up under #w&w fic recs.

finally, for the occasional casual/personal posts, I tag them under #w&w cleo.

feel free to filter out those tags if you just want to see my works.

That's about it- feel free to shoot me an ask if you didn't find an answer you were looking for :)

[rustedhearts]

Tough Guy (Boxer!Steve x Librarian!fem reader)

summary: after a violent fight with a stranger on the streets of boston, steve reaps the consequences of his own actions. you worry about the future of your relationship.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

♡ the steve collection ♡

warnings: blood, boxing-related violence, also regular but pretty intense violence, angst, physical fight, steve goes to jail :)

boston, massachusetts april 1990

Within the first two months on the road, Steve's career skyrocketed.

He went from a locally famous fighter to a national name. The endorsements started putting together press conferences before and after fights, and every time you watched him from behind a curtain backstage, sitting at those tables with a mic in front of him, sunglasses shielding him from the blinding shutters of cameras, it filled you with a jolt of pride. His hard work was finally coming to fruition. All the training, the dieting, the bruises and headaches—it was starting to mean something.

You sat front row at every fight, flashing sweet smiles of encouragement, leaping to your feet to clap, leaning forward to shout validations. Before every fight—once Steve ducked into the ropes and stood to his full, hulking height—he'd look off at you and press his puffy, gloved knuckles once to his mouth, then twice to his heart. You'd blow a kiss back in response, nodding firmly in affirmation. You tried not to get too sappy before a fight; Steve had to concentrate, he couldn't have distractions.

But Steve was a hard man to distract before a fight. He was always deeply engrossed in his own head, staring off at concrete in the dressing rooms, bouncing his foot while his knuckles were wrapped. He rarely even paused to press a kiss to your mouth; he couldn't get out of his own head long enough to think about it.

You didn't mind, though. Steve always made up for it in the hotel room afterwards. Purpled and blued with bruises, mouth scented of blood, hands warm and clammy and still a little shaky—Steve would work himself slowly between your legs until they were jello, until he had you gasping and mewling and he could barely hold himself up with his sore arms. But he never stopped. Not until you struggled to breathe and were too tired to move.

It was his way of saying 'I love you,' when words escaped him.

"Man, once we get to Vegas—I'm hittin' the slots," Mikey boasted from the passenger seat of the SUV.

You wished you would've been able to rent a bus, or some sort of vehicle large enough for the four of you. The longer you drove, the more cramped it started to feel. Right now, your head was in Steve's lap, one hand buried in your hair and the other rubbing your thigh. You'd been fatigued for days, barely able to keep your eyes open on long drives between hotels, gyms, and arenas. It didn't help that you were on your period and cramping like hell.

"Don't go wasting all that dough, Santorini. The kid's gotta keep this winning streak up if we wanna stay rich," Big chuckled behind the wheel.

Above you, Steve rolled his eyes. You fiddled with the strings of his sweatshirt, pulling them gently just to watch them bounce back up.

"Nice to know you have faith in me," Steve grumbled.

Big glanced at the pair of you in the rearview. "I do have faith in you, son! I'm just keeping you on your toes. Ain't that right, Libby?"

You hummed, reaching up to scratch your nails against Steve's stubbled jaw. "Mm, I think Steve's gonna keep the streak up. He's a winner."

Steve tilted his chin down to look at you, softening at the sight of your eyes blinking up at him. He huffed through his nose, dragging his hand through your hair and along the side of your face, rough and firm. His thumb caught the underside of your jaw, tipping your head up to angle your mouth to his liking. He bent slowly, pausing when the tip of his nose met yours.

"Thank you, angel," he whispered across your waiting lips, just loud enough for you to hear.

You grinned, wrapping your hand around his wrist. "You're welcome."

♡ ♡

After five hours on the road, you finally arrived in Boston. The entire car began complaining of thirst and hunger an hour ago, so your stomach grumbled with overdue need the moment Big pulled in front of an Italian restaurant not too far from the hotel.

"C'mon, baby." Steve jostled you in his lap, ignoring your whining protests.

He hauled you into a seated position by the back of your neck, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek before popping the door open. You huffed and puffed as you slid toward the open air, stomping your feet onto the pavement of the road. Steve grinned at your petulant behavior, yanking you close by the wrist to wrap his hand around your jaw.

"So pouty, baby," he teased, squishing your cheeks together and watching your lips pucker with amusement.

You furrowed your brows at him, eyelids drooping. "M' tired."

He pressed a quick peck to your squished lips. "I know. We'll eat, then sleep. Good?"

You nodded, and with another swift kiss to your mouth, he released your face and collected your hand in his grasp. You allowed him to guide you, woozy with exhaustion. The sounds of Boston—horns honking, people shouting, distant sirens—seemed muffled by blood rushing to your head. You hadn't been in an upright position for hours.

The restaurant was dimly lit, which did nothing to help rouse you from your wading state of slumber. They seated you at a table in the back, the heels of the waitress clicking hurriedly across checkered tile as she guided you to the table. By the way she smiled at Steve and bent over his plate to pour water into his glass, it was clear she recognized him. The sight of her breasts sitting on his empty plate like a slice of chicken woke you up—at least enough to glare at her and scoot closer to Steve, sliding your hand through the back of his hair.

The men lit cigarettes and browsed through the menu, and you leaned your head on Steve's shoulder while flipping through the laminated pages lazily. Steve flipped his lighter open and closed, the hiss of the flame quickly suffocated when capped. Mikey was talking about Vegas again, rambling about all the naked women he'd see and all the money he'd spend.

"When d' we go to Vegas again?" you murmured, rubbing your cheek on Steve's arm.

He tapped his lighter on the tablecloth, pulling the cigarette from his mouth to blow the smoke away. "Uh, end of next month. Why, you wanna try your hand at poker, honey?"

