#fritzs flags.

[little-candy-store-of-horrors]

Hetalia Sticker sheets for a con/artist alley this weekend! Can you spot all the historical references?

[fnaf-flags]

The Chilean Flag picked from Fritz!

Requested by @dixxieboo977

[i-might-secretly-be-a-turtle]

Fritzcharic, an xenogender relating to Fritz Ludwig from Emesis Blue.

(Coined by me!)

Original:

[roseatebug]

"The best movie of all, a masterpiece of art called..

HUMAN CENTIPEDE

HUMAN CENTIPEDE

[hanna-water]

I'm not crying, you're crying. ❤

source: Instagram @trinelisethesapmi

[reportinglivefromfreddys]

GOD BLESS AMERICA 🦅🦅🦅🇺🇲🇺🇸🇺🇲🇺🇸🦅🇺🇲🇺🇸

RAHHHHHHHH!! MU RICA !!! LAND OF THE BRAVE!! WOOO!! * The Aftons, Jeremy, and Cassidy were not born in America. They decided to stay out of this.

[charliemwrites]

Bark, bark, snort, grrr

(The ex idea comes from @st-el-la-luna, absolutely brilliant darling ❤️)

Content: Voyeurism, Mild Injury, Possessive/Protective Behavior

Johnny, for all his quirks and… weirdly human tendencies, is an incredibly good sport. Particularly about letting you put him in Santa hats and wreaths, ugly sweaters and snow socks. He poses for every picture so dutifully, looks so serious and annoyed up until you plant smooches on his head or cheek and that silly lupine grin comes out.

He’s been your perfect little heater ever since the heater started to go on the fritz. It keeps shutting off or turning itself lower than it’s meant to be, leaving you shivering before you realize something is amiss. It’s not so broken that you’re willing to interrupt your solitude to have someone come fix it. But you’re grateful for a big fluffy body laying on your feet or snuggling under the blankets with you.

As the winter sets in, you tromp out with him in the snow a lot. Often use his sturdy shoulders and better footing as a crutch to navigate without slipping. He always gets fussy when you do, dancing in his feet and snuffling at your coat, urging you up.

One morning you wake up after a fresh snow, expecting that you’ll have to clear the driveway and porch - only to find it freshly shoveled and salted. It would spook you, except you’re sure Johnny would have woken you up barking his head off if it was anything to worry about.

Your mother calls about holiday plans in mid-November. You hedge around any commitments, hand buried in Johnny’s fur, saying that you don’t want to leave your precious pup at home.

The combined efforts of both your parents, your sister, and a cousin you actually like makes you cave eventually though. They promise it’ll just be family, that you can even bring Johnny. You grimace at that - debate getting him some meds from the vet…. But he’s been doing better on walks in town.

The weird assurance that it’ll “just be family” should have been a red flag.

When you arrive at your parents’ place, several gift bags and Johnny (with a bow tie on his collar) in tow, you find your ex there. On the couch. Next to your least-favorite cousin and your sister.

“What’s he doing here?” you ask sharply.

“Well, you two were engaged—”

Johnny’s ears shoot straight up as you tense.

“Yeah, and then he cheated.”

“People make mistakes. If you would just hear him out.”

“I don’t care what he has to say. And I don’t care what you have to say either.”

You drop the bags in a heap and click your tongue for Johnny. He falls in with you instantly, leaning up against your side. You get all the way to your car before you hear your ex’s voice calling your name.

You try to hurry, but there’s ice and the last thing your dignity can take is slipping right now. Luckily, you have the perfect deterrent before you ex can even get within arm’s reach.

Johnny snarls, so deep and loud you feel it in your own chest.

“Jesus!” your ex cries, coming up short. “Where did you get that thing?!”

“Johnny picked me. More than I can say for you.”

“Don’t be like that, I’m picking you now.”

“Oh, did your girl best friend lose all her daddy’s money?”

His cheeks light up neon. Huh. Got it in one.

Then he dares another step and Johnny lunges. You just get a hold of his harness but it’s enough ward your ex off a bit more.

“He’s very loyal,” you add. “Also more than I can say for you.”

“Baby, just listen—”

“An upgrade all around, I think.”

You round your car, climb into the driver’s seat with Johnny standing guard, then let him clamber over you into the passenger’s seat. At the front door, most of your family is gathered and staring. You flip off your ex one last time before peeling out of there.

The tears come after you’ve gotten back home. Johnny licks your face until you stop crying, then leads you inside. The two of you curl up on the couch together, his face buried in your stomach. You fall asleep there and dream of a man’s voice whispering love and comfort in your ear.

—

A week later, your ex shows up.

You’re out in the yard with Johnny, watching him zoom through the snow and laughing as he speeds by. Your ex must hear you because he comes round the side of the house.

And Johnny. Goes. Ballistic.

