#its the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

[patricia-taxxon]

i looked through the blogs of the lily orchard-obsessed tmras a while ago and found a post where multiple of them said that lily orchard was utilizing weaponized incompetence against her own sister *at the age of 10*, by half-assing tasks and chores given to her by her bum of a father, because supposedly those were then relegated to her sister, and 10-year-old lily should've known that "girls are treated differently than boys" and that she doesn't get to (correctly, lol) hold their father responsible for the unequal treatment. accusing a trans woman of "exhibiting entitled male behaviors" at the age of 10. it was such a mask-off moment, i was completely taken aback, but at the same time, what else could lie at the heart of their rhetoric but outright terf shit? to say nothing of the completely inappropriate level of what personal details they choose to dissect about a trans woman online, that goes without saying

I SAW THAT TOO, THAT SHIT IS FUCKING CRAZYYYY

everything i have learned about this case has been against my will, (i personally think neither lily nor courtney are telling the whole truth) but if you peer beneath the layers of the things uninvolved people have to say about her, its just ontological assumptions and biological essentialism all the way down.

[useless-catalanfacts]

Something very strange happened, and I think we need to have a talk about the way some people who don't know about Catalan culture misrepresent the Tió (our pre-Christian Christmas present-bringer, a log who poops presents 🪵🎁).

I have a relative who is a teacher in an adult school, she teaches Catalan language (mostly to immigrants). Some days ago, they were doing an activity about Catalan holidays, and two of her students said that Tió should be banned and that it's the worst thing they have ever heard. My relative was very shocked and asked why they could say such a thing (imagine, it's like saying Santa Claus should be banned in the USA). Their reasoning was that they completely misunderstood everything about it. These people are native Spanish speakers and assumed that the Catalan word "tió" (meaning "log" 🪵) means the same as the Spanish word "tío" (meaning "uncle"), even though both words are pronounced differently. They believed that the Tió represents a man and that we tell children to beat people up, so much until they poop themselves, threatening them to give us things. They said it promotes violence to children and that it's disgusting. Nothing further from the truth.

This is not an isolated incident because a few days ago I saw a post on Tumblr repeating this same mistake. I texted the person who posted it saying that it's not called "Poop Uncle" but "Christmas Log" and they said that this was what they were taught by their teacher (this person is from a different continent), and haven't taken down the post. I have also seen comments on Instagram repeating the same and making fun of how gross and violent it is.

The real meaning of Tió

The Log is a way of symbolically passing down our relation with nature. This is how the tradition works:

In early December, we get a log and bring him home. We take care of him: we keep him in a warm place, with a blanket over him, and we feed him things like orange/clementine peels and walnut shells. On Christmas day, all the family comes together. Children get wooden sticks and go get ready in another room, meanwhile adults place presents under the Log's blanket. Children come back and hit the Log while singing a song. There are many local variants of the song but they all come down to asking the Log to poop us good food. When they have finished singing the song, the children remove the blanket and discover the presents that the Log has pooped. Years ago (now this is only done by some farmer families in rural areas, but back in the day this was generalized), the Log was burned in the house's fireplace and its ashes were spread on the fields, believed to act as a magical fertilizer.

Notice what this whole "ritual" has been about: we take care of nature, nature takes care of us, we are part of a whole and there's no real difference between "nature" and "us" because we all give life to each other.

We take a log from the forest and bring it home. We do this for the Winter Solstice because it's the time of the return of light and the rebirth of nature after the winter sleep, and wood symbolizes the most important things for human life: food, warmth and light. It's difficult for us to imagine nowadays because we are used to electricity, but for our ancestors who only had oil lamps, fire and candles, darkness was almost absolute for many hours in winter, and that's why the Winter Solstice was very important because it meant that light is coming back. We want something from the Log, his fire will allow us to cook, it will give us light, and keep us warm. So we offer him the same: we feed him (notice what we feed it, too: a kind of compost, which is complimentary to human food), we keep him warm, and we love him. Then, we hit him with sticks (mimicking the motion of cutting down a tree) and ask him to give us food, and he does. Then, our ancestors used to burn him for warmth and light, and then take him back to plants spreading his ashes so it will give life to the fields. Which in turn will give us food again, which we will poop and it will fertilize plants again. And it's a cycle that never ends, we're all part of a whole.

We give to the forests, the forests can grow with the remains that all living creatures leave on its ground: leafs, excrements, the remains of parts of our food like nuts and fruit peels. These things give life to the forest. And the forest gives life to us: gives us fruits and wood (=light and warmth). We take these things, and in return we give to forests once again.

Nowadays, the part about warmth and light is often lost to kids, but the part about food is still obvious, even if subconsciously. This is why the Log is not the horrible barbaric tradition that the "haha poop and violence" crowd would make you believe.

And don't get me wrong, it can still be funny! We're the first ones to make jokes about it. And you can, too! But don't spread false ideas: the Spanish word "uncle" appears nowhere near this tradition because it doesn't have anything to do with uncles nor with Spanish-speaking cultures. It's called the Christmas Log (Tió de Nadal, Soca de Nadal, Tronca de Nadal, Tizón de Nadal, etc depending on the area, all meaning "Christmas Log") and it's celebrated by the Catalan people and a part of the Occitan and Pyrenean Aragonese people. The word "poop" (as an imperative verb, as in "please poop for us") appears in the song, but not in the name.

I know that, now that misinformation has gone viral, a post won't stop it. But I hope at least people with a genuine interest can learn some more. By all means, keep laughing! Make all the memes you want! But knowing the whole story will give you understanding. And, please, don't argue in favour of banning our cultural practises, we've had enough of that for centuries.

[stevie-petey]

growing pains

But you’re tired of pretending. “Why am I here, Steve?”  “I thought we already established it’s because you walked in the snow.”  He’s dodging. Avoiding the question and the truths that will come with it. “Steve.” Hissing his name is familiar, it feels more natural. This is how it should be between you. Anger, disdain, raw. “And there it is,” He winces. “The fighting begins. We lasted, what? Ten minutes? Merry Christmas to us.”

Summary: steve buys you shitty coffee five years after your breakup.

Rating: general, swearing

Warnings: fem! reader, use of y/n, exes!au, slight unhealthy relationship if u squint, ambiguous ending (kinda)

Words: 8k

Before you swing in: hi my dears ! heres a very sad/bittersweet coffee shop conversation with far too many flashbacks and miscommunication. yummy ! unintentionally made this a christmas fic, so the bleachers song merry christmas please dont call is very fitting lmao. enjoy !

-

A flurry of snow coats Hawkins. Christmas lights reflect off the pristine white as the quiet stills everything in the town. There are no cars that drive past you. Hardly anyone littering the sidewalk as your footsteps trace a path in the freshly fallen snow. In the small, rundown cafe there is only one other patron brave enough to face the winter cold. 

The bell above the door signals your arrival.

Steve looks up at you. 

The flush of cold air stains your cheeks a ruddy red, though his gaze tinges the hue pink. The blush gives away the fondness you hoped you had buried below your sternum; but the fondness is still there. It will always be there. 

Steve gestures silently, offering you the seat in front of him. He’s chosen a small table in the back of the room. Secluded. Private. But he doesn’t stand to greet you. 

You sit. The cold makes your body slow. Steve’s presence makes your posture stiff. Your hands remain folded in your lap. You don’t place them on the table, too reminiscent of the times he would reach across and interlace your fingers together. 

The deliberate act is small, your only defiance, but still, after all these years, Steve sees it for what it really is. You’re still exactly as he remembers. The corner of his lip twitches, hiding a smile that you still know the weight of. How it felt against your own lips. 

“The whole town is buzzing about a white Christmas. We haven’t gotten snow like this in years.” 

Inconsequential. Steve’s first words to you in five years are inconsequential. 

There are still flecks of snow on your clothes. A snowflake melts slowly on your scarf. You watch its demise. There is nothing you want to say to him. 

Steve shifts slightly. Clears his throat. You still make him nervous. “I wasn’t sure you’d still come.”

“I walked.” Your first words to Steve are inconsequential, too. 

“In all this snow?” His surprise is soft, bordering on amusement. He takes his coat off, and underneath is a cheesy holiday sweater that makes your throat clench. “Aren’t you freezing?”

You shake your head. “I like the cold.”

And then Steve smiles. Genuine, it stretches across his entire face. “Yeah,” a breathy laugh that echoes in your ears. “I remember.”

– 

“I can’t feel my legs.” Steve whines, lagging behind you as the two of you trek through the snow. You’re at the bottom of the hill, still a long way from the top. “How are you still alive?”

You’re flushed in excitement and youth. The apples of your cheeks match the pink hat that keeps sliding into your eyes. Planting your feet firmly into the snow, you continue to climb. “It’s not that cold.”

“It’s freezing–shit!” Steve slips on a patch of ice. His voice cracks as he yelps, and you giggle at his embarrassment. He glares at you. “Please don’t laugh at me. I’m miserable here, Y/N.”

“You’re the one who wanted to come. I was perfectly happy going sledding alone.” You’re halfway up the hill now. The flimsy plastic tube you’re using to sled hangs loosely from your hand. “Don’t be such a baby.”

Steve scoffs. “God forbid I try to be romantic and go sledding with my girlfriend.”

Your cheeks flush an even deeper shade of pink. It still feels weird, hearing him call you his girlfriend. The word is new, foreign, but the warmth that accompanies it is one that you hope you never get used to.

“Besides, who even goes sledding alone?” Steve continues, still pathetically behind you. “What if you got hurt? No good boyfriend should allow that to happen.”

You snort. “What, are you my knight in shining armor now?” Shifting low, you start scooping up some snow. “Is that what you want me to say?”

“All I’m saying is that I’m totally a saint.” 

You laugh, now packing the snow into your hands as you form a snowball. “Oh, I’m sure you are.” Steve hasn’t noticed what you’re doing yet. He doesn’t know that in a matter of seconds you’ll cover his face in snow. Sneaking a glance at him, your breath catches.

There are snowflakes in Steve’s hair. A few kiss his cheeks, dancing along his freckles. The brown of his eyes glow warm ember in the white snow. His skin is pink, alive and pure. He’s beautiful. Devastatingly beautiful in a way that makes you ache.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Steve asks you, face wrinkling in confusion. 

You cough, embarrassed to have been caught. The snow in your hands starts to sting. The pain grounds you, clears your mind, and you try to pretend that the molasses in your bloodstream isn’t love. 