Steve rubbed at your hair, a scrunch of his fingers against the crown of your head that made you scowl. You flicked his hand away, huffing.

"No, m' just tired of hearing Mikey talk about it already."

Steve looked at Mikey across the table through his lashes, flashing an amused smile as he choked back a chuckle. Your generally sweet and quiet demeanor usually crumbled when you reached a certain point of exhaustion, and it was clear you were toeing the line now.

Big let his laugh loose, patting Mikey on the back. "You and me both, girl."

You sighed, eyes fluttering closed again. Steve ripped his cigarette away from his mouth again to nudge you up.

"Baby, you gotta stay awake."

You groaned, rolling away to sit up straight in your chair, though your shoulders soon slumped and your chin tucked toward your chest. A 'tired,' tumbled from your mouth, and Steve gently tapped his hand on your thigh.

"I know, baby, just a little longer. Want me t' order for you?"

You barely remember nodding, but soon there was a plate of angel hair pasta with shredded Parmesan sitting in front of you, a coke with lemon at your right. You sipped at it with a sigh, leaning your elbow on the table. You'd never felt this tired before.

You were so busy focusing on twirling the prongs of your fork into the mound of steaming pasta that you hadn't noticed the group of men lingering near your table. You were too worried about keeping a steady grip around the utensil, too tired to truly grip.

"Can we help you fellas?" It was Big that called attention to it.

You lifted your head from where it rested on your fist, turning to see the men at the edge of your table. Steve instantly pulled your chair a little closer. Sleep began to dissipate from the corners of your eyes.

"Ah you...ah you Steve Harrington? The Steve Harrington?"

Their attention turned to Steve, a finger pointed too close to his face for his liking. He instantly leaned away from it, eyes narrowing into that cold, empty look he gets when he isn't around the three of you at this table. You were the only ones who got to see a gentler side of him—the rest of America only knew his brick-wall personality.

"Listen, we're tryin' t' eat here," Steve gruffed, motioning toward your plates full of food.

The man was young, between your age and Steve's, his face red and puffy and alcohol stiff on his breath. He looked like he stepped right out of MTV, and you glanced sideways at the rest of his friends lingering behind him, tapping their ashes onto the floor of the restaurant without care.

"Oh, yeah, yeah, totally," the man stuttered. "Just wanted to say m' a big fan, man."

Big inched his chair out, preparing to stand when Steve placed a hand out to stop him. He turned his attention back to the stranger in the backwards baseball cap, nodding curtly.

"Yeah, I appreciate it. Now you wanna fuck off?"

You stiffened in your seat, knowing the sharp tone of Steve's voice meant his patience was wearing thin. In response to his abrupt shift, the other men guffawed.

"Whoa, man, I was just showing my ah-ppreciation. No need to be an asshole."

You saw it—the way Steve's head twitched the smallest jerk back, how the muscle in his neck bulged with a squeeze of his teeth together. You felt it next—his fingers gripping your thigh like a vice, sure to leave marks in their wake. You squeaked, reaching out to place your hand over his.

"Hey, man," Steve mimicked, parroting the man's accent, "I'm askin' you nicely to leave. You don't want me to have to make you."

The man stumbled back into his friends, head shaking with disbelief. His eyes were glossed with a drunken haze, and an uneasy chill whipped through you when they glanced your way.

"Whatever, man. Just some fuckin' fake anyway."

His friends tugged him away, and their descent toward the exit was slow and full of mumbled insults that all made you stiff and nauseous. When they were gone, Mikey scowled.

"Can you believe the nerve of those fuckin’ kids?”

Big sighed, shaking pepper flakes over his half-eaten slice of pizza, eyes narrowed on the door. "They're just looking for attention. Hey, you okay, Libby?"

All eyes turned to you, pale and queasy, poking at your pasta with the prongs of your fork. Steve let up on your thigh, rubbing the aching handprint on your skin. You nodded weakly.

"M' sorry, honey," Steve sighed, pressing a kiss to your cheek. "You okay?"

You flashed a tight-lipped smile, nodding again. "I'm fine, Stevie. I just...didn't want there to be a fight."

Steve picked up his pizza, ripping off a bite from the pointed end. Grease slicked his lips, made them shiny and pink.

"M' not gonna fight those fuckers. Just...eat your food, baby, c'mon."

♡ ♡

Steve managed to get you to eat half the plate of pasta and a roll of dense bread. You stumbled into the parking lot attached to his side, bloated with food consumption and still woozy with fatigue. You relied completely on Steve's solid figure to prop you up—an arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other hand ready to pick you up at any moment. Big and Mikey walked ahead, smoking another cigarette and chatting about what to watch on pay per view at the hotel.

You were just about to get into the car when a whistle shrilled from down the sidewalk. All four of your heads turned, finding the dark shadow of the same man from earlier, friends abandoned elsewhere. He continued to stumble your way with a glazed look in his eye, drunkenly determined.

"Hey, Harrington! Wanna talk t' ya, man," he called out.

You wrapped your hand around Steve's sweatshirt, anchoring him to you. Your other hand found the door handle, taking a sharp breath in.

"Steve, let's just go," you muttered. For the second time tonight, your sleepy haze dissipated like a cloud of smoke.

The man whistled again, cupping his hands around his mouth to holler at Steve. Big and Mikey were at Steve's side in an instant, crowding in close.

"Harrington, kid, don't do it," Big warned, voice stern and fatherly.

But you could see it in Steve's eyes—his face illuminated by the streetlight's yellow beam—that steely determination, the fiery stubbornness, his hungry need to prove himself. Steve never turned down a fight. He never stopped looking for one. All he needed was a tipping point—one thing to send him over the edge.

