#home being place I live in this context

[distributedbyrustyquill]

Life is so much Better when I’m not at home 😁

[torgawl]

i think what hits most about nobara's backstory is everything that's left unsaid and peaks from between the lines. it's the fact you can easily infer that something was wrong without ever having clear answers on what exactly was wrong. but if you can relate to the feeling of wanting to escape a place and the alienation from everyone around you, especially when you're brought up in small communities, then you can certainly understand, if not fully then partially, nobara herself and the struggles she might have had to face all by herself for a very long time; maybe even the importance fumi and saori had in her life and the pain from having to part from them; and, perhaps the selectiveness in letting people in that she later on develops as well.

[pepprs]

having some time alone in the hotel this week (which is abt to end bc we’re moving back home tmrrw even though the renovation isn’t finished 🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪) and being able to have the bedroom to myself has made me think rebellious thoughts my family would be very offended over. like maybe i listened to less and less music these last few years due in part to the fact that ive spentmore time at home than i used to and i also lived on campus w roommates in a very uncomfortable arrangement and im unable to move freely about the cabin when im living w other ppl whose needs don’t align w mine and so ive just gotten used to not having all of my needs met and always being the person to take the short end of the stick…. but i actually need to be able to sing and dance and draw and do whatever and when im alone (which is almost never) im able to do that and that’s actually legit and as important as anyone else’s needs in a space i share w them. idk if i worded that well but yeah

[ashtcnirwin]

🌻

[crowleyaj]

I have dreams about palestine often but the one this morning just before my alarm, god. I was visiting my mum and family in my home country for about a week as I do, there was generally a nice atmosphere, food, chatting, you know it. then I happened to look outside and there in the clear blue sky I saw white streaks raining down and planes flying away. I immediately started panicking because that definitely looked like white phosphorus, though pretty far away. nobody else was looking. fast forward to the evening when I saw it again and tried to take a video but couldn't, desperate, but this time other people noticed and confirmed what was happening, europe was being targeted too and we were in a full scale world war (there had been talks and fears of escalation, this I knew.) I looked outside the door and saw a strange brown dusty layer in the distant sky and black smoke rising from the city. I took a picture of it and my eyes welled up with tears as I remembered people saying, put yourself in palestinians' shoes, imagine it happened to you, imagine—and now it did. the next strike seemed to be closer to us, and then the burning stuff literally hit the street outside and the house itself so fast and with such force, the wall around the door started to crumble and I fled inside, seeing some people running out on the street in the corner of my eye, and I knew that if I went in I might not be able to get out if the building collapses but it was too late and all I was thinking of is that I have to find my mother and my things and somehow escape and I was so terrified. only then I woke up and I was still so utterly terrified and my heart was beating so fast. I was nauseous for a good while after waking up. it felt so real. no words can even describe the emotions and the constriction in my chest. and that was just a dream born from the videos and the news I'm seeing. I cannot imagine what it must feel like to live this, day in day out for 116 days now. and it makes me so angry and sick that the west is not only letting this genocide happen but actively supporting it. how. how. how. I do not understand. ceasefire now!!!!!!!!!

[helaintoloki]

hello, I would like to make a request, a story based on the last episode of yours, Five talking to another Five in the final conversation and they talk about his wife and Canon Five doesn't have one, thanks if you want

a/n: i absolutely loved writing this ty for sending this in ! <3

warnings: language, slight angst, spoilers

summary: Five discovers his missing piece

When Five stumbled into Max’s and came across an entire diner full of alternate versions of himself, about a million different questions raced through his mind. However, the most pressing issue he found himself wanting to address was the context behind the lovingly placed portrait of a woman on the wall.

“Who’s the girl?” He asks his counterpart, his eyes remaining glued to the painting. The woman’s smile was gentle, her eyes kind, and her face the most beautiful he’d ever seen. He almost felt drawn to it in a way, as if there was some type of magnetic pull gravitating his focus to her and only her. It was like seeing a ghost or a familiar face from a dream that you’re not quite able to place.

“Don’t you recognize her?” The other Five retorts perplexed, confusion clearly etched on his features. “That’s y/n.”

“Can’t say I’m familiar,” the Boy confesses with an apologetic sigh as he finally pulls his attention away from the painting and sets it back to the Five in front of him.

“No wonder you’re such a mess,” server Five notes with a diverted smile as he tops off their coffee. Calling over his shoulder, he announces to all Fives, “The poor bastard doesn’t have a y/n.”

Murmurs of surprise and astonished laughter fill the cafe at the news, prompting Five’s face to heat in embarrassment at being the butt of a joke he has no grasp of. What do these Fives know that he doesn’t?

“Could you please be so kind as to fill me in on who this y/n is,” he requests agitatedly through gritted teeth. Reaching into his pocket, his counterpart pulls out a weathered photograph and slides it across the table for Five to see.

“Y/n is the missing piece that completes every Five. We all meet her in different ways at different points of our lives, but every time she manages to anchor us back down to earth. Y/n is the glue that holds us together when everything goes to shit. She believes in us, sees the humanity in us despite the horrors we’ve seen and the atrocities we’ve committed. She gives us unconditional love even when we think we don’t need it, when we think it couldn’t possibly exist.”

As Fives look down at the photo before him, he sees himself- or rather, another version of himself- enveloping y/n in his arms. They stand in front of a beautiful home with a picket white fence and a garden full of flowers smiling with pure bliss. It’s clear that the woman loved this version of him by the adoring look in her eyes, and it’s even clearer that she meant everything to the Five sitting across from him.

“She means something different to each of us, but I was one of the Five’s lucky enough to make her my wife,” his companion notes with an evocative smile. “That photo was taken on our honeymoon.

“Where is she now?” Five asks somberly after handing back the photograph.

“Dead,” he replies quietly, releasing a mournful sigh as he sinks back into the booth. “Lost her in an accident while I was trying to stop the apocalypse for a third time. That’s when I decided it was time to hang in the towel.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“We had a good run together, I wouldn’t change any of it,” the replica admits with a reminiscent smile. He takes another look at the photo, committing it to memory before handing it back to Five. “I think you need this more than I do. You may not have had the chance to know your y/n, but judging by the look on your face when you spotted the portrait I have a good feeling you would have loved her just the same.”

Gingerly taking the photograph back, Five stops to admire her gentle features and adoring smile before tucking it safely into the pocket of his suit. “Thank you.”

“You know what you have to do to fix the timelines,” the other Five firmly instructs him. “Just promise me you’ll do by right by my wife. She deserves a safe timeline to live in, one where she can grow old and be happy.”

Rising from his seat at the booth, Five takes one last longing look at the portrait on the wall before returning his gaze to the boy in front of him.

“You have my word.”

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

UPDATE What's up, it's the proposal guy. You said you wanted to know how this turned out, so I figured I'd tell you. First some context though, because I'm mean and I wanna keep you in suspense longer.

1- I don't wanna doxx us so I'm not telling you where we live, but suffice to say, neither of us are American, and gay marriage has been legal here for less than five years. For both of us, this is the first relationship we've had where marriage was even an OPTION, and I think that's where we've been getting some of that whole 'this has to be a REAL proposal with EVERYTHING' idea.

2- I gotta figure out how to explain this properly. So, I'm pretty used to being the GUY guy in relationships? I was always the one who did the nice gestures, not the one they got done for. Before I met my dream guy, I didn't really notice or care that it was such a thing, I just assumed that's how shit worked. Also, I promised I wouldn't talk a lot about his stuff here, but his last boyfriend before me SUCKED. Anyway point here is, it turns out we both REALLY like feeling swept off our feet sometimes, and a big part of finding each other has been getting to feel special for once? That's a stupid sappy way of putting it the point here is I think all that's what morphed into "I need to be the one getting proposed to, also it has to be completely perfect", and then our Petty & Extra genes got involved.

So I'm sitting in bed thinking about all that up there, and watching all the comments coming in basically being like "Dude, you are BLOWING this" on repeat, and telling me to compromise, and I look up and see him flossing in the bathroom and making all these doofy faces at the mirror, and it's like a switch just flips in my brain, and I'm like "Oh, I'd rather he gets to have his perfect proposal than we both have an okay one". I'm gonna do it.

Morning rolls around, and while I'm 'out for my jog like normal' I hit up a pawn shop for a temp ring (the ring pop thing is cute but NOT HIM). I found one I was at least confident wouldn't get ruined the first time he got his hands greasy (he fixes old machines as a hobby it's hot as hell), got back home, and hid the box in the toe of my nasty ass workout shoes in the bedroom closet, since I figured he'd check there last.

He was still asleep, because he stays up late no matter what and then is SHOCKED he's tired the next day, so I called and booked a table at our usual anniversary spot. (Side note about the 'he picks bad restaurants' thing. This isn't an 'I like Greek, you like Chinese' situation, dude's just BAD at finding places. He either assumes pricey is tasty and I get to eat some overrated gourmet bullshit, or he'll try and find something hip and underground and risk giving us food poisoning again, and he REFUSES to give up and pick somewhere we've been before when it's his turn to plan date night. I'm obsessed with him <3.) Date was set, I'd propose on the 21st.