Throwing the snowball, it explodes in Steve’s face. He shrieks, sputtering at the cold shock. “Y/N!”

You laugh, loud and happily. Your ribs ache and your breaths escape your lungs in a burn that soothes you. Steve lunges toward you, hands finding your waist as he pulls you close. He grips you tightly, he can feel your laughter in his chest. 

“You’ll pay for that!” he buries his nose in your neck and you squeal, laughing even harder. Steve pulls you impossibly closer. He relishes in your warmth. He relishes in the way you squeal when he starts to tickle you. 

Warm. Everything about you is warm. 

You are sunshine against Steve’s skin. 

–

Someone else walks into the cafe, the sound of the bell echoes in the chasm between you and Steve. There are no more snowflakes on your scarf. The warmth of the cafe is stifling, although there is a comforting familiarity to it. 

“How are you?” 

Another inconsequential question, although you can’t fault Steve for it. He’s trying. More than you are, anyways. But what are you supposed to say? What are you supposed to do, seeing your first love after five years of silence and absence? 

“Fine.” The response falls flat, mundane. Disinterested. Wincing, you really do try to sound as if you want to be here. “Good. I-I’ve been good.”

“Yeah?” Steve raises his eyebrow, leaning in. “I mean, I’m not surprised.”

Your shoulders tense. “What do you mean?”

Seeing your unease, Steve quickly explains himself. “Shit. That sounded ominous. I’m sorry,” he runs his fingers through his hair. The same way he used to do when he was seventeen. “What I meant is that Robin told me. About what you’ve been up to these last few years.”

Your shoulders drop. Of course Robin still talks to him about you. You suppose it’s only fair, seeing as how she tells you about him, too. She remained friends with you both after the breakup. She hadn’t wanted to take anyone’s side, and she’s kept true to that. 

“What has she told you?” 

It’s a real question. You know Robin would never tell Steve anything embarrassing or incriminating. But curiously gnaws at you. 

“Nothing bad, unfortunately.” Steve gently teases, but his prodding is only met with your uninterested gaze. He sighs, clears his throat. “She told me you moved to New York. Nearly screamed my ear off when your publishing deal got accepted. It’s pretty incredible.” 

Your fingers pick at the skin underneath your nails. “It’s only for one book.”

“Five years, and you still can’t accept a compliment.” 

“You’d be surprised by what can change in five years,” your eyes avoid his. “Is the coffee any good here?”

“It’s terrible,” Steve slides his mug over to you. Steam rises from the black liquid inside. “Milk and sugar. Hope it’s still how you like it.”

You take a sip, cringing at the taste. You’ve come to prefer your coffee black, bitter but rich. The coffee Steve has bought you is too sweet, but you drink more anyways. It gives you something to do. 

“I’ve been good, too. Thanks for asking.” Steve leans against his seat, placing his hands behind his head. He’s as coy as ever. The years haven’t made him humble. “I’m sure you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t wondering.” You set the mug down. “I heard you made history being the youngest English teacher at Hawkins High.”

Steve’s mouth parts in shock. In another life, you pinch his lips together and kiss the tip of his nose. In another life, five years ago, you did.

But not this life. “Robin talks about you, too.”

“Of course she does,” Steve echoes your earlier thoughts. He leans back again, eyes never leaving your face. “Were you surprised? Steve Harrington. English teacher.”

The answer comes easily. “No.” 

“No?”

“No,” you twist the mug around. Steve stares at you and you wish he would stop. He’ll see through you, he’ll see the fondness and he’ll know everything you’ve tried to erase. “You were always interested in what I was reading. You didn’t hide it very well.”

Steve smiles to himself, his own fondness leaking over. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t.”

He could never hide anything from you. 

– 

You’re in the classics section of Hawkins’ library. You wanted to check out a few books they recently collected. The librarian has your personal landline. You’ve spent more and more time in the building, reading all of the greatest authors. 

Steve always comes with you.

“Look, Y/N. I adore you, but if there aren’t any ass-kicking spies or alien babes, then I’m not reading it.” He shoves the book you hold in front of him away. “What the hell is a Brontie, anyways?”

“It’s Bronte,” you poke Steve’s cheek. “And I really need you to stop pretending that you don’t know these authors. It’s gotta be exhausting.”

He grabs the hand poking his face and twists it, forcing you to spin and land against his chest. “I’m not pretending, sweetheart. I don’t know any of these names.”

Steve claims he comes to the library with you because he gets lonely without you, but you’ve caught him rifting through Albert Camus and Erich Fromm. He could spend hours paging through their works. 

But you’ll allow him to keep this one secret from you. 

“C’mon,” you laugh, tugging Steve’s arm towards a new section. “Help me find Fyodor Dostoevsky. I want to study the way he writes his characters’ inner monologues.”

“No way that’s a real name.”

You laugh again. “Just shut up and help me, please.”

Eventually you find Dostoevsky and you become engrossed in his words. They’re intricate and complex, yet there’s a simplicity and plainness that strikes you. You write down a flurry of notes, not wanting to forget a thing; one day you want to command words the way all the authors you’ve studied seemed to do. 

You’re so lost in the world Dostoevsky has built, that you don’t notice Steve’s absence until he returns again. 

“Hey, check this out.” He’s holding a book, his finger saving the line he wants to show you. “This Pablo Neruda dude was like, a total romantic. Wanna hear?”

You lean against the bookshelf, curious. “Are you going to read to me?”

The only response is Steve’s charming smile. He steps closer to you, your breath mixes with his. “‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving.’”

He closes the book, but he doesn’t move away. Your foreheads touch. 

“Love”. A word neither one of you has said until now. Until Steve read you a poem and uttered the word three separate times. 

He loves you, and you love him. 

Standing on your tiptoes, you kiss him. Steve kisses you back. 

– 

“Do you enjoy it?”

Steve drums his fingers on the table. “Enjoy what?”

“Being someone that kids look up to.”

He breathes out slowly. “I forgot how much you love asking heavy questions.”

You finally look at him. “You’re the one that asked to meet for coffee.”

“Fair point,” Steve scratches the back of his head. “Thank you, by the way. For agreeing.”

“I was in town.” You look away again. “The holidays. And the wedding, I guess. Nancy asked me to come.”

“I still can’t believe she got Byers to agree to a winter wedding.” Steve shakes his head, smiles to himself. “Anyways, to answer your shockingly emotional question: I do enjoy it. I love teaching. I love being someone that kids can come to. Is it terrifying? Absolutely. But selfishly, I like to think I’m good at it.”

Even though you don’t want to, you smile at him. “You’ve always been good with kids.”

Steve doesn’t expect your sincerity. The praise is small, a throwaway comment more than anything else, but it’s the nicest thing you’ve said to him in years. He’s suddenly shy, ducking his head. “I don’t know. Those little bastards were really difficult to handle.”

The little bastards being Dustin, Mike, Lucas, Will, Max, and El. The kids you grew up with, a consequence of being neighbors with the Wheelers. One day there was a kid on your doorstep demanding you let him use your old scooter.

Mike had been only nine then, but he had been fierce and persuasive. After giving the scooter over, Mike forced you into his life. Then the rest of the party’s lives. 

Nancy came later, then Jonathan, and then, eventually, Steve. 

“They admired you.” You tell Steve, honest. “They still do.”

He blushes again. “You really think so?”

“I remember more than you think,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I remember everything, too.”

– 

The morning of the kids’ graduation, it’s a blur of packed cars and nervous excitement. Steve offered to drive everyone, giving the parents time to get situated and find seats at the high school. 

“Your car reeks.” Mike kicks Steve’s seat.

He glares at the kid. “Why didn’t you ride in Nancy’s car, then?”

“Her and Jonathan are gross.”

Lucas fixes his graduation cap. “They whisper to themselves a lot. It’s creepy.”

Max elbows him. “It’s because they’re in love, doofus.”

“Steve and Y/N are in love, and you don’t see them whispering to themselves.” Dustin points out, which you laugh at.

“I’ll be sure to never whisper to Steve with you guys around.”

Will pokes the back of your head. “Can you tell your boyfriend to drive faster? If we’re late, I think Hopper might actually kill him.”

“My dad would not kill Steve.” El corrects. “He would only hurt him. A lot.”

Steve pales slightly, stepping on the gas. “Alright. Guess we’re getting a speeding ticket, then.”

You end up arriving at the high school with a few minutes to spare. All the kids run out the car, throwing a quick thanks as they scatter. They’re gone in a heartbeat, a mass of green caps and gowns. 

“We’ll see you guys on stage!” You shout through the window, waving as they leave. 

“Remember how nervous we were when we graduated?” Steve asks you.

You shake your head fondly at the memory. “You wouldn’t stop sneezing. I had no idea you were a nervous sneezer until then. Robin thought it was the most embarrassing thing ever. I contemplated breaking up with you.”

“It’s a debilitating condition, Y/N.”

The graduation is long, but with six separate kids to listen for and cheer on, it passes quickly. When their names get called, you and Steve are the loudest ones who cheer. Robin calls you guys dramatic, but she screams her heart out when Dustin walks the stage. 

Nancy cries when Mike walks, and Jonathan, who had only just stopped crying after seeing Will walk, has to hold back his tears yet again as he consoles her. 

The five of you are a mess, and when the kids find you after graduation, you aren’t sure who starts running first. They swarm you, arms encase you and you hold onto them tightly. Will is crying, El can’t stop jumping, the kids are all a mix of emotions, yet they all remain fixated on Steve.

“Did you see the way I walked?”

“I waved at you! Did you see me?”

“You’re really loud when you scream, ya know that?”

“A poster would’ve nice. Just saying.”

All their eyes are on him. Their questions directed at him, eager to be answered. They seek Steve’s praise, like sunflowers following the sun’s rays. 

As you stand back, watching the way Steve is so loved by the kids, you fall in love with him all over again. 

– 

Steve picks at the frayed edges of his old jacket. It’s the same one he bought with you, back when winter in Hawkins was warm and yellow and light. Now everything is dull. Grey and bleak. 

“I never thought that you’d forget.” He acknowledges your hurtful words. He doesn’t like their implications. “I’d never think that.”

Steve’s clipped words make you defensive. Heat rises to your face. It makes your heartbeat spike. “There are a lot of things I thought you’d never do.”

He sucks in a breath. 

The cafe is quiet again. Your coffee remains untouched, cold. 

Steve finally tears his eyes from you, and the loss of his gaze feels colder than you expected it to. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To see his disdain for you on his pretty face, for him to hurt how you had. Isn’t that why you agreed to this?