"What, you scahed, Harrington? All that tough guy shit on tv just for show?"

It wasn't enough, but it was close. Steve popped the door handle, nudging you toward the backseat. You fought his pushing hands, your own flying out to grab the door handle and the lip of the car. You held on with all your might, lip wobbling.

"No, Steve. Steve, please, it's not worth it," you begged, voice unsteady with panic.

Steve slipped his sunglasses from the collar of his sweatshirt, tossing them behind you into the backseat. The man behind him whistled again, clapping his hands together to amp himself up. Mikey ran his hand down his face, head shaking on the sidewalk. Everyone knew what was coming next.

"You should listen to her, Harrington," Big started, gazing at Steve over his shoulder. "You're givin' this guy exactly what he wa—"

"—yeah, that's right, Harrington, go cry to ya bitch."

Your eyes widened, heart thumping hard in your throat. Steve just smiled, half-lipped and sly. Your heart dropped. You were frozen as he cupped his hand around your jaw and kissed your head, barely even registering him ripping himself away with you until all you caught was cold air.

You heard the familiar crack of bones colliding before you saw it. It was like coming back to consciousness, like how you snap from slumber by the trill of an alarm clock. That violent sound ripped you from your frightened daze, just in time to see a body collapsing to the floor.

Steve stood over him, chest rising and falling with heavy, huffed breaths. He looked just like he did in the ring, massive and immoveable—dangerous and unhinged. He gave the man a second to recover from the right hook to his jaw before Steve was on top of him, pounding down hit after hit.

"Steve! Steve, stop!"

You leapt from your position in the backseat doorway, but a pair of arms immediately clutched around your middle. The barrier massive and full of tense muscle—Big, hoisting you up off the ground in a bear hug.

You clawed at his back and flailed your arms, kicking your feet and losing a shoe in the process. The kitten heel went flying across the sidewalk.

"Steve! Stop it!" Your throat was growing raw already.

Your vision of Steve blurred with the onset of hot tears, stinging your eyes already aching with exhaustion. You soaked Big's broad back, protests growing weaker the longer you fought his ironclad grip. Mikey was pacing the sidewalk, warding off people trying to intervene, doing all he could to avoid someone calling the cops.

But the 'woop-woop' of sirens was inevitable. Blue and red lights blanketed the street in flashing color. Your vision became a blurry kaleidoscope of figures and shapes, but nothing solid. Your hands were shaking, clasped around Big's t-shirt.

"Honey, I need you to breathe. Hey, can you take a deep breath for me?"

And then you were sitting on the curb in Big's lap, held like a child after a nightmare, struggling to breathe in time to the police officer's guiding gasps. Hiccuping breaths escaped you like stutters, and a slow turn of your head over Big's shoulder allowed you to see what they'd all been shielding you from for the past ten minutes:

A pool of blood on the sidewalk, a stretcher with an unconscious man wearing a neck brace. Even from this distance, there was no mistaking that the chunks sitting in the blood were teeth. There was so much blood.

"Wh-where's St-Steve?" you gasped, turning back to the officer.

He stood up again, previously crouched to accommodate your seated position. He rolled his lips together, hands finding his hips. He glanced behind you at Big, who nodded softly.

"Well, uh...your boyfriend beat a man half to death, honey, so...he's goin' to jail tonight."

All you could hear was the thump of your heart in your ears. You could feel it, too, pumping with such force that your throat ached. You thought your temples might burst open at any moment. Your stomach churned with sickness. It lined your cheeks with a sourness that gathered saliva under your tongue.

You swallowed once, hard. "Okay."

The officer lingered a moment, and with another nod Big's way, stepped back toward his squad car. The other one, the one your boyfriend was handcuffed in the back of, was already on its way to the station.

Big rubbed at your shoulders. "What do you wanna do, kid?"

Your hands were still shaking when they wiped at your cheeks, freeing them of sticky mascara tears. A sigh rattled in your throat with snot and more unsheathed tears.

"Sleep," you replied.

Big gazed off over his shoulder at Mikey, who was already on the phone with endorsements explaining what happened before they caught whiff of it through the paparazzi. They'd be here in no time with all the commotion on the street. Mikey looked at Big, shrugging his shoulders. Harrington did what Harrington did. Now he had to reap the consequences.

"Alright," Big sighed, patting your shoulders, "let's get you to sleep then."

♡ ♡

In the end, you didn't get much sleep.

You could barely remember what it was like to sleep without Steve pressed against your back. The bed felt empty and cold that night. You tossed and turned for hours, weeping into the pillow, and always moments away from calling your father to take you home. All you wanted was the safety of home, the security of Steve—you didn't have any of that right now. In fact, you'd never felt more terrified.

In the morning, you were like a zombie. Big and Mikey came knocking, carrying a cup of coffee (flavored with vanilla since they knew you liked sweet things) and a breakfast sandwich. You took one bite of the sandwich and could barely stomach half the cup of coffee. You looked paler than usual, and when they asked if you wanted to shower and clean yourself up, all you could do was shake your head.

Big managed to wipe your face clean and hand you a sweatshirt—Steve's, roomy and scented of Marlboros and pine cologne.

In the car, the backseat felt just as wide and empty as your bed.

"We already posted bail, but they want to set a court date. We gotta get ahold of that guy, see what kind of offer he's willing to take," Mikey rambled, elbow leaning against the door.

Big glanced at you periodically in the rearview. You hadn't said one word all morning, but he could tell just what you were thinking. How could he do this?

When you arrived at the police station, all you could feel was numbness. Your boyfriend was locked up behind bars in this sterile looking building, but you couldn't feel anything. Perhaps it was the exhaustion still puppeteering your body, weighing you down from truly feeling how you wanted to feel. Either way, all you could do was blink blankly at the barbed wire in the window, and wait for one of them to ask.