Some of you might have noticed this, but fun fact! It's currently the 16th.

Last night I'm doing dishes and he's been sent to our room for mug collection duty, and he's taking FOREVER, so I go check just in case he found the ring, because the man's a gift tracking BLOODHOUND. Turns out he hasn't, he's found my Angry Box.

I assume other people have an Angry Box? Basically, we had this huge messy fight right when we first moved in together, and I never wanna let it get that bad again, so I have this shoebox where I keep a bunch of our stuff I can look at if we're fighting and hopefully cool off. There's one of those photo booth roll things, letters we wrote when he moved back with his parents for COVID, the wine cork from our first date, shit like that. Anyway, he's just sitting on the floor staring at it, and I explain about the Angry Box, and then he! Proposes!!! Kind of.

He definitely didn't have anything prepared, because by 'propose' I mean 'ugly cried & rambled at me for several minutes before I figured out it WAS a proposal', but once I got on the same page it was amazing. I said yes, and he had to admit he didn't have a ring for me because he was CONVINCED he'd win and I'd do it, so I grabbed mine because, yeah, he was right. He was like "this is the ugliest ring I've ever seen" and I was like yeah well the plan is to replace it later and he went "No. You can pry this off my cold dead fingers. After I'm buried with it." So I guess it's not a temporary ring anymore.

I'm just gonna go ahead and skip to this morning. I pointed out we still have the reservation, and he said I should propose there anyway because "We can get a free dessert. They have those creme brulee shot glasses you like. And for love, or something" and I said ok deal, but that means you gotta get me a ring to keep it fair, and his eyes LIT UP. When I swung by his work for lunch he was still on the phone with a jeweler and he had a whole page of notes on three other ones. Pray for me.

OH PS: I was RIGHT that he'd been the one behind the cat biting me, but it wasn't about the proposal stuff, it's because I paid my baby sister three dollars to shout 'fuck you' every single time he enters a room she's in for (if you ask me, he should be madder at my sister for charging so little), and he did it by giving her a bunch of treats for biting his hands too, so now neither of us can pet our baby girl without oven mitts on. HOLY SHIT I love this man.

Oh my goddddddd I love everything about this <333 I awwww'd out loud on a voice call, like, six times while reading. You two are friggin perfect for each other and so obviously smitten with each other and I wish y'all all the happiness in the world

PS Are y'all planning to have a big wedding? If so oh boy I can't WAIT to get that one in the inbox

Original post

[artytaeh]

a honorary thought about how theodore nott would be with you, mrs. nott, his wife— during those blessed first vacations as a married couple; your honeymoon.

warnings: includes smut, so obviously it's advised for +18 readers; read at your own risk. use of italian provided by google translator, if i have readers who speak italian fluently, please don't murder me! </3

honeymoon!theo who seems extremely relaxed, calm and unprepared for this first vacation with you as his wife, to italy��� his home country. what you don't know is that theodore had been thinking and planning these weeks for months, maybe even years, during those mornings at hogwarts that he woke up before he needed to leave his bed and prepare for classes. unbeknownst to you, theodore is prepared to suggest names for your future children: that's how well theo has thought (and planned) for a future with you.

honeymoon!theo who doesn't give you much context or details over what you'll be doing during those weeks; you know that it'll be in italy, and got some advice over which clothes would be a good idea to bring in your luggage. if you expected one week of vacation— yeah, dolcezza, not happening. italy is a beautiful country; given the opportunity to show you around, theodore will make sure that his family's money is put to good use, and ensure at least three weeks of walking around.

honeymoon!theo who has most of the days planned; he made sure that three weeks was enough time to see part of italy's best spots, yet never giving you one day that makes you feel exhausted. at most, you'll see or visit three different places during the same day, yet not far enough that'll get your feet hurting from walking too much.

honeymoon!theo who had a hard time selecting where to take you during these three weeks— at the same time that he wants you to see how lively, colorful and amazing his homeland is, theodore doesn't want to have you exhausted in a matter of days. in the end, theo decided that he'd give you the best of two worlds: the beautiful cities, and the breathtaking countryside.

honeymoon!theo who makes sure that you'll have a taste of most of italy's native dishes. desserts, treats, appetizers, dinner and even drinks; theodore makes it a point to show you why he slandered hogwarts' food on a daily basis. however, if you're a picky eater or have a few food limitations, theo makes sure to only encourage you to eat what he knows that you'll like. never forces you to taste anything that you might not like, should it have any ingredient that you don't eat / don't like.

honeymoon!theo who will buy a slice of pizza, a cup of pasta or other treats as you stroll around the streets, making sure that you taste some of them and are never the slightest bit hungry.

honeymoon!theo who teached you a few sentences and phrases in italian, helping you with the pronounciation just right. simple things, really, like petnames, simple phrases (how to say thank you, how to say hello and good morning, even a few curse words should someone be a jerk to you and because you cursing on his native language turns him on).

honeymoon!theo who refers to you as mrs. nott. if you're at a restaurant— theodore will be a gentleman and make the order for the two of you, saying what he'd like to have, and what mrs. nott chose instead for today's meal. will teasingly refer to you as mrs. nott, if you ever engage playful banter or have a silly argument. if you're angry, well, being called mrs. nott dissolves any annoyance that you might have towards your husband.

honeymoon!theo who takes the chance of being in italy again, to buy his favorite brands of cigarettes; he promises to smoke a little less, though. one in the morning, as he waits for you to finish dressing up for the day— then one at night, leaving the windows open after you two were intimate, as you are comfortably laying on his chest. one hand holds the cigarette, while the other runs its fingers through your hair; here, theodore has each hand holding two of his biggest addictions. surely, if possible, theodore might sneak one cigarette during afternoon or after lunch; if you don't like the smell, theo will make sure to do it away from you. is there a shop you'd like to check? while you explore it, theo might smoke his second cigarette of the day.

honeymoon!theo who never gets his hands out of you. waist, lower back, holding hands or intertwined fingers; now that you're his, he has even less reasons to let go of you. italy is a crowded, famous country for vacations; between locals and tourists you walk together, as theodore guides you along, making sure that he never loses sight or hold of his wife.

honeymoon!theo that has a morning routine; lazying around in bed for a little longer, forearms feeling the softness of the pillow as he rests his head there— prompted up enough to see you. his gaze never wavers; theodore watches as you walk around the bedroom, each step being a soft pad on the floor, as you rummage through the wardrobe and seek for what you'll wear today; making your way then to the bathroom. if he's too sleepy, theo will take a light nap as he waits for you, lulled by the muffled sound of the water running for your shower; should he feel a bit more energetic, or more of a morning person, theo will follow you like a puppy, hugging your waist from behind as he kisses his way to shower with you.

honeymoon!theo who decides that his vocation is to help mrs. nott, his stunning, gorgeous wife getting ready for anything. oh, so you're preparing yourself to sleep? theodore will be more than happy to brush your hair, or to have you teaching him what products to apply, and how, to your hair— are you too lazy to take off your make-up? don't worry, theo does it for you; and even throws a dirty joke about removing your make-up in another, more elaborate and definitely much more pleasant, way. specially after a long day strolling around the streets, theodore will be more than happy to just let you relax, while he takes care of you.

honeymoon!theo who also loves to help you getting ready to leave, too. do you need this thing from the wardrobe or from your luggage? don't worry, he'll get it for you. are these the shoes you're wearing tonight? sit on the bed, bella, i'll tie them for you. do you need him to hold something or even help you with your hair? theodore nott is a very competent husband (or does his best to learn how to be very helpful for you). if you don't need help, well, theodore will sit on the edge of the bed, with those icy blue eyes gaining a new loving shade, as he looks at his bellissima getting ready to leave the room with him.

honeymoon!theo who took you to some window shopping with you, at venice and milan. two beautiful cities, where people proudly dress to impress; the shops didn't disappoint you at all. each dress or mannequin that you stared for more than two seconds got theodore to hold you by the hand, and gently dragging you to enter the shop; theo was more than happy to hold bags for you, one arm wrapped around your waist, while the other proudly holds his wife's bags from all the stuff you bought (correction: what theodore persuaded you to bring along, strictly using his family's money).

honeymoon!theo who perfected the art of convincing mrs. nott to agree with allowing him to spoil her; why shouldn't you be pampered by your own husband? in fact, theodore argues that doing so is a significant other's duty (and privilege). should you argue that everything's too expensive, well, theodore has two valid arguments for that: one, the nott family is ridiculously wealthy— one dress won't make his wallet lighter; and two, it's your money too, now. so why shouldn't you use it?