The way Steve’s entire demeanor changes, how quickly his smile slips from his face, makes you question why you’re even here. Suddenly you want to take it all back. To mold his face into a happier one, get him to look at you again and trick yourself into believing that the tenderness in his eyes is real. 

“I’m sorry.” The apology comes out fast, the words mesh together, but it’s the best you can manage. “That… that was mean.”

“I think mean is fair.” Steve looks at you, his lighthearted smile is back, but it doesn’t shine like before. “Honestly, I���m relieved you’re being mean.”

You’re confused. Everything he does confuses you. “Is that why you asked me to coffee? Because you wanted me to be mean to you?”

“Partially.” He sips your discarded coffee and quickly spits it out. He wipes his mouth, gagging. “Jesus, that’s fucking rancid. I don’t even know why I did that. I hate coffee, and it’s even worse when it’s cold.”

He’s making a whole show of this. The way Steve talks to you, the questions he’s asking and the way he responds to whatever you tell him. He’s trying to recreate something that isn’t there anymore. Treating your time in the coffee shop together as if you’re two friends catching up.

But you’re tired of pretending. “Why am I here, Steve?” 

“I thought we already established it’s because you walked in the snow.” 

He’s dodging. Avoiding the question and the truths that will come with it.

“Steve.” Hissing his name is familiar, it feels more natural. This is how it should be between you. Anger, disdain, raw.

“And there it is,” He winces. “The fighting begins. We lasted, what? Ten minutes? Merry Christmas to us.”

Fed up, you slam your chair back and stand. If Steve wants to evade every question and act as if this is all some giant joke, then he can go fuck himself. 

The sudden motion makes Steve jump, but he quickly stands up with you when he realizes that you’re leaving. “Shit, wait–”

Steve’s hand grazes yours and you flinch away, reeling back. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Y/N…” He stands still, the venom in your voice cementing him to the ground. In all the time he’s known you, you’ve never rejected his touch. Bitterly, he thinks that you were right about what you said when you first arrived at the cafe.

A lot can change in five years. 

You press the back of your hand to your forehead, trying to calm yourself down. Even though there’s no one else in the shop, you still don’t want to cause a scene. Not here. Not like this. 

“This was a mistake.” You swallow down bile. Steve still manages to get such a vulgar rise out of you, and you hate it. “At Nancy and Jonathan’s wedding, we won’t speak to one another. We won’t ruin their day, and you can sit with Robin. I don’t care. We can just pretend that we don’t–”

Your words die in your throat. You can’t bring yourself to finish them. 

“That we don’t what, Y/N?” Steve knows exactly what you mean to say. He narrows his eyes at you, pushes you to lay the final blow. 

Your breath stutters. Your body is cold. You may still make Steve nervous, but he still makes you nervous as well. He can still cut through you viciously in a way only someone who has truly loved you can. 

He stands before you, begging. “Say it.”

You’ve always been weak for him. “That we don’t hate each other.”

But your words are meaningless. As if you could ever hate each other. 

Steve lets out a bitter laugh. “The one thing I can’t do when it comes to you is hate you.”

“Steve–” You want to take it all back. You shouldn’t have said it. You don’t know why you even said it, but you did.

“I can go five years without hearing your voice. I can wake up without you next to me. I can spend the rest of my life regretting that I lost you.” Steve doesn’t move, he doesn’t come near you. He’s hurt and he’s in pain and you don’t know how to be the one to help him anymore. “But what I can’t do, the only thing I can’t do, is hate you.”

–

The bay window caught your eye first. Then it was the rich brown wood floors, and then the garden that overlooks Lover’s Lake. Inside the apartment there are vintage tiles that you adore and the baby-blue walls make you feel faint.

The home Steve finds for the two of you is, unsurprisingly, perfect. 

“Do we really get to live here?” You ask, breathless as you wander through the empty hallways and bedroom. Never before have you had such endless space to yourself. It feels very adult, very final, and you wouldn’t have chosen anyone else to experience this first with than Steve.

“We better get to live here.” Steve huffs, setting down another box. You tried offering to help, but he scoffed at the idea and told you to admire the apartment instead. “The deposit was fucking expensive.”

Your fingers brush over the cream white curtains. They’re soft beneath your touch. “At least your dad was kind enough to pay it.”

“And if by ‘kind enough’, you mean ‘wanted his son to move out already’, you’d be right.”

“Same difference.”

Steve laughs and the sound echoes through the empty room that you know you’ll have years together to fill. You already have a million things you want to purchase for the apartment. Steve’s only request had been that you make the apartment feel like a home.

As if anywhere with Steve doesn’t already feel like a home. 

Later in the night you order pizza, starving and exhausted from moving. There’s no table for you and Steve to sit at. No chairs to rest on. You eat your first meal in your new home on the floor, surrounded by boxes and laughter. 

It’s perfect. 

“While I’m grateful for Mrs. Wheeler for giving us her spare bedding and all,” Steve wraps the blanket tighter around the two of you. The bed beneath you is lumpy and old, the only furniture that came with the apartment, but a bed is a bed. “I feel weird sleeping in her sheets.”

You press your nose against Steve’s neck, feeling your bones sag with relief. “She’s hot. I’d sleep in her sheets any day.”

Steve chokes on his spit, falling into a coughing fit while you giggle hysterically. He hits his chest, tries to suck air back in, and you’re laughing so hard there’s tears in your eyes. 

“You can’t just say that!” He sputters, still coughing.

“I know you were thinking it!” You giggle again, your smile presses against Steve’s cheek. His body is warm and soft and he smells like home; it's addicting. He’s still coughing when you kiss his cheek and brush his hair back. “Can you stop dying already? I’m trying to kiss you here.”

Steve wraps his arms around you and throws his body on top, smushing you beneath him. You squeal, giggling even harder now as he litters your skin with feathery kisses. “You’re trying to kiss me, huh?”

His nose runs down your cheek. Down across your forehead, to the tips of your ears. He kisses every inch of skin he can reach. “I don’t think you’re doing much kissing here, Y/N.” Steve kisses your eyebrow. His lips skim your chin, they linger in your laugh lines as endless laughter pours from you. 

“It-it tickles!” More laughter, you try to shove Steve away, but he places all his weight against you and kisses the apples of your cheeks. His fingers curl around your waist, nails digging in softly. He has you right where he wants you. 

“Kiss me,” he breathes into you. Over and over he repeats himself, kissing you with every enunciation. “Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.”

Steve begs you and you ache. He never has to ask you. You would do anything for him. 

You tilt your head, find his lips, and you get lost in each other. He kisses you slowly, intentionally. With a softness that makes you shiver. He whispers how beautiful you are, how much he loves you, and the syrup in your lungs simmers.

“I love you,” you murmur, lips kissing his chest. “I think you’re my favorite person in the world.” 

A childish praise, but it’s everything to Steve.

– 

Steve orders you another coffee. Black this time, no sugar. The barista brings the cup over when it’s ready, the steam the only source of warmth between you and him. 

Snow falls outside and Steve hasn’t been able to look at you since you sat back down. 

You’re not entirely sure why you’re still here. Neither one of you talk. There is no more disingenuous small talk between you. No more forced smiles. Polite questions about how the other has been.

All there that remains between you and Steve is the absence of what was. 

“Robin said we’d only last five minutes.” 

You remember the surprise on her face when you told her you’d accept Steve’s offer for coffee. She didn’t think you’d say yes, and the surprise quickly morphed into skepticism. She placed her book down, patted your hand, and told you good luck.

Steve laughs, short and staccato. “She has such shit faith in us. We’re nearing twelve minutes now.”

“We’re stubborn.” The coffee is disgusting even without the excess sweetness. Steve is right. The coffee here is truly horrible. 

“If I remember correctly, you’ve always been the more stubborn one.” He isn’t mean when he says this. More observant, stating a fact.

You set the coffee down. “And if I remember correctly, you hit your head a lot when we were kids.”

A small smile. “Which would mean?”

“That it’s possible you don’t remember anything correctly.” You tug at your scarf. “Maybe I wasn’t as stubborn as you’re remembering.”

Steve laughs this time, a real laugh that melts the ice that froze over moments ago. “Whenever we argued, you never let me get a word in. I’ll never forget that. I would’ve found it impressive, if it weren’t directed at me.”

Snippets of memories flash through your mind. You and Steve hardly argued throughout your entire relationship, but when you did, the fallout was always scattered pieces. 

“Doesn’t mean I’m stubborn.” You say weakly, still not quite ready to admit otherwise.

“I’d argue with you, but I was hoping we’d make it to fifteen minutes.” Steve takes your coffee, sips it again and cringes like he did before. Only he doesn’t say anything this time. 

“Is there a prize if we make it to fifteen?”

He smiles into the coffee. “Possibly.”

Silence again.

Steve keeps the mug in his hands, using its warmth to soothe his cold fingers. Years ago, he would use the heat of your hands to warm him. But your hands remain folded in your lap and you no longer want his touch. 

The silence eats at you. You bite your lip, twist your fingers together. You don’t know why you stayed, but you don’t know why Steve stayed, either.

“I was pretty stubborn, wasn’t I?” 

Steve looks at you. His eyes shine for a brief moment. “Maybe a little.”

– 

Shortly after moving into your apartment, you started writing. After years of reading other people’s stories, you felt that it was time to write your own. But finding the story was difficult. Every night you stared at your blank pages, willing them to fill with the words you were unable to write. 

As for Steve, he started picking up spare shifts at the local diner. He hated being a waiter. He thought it was degrading, but as a twenty-two year old with no college degree or work experience, it was all he could do. 

Money was tight, you were both starting to feel the weight of truly being on your own. You weren’t just two kids anymore. There were real responsibilities now. Grappling with your futures rather than imagining them.

And then one day you got a phone call that changed everything. 

“I can’t miss this interview!”

“And I can’t just leave work in the middle of the day to drive you, Y/N.” Steve sighs deeply over the phone. You can practically envision the way he pinches the bridge of his nose and tugs at his hair. It’s grown long. Longer than it’s ever been before. You like it this way. 

You glance at your watch and curse, frustrated tears burning your eyes. “Steve, please. This could make or break my entire future.”

“Sweetheart, I understand that, but if I leave work early, I’m getting fired.”

“You don’t know that!” You need him to say yes. You need him to drop everything for you and drive you to Bedford so that you can meet with a literary agent and discuss your work. 

