#like I guess that's kind of a trigger for me

[mediocre-shark-tales]

Brazilian GP

Masterlist

Trigger Warning- slow burn of increasing themes including sexism, SA, depression, and implied grooming

Arriving at the Brazilian paddock, the humid air immediately wrapped around me, thick and heavy with the promise of rain. I walked side by side with my race engineer, Landon, who was reading off his tablet as we made our way toward the team building.

“So, just a heads-up,” he started, glancing over at me, “the forecast isn’t looking great for the weekend. Heavy rain is expected during potentially during qualifying and also the race. The race might dry out, but it’s gonna be close.”

I grinned, feeling a little spark of excitement light up in my chest. “Rain, huh? Sounds like it’s gonna be fun.”

Landon raised an eyebrow at me, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. “You’re the only driver on the grid who calls rain fun.”

“Hey, can’t help it,” I shrugged. “Wet races are my thing. Blame teenage me for that.”

He smirked, clearly intrigued. “Teenage you, huh? What’d she do, enroll in rain driving school or something?”

“Not exactly,” I replied, the memory drawing a small laugh from me. “Off-season boredom was my teacher. Back when I didn’t have much to do, I’d find empty roads or parking lots when it rained, crank the wheel, and let the car drift. It was the perfect way to burn off energy and practice handling low traction.”

Landon gave me a mock look of disapproval. “And this is the kind of behavior we’re supposed to encourage in kids these days?”

“Absolutely not,” I said, deadpan, then grinned. “But you can’t blame me. Adrenaline deprivation is a serious condition for a teenager in the off-season.”

He let out a laugh. “I’ll give you that. Guess it worked out in the end. Your wet-weather skills are basically legendary at this point.”

“Let’s hope they hold up,” I said, my tone turning a little more serious. “If I can keep the car on the track and avoid anyone spinning out too close to me, I should be fine.”

“You’ll do more than fine,” Landon said confidently. “But just to be safe, let’s go over the setup for wet conditions later. I want to make sure you’ve got everything you need to stay ahead.”

“Sounds good,” I said, nodding.

As we approached the team building, the faint rumble of thunder echoed in the distance, a reminder of what the weekend had in store. While some drivers dreaded wet weekends, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of anticipation. Rain had a way of leveling the playing field and letting skill shine through. This was my chance to show everyone—again—why I deserved to be here.

And, as I reminded myself, it was a distraction. The rain would demand my full focus, leaving little room for the creeping thoughts of Henry or the weight of everything else going on.

The moment I stepped into the garage, I could already feel the weight of the dreaded engineering pre-weekend meeting with Henry looming over me. The hustle and noise of the team getting everything prepped for the weekend provided little comfort when I spotted him standing near the back, holding his ever-present clipboard. He was scanning the space until his eyes landed on me, a too-familiar smug grin spreading across his face.

“Ah, there she is,” he called out, closing the distance between us far too quickly. Before I could react, his arm draped across my shoulder. I stiffened instinctively, but he didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just didn’t care.

“Let’s get started, yeah?” he said, steering me toward a small side room tucked away from the rest of the garage. “Got us a nice little space where we won’t be disturbed. Just the two of us.”

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stay calm. I didn’t respond, just nodded stiffly as he guided me into the room. It was cramped, with a single table and two chairs, and the sound of the bustling garage was muted by the closed door.

As I sat down across from him, I reached into my pocket, pretending to adjust my phone, and quickly set it to record. I placed it face down on the table next to my water bottle, angling it just enough to capture the interaction.

At first, things seemed relatively normal—or as normal as they could be with Henry. He reviewed some data from the previous race, pointing out areas where the car could be improved for wet conditions. I nodded along, taking notes and asking a few questions when necessary, trying to keep the conversation strictly professional.

But it didn’t take long for the shift to happen. It never did.

“You know,” Henry said, leaning back in his chair with a grin, “I’ve always been impressed by how you handle wet races. It’s like you and the car just… click. It’s kind of sexy, really.”

I froze for a split second before forcing myself to brush it off. “Thanks,” I said flatly, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “So about the tire strategy—”

He cut me off, leaning forward slightly. “You know, I’ve been thinking. We spend so much time working together, maybe we should, I don’t know, get to know each other better. Outside of the garage.”

I stiffened, my hands tightening into fists under the table. “I don’t think that’s appropriate,” I said carefully, my voice steady but firm. “We’re colleagues, Henry. Let’s keep it professional.”

But my words barely registered. He smirked, pushing his chair back and standing up. My heart sank as he walked around the table, closing the distance between us. I leaned back instinctively, my chair scraping slightly against the floor.

“Oh, come on,” he said, his tone low and dripping with fake charm. “Don’t be so uptight. You’re amazing, you know that? Gorgeous, talented, a total package. It’s no wonder the team’s been doing better with you around.”