"Coming in, or staying here?" Big asked, and you turned away from the window.

You pondered it for a minute. Did you want to see Steve in there? Did you want to see him holding his belongings in a plastic bag, fingers smudged with ink from fingerprinting? Did you want to see him slumped on a bench in a cinderblock cell?

"It's fine," Mikey interrupted, "I'll stay here with her."

Big cocked his head gently. "That okay with you?"

You glanced up from your lap, nodding silent agreement. Big popped the door open and tossed Mikey the keys.

"Alright, I'll be right back then."

The car jostled with the slam of his door, and you instantly placed your head in your hands. Mikey rubbed at his mustache, shifting in his seat.

"Listen...it'll be alright. There's gotta be a number this guy's willing to take, and you won't have to worry 'bout Harrington going to jail, alright?"

A payoff. It was the only answer they could even fathom. There was no part of you that wanted Steve to go to jail, but that doesn't mean it wasn't what he deserved. It felt sick to cheat the system with money. You felt sick about it.

"It'll all work out," Mikey assured you. "Hey, here they come."

You lifted your head, wiping your cheeks and nose free of any sign of tears. You kept your gaze steady on your window, away from the windshield and Steve's figure trudging toward the car. The car jostled again with his arrival, sliding into the backseat. He smelled different, like stale cigarettes and sweat, a muted whiff of cleaning product. He didn't smell like him.

The car took off in silence, though you could feel Steve's stare burning a hole into your head. You caught his reflection in the window when you passed under a tunnel, and you pinched your eyes shut until it was gone.

"Baby," he whispered.

You captured your lip between your teeth and took a steadying breath. Steve sighed, reaching out for your hand, tucked into your arms crossed over your chest.

"Baby, plea—"

You yanked your hand away, knees turning toward your door. Steve's head thumped back against the seat, hands returning to his lap.

♡ ♡

At the hotel, you stood in the corner furthest from Steve in the elevator. Big stood between the pair of you like a statue. When you reached your floor and the doors dinged open, you stomped ahead of everyone silently. Steve followed, steps slow and small. When he approached the room, door open and still half full of your figure, you turned and slammed the door in his face.

Steve sighed, bringing an inked hand to the knob to turn on it. You locked it.

"Libby," Steve sighed, knocking gently. "Please let me in. I just...please talk to me."

You stared at the other side of the door, heart racing at the sound of his voice. His bags were in the corner near the chaise lounge, still fully packed and untouched. Steve knocked again.

"Baby, please."

You hurriedly turned the lock and scurried further into the room. You were on the other side of the bed by the time Steve opened the door and tiptoed in. He walked with an air of caution not usually present. His head hung toward his feet, shoulders tense. His hands found his pockets, concealing the swollen and purpled bruises painted across his knuckles. But you'd already seen—it was hard to miss: the blood crusted in the open wounds, the crimson stain on his jeans.

Steve walked closer, and when he came around the bed to reach for you, you jerked away.

"Don't fucking touch me, Steven."

Steve recoiled, lips pulled into a frown. You stomped toward the mini bar, grasping the edge of the glass counter. Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked with each passing second. Your heart was racing again.

"What were you thinking?" Your voice was so soft, but edged with disbelief and such horrifying heartbreak.

Steve felt like the world's biggest piece of shit.

"I don't know," he mumbled, running a hand down his face, drooping with exhaustion. "I just...I lost it."

You yanked open the mini fridge, bottles rattling and clinking together as you rummaged through them. You snatched a Ciroc, twisting the cap off and flicking it toward the wall. It pinged off, bouncing across the room. Steve stared at it while you tossed back a gulp, wincing at the sting.

"You could've killed him," you croaked.

Steve sank down onto the bed. "What, I was supposed to let that guy clown me? I'm supposed to ignore it?"

You whirled around, feverishly sucking more of the stinging liquid down as you paced toward Steve. He kept his eyes on his feet while you towered over him.

"Do you hear yourself? 'Me, me, me.' You don't think of anyone but yourself."

Steve's shoulders slumped, head tipping back to flash you a pleading look. "Baby, I was—"

You pointed a finger at him, rage suddenly replacing that numb emptiness from earlier.

"—and don't you dare fuckin' say you were doing it for me, because we don't lie to each other like that."

Steve's mouth snapped closed, jaw wired shut tightly. His nostrils flared, and then he was leaping to his feet with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes.

"I was doing it for you, Libby. You love to make me the villain, don't you?"

You scoffed, hands dropping to your sides, smacking against your thighs. "Well if the shoe fuckin' fits."

A moment passed. The words flew from your mouth like they'd been ripped; yanked like a tooth. Puffs of air made your chest ride and fall in quick successions. Steve's cheek ticked. He tore his hands from his pockets, bearing his bloody knuckles, and swept them over the top of his greasy hair.

Without a word, he stomped past you, snatching the plastic bag of his belongings from the dresser. You stood, stock-still, in the middle of the room as he fumbled for his cigarettes and lighter. He passed by again in a whoosh of air, yanking at the sliding glass door of the balcony until it gave way to cool morning air.

When it slammed closed, Steve sank down into one of the wicker chairs outside and lit the cigarette. Suddenly, you were left feeling like the bad guy.

Numbly, you moved toward the bathroom. The light buzzed for a fraction of a second when you flipped it on. Turning to close the door, you caught sight of Steve putting the heel of his palms to his forehead, hunched over his lap. You kept the door ajar by an inch—an invitation. Come in, let's forgive each other.

The water came out in a heavy stream, filling the tiled room with warmth. You stripped slowly, limbs throbbing with a tired ache. A small package of lavender bath bubbles sat on the edge of the tub, and you poured it in as you sank your feet into the water. It was a wide, oval-shaped tub—plenty of room, meant for two people.