Literally, he hits your ex like a missile, taking him into the snow and snarling like something from hell. He’s got his teeth in your ex’s designer coat, ripping it to shreds. It’s frightening; you’ve never felt safer.

“Johnny!” you call. A growl. You walk closer, kick a bit of snow at both of them. “Johnny, down! Leave it!”

And he does, finally does, though not without taking a good chunk of fabric with him. Your ex, wide-eyed and pale, panting, doesn’t bother to say a word. He scrambles away while Johnny barks after him, all canine and spit.

You hum as he returns to you, fabric in his mouth, tail wagging.

“What a good boy,” you coo, taking the partial sleeve and inspecting it. Louis Vuitton, it looks like. “Very good. My perfect boy.”

You drop his prize into the snow and snort as he wastes no time peeing on it. Well, that’s gonna stay there. Forever.

“C’mon bud, you deserve a treat.”

Johnny follows you happily inside, a new pep in his step.

First | Previous | Next

Masterlist

[creature-wizard]

Is the spiritual person a conspiracy theorist? A list of red flags

They talk about a shadowy group of people supposedly manipulating everything behind the scenes. They might refer to them by terms such as globalists, bankers, international bankers, secret rulers of the world, the elite, the cabal, Kabbalists, Talmudists, satanists, satanic pedophiles, pedophiles, generational satanists, satanic bloodlines, the Illuminati, the Babylonian Brotherhood, lizard people, Reptilians, Orions, regressives, regressive entities, Khazarians, Marxists, cultural Marxists, or leftists. Sometimes, very rarely, they'll just come right out and say "Jews."

They claim that the conspiracy has been working to conceal historical and spiritual truths from humanity.

They claim that the conspiracy uses stuff like food, entertainment, and medicine to control the masses. For example, "additives in food suppress our psychic abilities" or "Hollywood films contain subliminal messages" or "COVID vaccines were actually created to alter your DNA to make you more docile."

Also, claims that the conspiracy controls people via spiritual or technological implants, 5G, or alter programming, with or without explicit mention of Project Monarch (a conspiracy theory promoted by far right cranks such as Mark Philips and Fritz Springmeier, who used hypnosis to respectively convince Cathy O'Brien and Cisco Wheeler that they'd been put under mind control by a global satanic conspiracy).

They claim that this conspiracy is controlling the media, has fingers in every institution they disagree with, and is generally behind everything they disagree with. (EG, the conspiracy created the Catholic Church; that other New Ager they disagree with is actually controlled opposition, etc.)

They claim that the conspiracy is trying to keep people in fear.

They claim that the conspiracy harvests something from people. Blood and adrenochrome are common ones. Loosh is somewhat less common. Expect to see something else pop up eventually.

They claim that the conspiracy practices genetic engineering; EG, creating animal/human hybrids, using vaccines to genetically sever people's connection to God, etc.

They claim that true spiritual wisdom can be traced back to places like Atlantis, Lemuria, or Mu.

They claim that world governments have secretly been in contact with extraterrestrials for years.

They appeal to known frauds and cranks, including but not limited to Erich Von Daniken, Zechariah Sitchin, David Icke, David Wilcock, Graham Hancock, Jaime Maussan, Bob Lazar, Steven Greer, Richard C. Hoagland, Fritz Springmeier, and Drunvalo Melchizedek.

Appeals to forged documents, including but not limited to the alleged diary of Admiral Richard Byrd, The Emerald Tablets of Thoth the Atlantean, and The Urantia Book.

Appeals to channeled information, such as that provided by Edgar Cayce, Carla Rueckert, or George Van Tassel.

"But all of this has to come from somewhere, doesn't it?"

Oh, it all comes from somewhere, all right, but the where isn't what most people imagine.

A lot of the stuff above is just a modern spin on the content of The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion, a Russian hoax created to justify violence against Russian Jews. The Protocols itself was plagiarized from a political satire and incorporated a lot of the post-French Revolution conspiracy theories about Freemasons and Jews being behind the French Revolution. I wrote a summary of the conspiracy tropes found in The Protocols over here.

The stuff about Satanic sacrifices and the consumption of blood, adrenochrome, loosh, or whatever are simply just variations on blood libel, an antisemitic conspiracy theory that claims Jews practice ritual cannibalism. Blood libel can be traced back to ancient Greece. (With the Greek version, I really can't help but notice the similarity to modern urban legends of gangsters kidnapping random people for initiation rituals.)

Many of these tropes can also be linked back to the early modern witch hunts. It was believed that witches sacrificed babies to Satan, practiced cannibalism, and put people under mind control by way of diabolical magic. It was also believed that some witches didn't even know they were witches; they'd go off to attend the Devil's Sabbath at night and come back in the morning without remembering a thing. In the late 20th century, this witch hunter's canard would be reinvented as the alter programming conspiracy theory when media such as the 1973 book Sibyl and its 1976 television adaptation put DID (note: the woman who inspired Sibyl did not have DID) into the public consciousness. For a more complete list of witch panic and blood libel tropes, I wrote a list over here.