🗯️ : but teddy, darling— this is too much. i won't have enough space in my luggage to take all of these extra clothes with me.

t : don't worry about that, carina. if anything, we'll buy an extra luggage for you. fanculo, you know what? let's buy you a bigger one so you'll have to buy more things to fill it up. here, cara mia, look at this shop.

honeymoon!theo who takes a few nights to take you to dance around with him, strolling around some streets with good bars— a fancier version of those slytherin parties that you went together, except the lack of excessive green, besides lorenzo and mattheo's tendencies to start a brawl over flirting with an already taken girl. theodore dances with you, the two of you swaying with the rhythm, having the most fun, as you try to talk to each other sometimes or exchange a few comments here and there. if a younger guy has the audacity to look at you, theodore will glare at them in such an intimidating way, that the bloke doesn't even have to know about how theodore nott was a feared rival at hogwarts; should he be older, theodore will yell a clear threat in italian.

t : guarda ancora mia ragazza e ti garantisco che nessuno incontrerà i tuoi occhi dopo che li avrò cavati davanti a tutta la tua famiglia, stronzo del cazzo.

🗯️ : theo, what was that? what did you say? i didn't understand...

t : nothing, dolcezza; would you like a drink? here, let's go buy one together.

honeymoon!theo who translates anything and everything to you, specially if you ask him. if you're at a museum and would like to know what the description of some painting is, then theodore will explain or straight-out translate for you. don't worry, he's more than happy to do that— theo does it so patiently, that you would notice that he actually enjoys it. maybe he's returning the favor, for those few times that you've helped him pronounce a few words before class starts; maybe because theodore finds it heartwarming how you show such interest for his culture, and how endearing it is to see you trying to understand a few words here and there.

honeymoon!theo who separated these few days strolling around the city, walking around the streets and seeing a few attractions that he knew that you'd like (a few museums, for example); and got you to another city, one where he planned to have a more lighthearted routine. summer in italy is hot; to have you not enjoying the heat with one day or two to tan, to enjoy a pool or simply lazying around would be wrong; a waste, even. during those days, theodore made sure to let you rest on your chair, while massaging the sunscreen into your skin. those few days spent like that were fun; you didn't do much, but sometimes, doing nothing is the best.

honeymoon!theo who got to drink a few cocktails with you during those few days, sunglasses shielding your sights from the blazing sun, and swimsuits ready to have at least a swim together. conversation flows as easily between you as ever; taking a sip of your cocktail while the other talks, taking turns to share opinions or to continue the conversation. perhaps theodore took the chance to lightheartedly discuss what you'd do after these weeks— would you like to live with him to nott's estate, and leaving your shared cozy apartment for the time being?

honeymoon!theo who would only not shower with you if you two really had to get ready as fast as possible. otherwise, he's joining you; kissing your shoulders while you wash yourself, hugging your waist as he hums to whatever you're telling him. unless you'd rather wash your own hair or have a specific way of doing it, then theodore is more than happy to do it for you; as soon as he's done, he'll poke your nose with your shampoo's foam, signaling his concluded work. surely, theodore marvels at having you hugging him and washing his back at the same time— hey, where are you going? no, hug him for a little bit more; his back should be properly washed, you know?

honeymoon!theo who finds these weeks blissful. no quickies, no hurries; contrary to hogwarts, that even your own dorms weren't the most private places; or your daily life, where some of his friends are comfortable enough to visit without invitations— here at the hotel or alugada house you're at, there's privacy, time, and no restrictions for noise.

honeymoon!theo who takes his time with you. taking each piece of clothing with a calm movement, kissing every inch of skin in display; making sure that tomorrow morning, you'll have to complain or pout at him, due to those new bruises his lips will leave on your skin. neck and thighs are two favorites of his; however, there's something sinfully attractive and arousing about marking up your chest. a little dirty secret of his, one that only his eyes are allowed to see— besides yours, of course.

honeymoon!theo who gets a little insane in the head each. single. time that you have the audacity to speak italian to him, specially during these intimate moments. it doesn't matter if your pronounciation isn't perfect— even a single amore does things to him. whisper fanculo a me to his ear, and you might have to choose a more lighthearted agenda tomorrow, for the sake of your sore legs.

honeymoon!theo who becomes impossibly possessive. having been an overprotective boyfriend at times, making sure that each single student and their mothers knew that you're taken for life, these few weeks are feral. it becomes calmer as the days pass by, though; theodore takes some time to normalize the overwhelming reality that finally, finally you are his wife— mrs. nott.

so, honeymoon!theo who doesn't shut up. theodore needs to tell you how long he's waited for this, to have that ring on your finger; that same hand that he holds as he thrusts into you, or pleasures you in anyway— thumb tracing over the piece of jewelry exchanged on that day that you two got married. his fingers intertwine with yours, blue eyes bewitched by the sight of you under him, and even more intensely if you go on top. theodore nott is a shameless man; he'll only encourage you to moan louder for him, to tell him how good he makes you feel. theodore nott is so, so shameless, that he won't hold back any moan, any groan, anything he wants to say; this man will continue his rambling over how long he's dreamt about putting a ring on your finger, about being wed to you, about showing you his homeland— he'd say all of his in italian, though. if you're lucky, you'll catch up a few words; if not, well, theodore's voice sounds even better when he speaks his native language so fluently.

honeymoon!theo who doesn't have to hold back his baby fever anymore. will get you that final orgasm, with you sitting on his lap, his cock deep inside you, your back flushed against his warm chest; your hips feel those calloused, warm hands holding your hips down, making sure that the two of you can see the reflection of that mirror in front of the bed— one that theodore, shamelessly, requested to have it placed there. blue eyes lock their gaze there, where he disappears inside you, as you take him so well.

honeymoon!theo who doesn't shut up as he keeps you like this for a long moment, as praises leave his lips; 'you're stunning, cara mia, davvero bellissima— you'll look even prettier with our babies inside you.' as he speaks, theo presses kisses to your neck, one hand moving to rub circles on your clit; as if he wasn't already buried so deep inside you, pressing against that spot that has your legs shaking. theo doesn't let you stray much farther from his aching erection: 'brava ragazza, you'll take it all, won't you? we can't have a single drop leave your pretty little cunt.'

honeymoon!theo who secretly hopes that you'll come back to england with a baby in your womb; as much as he absolutely adores this life with you, on getting your full attention, falling into a domestic routine— theodore can't wait to see how your child would look like. theo can only pray that they inherite your lovely smile and beautiful hair, but keep his eyes. blue eyes, identical to the ones his mother, phoena nott, had. besides, if you do end up pregnant and keep the baby— next time that you go to italy, there would be a tiny human keeping you two company. theodore daydreams about that day.

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪸 ’

౨ৎ calling out my name ♡ ͡

in the summer rain, ciao amore . . .

🪻 ; . . . fandom : harry potter.

— spreading the 'theodore nott being a loving husband and slightly obsessed with the love of his life' agenda; this boy had the first draft of how your honeymoon would be after your fifth date with him.

the headers + gifs + icons aren't mine. credits to the respective creators ! 🌷

[whetstonefires]

One thing I don't think I've ever seen talked about is how post-apocalypse ideation is largely about homelessness.

Homelessness looms large in the American consciousness. Like, not that it's irrelevant elsewhere, but it's got a particular cultural place in the US that's reflected in Hollywood, and therefore relevant because what makes it into film and TV sets the terms of so many conversations.

We don't acknowledge it if we can help it, but I think most people know they're never more than a few very bad months from winding up there.

Even people who are sure it only happens to people who deserve it, who fuck up and put one foot in the morass of their own foolish volition. Even they know the quicksand is there, waiting to be walked into, and that the odds are stacked against ever climbing out on your own once you have. And that they, too, are capable of fucking up. Of trusting the wrong person. Of getting cancer incorrectly.

And those of us who know damn well we can't be sure we're safe even if we do everything right, we know it even better.

And in that sense it doesn't matter what the world would realistically look like after X kind of apocalypse, what people would do, how society would adapt. Because the anxiety that's being processed is about the reality that's in existence now.

About what if my world ends. And I lose access to the fruits of developed society, to clean clothes and new glasses and running water, to a safe place to sleep where I don't expect to be killed or robbed, or driven out by men with guns and dogs. To my home and work and family and everything I usually use to tell me who I am.

What if every man's hand is against me, and every meal is a small victory, and there's only my own dwindling strength between me and the long night?

Will I make it? Will I hold up under the strain? Will I retain my dignity? Will I be lucky? Will I be able to protect the people I love, in that world, the world where no one is protecting us anymore?

Is there a way to continue to live as a human person, when you're denied the prerogatives of one, and don't know if you'll ever get them back?

Putting this anxiety into the context of a massive apocalypse divorces this scenario from the burden of shame tied up in the idea of winding up in that sort of situation in the normal course of events, by having society vanish rather than expel you, personally, as a washout, and continue on around you.

It also allows you to rule out a priori the question of what resources might be offered but can't in an anticipatory context be counted on; shelters and programs and housed friends and family who may or may not help. And narrow the narrative to only the question of what you can survive, and often a fairy tale about surviving all of it and starting over.

Rehearsing for a loss in a mythologized format is a very normal anxiety processing behavior, and I think a lot of apocalypse scenario building is attached to the buried dread of that personal apocalypse. But I haven't seen that one make the list.