Once submerged, you leaned your head back against the lip of the tub and closed your eyes. The water level rose higher with each passing second, coating your body in floral warmth. The faucet squeaked when you turned the handle off and cut the stream short.

A horn blared on the streets below, filtering through the balcony doors. Something thumped in the hall. Voices chattered on the other side of the blue tiles. The bathroom had blue carpet, the color of sapphires.

Steve smelled like himself again when he came in, hands scented of Marlboros. He kicked the door closed and leaned against it. You hadn't opened your eyes, but he knew you heard him. Your toe twitched in the bubbles.

He reached up and pinched the back of his sweatshirt, pulling it forward over his head. He toed his sneakers off, abandoning them near the door. His belt clinked, zipper snicking, denim whooshing as it fell down his legs. The water sloshed with his entrance—right foot, left foot, bending down until he was seated between your legs.

His hands slipped along the lip of the tub with a wet squeal, and by the time he was touching his forehead to yours, your eyes were open. Your legs mirrored his, pulled to your chest, making room for each other. White bubbles lathered on his arms, dripped from his elbows.

His hand was hot and dry when it cupped your cheek. "I'm sorry, baby."

You tipped your head, nose nudging his. "I know. Me too."

The water rippled when he brought both hands to your arms, skating along the length of them. You let your head fall where it wanted to, sliding away from his forehead to his shoulder. You rested there, letting his hands work over your body with tender care. His fingerprint ink disappeared in the water.

Steve pressed kisses to your skin, full-lipped and delicate. You shivered when he mouthed at your neck, the sensitive spot below your ear.

His apology wasn't enough to fix what he did. Mikey could pay off the man Steve nearly beat to death, but it wouldn't change what he did. He could never take this back. And you could never erase the memory of it from your mind.

You knew all this. But you loved him just the same.

♡ ♡

[meimeiherokitten]

I haven't really known how to feel over the last few months, but this is reasonably close.

I will always love Good Omens and Sandman (whose fandom has been pretty quiet), but knowing that the creator is...what he is... isn't happy news for me.

I met Gaiman years ago at a book signing. He squeezed my hand and told me to keep writing and telling stories, no matter what. I idolized him. Now I feel betrayed and icky and almost like giving up writing because he was the one who encouraged me.

I'm an SA survivor myself and feel conflicted in lumping him in with my attacker, even if that's where he belongs. But I stand with the victims, as i always will, even if it is against someone I so idolized in the past. The betrayal is painful and the horror is nauseating. His stories are undeniably a big part of me and even my writing style takes a lot from him. Reexamining all this in the context of what he did is...really awful.

And I feel so so sorry for Tori Amos, who was his best friend and worked so diligently to prevent exactly what he did. She has said nothing on it and i dont blame her. If we feel betrayed, I can't imagine what she feels.

Wgile some really wonderful work has come from really terrible people in the past, im not sure how much i can seperate right now. I will say at least he retreated out of literally everything he could, instead of very loudly leaning into the evil like JK Rowling and saying that anyone who likes anything he made endorses what he did.

I trust that David and Michael won't give us anything substandard. They love this material and each other and I don't think they will fail us. There is a sense now that Good Omens belongs to them and to us and to the memory of Terry Pratchett.

There's a lot of big feelings and awful stuff out there. And we are all processing and miserable. But let's see, let's hope, and let's continue on.

We will have our closure, for good or ill. Then it's done.

I have no idea what I'm trying to say here. *shrug*

I'm gonna go ahead and say it, because it's hurting my heart.

Perhaps Terry Pratchett wrote 75% of Good Omens the book. Perhaps the allegations against Neil Gaiman are true and he's a shite. Perhaps Neil Gaiman being off the show is the only way we even got those 90 minutes.

Without Neil Gaiman, we wouldn't even have Good Omens at all. He came up with the idea. We wouldn't have the show. He pushed for it. We wouldn't have the Bastille with Aziraphale all fancied up for his demon. We wouldn't have "You go too fast for me, Crowley," we wouldn't have "I lost my best friend." None of that was in the original. Neil added them in. We wouldn't have a kiss. Not even a peck. We wouldn't have an ineffable mystery game. No vavoom. No Jimbriel. No Muriel. No Bildad.

Neil may be a shit. But without him on the show, we won't have his storytelling. And frankly, every adaptation I've ever seen of his work has been lackluster for me. American Gods started out strong -- because he was on the show. And then he left to do Good Omens and American Gods crashed and burned.

You can feel how you want about the victims' allegations versus a TV show. And so can I. And I am deeply saddened by the loss of the storyteller who gave us so much. I think victims need to be heard, but I'm sad for me, too. I'm a writer myself, a devourer of stories, and those stories have meant a lot to me. Good Omens especially. To lose that . . . it just hurts. To know that it was lost because of harmful behavior by that storyteller -- that's a whole other level of hurt.

I'm not looking forward to the 90 minute movie. At all. And that has sucked all the joy out of the story for me. I don't want to watch it crash and burn. And I think it's going to.

Anyway. There's my downer for the year. That's why I'm off. That's where my joy went.

I'm still joyful about my own writing. You can find me at @melodytaylorauthor. I write about vampires and faeries and ghosts and magic.

Maybe I'll see you around.

[thorraborinn]

Just found your blog through that tomato soup reblog you did! I was wondering if you had any sources to help with going deeper with runic magic?

I have a not-quite-finished list of good stuff to read about runes here, grouped by topic: https://fallaistafi.altervista.org/reading-list/. I have a few things on there that are related to historical runic magic. I highly advise reading some of the stuff that isn't directly related to magic too, because it's extremely easy to be taken for a ride by someone claiming to be an expert if you don't have at least something of a grasp on how runes were normally used.