Lemuria was a hypothetical landmass proposed to explain the presence of lemur fossils in Madagascar and India while being absent in continental Africa and the rest of Asia, because if lemurs evolved naturally, they wouldn't be in two separate places with no connection to each other. The discovery that India and Madagascar were once connected not only made the hypothesis obsolete, it precludes the existence of Lemuria.

The whole notion of Mu began with a horrendous mistranslation of the Troano manuscript. A man named Augustus Le Plongeon would link the mistranslation with the story of Atlantis, and use it to claim that Atlantis actually existed in the Americas. (For Plongeon, Mu and Atlantis were one and the same.) And then other people (like James Churchward) got their hands on the whole Mu thing, and put their own spins on it, and the rest is history.

Le Plongeon's ideas influence modern Atlantis mythology today; EG, the idea that it was in the Americas. Another guy who helped shape the modern Atlantis myth was Ignatius L. Donnelly, an American politician. Dude claimed that Atlanteans spread their oh-so-superior culture far and wide. He also claimed that Atlantis was the home of the Aryan people, because of course he did.

The idea that all of the world's wisdom can be traced back to Thoth/Hermes goes back to Hermeticism, a product of Greco-Egyptian syncretism. Hermeticism produced a fascinating body of mythology and an interesting way to consider the divine and its role in shaping human history, but that doesn't mean it was right. And the Emerald Tablets of Thoth the Atlantean is a modern text that has fuck-all to do with ancient Hermeticism and more to do with HP Lovecraft.

This idea that the conspiracy uses pharmaceutical drugs and vaccines for evil also has roots in Nazi Germany. The Nazi government, wanting to reserve real medicine for their soldiers, told the general populace that said medicine was the product of evil Jewish science and prescribed alternative healing modalities instead. (Said alternative healing modalities did not particularly work.) It also echoes the old conspiracy theories about Jews spreading the Black Death by poisoning wells.

The idea that the conspiracy uses genetic manipulation to create subhuman beings or sever humanity from the divine is a permutation of the Nazi conspiracy theory that Jews are trying to destroy the white race through race mixing. The idea of evil reptilian DNA goes back to the ancient serpent seed doctrine, which is indeed old, but no less pure hateful nonsense for it.

"But there's got to be somebody up to something rotten out there!"

Oh sure. But these people aren't skulking around in the shadows. They're acting pretty openly.

The Heritage Foundation has been working to push this country into Christofascism since the early 1970's. They're the ones responsible for the rise of the Moral Majority and the election of Ronald Reagan. They're also the ones behind Project 2025, which intends to bring us deeper into Christofascism. (Among many other horrible things, they intend to outlaw trans people as "pornographic.")

The Seven Mountains Mandate is another movement pushing for Christofascism. They intend to seize the "seven spheres" of society, which include education, religion, family, business, government/military, arts/entertainment, and media.

There's also the ghoulish American Evangelicals who support Israel because they think that current events are going to bring about the Second Coming of Jesus and cement the formation of a global Christofascist empire. Don't let their apparent support of Jews fool you - they believe that the good Jews will become Christians and the bad ones will go to hell.

All of these people are working toward monstrously horrific goals, but none of them are part of an ancient megaconspiracy. In fact, these are the kinds of people pushing the myth of the ancient megaconspiracy. From the witch hunts to Nazi Germany to the American Evangelical movement, if history has taught us anything, the people pushing the conspiracy theories are always the bad guys.

[local-hellhound-steals-spaghetti]

I love Fiona the Hippo, so I really liked your post highlighting her, but now I'm sad that Moo Deng is having a bad time. I did think it was funny she tried to bite that one handler's crotch, and I was worried that she's going to grow up to be an aggressive hippo that might hurt someone because they're just kinda . . . letting her bite people and how that'll end very badly for her, but it hadn't occurred to me that she was being mistreated. :(

It’s hard to say whether she’s being “mistreated” necessarily. I don’t like to throw around words like abuse when it comes to animal welfare because people use it way too lightly.

But there’s definitely a degree of stress she’s experiencing due to that handling. It’s so easy to find cute animal videos endearing and amusing when we don’t know what to look for.

I tend to try to assess things over multiple contexts and videos and form an opinion from there. The blatant smacking, grabbing, picking up and chasing were probably the best examples- but I only found most of those because TikTok kept shoving guest videos from the zoo onto my fyp.

The biting was another flag. Yes, hippos use their mouths to interact with their world but regardless of context it’s just a huge no no when it comes to handling any animal - especially a large herbivore that grows up with a bite force of approx 1800lbs!

Also I was looking for more videos of their adult Pygmy hippos and came across a video of one of the keepers using a water gun on one of them

Dude really? You’re going to post that on your official zoo TikTok and not have a think about the optics for your conservation message?