[teaandspite]

The Great Goodreads Diss List (Part 1)

Context: For many years now, I have been collecting funny lines from Goodreads reviews to share with my coworkers. (I do collection development, reader's advisory, and weeding at a public library, so I read a LOT of reviews)

Are some of these, perhaps, rather mean? Yes, but they are also very funny, and come from a place of honest frustration. In the tradition of Bargepole threads and lists everywhere, names and titles have been censored.

"First, I want to say that I understand how hard it is to write a book and how amazing it is when it is actually published. Congrats to the author for that accomplishment. That said--"

"Warning: This review will be lengthy due to pure hatred."

"I found myself feeling really, really annoyed with the world that this book is allowed to exist. We live in a universe where the passenger pigeon is extinct but this book goes along merrily being read by unsuspecting lovers of words and ideas and stories? It just seems like too much, you know?"

"Don't do it. Don't spring the cash for the hardcover. Instead, eat an entire bag of Twizzlers, spend some money you don't have at a high-end department store, look up on Facebook the shady college boyfriend that made you cry, research the current value of your home or 401K and then read all about how the big hedge fund managers are faring during the economic crisis. You'll feel about the same stomach pain if you waste your time reading this book."

"This wretched novel begins with the mugging of an old lady and it appears I may be in the process of repeating that loathsome crime as [author] was 78 when she wrote it. It is not nice to put the boot into such a poor defenseless old creature lying there with only a damehood, a Booker Prize and a few million quid. It’s a nasty job but somebody has to do it."

"I think this is the way dead people would write, if they could."

"I am considering setting up SPABB: Society for the Protection of Accurate Book Blurb. This blurb appears to have been written by someone from the publishers who met [the author] the night before, got very drunk, lost his notes and then constructed something in a fug of hangover the next morning."

"I congratulate [the author] on the early half of his book, which was thoroughly fun and made me laugh and think. I congratulate [the author] on the second half of his book, for finishing it. It reads like that was difficult."

"…a woman whose taste in contemporary literature has roughly the same batting average as a pitcher in the National League."

"The author is a pompous windbag."

"Recommends it for: No one. Recommended to me by: A friend who apparently wished to cause me great suffering."

"Makes me wonder: is it possible to obtain similes at a volume discount?"

"The repeated phrases made me want to mail a thesaurus to the author."

"I'm disappointed in myself for finishing this book."

"if the author described [character's] eyes as "obsidian" one more time I was tempted to write her and ask if her thesaurus broke."

"They say that an infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters would, if given infinite time, eventually produce the complete works of William Shakespeare. [This book], on the other hand, would probably take the average monkey just under two hours."

"I can't imagine what the author had to do to get this nadir of Western literature printed on innocent trees, but he does seem to know a LOT about being well-connected in New York."

"This book is so bad it is almost worth reading just to make you appreciate the other books you are reading."

"Reads like it was written by a brilliant author, the night before it was due."

"raises interesting questions, like: can a book be so bad as to constitute an act of terrorism"

"has this author ever spoken to a human woman"

"This acorn has fallen so far from the tree that it can’t even see the forest."

"I’m guessing they are touted as ‘beach reads’ because no one will care if they get dropped into the ocean."

"This book begins with all the energy of a hand vacuum near the end of its battery life, and the pace doesn't quicken much from there."

"At least everybody’s eyes stayed the same color this time around.”

Part 2

Part 3

[celuere]

Even MORE HCs of Arlecchino taking care of her pregnant wife.

pairing: Arlecchino x fem!reader

context: nothing, domestic Arlecchino is simply consuming me atm.

cw: pregnancy, SOFT Arle, FLUFF, mentions of throwing up

Somebody sedate me I love her so much.

Starting off with how you would quite literally never wake up on your own when pregnancy nausea forced you out of bed again. Arlecchino would literally be right next to you and gently scoop your hair out of your face the moment you bent over the toilet to empty your stomach. Gently stroking your back, whispering soft words of encouragement, telling you it will be over soon. She’d carefully help you back up and lets you rinse your mouth of the awful taste only to carry you back in her own arms.

If you happen to suffer from Hyperemesis gravidarum (which quite literally means that your nausea lasts for the entirety of the pregnancy and not just the first weeks), she either sits down next to you on the bathroom floors offering her lap as bed or she‘ll have a bucket placed next to your bed. But even then she would always be awake when your stomach is acting up.

I don’t think she‘s the type to talk to your belly but she’d definitely lean against it or gently rest her head on top, watching the soft kicks coming from the inside and tracing the spots with her fingers without uttering a single words. She is simply too mesmerized.

DO NOT! and I repeat DO NOT complain about your weight gain EVER to her, that’s Nr. 1 thing she doesn’t play around with. She literally couldn’t give less fucks about how much you gain or how else your body is changing throughout pregnancy. It almost feels insulting to her when you have the nerve to make a comment about stretch marks and she literally CANNOT contain herself and starts to explicitly explain to you why you’re getting stretchmarks, why they’re so visible and why she finds them so attractive. There isn’t a more beautiful and perfect sight to her than her pregnant wife.

Massages you wherever and whenever you need one, no questions asked. She absolutely loves helping you lay back and relax especially after a difficult day of growing another living being inside your body. She‘d run you a bath, even help you shampoo your hair and the rest of you if you’re too exhausted to do it on your own. She is completely and utterly at your disposal.

Will literal buy everything on the market for her babygirl while setting up the nursery because only in hell will she let her baby miss out on anything like she did when growing up in the House of the Hearth. Even tho you start questioning her when she one day comes home with a heat lamp for the changing table „in case she gets cold“ (Sandrone still owed her a favor)

Literally don’t try to strike up a conversation with her ass when you two happen to be in the same room as her. Her only answer will be few curt nods, an approving but absentminded „mhm“, and if she is feelings generous even a „Interesting… carry on…“, all the while her eyes are plastered on you. Talking and laughing occasionally as you get winded up in yet another discussion, your hand caressing the more than visible baby belly, wedding ring glistening in the chandelier light. Plus points of you‘re wearing something that highlights your body. It’s so over for Arle.

But so help her if one day the first contractions set in. You are immediately surrounded by your husband and a few midwives, checking up on you like you just fell down a bunch of stairs until you reassured everyone that you‘re fine and not went into labor. Still, Arlecchino refuses to leave your side for the rest of day and even earns herself a little scolding from you when she tried to talk you into bed again. You know how much you can handle better than her after all, right?

(A/N: I can’t write labor scenarios for the love of it so I just skip this part-) And the moment she finally gets to hold her love in her arms? It’s scary. Usually the Knave is never scared of anything. But when you hold out the little bundle of joy to her with an exhausted smile and tears staining your sweaty face- something inside of her is doubting herself. What if she accidentally hurts her? What if- lord and behold- she lets her fall down on accident? She is so tiny and fragile, it takes a few encouraging words from your side before Arle finally musters up the courage and very slowly and carefully lifts her babygirl up into her own arms. And she might never want to put her down ever again. She fits so perfectly into her embrace and it also feels like it to her. Like a missing puzzle piece being put into a place as she can’t help but gently stroke her finger over her daughters cheek, completely mesmerized by how soft she feels against her touch.

She starts thanking you. One time. Two times three times. Four times. Over and over as she showers your face in kisses until sleep eventually drags you into its depths. Goodness how could someone as cursed as her be blessed with this wonderful gift? What did she do to deserve this precious little girl in her arms- and her wonderful wife? It has to be some kind of apology from Celestia themself. It has to be.

So help this woman when her daughter opens her eyes for the first time and she stares into a direct replica of her own. Only with your eye color. Her breath catches in her throat for a short moment as she looks down at the beautiful color grazing the x‘s in her eyes, the little white hairs on the top of her head- but yet she still looks so similar to you. So similar it makes her heart ache. How is it possible for something this small to reduce the fourth Fatui Harbinger to nothing but a besotted idiot? This bundle in her arms- this life in her cursed arms. A testimony of how deep your love for each other actually went- it only belongs to the two of you. And she‘ll do anything in her power to protect it. No matter the cost.

SOOOOOOOOB I LOVE PAPA ARLE SM I CANT I ALENAIBEBE EEUGEUGHEUHH I WANNA CRY

[ghostaholics]

𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄-𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓

➸ PAIRING: Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley x gn!reader (aside from a single idiom whose origin uses masculine language/pronouns - every man for himself) ➸ SUMMARY: Against all odds, the Lieutenant accidentally falls asleep on your shoulder. Unfortunately, there are witnesses to the precarious situation (just your luck that it would be Gaz and Soap). ➸ WORD COUNT: 2k

𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐄: don't poke the bear.

Danger in your line of work typically consists of trying to walk away from a mission while still being left completely intact (i.e. the goal is to make it out alive, in one piece). You’ve survived a great number of ordeals: cornered into a shootout with a dwindling supply of ammo, tiptoed your way through a field of pressure-sensitive IEDs, dove towards probable death (with an awfully high probability of splattering onto hot, concrete hell like a bug on a windshield) because your helo was sent tail spinning courtesy of a perfectly-aimed RPG – and really, the list goes on.