I can't really endorse much that pertains to contemporary runic magic. Most of it was invented starting in the early modern era, which isn't necessarily a problem, but the claims of being genuinely ancient are (intentionally or no) covering up a recent history of nationalistic and racist ideas later laundered by New Agers in the 60's and 70's, and then given enough of an academic veneer to fly under the radar of the developing heathen community in the 80's and 90's, plus occasional crossover with a resurgent nationalistic occultism. That is, it isn't bad because it isn't "historically accurate," it's just regular bad. Some rune people think this lineage is salvageable, but I lean toward "burn it to ashes and start over." I don't necessarily condemn those who disagree with me, and tbh my brain is probably too fried from researching völkisch mysticism to be objective, but I'm also not going to help them.

I prefer to encourage a practice that is a dialogue between reconnecting to old sources (in my case, from ancient times up to and including 17th/18th century Icelandic "folk runology", but most of this isn't translated -- I'm working on it), and actively, consciously exploring, experimenting, and inventing.

Whether you're with me in that, or if you're going to look to contemporary authors, start by reading "How the runes were lost and won" by Tineke Looijenga followed by "From Runic Inscriptions to Runic Gymnastics" by Heather O'Donoghue in the book Old Norse Made New. When it comes time to study the actual names and meanings of the names of the runes, accept no substitute for “The Significance of The Rune-Names" by Inmaculada Senra Silva. Read this even if you're reading other stuff on rune names.

I have a ton of shit in my #runes tag.

[sirthisisa-wendys]

Hey uhm I saw that ur request box is open if not feel free to ignore hehe but I wanna request a Sanzu x fem!reader where they're making out and he has a pill in his mouth and they you know uhm share it maybe hehe

Look I'm a Sanzu simp so naturally my tastes in fanfiction clearly ain't vanilla😂😂😂

I've actually been thinking about this since you sent it, and I've decided this is how I want to swing it.

Remember my little ducklings: I DO NOT ENDORSE HARMFUL AND ADDICTIVE DRUG USAGE IRL! This includes many illegal substances EXCEPT for marijuana (crucify me). If you want my full speech on drugs and my stances on specific drugs, feel free to inbox me!

I'm up at 1AM, so let's do this.

No Warning: Sanzu Haruchiyo x Fem!Reader

wc: 1.7k

tw: drug usage, NSFW

masterlist

song recommendation:

You first ran into your kid brother's former bully in an aquarium.

Your eyes were focused on the blue tang behind the glass, swimming to and fro, when you spotted the familiar baby blue eyes of a certain Sanzu Haruchiyo on the other side. You both tilt your head to the side at the same time, mimicking each other before you finally straighten up and he smiles at you behind his mask.

"Goody two-shoes." He sticks his hands in his pockets and walks around the tank to let his eyes roam over your body, obviously devouring your visage. "Wow, you look... different."

"Loyal mad dog," you retort, crossing your arms over your chest. "Fancy seeing you anywhere that doesn't involve beating the shit out of someone."

"Damn, what are you doing with all of that ass?" Sanzu asks, serious concern clouding his baby blues. "Last I checked, you were flat as hell."

"What are you doing sober?"

"It's only twelve in the afternoon," Sanzu shrugs. You give him a look and then turn around to keep walking away from him. "How's your little brother doing, y/n?"

"Great," you reply half-heartedly. "He's great."

"Still pissing his pants when he gets into fights?" You sigh, rubbing your forehead as people walk past you, eyes sliding from you to Sanzu before hurrying along. "Oh, sorry. Wasn't supposed to say that out loud, huh?"

"What do you want, Sanzu?" you hiss, turning to face him. "You don't just appear out of nowhere for fun." Sanzu raises a brow, but you roll your eyes. "I know what you're getting into these days."

"Fair enough," Sanzu walks toward you with his hands behind his back as if he were a shy little boy asking a girl to dance with him. "I need your help."

"With?"

"I know what you're into these days," he murmurs, leaning close to you. "Goody two-shoes turned into a blackhat overnight, huh?" You angle your head at him, and he removes his mask, showing his scars. "Tell me I'm lying and I'll leave you alone."

"What do you want help with?" Sanzu's eyes travel from yours to the top of your dress, then back up to your eyes.

"First, I have to take you to meet a few of my friends. Then, I'll tell you."

_____________________________________________________________

The restaurant is completely empty when you arrive, dressed in all black from head to toe. A man in a suit waves you past the glass doors and points you straight back to a set of wooden doors that are opened at the back of the establishment, revealing a few men standing at an elegant table. When you walk past the doors, five pairs of eyes flick over to you, and Sanzu holds his arms out.

"Y/n! You made it." You look around the room and determine you don't trust a single soul in the room, even Sanzu, and especially not the man who's sitting at the head of the table with dark bags under his eyes. Sanzu sidles up to you, cradling your waist as he points everyone out.

"There's Mikey, the Head of Bonten; Rindou and Ran Haitani, and Koko." You don't bother waving your hand and instead sit in the seat offered to you. Sanzu pushes you in and rests his hands on your shoulders, rubbing them carefully. "Tell them what you did last month." You look up at Sanzu and raise a brow, but he encourages you with a smile.

"I hijacked an entire nuclear plant's system and performed a ransomware attack with my team." There's no response from anyone, and Sanzu groans, removing his hands from your shoulders.

"I brought her here because she could help with a new stream of income." Ran clears his throat, then inhales deeply.

"Ms. Y/n, tell me, how much does it cost to employ your services?"

"Depends on what you want to get into."

"Could we get into a police department's systems? And if so, how fast?"