It all happened so fast. One moment you were sending yet another draft of short story ideas to random agents. The next, you’re getting a phone call offering an interview in a town an hour away from Hawkins.

None of it felt real. That is, until the catch fell against you: the agent can only meet today and you don’t have a car. 

“David explicitly told me that if I leave work early one more time, my ass is grass.” Steve rubs his face, exhausted. He wants to help you, he wants you to finally get your big break. You’re far too talented for Hawkins, you deserve to be somewhere better; but the reality is that you can’t afford it right now. “Can’t someone else drive you?”

“I already called everyone else.” Your face is hot from anxiety. “Robin. Nancy. Jonathan. Hell, even Mike and the kids! But no one can take me and I have to be there in two hours.”

“Y/N…” 

Your head falls against the wall. “This is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Steve’s heart clenches. He sucks in a breath. “I know that, okay? I-I do. But I can’t afford to lose this job. We’re already behind on rent, we still owe my dad for the deposit–”

“But you can always get another job!” You exclaim, losing whatever grasp you have left of your sanity. “I mean, Jesus, Steve. You’re just a waiter.”

The line is silent for a moment.

“I’m sorry?”

His tone is quiet, it laces guilt into your veins. 

“I-I just meant that there’s a shitload of restaurants in Hawkins,” you’re rambling now, regretting everything. You shouldn’t have called. You shouldn’t have said what you did. But now it’s too late and you’re in too deep. Letting out a breath, your lips tremble. “But there’s only one literary agent who wants to meet with me.”

There’s yelling in the background. Steve mumbles something to someone, you think you hear David yelling at him to get back to work. Muffled rustling, followed by a string of curses.

“I gotta get back to work.” Steve says curtly, not even giving you a chance to respond before he’s already hanging up the phone.

The dial tone rings in your ear. 

You never make it to your interview.

Steve gets home late that night. He walks past you, he doesn’t acknowledge you besides the slam of the bedroom door. 

– 

“I never apologized to you.”

Steve sets the mug down. He doesn’t ask you what you mean. “No, you didn’t.”

You swallow. “I… I’m really sorry, Steve.”

He shrugs. It was a long time ago. He’s forgotten the sting of your words. The marks they left have long since faded. “It was your dream.”

“But you were more than just a waiter. Hell, you were the only reason we didn’t lose the apartment.” You rub the back of your neck, relieving the tension that knots it. “God, I was so fucking naive. I’m sorry for not realizing sooner, for not appreciating everything you did for us.”

Steve shrugs again. “We were just kids.”

The coffee you drank suddenly sinks in your stomach. 

We were just kids.

Sometimes you forget that your relationship with Steve had been your childhood. The two of you met when you were fifteen, fell in love when you were seventeen, and fell apart when you were twenty-three. 

You’d been so young together. The mistakes you made, the hurt you caused, were childish gashes with bullet-sized exit wounds. 

“We were just kids, weren’t we?” The nostalgia in your voice surprises even you. 

A fond smile ghosts Steve’s face. It’s barely there, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. “Young and in love. Now we’re just old.”

“At least we aged well.”

Steve raises his eyebrow at you. “Was that a compliment, Y/N?”

You smile, coy. “Who said anything about you? I was referring to myself.”

Steve scoffs, light hearted. You expect him to retaliate, to tease you how you’re teasing him. Instead, his gaze softens. He leans forward, drawn into you as he always is, and lowers his voice. “You’re as beautiful as ever.”

Years separate you and Steve. It’s been nearly a decade since love first tied you to each other. There used to be a knot, tied into something intricate, small, yet lovely, that connected you to Steve. 

And yet, with one sentence, the strings come together again.

“I still haven’t forgotten,” you fall back in your seat, away from Steve. “How you hurt me.”

He mirrors your body language, moving away as well. “And what about how you hurt me?”

You cross your arms. Steve crosses his. Staring at one another, a stalemate is reached. The memories that tie you together are both your vice and your virtue. The love is still remembered, it’s still warm to the touch, but so is the hurt. 

Robin would call you both childish if she were here right now. You can practically hear her now, annoyance in her voice as she rolls her eyes at the staring contest unfolding. She’s always resented how stubborn you both are.

“Why did you call me?”

Steve inhales sharply. He knows he has to answer the question. It’s only fair that he gives you an explanation for why he decided to call you at three in the morning the Friday before your plane was due to arrive in Hawkins’ small airport for Christmas and a wedding you both were invited to. 

But he can’t. Not yet, at least.

“If it makes me look any better, I called Robin first.” Steve forces a laugh out. “Granted, she told that if I called you that I’d probably die. But still. Blame her.”

Everything unravels after that.

“You never showed up.”

“Y/N.”

A crack to the surface, followed by a fist of anger that shatters everything. “You promised me you’d be there.”

“I was dick, I know–”

“Do you know how humiliated I was?” Steve winces, and his shame only enrages you more. “How utterly shitty it was when all our friends, our families, asked me where you were, and I couldn’t answer them?”

“Y/N, please just let me explain–”

“No.” The mug spills over as you hit the table, standing up furiously. You’re crying. You don’t remember the tears building. “You don’t get to call me in the middle of the night, buy me dogshit coffee, and then spoon feed me shitty excuses! You were my boyfriend, I wanted to marry you, and you abandoned me.”

“Is the coffee really that bad?”

Your jaw clenches. Steve rubs his neck, looking everywhere but at you. He’s trying to be funny. His first words to you in five years were inconsequential, and now he’s trying to use humor to ease the sting of guilt that he feels seeing you.

The decision is an easy one. 

“Goodbye, Steve.”

His hand grips yours before you can even turn away. Startled by his sudden touch, you don’t pull back. Not this time, at least. You’re frozen, staring at Steve as he stares at you. He’s pale. His chest heaves and there’s terror in his eyes.

“Don’t.” It’s all he can say to you.

“Let me go.” But still you don’t pull away.

Let us go. Please. 

“I…” He blinks, almost winces to himself. Steve doesn’t know how to tell you the truth. Not anymore. Not like how he used to. But you’re pulling away again and he’s just gotten you back and he can’t lose you. Not again. “I resented you.”

Your back straightens. “Excuse me?”

“I-I know how bad it sounds, but if you just–” Steve gestures behind him, tries to sit you back down. But you don’t move. His eyes plead with you. “Y/N, please.”

He looks so akin to the boy you once knew. The resemblance twists the tendons in your chest, forces the air out of your lungs. You don’t move, but you don’t leave, either.

Steve accepts all that you’ll give him. 

– 

The home you built with Steve loses its warmth. Lazy Sunday mornings cease to exist. He doesn’t hold you at night. Dates go unplanned, dinners eaten alone. Laughter dies and you stop waiting for Steve to come home. Everything stills. Lost in a time capsule that was once your dream. 

Winter comes and the snow that blankets Hawkins softens the dull ache of the distance that’s built between you and Steve. He starts taking night classes at a local community college and you spend your nights writing. 

The first story you write is about a lonely barn owl who hops through dwindling branches trying to find its mate. The creature calls out for someone, its wails echoing through the deserted forest that once was alive with creation. 

A snowflake that gets lost in a storm that it created becomes your second story. Its frail, lithe body too transparent to be anything other than alone. 

Then you write about a dandelion that mourns for its seeds that have been cruelly torn from its body. 

Over and over you write about loss. How cold it leaves a person, the emptiness that can never quite be filled. 

In the end, it’s this sense of loss that gives you everything you’ve ever wanted, yet leaves you with nothing to show for it. 

“I sent my writing to a short story show. I got in.”

Steve unbuttons his work shirt. He worked a double shift at the restaurant, but spares you a tired smile. “That’s great.”

The praise is small, but the rarity of it makes it feel like gold upon your skin. Cheeks flushed, you smile back at him shyly. “Thank you.”

Steve goes back to changing out of his clothes and you’re left to deal with the silence that always seems to follow you these days. Your feet carry you to the bed, sitting down gently as you watch him. He doesn’t shy away from your gaze, but he doesn’t acknowledge it, either.

“The show is in two weeks. Christmas Eve.”

“Oh,” Steve pauses in the closet’s doorway. His hand rests on an old sweater you got him when you first started dating. He pulls out a different one instead. “Well. I already took the day off, so I’ll come.”

You try not to focus on the fact that he makes attending sound like an obligation. A dull chore he has to complete. 

“Robin already promised she’d be front row. Jonathan and Nancy, too.” You get up, stand behind Steve, rest your head on the back of his neck and encircle your arms around him. He stiffens at the touch, so do you. But you can’t let him go. “I think even some of the kids will come. And my parents, obviously.”

“Sounds like you’ll have an entire crowd devoted to you.”

“Yeah, but I only really want you there.” You whisper, vulnerable.

Steve sucks in a breath, releases it. He doesn’t say anything else. 

The next two weeks you read your collection of short stories aloud for hours on end. You rehearse how to present them, the right cadence and intonations. How to make the loneliness heavier, the serenity sweeter. You don’t let Steve listen, claiming you want to surprise him alongside everyone else the day of the show.

Later, you’ll come to understand that you had been afraid of how he’d react. If he’d even react at all. 

The show is a haze of people and praise. Robin brings you flowers, Jonathan takes pictures of you with all the kids. Dustin surprises you with an old leather journal he found for you to write all your ideas in and El hands you a ribbon to bind it. 

Your mother cries and your father hugs you warmly. Mrs. Wheeler and Nancy bring Christmas cookies and organize the large audience you’ve built for yourself in the seats provided by the show. It takes two entire rows to seat everyone you love. 

Robin saves a seat for Steve. He’s late.

The night is spent listening to brilliant writers reading their stories to a small, but kind, audience. There are a total of eight featured writers. You’re scheduled to read your writing last.

After the second writer finishes, you look anxiously over at the audience and bite your lip when you still don’t see Steve. The fifth writer goes on and your nails are bloody from picking at them. Mike murmurs something to Robin, who shakes her head and nervously shifts in her seat, eyes never leaving the empty seat next to her. 

The seventh writer shares a story about newfound love and its warmth. 

Nancy finds your gaze and the pitying look in her eyes makes your nausea even worse. 

You stand in front of a mass of people who lean into every word you read aloud. The seat next to Robin remains empty.

Steve never comes.

And it’s the last time you ever wait for him.

–

“I really was proud of you, you know.” Steve says softly, regretfully. “Robin told me you won an award later that night.”

“I did.” The award had been your ticket out of Hawkins. It got you money, connections with publishing agents. You moved to New York not even a week later.