Yikes.

Also the adult Pygmy hippo very much avoids the keeper and either tolerates it or runs away from the water.

Interesting to see the open mouth while being followed/chased with the water gun while he tries to avoid it. A redirected threat display? A stress yawn? He just looks very much like he’s tolerating it.

It does make me wonder if this is another hippo raised with the same rough handling as Moo Deng and they’ve just learned nothing they do matters and to tolerate whatever comes their way. It’s pretty much learned helplessness and I don’t like that at all.

Compare this with Fritz the common hippo (Fiona’s brother) interacting with the hose - it stays in one place for him to interact with, is offered and then moved away so he can continue to seek it out if he wants more. He actively seeks the hose and can move himself around to where it feels best.

This is how you offer consent and autonomy to your zoo animals. Not chase them around their enclosure with a water gun jfc

[darlingshane]

Bartering 101

Dark!Shane Walsh x F!Reader

Summary: Shane drives a hard bargain.

Content/Warnings: 18+, Explicit, Dub-Con, BJ, Sexual Coercion, Degradation, Pet Names.

Word Count: 807

— Read below or at AO3.

A/N: Following AO3's tagging system – I chose not to use certain warnings to avoid spoilers. By clicking 'keep reading' you accept that you're aware of the mature and possibly triggering nature of those themes.

Shane Walsh is an asshole. That’s a fact. You were warned before knocking on his door, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

You needed to use a radio, and Eugene's was completely on the fritz. So the only alternative was to barter with the ruthless scavenger in the compound who had the only working radio that wouldn’t be intercepted by The Commonwealth.

“Save those for another time, sweetheart,” he waved off the ammo box you brought, rubbed a palm on his buzzed head before throwing back a glass of bourbon.

“But Dixon said-”

“Don't care about what Dixon said,” after placing the glass down on the table, he rolled the sleeves of his shirt. “My radio, my rules.”

“What do you want then?”

His lips curled into a vicious smile while his hands moved to unbuckle his belt, “your mouth.”

“That's ridiculous, Walsh. That wasn't the deal.”

“Like I said, my radio, my rules. Tell me, sweetheart, how bad do you need to use it?”

“Not that badly,” you scoffed, throwing the ammo back into your bag.

“Are you sure?” He sauntered in your direction with his fly half undone, forcing you to back up until your back touched the wall.

His hands braced the wall on either side of your head, caging you, as you gulped down the lump lodged in your throat and let the bag in your hand thud on the floor.

He licked his like lips, tilted his head to the side while you took a moment to consider whether it was worth it to accept his disgusting offer. The truth was that you really needed to make contact with your friends that traveled outside the walls. You had information that could save their lives, and couldn't leave his fucking apartment without using the damn radio.

For a second, you entertained the idea of picking up the knife in your belt, shoving it in his neck and letting him bleed out before dragging him out to the woods at night. But Shane Walsh didn’t mess around. No matter how skilled you thought you were, he had the upper hand and wouldn’t hesitate on crushing you like a bug before you could draw your blade.

“I work at the hospital, I could get you pills. The good kind.” You tried one more time.

“Uh-uh, I already have my eyes on something else,” He cupped your chin using his thumb to tug on our lower lip. “C’mon, I’ll make it quick, sweetheart. I promise.”

Swallowing your pride, you let your back slide along the wall until you were down on your knees.

“Attagirl. I knew you couldn't say no to a cock with lips like those.”

“Go to hell,” you gritted between teeth as he whipped out his half hard erection in front of your face and waved it like a flag.

“Already there,” Shane scoffed, pumping his hardness a couple of times before haphazardly shoving it into your mouth without a warning.

His bulbous head was already wet when it pried your lips open. It immediately made you sick to your stomach when it touched the plane of your tongue.

You had to remind yourself that it was for a greater good to keep your jaw slacked instead of biting his thing off.

“Hey! Make a fucking effort here, or there'll be no radio,” he scolded, grabbing harshly on your chin.

You inhaled deeply, wrapped your lips tighter around him, and bobbed your head for his pleasure. He grew firmer as you did, and you tried not to gag when his head grazed the back of your throat.

“That's it. That's the stuff,” he lewdly grunted, looking down on you, pushing his fingers in the hollow of your cheeks. “Good God, look at you. You're such a little whore.”

Admittedly, being degraded in the right situations always turned you on. In a case like this, you hoped it wouldn't happen. You tried your best to keep your composure, but for whatever fucking reason your body wasn’t immune to his power play, and soon you started feeling that tingle that brought some wetness between your legs.

You hated that.

Digging your nails on your thighs, you squeezed your eyes shut and tried not to focus on your own arousal but his. You could tell how much he loved it by the lascivious taunts, and those swollen, throbbing veins that pulsed hard between your lips.