"Those are basic systems that don't require too much manpower. It would take my team about five hours to create and set the ransomware, but once it's done, it's done." Your answer seems to intrigue the brothers, but Koko and Mikey are still silent.

"How about I give you all the night to think about it?" Sanzu wonders, which earns a few shrugs around the table. "I'll walk you out, y/n."

As you walk out with Sanzu, he grumbles to himself, hands in his pockets.

"That was a bust." Sanzu ruffles his hair. "Thought it would get some heads turning at least."

"They don't understand it yet," you murmur, patting Sanzu on the back. "But they will soon."

"I hate that I wasted your time," he continues. "Can I least take you out for a ride?" You think about going out for a drive with your brother's former bully, but when you compare it to the shit you've already done, you cave.

"Why not?"

_____________________________________________________________

"Holy fucking shit!"

You're standing on the armrest with half of your body out of the sunroof of Sanzu's car, hair whipping around your face as he drives down an abandoned road. You feel like you're ten again, sticking your hands out of the window in your mother's car. But this time there's no seatbelt, no one to stop you, no one to prevent you from doing what you want.

You slip back down into the passenger seat, exhaling and turning to Sanzu, your eyes swimming. "I should do this more often."

"There's a lot of shit you should do more often," he advises, and you lean back into your seat, squinting.

"Like what?"

"Ever tried Molly?" Your smile fades instantly, and you shift around a little, pressing your lips together.

"No, never really got into the party scene. Too busy at the computer."

"Come on," Sanzu mutters as he pulls over to the side of the road. "Pure MDMA, no additives. Got one for you and one for me. Indulge me, goody-two-shoes." You watch him pull out a tablet from his pocket and put it in his mouth, then lean over to you. For a moment, you consider saying "no" as this really didn't fit your "image", but when his lips meet yours, you surrender to your darkest desires.

You kiss him back eagerly, biting his lower lip and pulling at it slightly before his tongue swipes out to meet yours. And you feel the tablet pass your lips and slide down your throat as he pulls away. He takes another tablet and swallows it this time, turning back to you before kissing you feverishly and pulling you on top of him.

"What if we get caught here?" you breathe between kisses.

"What if we don't?"

"Take me to your place."

"What, don't like car sex?" Sanzu asks, and you shake your head. "Fine. I don't live too far from here and we've got about twenty minutes before this shit kicks in."

It's a wonder you don't crash with how fast Sanzu gets you to his humble home nestled between two mansions on a private drive. As soon as you get inside, you start to feel warm, and a shudder works its way down your spine. You cling to Sanzu as he walks you up the staircase, your cheeks flushing a little as you whisper,

"God, I want you to fuck me so bad." Sanzu just laughs at your comment and lures you into a room, turning the lights down low before pulling you to the bed. You quickly undress, helping him once you're done wiggling out of your outfit. "Kiss me."

"'Atta girl," Sanzu mumbles, gripping the flesh of your ass cheeks as he leans down to lock lips with you. His fingers feel around your core, sinking into you once you spread your legs wide. "Soaking wet." You moan and clench around his fingers, jerking your hips up when he taps your g-spot. The squelching sounds your pussy makes as Sanzu's fingers work diligently at their task is enough to make the nastiest side of you blush, but you don't really care at the end of the day. All you want is for Sanzu to be deeper than deep inside of you.

But your orgasm comes early - and unexpectedly - a river of wetness exploding around his fingers as you groan and shiver underneath him. "Oh, shit," Sanzu mumbles, hand covered in your slick. "No warning, huh?" He doesn't wait for a response, instead pressing his cockhead at your entrance as you're still shaking. Your slick serves as the perfect lube for him to pump into you, working his cock inside of you slowly before going as deep as he can.

"Sanzu!" You clasp at his back and dig your nails into his skin, drawing a hiss out of him. "Sanzu, please..."

"Shhh..." He muffles your grunts of pleasure with his lips, sliding in and out of you rapidly. The smacking sounds of your flesh against his fill the room, along with your muffled panting and Sanzu's wet kisses. When he finally lifts his mouth off of yours, he leans down to whisper in your ear. "You like that, hm? Like feeling that big dick inside of you?"

"Oh my god," you whine, shuddering.

"Come on, don't be shy. Let me hear you, goody-two-shoes."

"Feels... good..." you pant, but Sanzu just shakes his head.

"Tell me how much you like this dick." The command is met with a few pants and grunts, but nothing of substance. "Ah, you're too fucked-out to even speak, huh?" You know you look wanton beneath Sanzu, legs spread, hair a mess on the sheets behind you, eyes half-rolled into the back of your head.

And you can't help it.

Shit, he makes you feel so fucking good.

"That's a good girl," Sanzu whispers into your ear and you come undone right then and there.

"Fuck!" Your walls rock against his cock rhythmically, and you have the pleasure of watching Sanzu's eyes close as he leans his head back and lets out a loud groan. His dick twitches inside of you more times than you care to count, but once he's done, he has to hold himself up to keep from collapsing on top of you. Sanzu rocks into you a few more times, then breathes out deeply, pulling out of you and stumbling back. You lay on the bed as he kneels down, face level with your spasming cunt.

"Push all that cum out for me," he murmurs, and you push, feeling most of it slide out of you before Sanzu stands again and parts your legs, rubbing your clit. "Good... Ready for round two?"

[missandrogyny]

At least harry did something, also I think it was clear he wasn't talking about Trump. Also don't discount harry attending BLM protests. Louis for example did nothing.

I mean, see the thing about him saying “vote with kindness” is that to some people it’s obviously not about trump, but to other people it also means something like “vote with tolerance” which sort of ends up meaning like “please love each other and accept who the other person voted” which. if other people try to vote a crazy man with neonazi and Xenophobic tendencies to become the head of the world superpower AGAIN, you are allowed to be mad at those people.