I stood abruptly, creating as much space between us as the tiny room would allow. “Henry,” I said, my voice sharper now, “I’ve told you before—I don’t like this. Stop.”

He chuckled, stepping closer. “Relax, I’m just trying to pay you a compliment. You should really learn how to take one.”

I felt a cold wave of disgust wash over me, but I forced myself to remain calm. Every part of me wanted to shove him away, but I knew I needed to stay composed—for now. “I’m not interested,” I said firmly. “And this conversation is over.”

Henry’s grin faltered for a moment, his expression shifting to something darker, more frustrated. But before he could say anything else, I grabbed my water bottle and phone, ending the recording as discreetly as I could.

“I’ll see you on the pit wall,” I said, pushing past him and out the door. My heart was pounding, my skin crawling, but I kept my head high as I walked back into the bustling garage.

I was going to make it through this. I had to. And soon, I’d have the proof I needed to make sure Henry would never pull this kind of crap again.

I practically sprinted to my driver’s room after leaving that suffocating meeting, shutting the door behind me with a force that rattled the frame. The sound of the lock clicking into place was the only thing grounding me in that moment, a small barrier between me and the world. My breathing was uneven, and as much as I wanted to hold it in, the tears welled up faster than I could stop them.

I sat down heavily on the small couch, burying my face in my hands. It wasn’t just what had just happened—it was the realization of how deep this went. Henry wasn’t just some creep I could report and be done with. He’d been with the team for years, a trusted member of the garage. I was the outsider, the new driver. No matter how good my results were, no matter how much respect I earned on track, it was my word against his.

And it was going to get worse before it got better.

The weight of that truth pressed down on me like a boulder, and for a moment, I let myself feel it. The frustration, the helplessness, the anger. My hands clenched into fists against my knees as a few more tears slipped free. I hated feeling this way—weak, powerless. But I wasn’t powerless, not entirely. I still had the recordings I’d started collecting, and I was going to keep at it. I’d do whatever it took to make sure Henry couldn’t keep getting away with this.

Sniffling, I wiped my face with the sleeve of my hoodie and forced myself to take a deep breath. One thing at a time. First, I had a job to do—a race to prepare for. And for as long as I was in that car, none of this mattered. It was just me, the machine, and the track.

Standing up, I grabbed my racing suit from where it hung neatly in the corner of the room. I changed quickly, letting the routine of suiting up calm my nerves. Each step—pulling on the fireproof base layer, zipping up the suit, lacing up my boots—was a reminder of why I was here. I wasn’t just some newbie. I was a driver, one who’d clawed her way into this seat.

By the time I pulled on my gloves, I’d forced the tears back and replaced them with a mask of focus. The weight in my chest was still there, but I shoved it to the back of my mind. I couldn’t afford to let it distract me now.

Heading back to the garage, I was greeted by the usual buzz of activity. Mechanics darted around, checking every inch of the car, while engineers monitored data on screens. I nodded to a few of them as I made my way over to my car, setting my helmet and gloves on the workbench beside it.

Landon approached with a tablet in hand, his expression professional but warm. “We’ve got a few adjustments based on the data from last weekend,” he said, walking me through the setup changes. “It should help with stability in the rain, but let us know how it feels during the session.”

“Got it,” I replied, keeping my tone steady as I reviewed the notes with him.

I went through the routine checks with the team, nodding and responding where necessary but staying mostly quiet. The focus I’d forced myself into earlier had settled in, giving me the clarity I needed. This was my space—the car, the garage, the track. And for now, nothing else existed outside of it.

Sliding into the cockpit, I felt the familiar rush of adrenaline as the mechanics strapped me in and adjusted the belts. The engine roared to life, and all the noise of the world faded away, replaced by the hum of power beneath me.

Free Practice 1 had gone smoother than I could have hoped for. The car felt balanced, the adjustments the team made held up well, and my lap times were competitive. By the end of the session, the data showed I was on track for a promising position for sprint qualifying. The rain everyone had been bracing for still hadn’t arrived, but the sky was a heavy gray, the forecast ominously predicting that race day was going to be a drenched battle.

After parking the car and climbing out, I took a moment to savor the positive outcome. Landon handed me a water bottle as he went over the session’s feedback, and I nodded along, already mentally preparing for what was to come. “Looks solid,” he said, giving me an encouraging smile. “If we can hold this pace, you’ll be in a great spot for tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I replied, taking a long sip of water. I hung around the garage for a bit, leaning against the workbench while the mechanics checked over the car. It was a rare moment of peace—one I knew wouldn’t last long. I caught sight of Henry lingering on the other side of the garage, his eyes scanning for me like a predator seeking its prey. The sight sent a chill down my spine, and I quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the data screen in front of me.