“Oh, Jesus Christ! Keep your head still, sweetheart, I wanna fuck your mouth now,” he gripped at your hair, and kept the back of your head pressed against the wall as his hips started pushing relentlessly into your mouth as deep they could. That time made you gag. He didn’t care, he kept going. Forced his load deep in your throat and didn’t pull back until you swallowed every drop.

[steddie-island]

Mutually Beneficial

After seeing this art by @2jihiir0, inspiration struck and I wrote a thing. This isn't what I usually write, I hope I did your art justice and that you like it as much as Steve likes Eddie being a little mean. 😅 Words: 1,237 | Rating: E | Tags: Age gap (Older Eddie Munson, Younger Steve Harrington), Mean dom Eddie, Choking, Possessive Eddie Munson, Top Eddie Munson, Bottom Steve Harrington See ao3 for full list of tags

“Oh my god –”

It had started innocently enough, with Steve getting kicked out as soon as he’d graduated and with Eddie Munson, town outcast, advertising a room for rent and a kid who needed a sitter. Moving in would be mutually beneficial. 

"Eddie, please–”

The trailer was different from what Steve was used to. The water heater was always on the fritz, it leaked when it rained, and sometimes it smelled like weed and whiskey, but the rent was cheap, his bed was comfortable, and Eddie’s kid was an angel. The sweetest little girl with big brown eyes and a head full of curls that matched her daddy’s. Steve loved her, loved watching Eddie with her and seeing how his whole demeanor changed when she was awake. He was a Doberman and she was the person he would cut the world down at the knees for. He looked at her so fucking tenderly. 

Sometimes Steve caught Eddie looking at him like that, all soft and tender. When he was feeding Rhiannon, or when Eddie would come back from a business deal (Steve wasn’t stupid, he had his suspicions about what went on but he wouldn’t ask. He just knew Eddie left with an empty wallet and returned with a big wad of cash) to find the two of them reading on the couch together. 

Eddie’s eyes didn’t stay soft like that when it was just the two of them. When they were alone his gaze would go almost sharklike as he sat back against the couch and watched every move Steve made.

Steve would catch him, would flush hot from head to toe. And maybe someone else would’ve seen it as a red flag, as a caution sign, but Steve had never been very good at listening to the warning labels.

It came to a head one night while Steve was cleaning up the kitchen after Rhiannon had been put to bed. He didn’t have to catch Eddie to know those dark eyes were on him, he could feel it like a physical pressure between his shoulder blades. And then it wasn’t just those eyes he could feel. It was big hands on his slim hips, Eddie’s chest against his back.

“You’re a pretty thing when you get all pink and shy,” Eddie had murmured. He smelled like the whiskey he’d been sipping since before dinner. “I keep wondering how far down your blush goes…” 

Steve’s knees had nearly given out as Eddie’s fingers slipped under his t-shirt, then down beneath the waistband of his pajama bottoms. “I got a feeling it goes all… the way… down.” His hand, so rough and big and hot , wrapped around Steve’s dick, made him whimper with how tight his grip was.

A kiss was pressed to his throat while Eddie’s thumbnail caught at his slit, making his hips jerk. 

“Pretty thing, why don’t you let me find out for myself, hmm? You take care of me… and I’ll take care of you.” As if to prove his point, Eddie had hit his knees. He’d bent Steve over the counter, had licked him long and deep and made him come twice with his mouth and his fingers, all before Eddie’s dick was ever inside of him.

Really, how was Steve supposed to argue with that?

“Use your words, sweet boy,” Eddie murmured. He was sitting with his arms spread across the back of the couch. His pants were open, his tanktop rucked up to show off the tattoos over his stomach.

And Steve was fucking himself down onto that thick cock. 

“Please– oh god, please –”

“You said that already. Please what, baby?” Eddie threaded his fingers into Steve’s hair, tugged in a way that made Steve whimper and his dick twitch against his belly. “I told you we have to make it quick. Can’t make it quick if you don’t use your words and ask for what you need, huh?”

Steve bit down another sound as he tried to lean forward, to get his mouth on Eddie’s. “Touch me,” he begged. Just having Eddie inside of him wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough and Eddie knew that. “Don’t be mean–” “Angel, we both know you like it when I’m a little mean.” Eddie’s hand slipped down to Steve’s shoulder blade, to one of the deep bruises he’d left as he’d pounded Steve into the mattress the night before. “Don’t you?” “Ed–” Steve gasped as Eddie’s hand dropped down from his back and between his asscheeks. He was loose, open, had already taken Eddie twice that morning, too, and had the mess left in his underwear as proof. It was so easy for Eddie to shift just a little and have a finger sliding in right alongside his cock. “That what you wanted, pretty thing?” Eddie snapped his hips up once and Steve had to catch himself against Eddie’s chest. “God, look at you. So fucking greedy. So desperate for it, aren’t you?”