It's been child’s play, in the grand scheme of things. An extensive catalogue of life-or-death scenarios accounts for your entire military career. And sure, this might be a bit of a stretch, but you'd wager that none of those instances thus far have been as high-stakes as the current predicament you’ve found yourself in.

Jesus-fucking-Christ. Why’d Ghost have to fall asleep on you?

𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: avoid sitting next to him on the plane ride home. You've had to learn it the hard way.

And the kicker is that this whole thing could’ve been avoided; it didn’t have to be your problem. You could’ve sentenced any one of the other soldiers to your seat. Every man for himself, right? Get off scot-free, have a normal trip back to base with plenty of legroom so that you’re not cramped. Theoretically, it would've been beautiful – a passenger's paradise, the closest you could get to a first-class ticket.

But no.

Instead, play the Good Samaritan; extend your hand out with an act of benevolence. What’s the harm, right? So, you'd spared the poor guy, said you wouldn't mind switching places with him because he'd looked as white as a damn sheet at the idea of being crammed beside this behemoth of a lieutenant who's infamously every FNG's living nightmare.

Yeah, well hindsight is 20/20. Had you known what was going to happen, you would've had no reservations about throwing him under the bus. Sayonara, mate.

Law of the jungle, plain and simple.

To make matters worse, he is, in fact, exhibiting terrible flight etiquette. His head (which is dead weight and feels about as pleasant as a fucking bowling ball, mind you) has taken up every inch of real estate on your shoulder and is practically tucked into the curve of your neck; you’ll need to take a trip to the chiropractor’s after this – several, probably. The edge of his skull mask is digging into you. And, the cherry on top: get this – he’s man-spreading, so his left leg's trespassing into your own territory and brushing against your thigh. Utter lack of regard for personal space.

Incredible.

You’d still rather die than wake him up, though. You're not sure what'll happen if you do, but that's a risk you're not willing to take.

All things considered, an achy shoulder is a much better alternative than incurring the wrath of one angry Lieutenant. He's more subdued in this kind of context. To be completely honest, if you weren't already well-acquainted with him, you'd find it endearing.

From here, it's easy to see the simple rise and fall of his chest, steady and even. Slow inhale in, slow exhale out. He's at peace, a rhythmic lull that matches your own breathing. You can't quite put your finger on the exact moment he fell asleep. (He's got a habit of shutting his eyes and folding his arms over his chest when he isn't in the mood to converse with the other soldiers onboard. But God willing, he would never voluntarily loll his head onto your shoulder.) For what it's worth, he deserves the rest – never been one to do it this soundly as countless missions have taught you that he's usually a light sleeper. You remember him roughly prodding the toe of his boot at Soap's arm once when the Scot was conked out and his snores were a bit loud for Ghost's taste.

Rather odd then, that the Lieutenant even managed to allow himself to doze off like this. It’s too loud, too unsteady – the droning of the plane engine doesn't exactly make for good white noise and the turbulence outside is jostling the cabin around. Moreover, this puts him in a position of vulnerability, and he’s not the type to let his guard down so easily.

But somehow he did it with you beside him.

You try not to think about the implications of that.

𝐈𝐓 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐄, 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄.

Because, Soap's just woken up from his nap, the first among the entire company of soldiers in the cabin still sleeping, excluding yourself. His seat's parallel to yours, straight across the walkway within direct line of sight, so he’s got an unobstructed view of you and Ghost. Soap sends a questioning glance in your direction, eyebrow quirked. A look that says, The hell's going on?

The level of your voice is down; it's at a conservative decibel to avoid rousing the others. Yet you convey your distress with the same amount of passion as if you were stuck in the middle of a losing firefight. "MacTavish, help."

Soap works with bombs for a living. Surely, he's capable of defusing situations too.

Alright the man’s a demolitions expert, but that’s semantics.

He blinks like he's trying to make sense of the situation. Though, it's pretty obvious what the problem is here. You're not sure why he’s got to take a moment and contemplate it. You need a solution, now. And he's moving at a snail's pace.

For a second, you think he might sympathize with your plight.

But then his mouth morphs into a shit-eating grin and when he nudges Gaz awake, you know right then and there that you're absolutely fucked.

More witnesses.

Great.

Because that’s just what you need, isn’t it?

Gaz drags a hand down his face. He pans over to his right to figure out why he’s been jolted awake so suddenly, and sees Soap who’s inexplicably, nauseatingly jovial before his eyes land on you.

Much like Soap’s original reaction, Gaz can’t help but offer a quizzical expression. The confusion is evident. His brows are drawn together because he knows that the L.t. wouldn't fall asleep on your shoulder.

Soap's shifting, sliding his hand into his pocket before pulling out his phone. He messes with it – a few taps here, a few swipes there. And then before you're registering what's happening, he's aiming it straight at you, like one of those mums getting a snapshot of their kids in matching jumpers during the holidays.

"Say cheese."

An indignant gasp leaves your mouth. "If you so much as—

"Soap, no. Don't do that." Gaz says from beside him, plucking the phone out of his hands. He tsks him with a click of his tongue. Stern disapproval in spades. The meaning is clear: it’s a big thumbs down from the Brit. He’s not endorsing this type of behavior. “Gone mad now, have you?” he asks in admonishment.

You release a sigh of relief. Finally, some moral support. He's reliable. Your faith in him is unshakable. Always could count on Gaz to get you out of—

"Have to shoot with a wide angle, see? Or else it'll look wonky," he corrects, flipping the phone horizontally before handing it back to Soap.

"Aye, thanks mate.”

Gaz's smile isn't as excessive as Soap's but the smirk gracing his face tells you he's relishing in your misery all the same.

Fucking traitor.

"Knobheads—"

They’d risk their own hides to save you from certain death. You've seen it in Cairo, Valencia, and Seoul. Good men. Good hearts in the right place as well. However, they're also the type to embarrass you at every opportunity – public humiliation being somewhere on that roster as well. And for that, you want to strangle them.

"Rude,” Soap comments pointedly.

"Bite me, MacTavish."

"Just wake him up if it's bothering you," Gaz supplies unhelpfully.

"If you were in my shoes, would you do it?"

"'Course, not," he snorts. "I don’t have a death wish.”

“Well, I also prefer my head on my shoulders, thank you very much," you whisper furiously, nearly hissing at him.

And Soap is admiring his handiwork, when he coos, “Aw, the two o' you make quite the pair." He briefly twists the screen so that you can catch a glimpse of it, and even from this distance, you can confirm that he's captured the shot. Annoyingly well, to add insult to injury. Angle? Spot-on. Lighting? Brilliant. It's interesting, has character. Black and white photography. He's managed to make a stunning composition and your upper lip is curling up into a sneer of disgust at his artistic eye. How infuriating.

"I'll send this to the Cap. He’ll get a kick outta it."

"Sod off."

"He'll appreciate bein' included."

Gaz matches the energy with an equally gleeful smile, now delighted by the idea. “Hey, and the L.t. he looks—”

“—cute," Soap has the audacity to finish for him.

What.

There are many words that you’d use to describe Ghost.

Cutthroat, maybe. Imposing. Glacial. Taciturn. A stringent set of ideals that makes him the perfect soldier: disciplined, honed, fierce. Intimidating, if he's not fighting on your side – someone you'd much rather have on your team than against, unless you fancied death. He can be a stone-cold terror on occasion. The man’s been penned as a walking horror story by those in the military. Given his iron-hearted demeanor, you'd be hard-pressed to disagree with that statement; there's not much room to call his steel-encased resolve into question.

So, yeah. Above all else, he's certainly not cute.

Your eyes narrow at them. "Congratulations, the both of you have officially made the top of my shitlist."

Soap, indifferent to your crisis, asks, "Want a copy for your wallpaper?"

There's another heated remark waiting on the tip of your tongue, because there's no way in hell that you would and you're ready to tell him off, about to give him an earful.

But somebody else beats you to it.

“Wipe that picture, or I’ll wring your bloody necks.”

Ice surges through your veins. Goosebumps break out across your skin. Because that voice belongs to one person. Oh, Christ. Never in a million years would you want to be on the receiving end of it.

There's anxiety warping in your chest. You're scared stiff, paralyzed with fear in a way that implores you to remain stock-still. The coarse fabric of your trousers bunches underneath your palms as you try not to freak out. This isn't your fault. None of it is.

And here's the worst part: Ghost hasn't lifted his head from your shoulder yet.

But Soap's unfazed. He blinks a couple of times, seems like he's weighing his options – as if there's something else he could choose besides following his lieutenant's command – yeah, right. He wises up, settling for a simple answer in the end. "Alright, Ghost." His smile makes a reappearance, sweet and well-meaning. Troublemaker. "Any chance you'd like a copy before I do away with it?"

"What kind of fuckin' question is that, Johnny?" he grumbles. "Obviously."

𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐔𝐒 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄:

"I take it you don't think I'm cute then. Have I got that right?"

"I'm sorry... mind repeating that again, sir?"

"You didn't have anything to say about Soap's comment."