Steve looks down. “I should’ve been there.”

You don’t bother to agree with him. You don’t want to coddle him, lessen the guilt he feels for how cruelly he hurt you. You’ll never forget the pit that formed in your stomach when you realized he wasn’t coming.

“I regret what I did. Every single day I wish I had gone.”

“You resented me instead, apparently.” Your laugh is cruel, cold.

Steve sits back down numbly, his body falls and the seat beneath him catches it. He places his hands on the table, slowly, defeated. He looks up at you, allows himself to finally confess everything. “I resented how easy everything seemed for you. I mean, you were making a name for yourself while I waited shitty tables and slept through grueling night courses.”

You clench your fists, still refusing to sit down. “And that gave you a right to diminish my own accomplishments?”

“Nothing makes sense when you’re twenty-three.”

Not an omission of truth, but rather acknowledgement of how differently you see the world when you’re young. Though you want more from Steve, you accept this. In a way, you suppose he’s right. 

“I didn’t go to the show because I was scared of how much I was falling behind.” Steve doesn’t look away from you. He’s laying all his cards on the table, open and waiting for you to read them. “We were in over our heads, but somehow only I was the one drowning.”

Rent, bills owed, grappling with adulthood while still shedding your adolescence. Loneliness while being together. Careers that hurt and dreams that struggled for breath. You and Steve had been drowning together. Until one day you weren’t. 

Steve drinks the coffee, he doesn’t pressure you to sit down again. Instead, he sighs. “I let your words get into my head. In your mind I was just a waiter, and I felt that nothing I was doing with my life was worthwhile. The only thing I had done right by the time I was twenty was having you love me.”

The anger that was quick to rise is also quick to dim. There isn’t any left for you to fight. 

Finally, you sit. You take the coffee from Steve and the now cold liquid is a reminder of how much time has passed. “The age old question: do actions speak louder than words?”

Did what I say justify what you did? Or did they cause each other, creating a cycle that we can never escape? 

You won’t forgive him, but you understand him. Steve was hurting just as much as you were, only his hurt came from your own insecure and unsure words. You told him he was just a waiter because you were scared all you’d ever be was an unknown writer. The weight of your future made you scared, the uncertainty of it all overwhelmed you and made you cruel. 

Steve had fallen victim to the same fate.

“Robin told me it was growing pains.” Steve says. “What happened between us. It was all just growing pains.”

Begrudgingly you smile. Your cards are on the table as well. “You called me to discuss growing pains?”

The crinkle of Steve’s smile warms the cold cafe. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

“Tell me, then. Are we done growing?” You lean forward, allow your body to be near Steve’s again and the buzz of the proximity sets your skin on fire. He breathes in sharply. He hasn’t been this close to you in what’s felt like a lifetime. 

Steve leans forward too. You can smell his cologne, his eyes still shine how you remember them. His face is the same, though weathered with age and experiences you no longer know about. You count the moles that scatter his face, heart thumping wildly when you realize you still remember how many there are.

He’s still so beautiful. 

You’re weak for Steve. Your bones still remember the weight of his love.

“I don’t think we’ll ever be done.” Steve sinks even closer, nose almost bumping your cheek. You hold your breath, body humming. 

Breathless, you ask him, “then where does that leave us?”

Steve pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. He studies your face, the familiar angles and peaks of your nose. Your eyes, how they’re still his favorite color. Your hair is the same, maybe a little shorter now, and your perfume still the warm vanilla that reminds him of home. 

You’re still the girl Steve fell in love with when he was a kid. He’s still the boy you fell in love with when you were a child. There is still hurt, memories you both want to forget, but there is love within it. Young love can be formed anew, if someone lets it. 

“Together.” Steve finally says. “It leaves us together.” 

-

⌑ writing masterlist

⌑ please feel free to like, reblog, and comment. i adore hearing from you guys :)

[sodaequalsbubbles]

Religion didn't take a backseat in DATV, because it wasn't even in the car to begin with lmao.

It was absolutely wild to me that in Veilguard they discovered the truth about the Golden City or the Black City as it is known now, and no one seems to really care. The apparent seat of the Maker that was corrupted by man's arrogance which caused not only the Blight, but the Maker to turn his back on the world once again. Was actually created by the elves in the times where their empire was powerful, and the game along with the companions hardly bat an eye about this revelation.

There was basically a single convo talking about this, where the main reaction amounted to "wow that's crazy, anyways." Even Harding who is a devout follower of Andrastianism, had a pretty mild reaction to this. And Rook (whether you decide if they believe in the Maker or not) just tells Harding to believe whatever they want, with mildly different dialogue "options" :/

This revelation should have been treated as something HUGE. Even for more neutral standing or straight up atheist characters. The Chant of Light is the dominate religion in Thedas, which makes the Chantry a very powerful and influential force. Thedas society as a whole has been affected by the beliefs and teachings of the Chantry to some capacity because of this.

For example, Dorian is treated with mistrust and outright hatred by some of the companions and random npcs multiple times in Dragon Age Inquisition. All because one, he is a mage, and two, he is from Tevinter.

Tevinter is already hated enough because of it's legalization of slavery and the fact that mages hold all the power there, along their apparent frequent use of blood magic. But also because they executed Andraste, the figure head for the Chant of Light, who was said to be the prophet and bride of the Maker. And majorly, they are held responsible for bringing the Blight upon the world.

Because according to the Chantry, it was seven Tevinter magisters that physically entered the Golden City and blackened it with their own sins, causing the First Blight and the Maker to abandon them all. Which compared to Tevinter's own Imperial Chantry teachings-oh right we didn’t get to see any of that in Veilguard lol sorry.

The intro cutscene of Dragon age Origins literally starts with a Chant of Light verse explaining the source of the Blight, and the Golden City:

"The Chantry teaches us that it is the hubris of men which brought the darkspawn into our world."

So the true origins (hehe) of the Golden City undermines a very important aspect of the Chantry's teachings, or perhaps all of it. The Golden City was not the seat of the Maker, but instead an elven city built in the fade. This would have, or should have had people questioning the Chant of Light and if the Maker even exists. But no, instead we got the most lukewarm reaction possible to news that would be life altering to many in Thedas. And could possibly uproot the Chantry, or at the very least lessen its hold and power.

And don’t get me started on how the Dalish elves got their own ancient lore and religion shafted. When it concerned their thoughts and reactions to the fact that their gods literally came back to the physical world. You know, the event that the Dalish have been prophesying for centuries and waiting to happen . But the Dalish barely react to this, and are totally okay with all the revelations about their gods in Veilguard because they got told off screen I guess?

So whatever it's no big deal. No don't question it shhh. We'll have a few tiny conversations with Bellara about the elves feelings on this and nothing else. Now stop asking questions.

Yeah this sucks, thanks bioware🥲

is this anything.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

do u think either charles or erik had trouble coming to terms with their love for one another?? like religious guilt, internalized homophobia, etc.

Many such cases really … not hard to imagine them dealin with that …

[pamwritessometimes]

Dig That Crazy Santa Claus

Russell Shaw x reader

A Tuesday's Gone Christmas drabble

Summary: Your daughter may have uncovered her dad's greatest secret ever.

Warnings: none

A/N: Surprise, haha! I couldn’t resist — I had to write a little drabble about their first Christmas together. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all of you!

Wordcount: 810

The house was dressed for the holidays in all its mismatched glory. The tree leaned a bit too far to the left, decked with candy canes and glittery, uneven ornaments. But it was perfect, because this was your first Christmas as a family of three, and you had gone all out: stockings hung by the fireplace, wreaths everywhere, and enough gingerbread to open your own shop. 

Yet, instead of the excited squeals you’d been expecting from a five-year-old, there was… silence.

Emma sat on the couch, arms crossed and lips pursed in a pout that could rival the Grinch.

“What’s wrong, bug?” Russell asked after noticing her little frown. His tone was light, but his brow was furrowed with concern. “You look like someone just canceled Christmas.”

“No one canceled anything” Emma mumbled, staring daggers at the floor.

You and Russell exchanged puzzled looks. Emma wasn’t usually subtle when upset. She was more of a dramatic-foot-stomping, full-volume protest kind of kid. This… this was new.

“Sweetheart” you tried, sitting down beside her and gently brushing her hair back. “Whatever’s bothering you, you can tell us. Did Misha eat your gingerbread man? Did Daddy burn the cinnamon rolls again?”

Russell shot you a playful glare but stayed focused on the scowling little girl. But Emma’s pout just deepened and gave you no reply.

“Okay, we’re going to need reinforcements” Russell muttered, plopping down on her other side. “Em, I’ll trade you a cookie for the truth… two cookies.”

Emma huffed but didn’t take the bait.

“Three cookies” Russell tried, wiggling his brows.

Nothing.

“Alright, we’re getting desperate here” he sighed. “I can give you four cookies, but that’s my final–’

She glared at him, her cheeks puffing with frustration. Finally, she burst out, cutting him off, “I saw Santa’s clothes!”

Both you and Russell blinked in unison.

“Santa’s clothes?” you repeated.

“In your room! Hanging with Daddy’s stuff!” Emma exclaimed, her voice quivering with the sheer weight of her discovery. “You’ve been lying to me! Santa’s not real!”

Russell’s eyes widened, and then, like a true master of improvisation, he leaned back with a dramatic gasp. “Emma Grace, do you know what you’ve just done?”

Uh-oh. He broke out the full name.

“What?” she asked, her pout faltering slightly.

“You’ve stumbled upon the biggest secret in the whole world.”

Her frown faltered, curiosity creeping into her expression.

“What secret?”

Russell leaned in close, lowering his voice like they were co-conspirators. “What I’m about to tell you is top-secret. You can’t tell anyone, not even your little school friends, ‘kay?”

Emma nodded solemnly, her earlier betrayal temporarily forgotten.

Russell leaned a bit closer, and whispered, “The truth is… I am Santa.”

Emma’s mouth dropped open. “No, you’re not!”

“Think about it” Russell said, tapping her temple. “Have you ever seen Santa and me in the same room?”

Emma squinted suspiciously. “...No.”

“And how do you think all those presents get here every year? Magic? Nah, it’s hard work, bug. I’ve got a sleigh parked in a top-secret location, and those reindeer? They’re on a strict carrot diet.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh at his earnest delivery.

“But… you don’t have white beard!” Emma challenged, crossing her arms.