“Yes–” Steve was sobbing. He felt rattled, exposed, stretched so fucking wide in a way that only Eddie had ever done to him. “Please– more–” Eddie’s other hand was on his throat then, squeezing until Steve could barely get a sound out, until his eyes were rolling into the back of his head from how goddamn overwhelming this was. “I told you to be quiet, didn’t I?” Teeth dragged over Steve’s jaw, down below his ear. “It’s like you want the whole world to hear what I’m doin’ to you, like you want them to know how much you like being a slut for me, huh? How much you like being mine ?” Steve could only nod and rock that much harder. Too much, too fucking much and yet not enough to push him over the edge– Eddie slipped a second finger inside and drove up hard again, again, steady thrusts that hit his prostate and had sparks going off in Steve’s brain. He could only sit there and take it, take everything this beautiful monster of a man wanted to give him and then some.

“Are you gonna be quiet if I let go?” Eddie asked. “Are you gonna be my good boy?” Steve nodded. Eddie’s fingers loosened. And with a stifled, broken cry, Steve arched his back as his orgasm rushed through him so hard it almost fucking hurt. Eddie’s fingers were out of his body, a hand was in his hair to guide his face into Eddie’s neck. He smelled like sweat and whiskey, and being pressed there muffled the noises Steve made as Eddie fucked into him roughly again. 

Eddie barely made a sound as he spilled into Steve’s body for the third time. 

They sat there, letting sweat and tears and come dry on their skin, until Steve had stopped shaking and could formulate a full sentence. Eddie would kiss him, tell him how sweet he was before he found Steve’s underwear and track shorts where they’d been thrown aside. When Steve’s legs regained feeling he would get his clothes on. 

Eddie would tuck his cock away. 

And before Steve was allowed to settle back down with his legs in Eddie’s lap, two more tally marks would have to be added to their ongoing count. One, in pencil, to the wallpaper behind the couch. And one in permanent marker to the inside of Steve’s thigh.

A brand for the two of them– for Eddie – to see. 

[fritzes]

listen guys I am not patriotic except when taylor fritz is pointing at the flag on his shirt during the olympics

[ginandoldlace]

Photograph showing Queen Victoria driving in an open-top landau carriage with her daughter, Princess Beatrice, and granddaughter, Princess Helena Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein. The photo was taken in Cowes on the Isle of Wight, on 27th July 1897 as part of her jubilee celebrations.

Queen Victoria wrote of the day in her journal:

“Very fine morning, still very windy. - After breakfast was photographed in the dress & bonnet I wore on June 22d. Then I sat in the tent. — Tea out with Beatrice, Thora & little Leopold, after which drove across the Ferry to West Cowes, with the 4 ladies following in a 2’ carriage, the Gentlemen having gone on before as yesterday. The town was beautifully decorated with flags & flowers. & quantities of flags hung across the streets. On the Parade which has been widened a stand had been erected, where all the leading people of the town were assembled. There was a Guard of Honour of the Isle of Wiaht Volunteers, & men of the Fire Briaade were posted round the stand. I had an escort of the Hants Carabineers. A choir of 200 from different churches & dissenting Chapels sang the special Hymn, but were placed too far off to be well heard. An address from the Town Council was then presented & I said a few words of thanks for the hearty reception that had been given me, - spoke with affection of my Island Home. Drove as far as Egypt point & then back again through the town. A number of old people were drawn up in the churchyard, & a great many people were out. On the Esplanade the Pipers were stationed & played again. - Louisa A., Bertha L., Sir Norwell Salmon, Sir E. Commerell, Sir F. Edwards, Capt: Acland, & Fritz Ponsonby dined. -“

Swipe to see the full image, which possibly shows the choir the Queen described.

[tf2incorrectquotes]

The Smoker: It’s a white flag, for when you start waving-

Fritz: *eyes glowing blue* THE ONLY THING I’LL BE WAVING IS YOUR DECAPITATED HEAD ON STICK IN FRONT OF YOUR WEEPING MOTHER!

The Smoker: *cigarette drops to the floor from shock*

Jane: Good lord…

[pupsmailbox]

STARTING WITH F

MASCULINE︰ fabian. falan. falcon. families. faris. farley. faron. farrell. felipe. felix. fenix. fenton. ferdie. ferdinand. ferdy. fernando. finlay. finley. finn. finneas. finnegan. finnian. finnick. finnigan. finnley. fischer. fisher. fitz. fitzgerald. fitzroy. flanagan. fletcher. flick. flint. florence. floyd. flynn. ford. forest. forrest. fortune. foster. fox. fran. francesco. francis. francisco. franco. frank. frankie. franklin. franny. fraser. frazier. fred. freddie. freddy. frederic. frederick. fredrick. fredy. freeman. fulton. fynn.