"I have a feeling that whatever I answer will get my arse handed to me, L.t."

He's smiling in response – like sunshine trapped behind clouds. Despite it being obscured by the mask, you can see his eyes crinkling at the corners, which makes the black charcoal that's lining them begin to crease a bit. "Permission to speak freely, Sergeant. You have the floor."

Your mouth parts in surprise. Well, then. Maybe you stand corrected. And so, you appraise him momentarily, giving it some serious thought. There's more to Ghost than you give him credit for. He's terse and rough around the edges, but respected for a reason. Admirable. Someone you think highly of and has deserved your approval. The mask undeniably provides an air of intrigue. “I suppose you can be,” you start off, gradually warming up to him being more approachable. “When you’re not terrorizing the new recruits, that is.”

[bet-on-me-13]

Danny is the Crazy Old Man™️ of Gotham

So, the events of Danny Phantom happened decades ago

Like, Phantom Planet was one of the first instances of Superheroes in HISTORY. Early 1900's, just the Fentons were Insanely Ahead of their Time!

Danny is still a Halfa, but has allowed himself to grow old and live his best life before fully dying so he can accept his Throne in the Infinite Realms. He decides to experience Life in the fullest way possible, partying, drinking, making long lasting friendships that shape the lives of everybody he meets, all that!

Eventually, Danny's Party Life leads him to Gotham. And this place is just amazing!

It has all the comforts of Home, with so much more! He can Party! He can Fight! He can do anything he wants and nobody bats an eye, because a crazy old man getting into a fistfight in the middle of the road is just another Tuesday for Gotham!

He decides to spend the rest of his Mortal Life there. And this is still Early On in the DC Timeline, like, Batman Year 1 is happening Right Now.

He hangs around, befriends the local Homeless Population, and mostly just has the time of his Life! And he takes up the stereotypical Homeless Old Man look because why fight it? That's literally what he's going for!

He also unintentionally sets up a bunch of future events

He teaches Kid!Jason on his to steal Tires as repayment for driving off some muggers with a Baseball Bat (honestly he was looking forward to being mugged, it's a new experience after all)

He pulls Kid!Tim into an Alley after Tim gets caught out at night and gets chased by some Punks. He hides Tim behind a Dumpster and tricks the Punks into mugging him instead (Yay! He finally got mugged!)

He becomes kind of well known as the Old Man who wants to experience everything before he dies. He says as much too, not like he really has a reason to hide it. He just tells people "I want to live my life to the fullest, it don't matter if I live 10 more years or 10 more minutes, I'm gonna experience every second of it!"

He once walked into a Cloud of Fear Gas to see what it was like. Later he said it was a 6/10. "Not the worst thing I've had injected into my body!" He says with no Context.

He traded places with a Hostage during an active Crime Scene because he wanted to know what it's like.

He was once dared to take Batmans Utility Belt by another Homeless Guy as a joke, so he walked up to Batman later that night in full view of everybody else and just asked for his Belt. He gives up after a few minutes, and one guy asked "Why not fight him for it? It's an experience after all.". Danny replys "Nah, I've fought Vigilantes before. It was fun though, gotta say!"

...

This got away from me, but all this to say: Imagine the Bat Families Reaction when they find out "Crazy Old Danny" is PHANTOM. You know, THE FIRST SUPERHERO!

I imagine Constantine is having a stroll though Gotham after finishing up some business with Bruce, and just bumps into a homeless guy by accident.

Later that night:

Batman: Constantine, Why are you calling? Is it to do with the-

Constantine: Why the fuck is there a Homeless God in your City?

Batman: Wait wha-

...

Or imagine they know before Constantine meets him, and it goes instead like this

Constantine: Why the fuck is there a Homeless God in your City?!

Batman: You mean Old Man Danny? He's just a homeless guy? What do you mean?

Constantine: I swear on what's left of my Soul, that is a God.

Batman, a little shit: I don't think so, I would know (fully knows)

[still-searching-for-something]

I don't think goyim properly understand the fear and change that the wave of antisemitism currently taking place in the wake of the October 7th massacre has induced in the Jewish community.

In a wide-lens view, Jews have become a 1000% more wary and introspective. This isn't limited to diaspora Jews--the headlines pouring out of Israel until October 7th have been of division, polarization, and conflict. Conflict over the 2018 Nation-State Law. Over Bibi's premiership. Over the judicial reform laws. Over the Orthodox Rabbinate. Over this. Over that.

But Israeli society is more unified than ever right now. The judicial reform laws were shelved shortly after the war began and the protests ended on October 8th. Some of it is the rally around the flag effect, yes, and will probably fade as time passes--politics never stops--but the era of Israelis being at one another's throats? Of forgetting that we are all one people and we are all under attack? Gone. It died on October 7th.

In the Diaspora, Jews are once again asking themselves the question--will I need to flee? Guys, a fifth of Gen Z--my generation, that I attend university with--believes the Holocaust was a myth. Two thirds of them think Jews are oppressors. That's terrifying. And the reason we don't take comfort in people saying, 'They're kids with no political power.' is that that won't be true forever. Today's slacktivists who casually say that Israel has no right to exist are tomorrows lawmakers. They will grow up and set policy.

We don't know if they'll grow out of it. I pray to HaShem that they will, but how do I know if they will?

And that's tomorrow's world. Today's world is already bad enough. I don't wear my Star of David necklace to the self-defense classes I've started taking because being surrounded by burly dudes learning how to fight people better isn't a great place to potentially learn that I'm surrounded by antisemites.

Jews--in the year 2024--are being doxxed, seen their homes and synagogues vandalized and threatened, walk past Palestine protests screaming for the death of Zionists, and antisemitism has increased in the United States alone by more than 400%. It's worse elsewhere--Turkish shop owners have been barring Jews from their stores and France has seen antisemitic incidents increase by 1000%. Jews have been leaving social media sites like Tumblr, Reddit, Tik Tok, and Twitter in droves, chased away by the constant, unceasing stream of anti-Jewish hate.

Gentiles need to understand that their words and actions have very real consequences. Jews are not dumb. We're not imagining things. We aren't 'getting our just desserts'. Our fears are grounded not only by historical context but by our current, everyday, lived realities. To gentiles, reading 'antisemitism has gone up by x percent' is a factoid. To us, it is a serious threat and a deep concern.

EDIT: I'm tired of pro-Palestine people sharing this post and using it to back their agenda. You are not welcome to use my experiences to suit your agenda. I am a Zionist! This post is Zionist! Stop taking my words from me and using it against my people.

[3liza]

I feel very defensive about the "goth is bougie" shit because it is historically incorrect, yes, but also and more personally, because it just erases the generations of goth kids who grew up in trailer parks and project housing or just straight up homeless, helping each other out.

it's specifically such a supportive subculture for poor and neglected kids and I really fucking hate that this has been revised and erased. juggalos and goths are very culturally close and many subcultural people are both, and juggalos have the same (and, I would argue, even better defined) culture of collective support. the Skids in Letterkenny are not made up for the show, that's just a real type of rural subcultural person. this has also been forgotten in the interim but in the 90s and 00s we didn't even really refer to OURSELVES as "goths" very much except in a joking way. goths had regional endonyms (like "skids" or "trenchies") even if they could all go to a convention or a club in a city and in that context be all called "goths" together, once they went back home they would go back to being whatever the locals called them or whatever they called themselves. this is a whole linguistics and sociology subtopic that's out of scope for a Tumblr post but is sort of related.

my point is that people who wore actual rags, and sharpie instead of nail polish, and wet n wild eyeliner instead of black lipstick, and dyed their hair with markers or food coloring or kool-aid, were and are the core of the goth scene. the majority of the pictures the mallgoth blogs are posting are from catalogs, fashion shows, costume events, yearly balls and fetes like Wave Gothik Treffen, and other places where people save up literally all year, or many years in a row, to put together ONE outfit. and there's nothing wrong with that, personally I'm proud and pleased that our hard work is being recognized and preserved. but just like formal studio photographs from the Victorian era, it is not representative of the daily or even weekly (for clubs) reality of people in the scene, some of whom were completely out of goth clothing during the day or week just to fit in at work or sometimes just to get along without being bothered at home by family members who thought the Cure was Satanic.

the people who RUN the scenes, the promoters and DJs and gogo dancers and independent designers and people who run the mailing lists and websites, the people who organize the room parties at conventions, and yes even most of the original Burning Man camps like Thunderdome, they mostly live in poverty. especially if they're young. when people organize club nights and shows, they're lucky if they break even. I wasn't aware of any of this until I started working at DNA Lounge in San Francisco, which hosts one of the oldest goth nights in the country, Death Guild. I got to know the owner of DNA well enough to find out about the financial reality of the entire scene, even the people who own the means of production and the actual property in this case, and it's not lucrative. I mean, it sometimes is, if you're running a bar for normal people and have investment captain etc, but the majority of legit subculture economics is just barely breaking even. every single event is 90% volunteer labor.