“Ah” Russell said, stroking his dark stubbled chin. “That’s my disguise. Can’t have people recognizing me at the grocery store, can I? Imagine the chaos.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she was intrigued now, her earlier anger melting into suspicion laced with wonder.

“If you’re Santa…” she started. ”Why do you live here and not at the North Pole?”

“Budget cuts” he said solemnly, earning a stifled laugh from you. “And between us, your mom’s cookies? Way better than the elves’. They get jealous, but I don’t care.”

That finally got a giggle out of her. “You’re just making this up!”

“Am I?” he countered, raising a brow. “Now, you cannot tell anyone, not even your friends. If word gets out, it’ll blow my cover. Deal?”

Emma hesitated, then slowly extended her pinky. Russell hooked his pinky with hers, sealing the pact.

“So… you’re really Santa?” she whispered, eyes sparkling with childlike excitement now.

“The one and only.” Russell nodded gravely.

Later that evening, as she cuddled up between the two of you in front of the fireplace, a mug of hot cocoa in front of her on the coffee table, Emma glanced up at Russell.

“If you’re Santa, can I ride in your sleigh someday?”

He grinned, ruffling her hair. “Sorry, kid. Only bad ones stay up that late. And you don’t wanna get on the naughty list, do ya?”

She shook her head and snuggled closer to him.

As Emma drifted off to sleep, her head resting against Russell’s arm, you leaned over with a soft smile. “Santa, huh?”

Russell shrugged, looking entirely pleased with himself. “What can I say? I’m a man of many hats. And apparently, one big red suit.”

I hope you enjoyed this little holiday treat, haha! Wishing you all a wonderful day and the happiest of holidays, loves!

xx Pam

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[ironunderstands]

I don’t think we talk enough about how tragic of a character March 7th is

I think her rather cheerful demeanor has unconsciously shifted people away from realizing just how well, sad her situation is. She was found in a chunk of mysterious ice floating way out in the vacuum of space with no explanation for how or why she was out there. March had no possessions, no memories, not even a damn NAME to know herself by, to the point where she decided to refer to herself using the date she was found: March 7th.

And yeah, she’s begun to forge an identity for herself following her rescue, but just imagine not knowing who you are, you who were, and having the literal universe itself (or more accurately, the memokeepers) going “No no, you can’t know about your past, it’s that bad!” which only leaves you with more questions than answers.

How can she not lie awake at night thinking of who she might have been? Was her past tragic? Evil? Delightful? Meaningless? Who did she leave behind? What did she leave behind? How bad was it to the point where March shouldn’t know about it for her own good? These are all horrifying questions she must be asking herself, and yet March has quite literally been denied all of their answers. At least the Trailblazer and Dan Heng have the comfort of knowing who they were in their pasts, even if those people were not the best, because then at least they can process it.

However, March has nothing TO process, just a whole lot of questions and not a single answer, and it must be terrifying not knowing who you are, and I don’t just mean on a spiritual level. What if March gets sick from some mundane thing which the crew never could have predicted because her biology simply doesn’t match any recorded species? What if she unlocks a new power and/or accidentally becomes a danger to herself and others, with simply no way to predict that? March has so many weaknesses and strengths she doesn’t know about simply because she doesn’t know anything at all about herself.

Like yeah the six-phased ice is fun and pretty looking, but if you think about it for more than a second, it gets kinda creepy. A substance unmatched in the universe that March can just produce at will? What is it? Where does it come from? How does it work? How can SHE control it? Why can she control it? How come it doesn’t exist elsewhere? Why was she encased in it? Did March freeze herself, because to me that’s what it looks like, or maybe her long exposure to the ice gave her some sort of control over it? Who knows? I don’t, and March certainly doesn’t.

As for the day she does find out, will she be disappointed? Will we as an audience be disappointed? Are the 26 something backstories she came up with for herself better or more interesting than the actual truth? Is it better for HSR to never tell us, to have this gaping mystery stuck in the game that they refuse to solve, knowing that whatever they fill that void with will never be enough to satiate its viewers? Keeping HSR’s theme of accepting one’s past and moving forward despite everything, would it be better to simply not explain who March was?

We learned who Dan Heng was, the TB will learn who they were, so what about March? What if they truly never answer that question? I doubt it will happen, but I think it would be so much more interesting if her past was really kept a mystery. That no matter who March was in her past life, she can be happy in this one and become the person she wants to in spite of that. She made her own name, made her own family, made her own identity and skills and friends and personality, and no matter how different she was before being frozen in the ice, March has who she is now and that’s what she’ll stick with, because it belongs to her more than that nebulous past ever did.

All that to say, hoyoverse, please do not drop the ball on March 7th, although I have long since lost faith in you not to do so

[mythologyofblue]

“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.”

-Herman Hesse, Bäume: Betrachtungen und Gedichte

[thebramblewood]

I was tagged by @retrotrait, @simvanie, @moonwoodhollow, @aheathen-conceivably annnnnnd @salemssimblr to post my top 24 screenshots from 2024, but I jumped the gun on posting a retrospective earlier this month.

I still wanted to do something, though, so I'm going to take some inspiration from @elderwisp and talk about my favorite story scenes of the year specifically - since there's nothing I love more than yapping and reminiscing.

Before I start rambling, I'll tag @living-undead, @esotericas-sims, @fallstaticexit, @simsdaughters, @biffybobs, @whyeverr, @kissalopa and @earthmoonz! I'm sure some of you have already done this (and no pressure if you don't want to), but I'd love to see you reflect on your year in whatever way suits you!

Good food and hard truths with Grace Anansi (one, two). I think this is quietly one of my favorite moments in the story so far because it revealed so much about Caleb's past that until this point had only been hinted at. It also gave him a friend and confidante, which he sorely needed. This was an extremely lengthy and exposition-heavy conversation, so it was challenging but rewarding to write, edit (endlessly), and execute in a compelling way. Plus, its final moments had to lead seamlessly into...

Party like a spellcaster (one, two). I think this was the first flashback in the story, so it was a pretty big deal! It was also the point where my ambitions started making scene preparation increasingly complicated. I spent a hell of a long time converting broomsticks and potions into pose accessories, but I was so pleased with how the vision came together, and it taught me a lot of skills that have become indispensable as my ideas grow more elaborate. Overall, it was a welcome moment of levity and joy for Caleb, even as we know tragedy looms in the future.

Lilith does a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad thing. Turns out once I started doing flashback scenes, I couldn't stop. You guys have no idea how it felt to sit on this particularly nasty secret for months. I wanted it to be a shocking reveal that fully established Lilith's villain status, but I also knew I would have to get her back into Helena's - and our - good graces eventually. It's been interesting to write a character like her who you love and hate at once. Ultimately, I want all of us to be on the same rollercoaster ride as Helena, equal parts repulsed and fascinated. This was especially wild to bring to life because it felt pretty surreal to be adding a whole new layer to this idea that originated years ago in my legacy!

Helena Zhao can't come to the phone right now. I was very proud of this scene because it was the first one where I made all the poses myself. It was also a major turning point in Helena and Julia's relationship, where their sisterly bond is deeply tested. I may have cried a little while writing and shooting it. I really enjoyed the brief moments we got to spend in Julia's perspective, and I hope to bring her back if the story calls for it. Although she was in extreme shock at what her sister had done, I imagine she'd eventually come around to having a bit more compassion for her situation. She'd probably be open to reconciling someday, presuming Helena ever sets foot in Copperdale again.

Reunited and it feels so... good? (one, two). I didn't even realize I posted Helena and Lilith's reunion on April Fool's! Everyone was waiting with bated breath to see if they would ever cross paths again... and who are we kidding? Of course they would! I had a very good time writing this conversation and giving Helena a chance to finally get everything off her chest - though, of course, she couldn't help but be worn down by Lilith's manipulative charm in the end. And then Caleb got his comeuppance for keeping the truth of what happened a secret for so long, reminding us once again just how scary Lilith can be.

Plasma Pals! As dark as this story is, I enjoy weaving in moments of comedy and lightness when I can, so it was really fun to portray Caleb and Helena's evolving friendship through the lens of a cheesy sitcom. I wasn't sure it would hit with anyone other than me because the funniest things I write are usually accidental. It's hard to be funny on purpose! But it ended up being possibly my most popular story post ever, so obviously I did something right.

Lilith teaches Helena the true art of supernatural seduction. I wanted this section of the story to be all about the two very different approaches Lilith and Caleb take to teaching Helena. This was one of my most technically challenging scenes. I shot the entire attack sequence twice because I was underwhelmed the first time. But in the end I'm glad I took the time to do that because it contains some of my favorite screenshots ever and really conveys Helena's internal struggle. But will she be able to resist when it inevitably happens again?

The night where it all began, part one. I love this entire series of flashbacks, but I'm particularly fond of the opening because we finally get a glimpse into what Caleb and Lilith's relationship was like as humans. It turns out they liked each other! And only bickered in a light-hearted way! And conspired and giggled together! This was another scene where I made all the poses. It was exhausting, but these flashbacks to the Vatores' vampire origins were so important for me to get right. I'd been thinking about them for a long time, so I wanted them to be as perfect as possible.

How Caleb was transformed, one and two. Again with the flashbacks! I think part of the reason I like them so much is because, as much work as they are, they always offer a change of scenery that refreshes my creativity. This particular scene was one I was obsessing over for months, so I had cultivated a very specific vision of how it would play out and didn't want to compromise. I'm glad I had the foresight to start learning posing far enough in advance that I felt ready to take it on. If I had to choose, this is my single favorite scene of the year. Everything came together exactly how I wanted, and it gives me chills every time I revisit it.

A very vampiric dinner date, part two. This entire sequence took so much work to complete from beginning to end! But it was the first big outing beyond Forgotten Hollow in a while, and I wanted it to be special. I enjoyed being able to put a bunch of pre-mades into compromising positions with your guys' vampires. As much of a pain as it is to pose multiple Sims, the end results are always worth it. And then, of course, the sequence resolves in Helena and Lilith having a genuine moment of intimacy for the first time since Helena was turned, which had us all squealing.

Helena is horny and confused. Can you believe this is the only Ulrike appearance of the year? 😭 I'm really glad I managed to sneak one in. Even though they broke up before she was turned, Ulrike is the ultimate reminder of Helena's human life, of everything she left behind and of what could have been. Other than her family, Ulrike is who Helena misses most when she thinks about the past. This scene was pulled together quickly based on me finding the pose pack. I wasn't entirely sure if it would even work as part of the main narrative. But I feel like the spontaneity made it feel extra special, even if it is a smaller moment.