FEMININE︰ fabiana. fabiola. fae. fahari. faiga. faigy. faith. faithe. faiza. fall. fallon. fallyn. families. fancy. fannie. farah. farrah. fatima. fatimah. fatoumata. fawn. fay. faye. fayla. felecia. felicia. felicity. fenton. fern. fernanda. ferne. fiadh. fina. finlee. finleigh. finley. finnley. fiona. fiora. fiorella. fleur. fleurette. flor. flora. florenca. florence. floretta. florrie. florry. flossie. flower. fortune. fraidy. fran. francene. frances. francesca. francine. francis. francisca. frankie. frannie. franny. freda. frederica. freida. freya. freyja. frida. frieda. frona.

NEUTRAL︰ fable. fabrice. fae. faint. fairy. faith. falcon. fallen. fallon. false. families. fang. fantasia. fantasy. fargo. farley. farren. farris. fate. favor. fawn. fay. faye. fears. feat. fee. felice. felix. felony. felt. fem. fen. fence. fenix. fenyx. fern. fernley. ferocity. ferris. fiction. fig. figure. fin. finally. finch. finder. findley. finish. finite. finlay. finlee. finley. finn. finnick. finnlee. finnley. firefly. firework. firey. fisher. flag. flail. flair. flash. flax. flight. flint. flip. flood. flora. florentin. florentine. floret. florian. floris. florry. flow. flurry. flux. flynn. focus. forest. forever. forfeit. forlorn. forrest. fortune. foster. fox. fran. francais. frances. francis. frankie. fraud. freddie. free. freedom. fresh. frey. friday. friso. fritz. fritzy. frost. fuschia.

[jomiddlemarch]

When we fight, we win

Distantly, over the playlist you’d been singing along to with your hairbrush as a mic, the steam in the bathroom flattering both the wobble of your high notes and in the mirror, the jiggle of your upper arms as you toweled your hair dry, you heard a bell ringing. 

Not the landline your great-aunt Myrna had insisted on when she gave you the house for a song or roughly what you made teaching two credits of French lit at the community college. A chanson. Not the dryer, which had been on the fritz for the past six months, making you look at out at the postage-stamp sized backyard with its ratatouille themed straggling raised beds of eggplants, tomatoes, and peppers, and try to envision a clothesline along with the imaginary chiminea and swing you’d thought would be perfect, if you could ever justify putting any cash towards anything other than your student loans or measly retirement fund or taco Tuesdays at the dive bar six blocks away.

Not the jingle bells on the Christmas tree stuffed toy you’d gotten for your persnickety calico Bel-Gazou, who generally couldn’t be bothered to do anything unless sardines were involved.

It was the doorbell. 

And as much as you wanted to ignore it, it was possibly the repairman for the dryer, who said he might stop by but not to count on it.

You had no clothesline, and you did not want eau de mildew scenting your bedlinens again. Bleach had worked but then it had taken a good six washes before the lavender in your dryer balls conquered the smell of Clorox.

You got your wet hair bundled up in a clip, threw on cut-off shorts and a passably clean tee-shirt of some impossibly ancient vintage, likely your own freshman year when every pizza party and ice cream social seemed to have a commemorative shirt you grabbed because why not. You were barefoot but the doorbell rang again and you weren’t about to miss having the dryer fixed.

It was not Matteo, the regular guy, who couldn’t quite grow a mustache but hadn’t stopped trying.

It was not Ray, the old guy, the owner, who sometimes answered the phone and sounded like he’d swallowed an ocean’s worth of rotgut whiskey.

It was a stranger, a rangy guy in a worn pair of jeans with salt and pepper hair, flanked by two tween girls carrying clipboards, all three of them wearing navy Harris for President tee-shirts. The taller girl had her hair in puffs with American flag themed ribbon bows. The shorter one wore what appeared to be the oldest pair of Converse sneakers in the known universe.

“Good mornin,’ ma’am,” he said. You’d opened the door partway and you might have backed away, shaking your head, except for the hopeful look in the girls’ eyes and the purposeful cheer in his voice, which you could tell was not his regular tone of voice. He was Being a Good Role Model and possible also Being a Good Dad and it was already hot and you were going to vote for her anyway.

“Good morning,” you said. “What can I do for you?”

“We’re doin’ some canvassin’ today, for the Vice-President,” he said.

“Kamala Harris,” the older of the two girls said. Her skin was darker than his but she had something of him around the eyes, looked to be his daughter or niece, where the other kid, scrappy and built more compactly, seemed unrelated, maybe a friend or his girlfriend’s kid. 

“She’s running for President,” the scrappy one said. “Are you registered to vote?”

“Ellie, sweetheart, you don’t have to rush,” the man said.

“She looks like she’s about to slam the door in our faces,” Ellie retorted. She blew out an exasperated breath that didn’t budge the bangs stuck to her sweaty forehead. You wondered whether you ought to offer them some iced tea. Then you wondered if you had iced tea in the fridge. 