the issue of labor is maybe the confusing thing for the zoomers who are confused. goth outfits take actual physical work. maybe the Aspirational Spectacle of Labor that makes up most of TikTok has made it appear unreal to the audience rather than something you can just sit down and do?

it takes forty seconds to make the fishnet tights into a shirt. you don't need instructions, you really can just look at it and figure it out. then you think, hm, if I can make fishnets into a shirt I wonder what other things I can turn into something else. your brain will amaze you. my mom would save her tights from her formal work outfits for me when they got holes or whatever and I would just go crazy with scissors and safety pins. lots of young designers are getting attention for this layered, tights-n-pins look at the moment and it really is a fantastic aesthetic but I wonder if people think there's something special about the people who make these clothes? there isn't. you can just do it at home while you watch trashy youtubes.

one time, around 2008 or so, @gothiccharmschool and I were at the photoshoot for tabletop RPG Unhallowed Metropolis. we were there with a bunch of local goths to all make the pictures for this book together. we had all brought tons of our costumes from home to cobble together outfits for the book illustrations, and there was a moment when I just handed Jilli a pile of black skirts and some pins and said hey Jilli, could you please make me up a bustle skirt for this model real quick while I shoot these other models? and of course she did, and they were beautiful, because she knows exactly what she's doing, and because that's all a bustle is: it's a way of bunching up a skirt with another skirt. you can do it at home. you don't need instructions or to hire a seamstress or watch a video. you can just look at something and say hm does it look like a bustle? let's drape it and play with it and pin whatever works. and then you wear it for the photoshoot, or to the club!!! and then next week you pin it a different way and it's a cape instead and you wear it again!!!!!!!

[amorisxx]

Snickerdoodle pt. iii

(Halloween special)

pairing: Art Donaldson x reader summary: The fall fest rolls around. You and Art are part of the parent committee. An unexpected meeting leads to another moment in a parking lot. warnings: smut 18+, car sex, piv, cheating, description of panic attack word count: 3.6K a/n: This part gives a bit more context to each of their lives. It doesn't really progress the plot very much, but I enjoyed writing it. previous part | next part

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

It’s a Wednesday afternoon. The house is quiet, free of the frenetic energy that children bring. Kaleb is still at school, and you’d taken the day to finish preparing your baked goods for the fall fest on Friday. The only noise to be heard is the sound of Art panting into your ear.

“Oh…f-fuck… please, please.”

Halfway through decorating the sugar cookies, he’d started pressing kisses to the side of your neck. You had tried shooing him off, but it was to no avail.

That’s how you end up pressed against the kitchen counter with your dress bunched up at the hips. One strap is halfway down your arm as Art frantically ruts into you from behind.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans into your neck. 

He has one hand holding your hip in place while his other arm pins your back against his chest. In between thrusts, he uses one hand to greedily palm at your breasts.

When you start clenching around him, Art snakes a hand around to your front. He moves his fingers to where his cock is throbbing inside you. He groans at the wetness that has seeped out of you and collected at his base. You moan when he drags his fingers up to rub desperate circles over your slippery clit.

“Want you to cum, ah, need to feel it baby, please,” he pants.

It isn’t long before you’re throwing your head back and squeezing around him.

Ѽ

“Now, will you please let me finish these cookies?” You huff. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you come over.”

He snorts. “You said you could use the help.”

“Well that’s when I thought you’d actually be of some help.”

He grins at you with lidded eyes.

The truth is Art did come over to help you, but he also came because watching you bake has become one of his favorite things to do. Since the two of you have started seeing each other more often, he’s started spending time at your place during the weekends when Kaleb has to stay with his dad. Though you don’t admit it, he’s noticed that you tend to bake when you’re worried. Art thinks it must take your mind off of things. It’s as if you go on autopilot. You disappear into the task as everything fades to the background. It reminds Art of what tennis used to feel like.

The baking also reminds him of his grandmother. Before she moved to the nursing home, she would always bake cookies for Art when he was young. He’d know because the sweet aroma would fill his nostrils upon entering the front door.

Sometimes, he was able to watch her bake and take in the entire process. It was calming for him to observe all the various steps and pass her different ingredients. He wondered how she knew the exact amount to add, and she’d tell him it was because of “years and years of practice.” Art quickly grew fond of the idea of building something up from scratch. And he learned that through lots of practice, you could make something really sweet.

So, in a way, you remind Art of his grandmother. He doesn’t tell you that though because he doesn’t think that’s the best thing to say to someone he’s just been balls deep inside. He does tell you, however, that he likes seeing you like this.

You look up at him in between adding orange icing to a cookie. Some of the icing spills onto the counter as you tilt your head and furrow your eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

He gestures around the kitchen. “It’s nice, you know, being able to watch you make something.”

Though you’re looking down at the cookie, he sees the smile splitting your lips open. Art leans forward and swipes the icing from the counter with his index finger before popping it into his mouth. He smiles at you around his finger, and you flush as warmth spreads throughout your body.

Ѽ

“Nancy,” you start. “I just finished setting up this entire table. I am not moving all of this again.” You gesture to the spread of homemade cookies, pumpkin shaped cake pops, and pretzel rods dipped and drizzled in orange, black, and purple icing and sprinkles. The cookies themselves were a pain to arrange. You wanted there to be an even number of skull and jack-o’-lantern shaped sugar cookies on each platter. And each cookie needed to be facing forward. You didn’t think you had the patience for some snaggletoothed kid to ask what’s this? And plant their finger right on the cookie only to decide they hate pumpkins and leave it there. 

“Okay!” She says defensively. “I just wonder if it’s such a good idea for the sweets table to be so close to the bouncy house. I wouldn’t want the kids to get sick.”

She turns to assess the giant inflated pumpkin. “I’d say they probably need a good 50 feet to walk and let the cookies settle before they start jumping up and down…don’t you think?”

You stare back blankly at the woman. “You just had me move because you said the smell of the petting zoo might ruin appetites.”

“And it could!” She whips her head back around at you, her blonde bob slapping the side of her face. “Those baby goats are cute, but they don’t smell great hon!”

You fold your arms.

“Alright.” Nancy raises a hand with a shake of her bobble head. “We won’t move,” she relents, “but could you maybe just tell each kid to eat their treats at the table, you know just to make sure they stand around for a couple of minutes before running to the bouncy castle?”

You start to tell her that it’ll be hard to control what a bunch of excited, elementary schoolers do after they get some sugar in them, but decide it’s not worth arguing with her. You glance over at her husband, Frank, who has set out his red and black folding chair next to the drink cooler. She’d instructed him to make sure each kid grabbed one drink at a time because “lord knows we’ll be picking up half full juice boxes all night.” Without so much as a glance, he’d mumbled a well versed “yes honey” and sat in his chair, staring into the distance and scratching his chest.

You decide to take a page out of Frank’s book.

“Sure, Nancy.”

Ѽ

Your table proves to be a popular one. You’re not even halfway through the festival, and most of your cake pops are gone, and the sugar cookies are depleting by the minute. You blame Art for being such a distraction that you didn’t think to bake more cookies just in case. Once he’s done with face painting duty, you plan on letting him have it.

You’re counting how many jack-o’-lantern  cookies are left on the platters when a voice interrupts you.

“I always did love your baking.”

“Chris? What are you doing here?”

Your ex husband is standing in front of you, hands in his pockets as he smiles down at your spread of goodies.

He makes his way over to your side of the table. “My boy practically begged me to come, so of course I had to show up.”

You turn and purse your lips. “Well I hadn’t heard from you so I assumed you weren’t coming. They took your name off the list at the PTA meeting.”

“Dad!”

You look over to see your son barreling towards his father. He laughs reaching out to haul him up into the air. His little pirate hat goes crooked on his head. “You came!”

“Yeah, man, I told you I would!”

They fall into their own conversation as you help serve treats to some other kids that have wandered to the table. Despite your feelings about Chris, you can’t help but smile at the sound of Kaleb’s giggles. You’re glad that his dad’s presence brings him so much joy. You remember a time when you too felt that unyielding happiness around him. That flutter in your belly and the warmth in your chest that can only be characterized as pure, genuine fondness. God, you were so fond of him.

At the time, you thought you could never experience anything better than that. It’s why you agreed to marry him. And why you also agreed to stopping your birth control. Knowing he wanted to start a family with you made you love him even more, because to have a child with someone is to irrevocably tie yourself to that person. Being loved by Chris was your point of reference for so long.

But that was before.

Before he decided you weren’t enough for him, before he decided to be withholding, before he made you feel unlovable. It turns out that having a child with someone isn’t the symbol of unconditional love that you’d believed it was. Once you had removed the rose tinted glasses, you were able to see that love isn’t something that’s promised to you. Even if someone makes that promise to you, the love itself may not endure. You’re not sure how much control Chris really had when it came to loving you. You’re still figuring out what love entails when you’re not with him.

Now, you just hope that Kaleb will never learn what it’s like to not be loved by his father. That he’ll never have to vie for his affections nor his attention. That he will always feel held by his love and not stifled by it.