Forgotten Hollow 101. If anything, the theme of this year has been taking an increasingly long amount of time to finish every post. This is in part because I got busier in the second half of the year but also because I can't stop thinking up crazy complicated ideas. This one took me a month more or less. Even though each vampire only had one picture, it required a lot of effort to get them all in game, find poses, set up locations, etc.! But it was so important to me to do justice to your guys' vampires, so I was happy to take the time, even in the couple of moments where I began to feel burned out. I hope to keep showing off your lovely creations next year!

[sheeezu]

Shifting proof, you're not wasting your time.

"My beloved, the distances between us have been erased, I am here, I am here."

(If anyone is able to guess which song lyric I translated here I will love you for all my existence)

If you're doubting shifting, then read this:

Let's dive into your mind. Most importantly, into your dreams.

Have you ever realised why you dream? Dreams are just for your subconscious mind to reherse your current reality, in practice all its doing is to ensure you don't fall out of your reality.

No matter how insane of a dream you're having, it has some resemblance with the life you are currently leading. Have you ever tried to figure out just how weird the whole concept of dreams are? For example, it's common knowledge to everyone, even antishifters, that lucid dreams are a thing. Meaning you can literally play around in your mind. When you sleep, do you realise the passage of time? Sometimes your sleep stretches on for long and you don't realise you've slept that much, sometimes, dream cover a lot within a short cycle of sleep. So what proof of time could you possibly present to yourself during your hours of slumbers, where is this clock that's supposed to dictate your life?

Sometimes you don't even dream, although unconscious processes are going on in your human brain, but where are you? In the void, you're floating around somewhere in the void, without any care of your reality for once, this is called your common consciousness, or just the void state.

Whenever you wake up from a deep sleep, you feel disoriented and confused, you hear conversations and imagine things which didn't happen, there is no literal proof that these happenings aren't just caused by general grogginess. This confusion is your consciousness readjusting to the reality you're in.

Let's discuss what all of this science and physics is. It's essentially just a method your consciousness put up in order for you to not fall out of reality, and to not have to face thanos out of nowhere, therefore logic exists.

We are from our roots just souls floating around in nothingness, we're souls capable of creation of anything by thoughts, will, and energy. We need a medium for suitable existence, for all of the people existing alongside us, what we have in common is that our consciousness has chose a similar mode of existence for us, which is by living as human beings on this livable spherical ball, where we accept the principles of luck.

Why does a system of being ridiculed by your environment and people around you and the formation of unwanted doubts exist whenever you claim something "impossible" by human terms, for example, if you assumed and started claiming the sun rising from the opposite direction as the truth, that's going to become your base since you are creating reality, therefore you will break reality and to prevent it you yourself once put these limitations, just like how you script your DRs.

But once you realise the fact that all along this organised way of existence was put up by you in order to excite your consciousness by going through these experiences, you'll realise shifting realities, manifesting, or just going back to floating as a soul in the void is a known principle for you and easy, and you don't have to struggle to gain it, you've been doing it all your existence, then you'll shift on command.

Reality is just like a dough, which you have been molding and adjusting it accordingly.

Shape that dough into your DR

It's you. It's always been you, you've been the main provider and controller, you've just temporarily gone to existing in the form of a human vessel, breaking free is nothing difficult.

Anyways, belief in this is all you need to shift, it's freaking easy even if it's just you going to your DR to get railed. "But doubts-!!" Shush. If doubts are able to stop a process for you, you could also utilise them in a way which benefit you, from this moment do a complete uno reverse card on your doubts, you used to doubts your manifestations, go ahead and start doubting your existence being anything but perfect.

"I don't think I can be a common human being weeping over mere earthly problems, all ill ever be is a master manifestor who could do whatever I want."

...

I finished this draft at 5:55.

Now that I think about it shifting using doubts could be pretty neat, but I still have another 2 methods bending from the poll, so that's on my pending list I guess.

This entire post was a rant from my side so if there is anything confusing or out of place, just ask. Ask away until your little heart is satisfied and then go shift because what are you doing here when you could just go study at hogwarts where the stairs try to put you in your grave.

...

[pigeonwhumps]

Secret Santa Snippet 2024

Secret Santa snippet for @kaiwewi! I hope you like it!

Prompt: A hero and a villain team up to confront a civilian who's writing an insane amount of fanfiction about them

918 words

"Well, hello there."

Civilian jumps at the voice in their ear. The seductive, sultry, melodical tone that fills the videos in the corner of their laptop screen.

They spin around.

Villain's lounging against the doorway, a smirk on his face.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Civilian swallows nervously. "No. No, nothing at all." As Villain shifts slightly, they slam a hand down on their laptop, abruptly remembering its contents. "Can I– can I help you with something?"

"Maybe. You're Civilian, correct?"

Civilian gulps, nods. Villain knows them by name. Why?

There's a low chuckle from someone behind him. Civilian flinches, then feels themself heat up at the absurdity of the reaction. It's just a laugh.

"Stop scaring the civilian, Villain." Hero sounds amused as they push their way past Villain, coming to stand by Civilian's window. Civilian doesn't miss how this covers both of their exits.

Them working together is near-unheard-of in public, but Civilian makes a mental note to include it in something later.

Hero smiles disarmingly.

"Hello, Civilian. How are you doing?"

Civilian swallows.

"Um. Hi. I'm fine."

"Good, good. You're panicking. Don't. We just want a quick word."

"Um. Okay. What about?" They want to deny their feelings but Hero will know. Empathic powers. It's the source of their emotions, all the confessions...

Hero's blinding smile drops into something much more serious, and Civilian's stomach plummets with it. Oh shit. Oh shit. What have they done?

"Your writing habits."

"More specifically, where they regard us." The 'us' is punctuated by a flash of white teeth.

Civilian tries to inch out of their seat, though they know there's no hope against Villain. Maybe they can get closer to Hero...

Villain places a hand down on the table beside them, blocking their exit, and just stares. Somehow, that's the most menacing thing he could do.

"It's just a hobby!" they burst out, babbling. "I just– I just like to write, I don't mean anything by it!"

Villain rolls his eyes and opens up the laptop, scrolling through the open tabs.

"Videos. More videos. Ooh look, a forum. And your *word document*. I wonder what you're writing now."

He bends over to look closer, humming. Civilian wants to sink into the floor. Better still, into the centre of the Earth and scrub this night from their memories entirely.

Hero crosses their arms.

"Villain. *Behave.*"

Villain sighs, but draws back, looking mutinous. In a dim corner of their mind, Civilian wonders what the arrangement was. Neither seems happy with it.

"I– I can stop. If you really want me to."

Villain opens their mouth, receives a glare from Hero, shuts it with a snap. Despite what they said, Civilian starts to make mental notes of all of this, all the minute body language and conversation between them, because this– this could really up the realism. Make everything in their writing so much more real. And it fits so well! They're so accurate!

"It's your private life," begins Hero, "and what you do with it is your own affair. Really, this shouldn't be any of our business, except people just have to keep showing us." A fact Civilian knew, and has never been sure what to think about, but one look at both faces and it's– it's definitely bad. "And wow. You write so much. So–"

"What do you see in us?"

Civilian stares. So does Hero, looking thrown. Civilian is suddenly, 100% certain that this wasn't part of the plan.

"Villain..."

Villain ignores them. "You're by far the most prolific writer. So why do you do it? What do you see? Besides the whole 'enemies-to-lovers' thing, which is ridiculous if that's your only reason, by the way, there's way better tropes out there."

Civilian swallows, throat dry. What do they say? The truth? A lie about it being a joke? Hero would probably see through that. What if their reasons aren't good enough, will Villain kill them? No, no, Hero wouldn't allow that. Would they?

"Stop looking like I'm the last thing you'll ever see and tell me."

Hero rolls their eyes. "I won't let him kill you. Melodramatic much."

Right. Right. No deaths. Not that Hero's words are very reassuring.

"You um. You're always fighting each other. And I mean, you're nemeses but Villain doesn't fight anyone else. You once waited three hours for Hero to turn up, just repelling everyone else with a forcefield, because you wanted a 'proper fight'. You send each other Valentine's Day gifts, and okay they're not what one might call traditional courting gifts, but still. Villain, whenever you're injured Hero avoids hitting that spot, even though it'd be an easy win, and Hero, you always go slow when Villain's ill. There's footage. And when was the last time you monologued for anyone but Hero, Villain? Your displays for everyone else are lackluster in comparison. You clearly enjoy each other's company at the very least. And I know that could all be platonic but just... it's fun to imagine... and..." Civilian trails off uncertainly as the tips of Hero's ears, the only thing visible under their mask, turn bright pink and they rush out of the room.

"Do not move one inch," growls Villain, not even ensuring Civilian will obey before running after Hero.

New writing ideas chase themselves around Civilian's mind, but only as an undercurrent now. Is this real. Is this really, actually, real?

They pinch themself. Ow.

And another thing.

How long is it going to be until Villain gets back?

[echologname]

In support of Sam x Danny

We never got to see what the relationship of the Phantom trio was like before the portal accident but I think it's mostly similar to how we see them in the show. To me, it seems like it's implied that Sam always secretly liked Danny and then one fateful day, she and Tucker witnessed him almost die, don't you think after something traumatic like that, it's harder to keep feelings for another inside? Also, after Danny got his powers and started fighting ghosts, Sam got to witness his bravery and willingness to help people put to extreme tests. She didn't fall in love with him because of cool powers, she genuinely fell in love with who he is. His new life as a halfa, like all trials in life, helped him to become a better person, throughout their adventures virtues were strengthened and vices were weakened and their friendship was matured through its testing. I don't see it but it's a common claim that Sam only started crushing on Danny AFTER he got his powers which paints her in a shallow view. So, I'd like to point out correlation does not necessarily equal causation. Clearly Danny went through big changes from the accident but I betcha Sam and Tucker weren't quite the same themselves and if one of them being a more prominent openness to showing affection then there's nothing wrong with that.

Whether friends or lovers, I think both work but I just wanted to say, Sam doesn't deserve the hate she gets from fans for canonically being the one to end up with Danny in the end. And who's to say it's a forever thing? Teens are constantly growing and changing and so are their romantic interests. It's OK to think you work together at one point and not so much the next. Their identities are still developing and so are their brains. And if they do stay together forever, no matter what happens, then isn't that all the more sweet and wholesome? Even if Sam had an inkling of ghostly bias towards liking him, it's totally the green eyes given how much she likes plants and nature (ironically green is the color of life and health).