Eventually, it was time to head out for the sprint qualifying session. I slipped back into the car, grateful for the excuse to leave the garage and Henry behind. As I made my way onto the track, the sky remained stubbornly dry, but the tension in the air was palpable. Everyone knew the rain was coming, and it was only a matter of time.

The sprint qualifying session was intense. The track was crowded, every driver pushing their car to its absolute limit. My focus narrowed to the black asphalt ahead, my mind in full race mode. The car felt incredible beneath me, the adjustments giving me the confidence to brake later, turn sharper, and accelerate harder. I fought tooth and nail to put in fast lap times, battling traffic and finding every ounce of grip on the circuit.

By the time the checkered flag waved, I’d done it—P3. Only Oscar and Lando had managed to edge me out. Pulling back into the garage, I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips. It was a hard-earned result, and I was proud of it.

But my relief was short-lived.

The second I climbed out of the car, I spotted Henry approaching, his smug expression already making my stomach churn. I could see the congratulatory words forming on his lips, but I wasn’t about to stick around to hear whatever inappropriate twist he’d add to them.

Grabbing my helmet and gloves, I shot a quick glance at Landon, who gave me a subtle nod of understanding. “Gotta head to media,” I said quickly, not giving Henry a chance to corner me.

With practiced speed, I made my way out of the garage, weaving through the crowd as I headed toward the media zone. My heart raced—not from the qualifying session, but from the near escape. I knew I couldn’t avoid Henry forever, but every second I stayed out of his grasp felt like a small victory.

Once I reached the media area, I took a deep breath, letting the adrenaline from the session replace the lingering discomfort. Cameras flashed, microphones were thrust in my direction, and questions flew at me from all angles. I smiled, answered politely, and kept the focus on the track. For now, the spotlight was on my performance, and I was determined to keep it that way.

P3. A great result to start the sprint weekend. And with any luck, I’d make it count on race day—rain or shine.

The media duties were draining, as always, but I’d kept my composure, deflecting any tricky questions and keeping the focus on the race. By the time it was over, my cheeks ached from smiling and my voice was hoarse from repeating variations of the same answers. Heading back to my driver’s room felt like walking toward a safe haven.

Once inside, I shut the door and leaned against it for a moment, exhaling deeply. The silence was comforting. I peeled off my race suit, hanging it neatly in the small wardrobe before slipping into comfortable joggers and a hoodie. As much as I wanted to crash right there, the promise of my hotel room, a shower, and a good night’s sleep was too tempting. Grabbing my bag, I slung it over my shoulder and exited the room.

I didn’t get far.

Henry was there, lurking just outside my door like a shadow I couldn’t shake. My heart sank at the sight of him. His predatory grin made my skin crawl. “You’re really something, you know that?” he started, stepping into my path.

I froze, trying to keep my expression neutral. “I need to get to the hotel, Henry,” I said flatly, hoping he’d take the hint and move.

Instead, he leaned in closer, his eyes raking over me in a way that made my stomach churn. “Relax,” he drawled, his voice low and insidious. “No need to be so uptight. You’ve had a good day. I’m just here to congratulate you… personally.”

I tried to sidestep him, but he blocked my way, his smirk widening. “You really don’t get it, do you?” he said, his tone turning darker. “All this talent, all this potential... but you still need someone to guide you. Someone who knows what’s best for you.”

“Henry, I’m tired. Please move,” I said, my voice sharper now, though my hands were trembling.

He didn’t budge. Instead, he reached out, his hands clamping around my waist with a grip so tight it made me wince. “You’ll see reason one day,” he whispered, his voice cold and deliberate. “I’ll make sure of that.”

The words sent a chill down my spine, and before I could respond, he finally stepped aside, releasing me abruptly. I stumbled back, my pulse pounding in my ears as I watched him walk away, his confidence unshaken.

For a moment, I just stood there, rooted to the spot, unable to move. Fear and disgust churned in my stomach, and my mind raced with the implications of what had just happened. His words played on a loop in my head, each repetition tightening the knot of anxiety in my chest.

When I finally forced my legs to move, my steps were shaky, my breathing uneven. I hugged my bag closer to me as I made my way through the paddock, feeling smaller and more exposed with each passing second. The bustling atmosphere of the paddock, usually so energizing, now felt overwhelming, the noise pressing in on me from all sides.

As I passed by other teams and drivers, I kept my head down, unwilling to make eye contact. I didn’t want anyone to see the fear etched across my face, the way my hands were trembling, or the tears threatening to spill over. I had to keep it together, at least until I reached the safety of my hotel room.

But no matter how hard I tried to steady myself, Henry’s words lingered in my mind, a sinister reminder of just how far he was willing to go—and how alone I truly felt in this fight.