You feel something poke your hip, jolting you from your thoughts. It’s Kaleb, pressing his plastic pirate’s hook into your side to get your attention. You grab the hook in your hand, reminding him to be mindful of the point. He offers you a sheepish, snaggletoothed smile. “Sorry.”

You sigh and run your hands over his curls before gently tugging his ear. It’s a habitual motion that began when he was a toddler. He could be a little rambunctious, running around the house in nothing but a pull-up to avoid bedtime. When you’d finally catch him, you would ruffle his hair and gently pinch his little ears, calling him a silly monkey. He would erupt into fits of giggles before breaking away again making “ooh-ooh ah-ah” sounds.

Kaleb takes his arm behind his back in an effort to control his hook. “Dad said I can go with him tonight!”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah! Said once this is over we can go have some real fun!”

Chris laughs, patting Kaleb’s shoulder.

“What does that mean? Real fun?” You raise an eyebrow at your ex.

“Oh Christ! I’m just gonna take him to get some ice cream or something,” he says.

“I’m just trying to make sure my son doesn’t pick up any of your…” you look over him from head to toe, “… bad habits.”

He rolls his eyes.

“But yeah, that’s fine,” you sigh. “Do you have the booster seat?”

“Yeah, and it’s the perfect height for him to see the girls at the strip club tonight,” he cracks a smile like it’s the funniest thing ever.

Kaleb catches sight of a classmate and almost knocks his dad over in his haste to run to them. Chris shouts “Be careful!” before glancing over at you and chuckling.

You curl your lip in disgust before turning toward the couple approaching your table and offering them a bright smile. You can feel Chris’ eyes on you as you move to serve them. Once they’ve gone, you turn to him.

“Is there a reason you’re still standing here?”

He chuckles. “How do you know I didn’t want some of your cookies?”

“Okay, well what are you getting?” You ask impatiently.

He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he runs his thumb over his bottom lip and smirks, “You look really good.”

Your stomach twists.

“I miss you.” He searches your face. “You know that?”

You scoff. “No you don’t,” you say definitively before turning away from him.

You then notice that Art is making his way over to your table. He’s wearing the same black and orange “fall fest committee” shirt that you are, but his figure fills it out much better than you can. His jeans are hanging effortlessly on his hips, and you think that if he hadn’t stuck with tennis all those years, modeling would’ve been a great second option.

Your field of vision gets cut off by your mosquito of an ex husband. You literally swat at him to move away, but he’s still smiling at you.

“Please just get whatever you’re gonna get and leave me alone.”

He reaches for you. “C’mon, baby, don’t be like that.”

You yank your arm out of his reach, sending him a warning glare.

He ignores the warning, stepping closer to you to lean down near your ear. “You know every time I come pick up Kaleb, I just think, God, what will it take for me to get those pretty legs open again?”

A loud smack resounds as his head snaps to the side. You’re gritting your teeth. “Fuck you.”

He holds his cheek from where you’ve smacked him, a tiny smirk etched onto his face.

You point your finger at him. “How dare you? How dare you come to me with this shit! You have a fucking fiancée!” Your hands have started to tremble as your anger rises. “I mean, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?? You don’t get to treat me the way you did then come here saying shit like that!”

You don’t realize that Art has been standing there. He sees your trembling hands and glassy eyes and subtly positions himself between the two of you. “Is everything okay?”

You’re still glaring at your ex as if daring him to say something else.

Like the coward he is, Chris lowers his voice like he’s talking to a rabid animal. He tells you that you need to calm down before turning to Art. “Yeah, man, everything’s fine.” It’s just like him to make it seem like you’re the one who’s unhinged in the company of outsiders.

Thankfully, Art isn’t just some person.

He fully stands between the two of you, blocking you from Chris’ sight. You hear him say, “yeah well it doesn’t seem like it, man.” The muscles in his back are tense and his shoulders are square.

Chris sounds like he’s about to say something, but Art doesn’t let him finish. “I think you should leave her alone.”

You swallow and look down at your shaky hands willing them to be still.

Chris makes a move to step around Art. His jaw is clenched tight. “Respectfully, I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

Art lets out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. It wasn’t a request,” he says.

A second or two passes by as the two men stare at each other. Chris squints at Art, throws a glance around at you before stepping back with a laugh. He shakes his head assessing the way Art has planted himself in front of you. His eyes drop to where you’re fisting the end of Art’s t-shirt in an attempt to calm your nerves. He mumbles something about not being surprised but continues his retreat. “I’ll drop Kaleb off Sunday night,” he announces over his shoulder.

Once he’s gone, Art turns to you, rubbing his palms down your arms. “Hey,” he bends down to look you in your eyes. “You’re okay.”

It only makes your lip tremble more, the anger from earlier dissipating as something else takes over. Art tells you he’ll be right back. You bring your arms over your chest as your breathing gets heavier. The ruckus in the air is starting to feel suffocating. Your ears are ringing and you begin to feel tingling in your cheeks.

When Art comes back, he has Nancy’s husband, Frank, in tow. He tells him something, but you can’t hear him over the sound of your own heartbeat. You’re gasping for air. You barely pick up Art’s voice saying “come with me.” You let him take your hand and lead you out of the chaos.

Ѽ

The sound of Art’s car door shutting makes you realize that your face has stopped tingling. You blink as your breathing returns to normal and the static-like ringing in your ears fades away. You rub your palms over your fabric covered thighs and take one big breath before exhaling. Something moves in your peripheral vision, and you glance to your left. Art is sitting in the driver’s seat, but most of his upper body is facing you. His soft eyes watch you with a patience that makes you want to cry all over again. You reach for him.

Art immediately pulls you to him, letting you settle in his lap as you wrap your arms around his neck and rest your head on his shoulder. He presses a kiss to your head.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” you mumble into his shirt.

“Baby,” he runs a hand over your back.

“No, it was pathetic. I can’t believe I let him get under my skin like that.”

“It was a panic attack. It’s not your fault,” Art murmurs into your hair. “And that’s exactly why he did that. He wanted to get a reaction out of you. Don’t blame yourself.”

You lift your head up to look at him. You search his face. All you find is sincerity.

You brush your thumb over the skin behind his ear and lean in. Your noses gently bump against one another before you’re pressing your lips to his. It’s soft, slow, and deliberate. Art places his palm flat against the small of your back as he returns the kiss with equal tenderness. Through your lips and your tongue, you try to tell Art everything you aren’t able to say with your voice. And if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was telling you the exact same thing back.

When you bring your hips down to roll against him, Art tells you “we don’t have to.” It’s your turn to tell him that you want this.

You move to the backseat. He peppers quick kisses over you every now and then as you both work to get each other’s pants down. It would probably be quicker to simply take them off one at a time, but you two aren’t thinking properly. Your head is swimming from how bad you need him right now. Once you’ve gotten your jeans off, and Art’s are to his knees, he’s sitting back against the black leather, pulling you with him.

You release a small whimper when his wet mouth attaches to your throat. His forehead knocks against your shoulder as you reach your hands under his shirt. “Off. Please.” He lets out a soft grunt as he complies with your request.

Before he can fully toss the committee shirt to the side, you’re running your hands over his chest. You stop at his nipples, letting your thumb roll over the small buds. Despite his attempt to hold it in, Art moans when you lean down and swirl your tongue around his nipple. It makes his cock jump.

You begin to move against his hard member, seeking out the friction of him bumping against your clit. Art gets his tongue back into your mouth as he reaches under your shirt, pinching your nipples. His lips smack against yours as he brings his hands around to your back. He lets them trace down your spine until they meet the band of your underwear.

Art dips both hands into your panties and smoothes his palms over your cheeks. He grips your ass as he guides you to rock against him. You moan into his mouth before you lift your hips to allow him room to pull his underwear down his thighs.

His dick slaps against his abdomen.

Your mouth waters and your stomach clenches in anticipation. You reach for him, and Art lets you take him in your hand, pumping him one, two, three times before he’s greedily grabbing your hips. He promptly hooks his thumb in the seat of your panties. He uses the leverage to pull them to the side, and you guide his tip to rub against your sticky folds. You moan as you drag it upwards to which Art starts rutting his head against your clit.

Without warning, you press Art’s tip to your opening. He hisses when you start to sink down onto him. With him fully buried in your cunt, you let out a sigh. He wraps his arms around your waist, hugging you to his chest. You two share a kiss as he begins shallowly thrusting into you.

Ѽ

After the both of you have finished, Art doesn’t pull out right away. He keeps you there for a moment telling you he just wants to feel you for a little bit more. Naturally, you don’t protest. The two of you sit within the fogged windows of his car in blissful silence as he lazily strokes your back.

Unfortunately, the shrill ringing of your cellphone punctures that silence.

It’s Nancy.

She asks where you’ve disappeared to, then doesn’t let you respond as she tells you that Frank is at your table which is now empty. They’re going to start cleaning up in about 45 minutes.

When you rejoin the festival, you and Art spot your kids and their friends comparing their various prizes and candy. Standing off to the side is Tashi. She sends you a smile when she notices you. Your stomach drops.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

a/n: As always, let me know what you think <3 my asks are open!