The whole episode with Sam falling for the fake foreign exchange guy who looks a lot like Danny's ghost form doesn't help her case. I get it, because of an example like this, fans fear she likes Phantom more than Fenton. But his whole persona WAS all an act for the purpose of targeting what a specific girl likes like telling Sam he was a vegetarian then acted like a jock in front of cheerleaders. Or maybe this is what she needed, to see that like Danny, this guy also had an alter ego but he was using it deceptively for personal gain. Meeting Danny PHANTOM for the first time might have felt like meeting a new person to her, so a stranger from another country symbolizes that. Then the truth about him being a jerk comes out when he metaphorically, "drops his mask." Sam knows both sides of Danny and knows that he isn't like that guy at all, and she's seen for herself that he's still himself no matter what he looks like. He genuinely wants to help people and doesn't put on an act. Perhaps this failed relationship helped her realize how much Danny cares for her both as Fenton AND Phantom and that he's always been a good friend she can trust (he DID spy on her in the episode and of course Sam was offended but it didn't really hurt their relationship).

Disagreeing with them being together is still understandable but c'mon, how many relationships were you in that was also a cringe pairing? Relationships aren't perfect but the people that we were/are with have helped us understand ourselves and each other more. The person you're with now may be who you need to be with for a certain period of your life to help prepare you for the one you'll be with forever. It's important for even awkward and rash relationships to take their course so we can grow from them.

So, I think we can find it in our hearts to be more forgiving to some cartoon kids. Sam and Danny's relationship is an important part of their character development no matter how it turns out or how much the ship is hated.

[deconstructthesoup]

Truly, I’m disappointed in myself that it took me this long to do this (or maybe I’ve already done it and forgotten!) but here are the Fear Entities that I think each of the Princesses would be avatars of, knowingly or unknowingly:

Chapter 2 Girls

Beast: The Hunt. Obviously. No explanation needed.

Witch: Initially, I had her down as a Corruption avatar---she's all about nature, she's the product of a relationship that started out fine but went rotten, if you make her a more traditional witch (like me) you know she's all about mushrooms---but after thinking about it, she'd also be an amazing avatar of The Web. She's a scheming, manipulative little trickster, after all, and you know she's the type to think that spiders are adorable.

Prisoner: The Lonely is a contender, but there's really no better option for my best girl than The Buried. Chains are not dirt, that much is true, but there is something so distinctly Buried about becoming increasingly trapped in a prison so specifically designed for you... and, well, being a Buried avatar would definitely be one way of reclaiming her agency.

Damsel: The Stranger. I... don't exactly think I need to explain this one. We've all seen the Deconstructed sequence. (I do think it would be interesting if she didn't realize she was a Stranger avatar and freaks out when she discovers the truth, because feeding off of people's fear is the opposite of making them happy, though.)

Adversary: After careful consideration, I decided on The Desolation for her---but specifically, the part that deals with pain, not strictly fire. Is this because she gives me Jude vibes? Maybe, but it still works.

Tower: She was the hardest chapter 2 princess to figure out, but after much debate, I finally settled on the Entity who feels the most like her---namely, The Eye. Being able to sense the Narrator is very Eye-coded, and in terms of personality... hate to say it, but she could give Elias a run for his money.

Nightmare: Now, I could be boring and say "creepy doll=Stranger," but if I'm being honest, I don't want to repeat Entities until we get to our chapter 3s, and she feels way more Dark-coded in her whole "fear of the unknown" thing. Very monster-in-your-closet. (It could also be argued that she could literally be an avatar of anything due to her just... inspiring fear as her thing, but we gotta be specific here.)

Spectre: There is no vessel more Lonely-coded than our sweet ghost girl. And because of that, I want to give her a hug.

Razor: Slaughter. You could argue "Spiral" because Distortion=knife hands, but you cannot make a woman who is literally made of weapons anything but an avatar of The Slaughter.

Stranger: Ironically enough... The Spiral! Name aside, there's really nothing more Spiral than being everything and yet nothing at once and not knowing who or what you are, and I think this is only Entity that could feasibly suit them.

Chapter 3 Girls

Den: Also Hunt. Again, big kitty.

Thorn: Now, she was pretty difficult to figure out, but I think she also works as a Lonely avatar---or, hell, even an avatar of The Corruption because of all of her nature and decay stuff, but Lonely really fits her whole melancholy vibes and just wanting someone to be close to. Maybe she doesn't have the aesthetics, but she has the mood.

Cage: She could also be a Buried avatar, but in my opinion, The Web makes way more sense---everything from the fact that she believes she has no autonomy to the fact that her body can literally control chains that practically puppeteer TLQ feels incredibly Web-coded to me.

Happily Ever After: She is The Corruption at its most abstract---a relationship that at first seems nothing but loving and devoted, and yet when you look closer, you see that there is something deeply rotten at its core. The "toxic relationship" interpretation of The Corruption is something that's only alluded to in TMA canon, but I think HEA really does encapsulate it.

Eye of the Needle: This one is The Slaughter. It's not even about the pain anymore, it's just about wanting to fight.

Apotheosis: She is, without a doubt, an avatar of The Vast in every sense of the word. She's something that's truly too large to fully be encapsulated, too large to truly be fought or beaten. Also, big woman.

Moment of Clarity: I know, I know, ironic that there's all of these ghost princesses and I pick this weird puppet one as an avatar of The End, but her inevitability means that... well, she's really the only one who could be an End avatar. Except, of course, the Shifting Mound herself, though I'd argue that she's a more benevolent version of The Extinction. Also, gods are not avatars.

Princess & The Dragon: Spiral. Just... Spiral. I cannot stress enough how much this vessel is an avatar of The Spiral. Her chapter is too mindfucky for her to be anything but.

The Wild (Networked & Wounded): Oh god, is this one hard to categorize... I'd say Corruption for both versions, since as much as I love The Wild, there's no denying that she is a corrupted version of what Once Was.

The Grey (Burned & Drowned): Desolation for Burned, obviously, and for Drowned... well, ironically enough, I believe that drowning is actually part of The Buried. So, uh, yeah, Buried for her.

The Fury: Flesh, she's Flesh, moving on.

The Wraith: Yeah, she's The Web. You could argue that she's also The End, but... Web.

[fromwherespiralhill]

speaking as whisper and of my “own parts”—a part of me, presently called claire, feels trauma is essential to its-her origins. she exists “separately” from “her other”, who is not exactly an own-being like she experiences herself, but is also - and differently - part of me. claire’s separateness is meaningful to her, if not entirely then in part, because it lets her hold trauma near her. she and the rest of me share in being me. it is impossible for any of me to be removed from my-our trauma. however, claire’s agency enables her to take control and responsibility for my-our living-experience and living-processing of trauma.

do these make her “traumagenic”? it is easy to argue truama is essential to her - really it is - and possible to argue it is the essense of her. that she is purposeless without her relations of trauma.

this is possibly so. there is a connection to the term “traumagenic” because it describes genesis, beginning. now with agency, she is inevitably also her own being, and so she exists as someone entire, not “just” a vessel-vassal for trauma. it is possible for her to find many things meaningful to her experience of herself which do not directly recall to trauma. if this occurs - and it is occurring - then does the connection to “traumagenic” weaken, because other aspects of her come not from trauma? or does it remain as strong as ever, because she comes from trauma, and this is an ever-constant truth of her own origin - saying nothing in itself of her continued experience?

i believe claire finds it meaningful to “muse” on this (through my words-motions). it is quite possible to find meaning by open exploring. that experience of exploring is emotionally resonant to her because she cares where she comes from. she does not necessarily want to “understand” it better - there is a truth that the innermost understanding is not just inherent-implicit, but (overtly) immutable - but… she does wish for better language, better expression, for herself. she desires ways to communicate. in this regard a label is as useful as you can not just provide but qualify it to another. she thinks that may be worth seeking, for herself

however i… do feel a reticence about this, too. there is an unease, a concern that i do not want labels which i may use to convey myself, whether sufficient on-own or as a conversation starter. — this exists within me too. it is not clear if it “comes from” claire but i believe it relates to her, at least. — i do not necessarily want to communicate to others. i do not necessarily want to be able to communicate to others. some matters are private and sensitive, vulnerable and raw; and i do not think it is good in-and-of-itself to share. i do think there is goodness that often comes of-and-through sharing, but not that sharing itself is good.

what do i make of this? of these sentiments coexisting inside me? i suspect they oppose each other in ways that are fundamental - irreconcilable - and more nuanced than i understand presently. i have a rough image that these ends cannot possibly meet in their essense, and figure this is why claire herself has … become “herself”. i figure she is basically here “with a purpose” to describe what she is by describing what she is not, and that this is - not just to her but, deeply to me, too - key to… finding my own way, my own wholeness, in this moment

our experience is in some ways as it’s always been: i will enable myself to find utility and purpose in finding-deciding labels for myself (or my parts), and i will enable myself to feel worry and unease in the very same. let the feelimgs both be. they are contradictory, but that is their nature. i would not feel both if both were not in need of being felt. the rest will come as it does; first i let myself breathe.

Genuinely having a really interesting conversation about origincourse and origins in general, and I came upon a revelation I think I had ages ago, but only is coming back now. Be warned, my brain is currently leaking through my nose and the fog has taken its place, so words might be ridiculous.

Origins don't matter, unless they do. By that I mean, if they help you to know or share, then wonderful, but otherwise, I see absolutely no point in having an origin label.

For instance:

I am a mixed-origin, DID, traumagenic system. And I do see all three of those things to be true, simultaneously, for me. I label that way because it helps me to understand why specific parts split, and helps me to focus less on my trauma and more on what we've become. (Maybe I'll ramble about it one day when I feel a little better.)

For others, however, maybe identifying as a specific kind of origin doesn't help at all. And in that case, I don't think it's important for them to know their origins. I don't... think it's really important at all, unless that person finds help (like I do).

I think there's just so much focus on origins in the community, and genuinely, I think... there's way too much. It's just harmful, in mny ways, how much people focus on them.

nd also-- My origins include my DID, but DID in of itself is not inherently an origin!!!! I should be able to talk about it.

[sammygender]

the thing thats always missing in conversations about gender in general is the fact that 'cis', as an identity, is not a innate Thing Some People Are, but rather a state of acceptance society grooms us into from birth

[tenderjock]

I’m with you, my love The lights shining through on you Yes, I’m with you, my love It’s the morning and just we two