“No she didn’t, but she might now,” the other girl said, rolling her eyes. The eyeroll said they were relatives, possibly cousins, most like sisters.

“She wasn’t and she won’t,” you said, smiling at them all, ending with the man, giving him the Patient Smile of the Experienced Educator. He countered with a grin that said Can I buy you a drink, darlin’? and not the I know, kids these days one you’d been expecting. You wished, fleetingly, you’d put on some Black Honey lip-gloss or mascara. You wished that you had mascara that was not old enough to vote in the medicine cabinet of the Craftsman’s one full bathroom, where your 80s playlist was still belting out not to stop believin’. You willed the hair clip to stay clipped. 

“I am, registered, I mean. I just checked again last week, because they’ve been doing weird stuff, taking people off the voter rolls. It said online to check, so I did. But it’s a good question to ask,” you said, nodding encouragingly at each girl. Ellie narrowed her eyes at you but the other one smiled back. There was a moment of relative silence or at least, no one spoke. Saturday morning rumbled on, the sound of yardwork and radios playing in open windows, the very self-important terrier across the street barking a warning at a butterfly.

“Do you know your polling place?” the man said, both girls apparently derailed from their script.

“Yeah,” you said. “The middle school, over on Washington.”

“He could’ve been a king,” Ellie volunteered. “George Washington? Everybody liked him, he could’ve just kept on being in charge but he didn’t and that’s why we’re here.”

“Because of George Washington?” you said.

“Because of Kamala Harris,” the other girl said. Bel-Gazou, who didn’t like strangers at the best of times (which always included sardines and which obviously didn’t include this very sardine-free moment), meowed loudly. Audibly. You shrugged. Bel-Gazou was a calico with Big Cat aspirations. The girl gave you an appraising look. “Kamala, she stands up for everyone, including cat ladies with no kids.”

“Sarah!” the man exclaimed, almost choking. You were also almost choking, but with laughter.

“It’s okay,” you said. “I only have one cat, but no kids, so I guess I count. She’s got my vote—”

“You mean, we don’t have to ask what issues are most important to you?” Ellie said. There was a definite note of disappointment in her voice. 

“Duh, no, she already said she was on our side,” Sarah muttered.

“Reproductive rights. And climate change,” you said. “But you don’t need to persuade me. I appreciate you getting out there, volunteering.”

“We can’t vote,” Ellie said, frowning. “But we can do this.”

“You sure can,” you said.

“You wanna join us? Campaign’s lookin’ for more canvassers. They haven’t given up on turnin’ Texas blue. Or maybe purple,” the man asked. He had dark eyes and a wonderfully rumpled look, though he smelled good. So, so good and let’s face it, the grey in his hair was a turn-on. He was only asking you to volunteer, nothing else, no matter what your ovaries had to say about it.

“Maybe,” you said. “You need my email address? My cell?”

“I have a pen,” Ellie said, shoving a clipboard in front of you. Sarah huffed a little. You wrote your email neatly enough he could read it, though it would probably break all sort of rules if he texted you later that day, some sort of violation of canvassers’ HIPAA or whatever.

“I’m Joel, by the way. These are my girls, Sarah and Ellie. We’re canvassin’ for the rest of the day, then they’re going to a sleepover at their uncle’s. He takes them Saturday nights when I play gigs at Paloma’s,” he said.

“Oh, that sounds fun,” you said, pretending to yourself you meant the canvassing or the sleepover, not the idea of Joel playing something, maybe a guitar, singing covers of Johnny Cash.

“He’s single,” Ellie offered.

“But he’s got no game,” Sarah added. She glared at her father. “We’re supposed to be getting voters to say they’ll vote for her, for Kamala, not wasting time. This isn’t a meet-cute—"

Joel grimaced. His mouth was still screwed up in a wince, but his eyes were warm.

“If I’d been an undecided voter, you would have spent all this time talking to me anyway. And I said I might do some volunteering. I already write postcards with some other people over at the library on Tuesday nights, but I could try canvassing. Get out of my comfort zone,” you said. 

“That’s true,” Ellie said. 

“I’ve never written postcards, besides the wish-you-were-here kind,” Joel said. 

“Maybe, if you have a break tonight at Paloma’s, I could tell you about it. Bring a couple,” you said.

“Can kids write the postcards too?” Sarah asked. 

“Definitely,” you said. “You get a list of addresses and a message to write. You can write on your own or with your friends. No cursive, only printing, so anybody can read them.”

“Better with a friend,” Joel said. “We’ve got to be going, we’ve got another twenty doorbells to ring but Paloma’s. Eight. I’ve got decent handwriting.”

“Maybe I’ll see you there, then,” you said. 

“Hope so,” Joel replied. 

You smiled at him, watching him easy with his daughters, the sunlight catching the edges of the clipboards, Kamala Harris’s name bold across his chest. Hope was no longer something in short supply.