And I mean, yeah it’s good that he attended a BLM protest, absolutely. But so did Kendall Jenner and some of the Kardashians, and theyre still vague about their political leanings (which is who the post I screenshotted and posted was about originally). And that’s what the two screenshots are saying, like yes you encourage people to vote but in an election where there is clearly a lesser of two evils I think you’re going to need to endorse a certain candidate 🤷🏻‍♀️

[forsachididi]

It’s a child!

January 20, 2019 Boston, USA

Dear Sachi Didi, Congratulations! Wow-you're now a mother. The last time I was on this blog was on the verge of another major life event for you in the form of your marriage. And as I log back in to the blog, truly what a coincidence I find---I had written that blog exactly 5 years ago to the date!

*** It's been exactly 27 days since your child and my nephew was born. During these days I have often thought that I must fulfill what I had promised you to write a blog. However, often times I found myself procrastinating-not really knowing what to write. What is there to write and say about a topic where so much has been said and written about. And who am I to do so. I neither have a child of my own (none that I know of at least ;-) nor any significant experience working with them. What follows is a jumbled and rather random patchwork of my own thoughts either through my limited life experience or through the writing I myself have read on this topic.

Raising a child is a beautiful journey, not a test of your motherhood: Perhaps the first thing I want to mention is about the notion of "maternal guilt". Diana Evans in an article in The Guardian writes, "When a foetus starts living in a woman's body, the woman moves into the house of guilt. It's quite a big house." From the moment you were pregnant, as a woman you are told of do's and don'ts. This list is never ending. Sometimes these do's and don'ts are for yourself, sometime for the child and often communicated out of love. However, with this encoding comes guilt---guilt for all the times you're not able to live up to being the "perfect mother" or at least the world's conception of the "perfect mother". Times where the "do's" are not followed and the "don'ts" are. I hope that in the midst of this turmoil you're able to take every advice, even though they may be out of love, with a pinch of salt. Ultimately, this is your life and at least for now your child to bring up. Let no one make you feel guilty for the choices that you do make since no one but you is in the best place to make a judgement on the right and the wrong.  It is perfectly okay, in fact encouraged to make mistakes-to do what seems right to you, even though those around you may not agree. And remembering that raising a child is not a test/exam which you need to pass and get an endorsement of from your family or the outside world---raising a child is a beautiful process that you have now embarked upon and as such no one's endorsement is needed.

Make your partner an equal partner in raising the child: Our perceptions of what a marriage should be like or how a parent should behave is largely shaped by the observations we ourselves made of our parent's. Part of that reality has been that the mothers of our houses have often been the most involved in child rearing while the fathers have been out earning bread. And somehow we have continued to believe that this is the right and only way forward. I hope though in your own small ways you will find a way to change this. Child rearing must be as much a responsibility of Akshat Jiju as you. This means not just taking care of the child's financial needs, but also spending quality time with them. It starts early with changing diapers, spending time and eventually attending the school functions and being there for the child. Equally sharing this responsibility will also help with decreasing maternal guilt, since raising the child now becomes a shared responsibility. In her book "Lean In", Sherly Sandberg gives an example of the first time she had asked her husband to change their child's diaper. While at it, he was doing a poor job and Sandberg quickly scolded him, said he was doing it all wrong and then started changing the diapers herself. Looking back she said that this was a really horrible thing for her to do. Instead of teaching her husband to do it the right way and sharing the chore, she instead took that additional responsibility on herself. In short, instead of doing the work yourself, teach Jiju despite the mistakes he makes--so you may share in the equal raising of the child. Seeing his parent's do this would also help the child inculcate values of shared parenting responsibility.

Raise a child, not a 'boy': The first question that is often asked after a child is born is-is it a boy or a girl? And with the answering of that question starts the entire chain of codes that tell you how to raise a boy or how to raise a girl---not just how to raise a child. Blue for boy, Pink for girl. If it's a boy we will buy them cars and cool gadgets. If it's a girl we'll get her coloring book, painting-something artsy. At each step expectations are put on a child of what it means to be a boy or a girl. And how hard it is not to do so when everyone around you is. I hope in your unique and small ways you're able to free the child from such shackles. Along with the cars and GI Joes do bring a kitchen set for him or a nice pink shirt. Do teach him the artsy and the "girly" stuff. Let him explore his own identity and likes and dislikes and in so doing you will teach him a softer, more loving and inclusive definition of masculinity. As a male he will have undeserved privileges and powers and seeing a household where both his parents are raising the child equally and social norms of gender are not imposed on him will perhaps help him contribute towards a more gender equal society.

Being more than a mother: I have so often found that in the process of raising a child, the parent-more specifically the mother herself and her individual identity is often lost. She becomes, just a mother. Equally sharing in child caring will help you break out of this and continue to remain all the other things you are-including a highly educated, smart woman with her own personal and professional aspirations. I hope that when you do decide to reenter the work-force you're able to make that decision without any guilt. And I do hope you do so at the earliest and when you feel comfortable. This child is its own human being and letting it be the center of your world and attraction for too long will be harming both yourself and the child. Yourself because one day it will dawn on you that for the child you're no longer the center of his universe and for the child because the longer you do so, you will project your own aspirations on him and make it difficult for him to be his own being. One of my favorite chapter's in Khalil Gibran's book, "The Prophet" is on children where he writes that the first steps a child takes is a step away from its parent. He further writes:

Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

I do hope that I have made some sense in the prior paragraphs. Perhaps much of this advice is irrelevant, misinformed and not wise. I hope you take the parts that you may deem useful and throw the rest and not ever think about them again.

If nothing else, I just want to say I am so happy and thrilled to have become a Mama and I can not wait to see you and my Bhanja in person. With lots of love, Aditya