I was so deep in my own thoughts, replaying Henry’s words over and over, that I didn’t even notice someone approaching me. When a hand landed gently on my shoulder, I stiffened instantly, my entire body locking up as a gasp escaped my lips. Without thinking, I shoved the hand away, spinning around with wide, panicked eyes.

“Hey, hey!” a familiar voice called out, concern lacing every syllable.

I blinked rapidly, my vision clearing to reveal Charles standing there, his brow furrowed deeply. Beside him, Carlos looked equally concerned, his hands raised in a placating gesture.

“Cariño, what’s wrong?” Carlos asked, stepping closer but keeping his movements slow, cautious. “You never react like that. Are you okay?”

My pulse was still racing, and I struggled to breathe evenly as I realized how I must have looked. Panicked. Vulnerable. I couldn’t let them see that. Swallowing hard, I forced a smile onto my face, though it felt like a fragile mask threatening to crack.

“I’m fine,” I lied, trying to sound casual. “Just... startled, that’s all. Long day.”

Charles didn’t look convinced. His sharp eyes scanned my face as if searching for the real reason behind my reaction. “You sure? You seem... different tonight,” he said softly, his tone gentle but probing.

“I’m fine,” I repeated, more firmly this time, though my voice still wavered slightly. “Just tired. Really, don’t worry about it.”

Carlos exchanged a glance with Charles, doubt flickering between them, but neither pushed further. I couldn’t bear to stay there any longer, their concern feeling like a spotlight on everything I was trying to hide. Clutching my bag tighter, I stepped back. “I need to get to the hotel. I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” I said quickly before turning on my heel and walking away, my pace brisk as I left them behind.

In the quiet of the paddock, after she disappeared around the corner, Carlos crossed his arms over his chest and let out a heavy sigh. “That wasn’t normal,” he said, his voice low but firm.

Charles nodded, his expression troubled. “No, it wasn’t. Did you see how scared she looked? Like she thought someone was going to hurt her.”

“Exactly,” Carlos agreed. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling to the surface. “And the way she just brushed us off... She never does that. Even if she’s tired, she usually talks to us for a bit.”

Charles frowned, leaning against the wall as he replayed the scene in his mind. “Something’s going on,” he said quietly. “Something she doesn’t want us—or anyone else—to know.”

Carlos looked at him, his jaw tightening. “Do you think it’s... exactly as Max said?” he asked hesitantly. “Or maybe they’re just putting too much pressure on her?”

Charles considered this, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe. But that reaction... It felt like more than just stress. It felt personal.”

Carlos let out another sigh, shaking his head. “Whatever it is, it’s not good. We can’t just ignore this, Charles. She’s our friend.”

“I know,” Charles said, his tone resolute. “But we can’t force her to talk, either. She’s too proud—too stubborn. If we push too hard, she’ll just shut us out completely.”

Carlos nodded reluctantly. “So what do we do? Just... wait until she’s ready to tell us?”

“Not exactly,” Charles replied. His gaze hardened with determination. “For now, we keep an eye on her. Pay attention. And if we see anything—anything—that looks off, we step in. Whether she wants us to or not.”

Carlos’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. “Agreed. She might not think she needs help, but we’re not going to let her deal with this alone.”

With that, the two drivers fell into a heavy silence, their shared worry for their friend weighing on them as they stood there in the fading light of the paddock.

[jazzdefiant]

Helly: Trauma, Resistance, and Reintegration

I have Thoughts™️ and I needed to write them down. There’s a lot of ground to cover, but I tried to make this as straightforward and organized as I could.

S2E2 spoilers below the cut:

Before Goodbye, Mrs. Selvig, I was having a hard time discerning who I thought was really down there. To me, there were a few options: 

Helena, full stop. 

Helly pre-animation and Helena post-animation (as if they’d externally switched Helly off/Helena on).

And a secret third thing that I liked most but never mentioned to anyone. 

The secret third thing is still my current front-runner:

There's a reason viewers are struggling to discern who is who right now, and I think that's because Helena is, too.

I think Helena is who we’re looking at, but Helly is also present somewhere (clawing her way to the surface, as Reghabi had put it). I think it’s possible Helly/Helena might reintegrate naturally, or that Helly has created an irreversible bleed between their psyches.

The main reason? They share a traumatic memory. One that is intrinsically tied to both of their identities.

For organization, I’ll break up the bulk of this by Hello, Ms. Cobel scenes.

ELEVATOR LOBBY:

Helly is the one who hung herself, but that elevator went up. The doors opened, and the guard’s desk was empty. Helena is the one struggling in the security footage. It’s very possible she is the one who passed out.

If this is the case, it means Helly holds the memory of being rescued. Helena does not. 

As far as we know: the last time Helena was in that elevator, she was dying. And the last time Mark S. was in that elevator, he was dying. That’s why Mark wakes up scared, and that’s why Helena runs out. 

I wonder how Helly felt every time she woke up in the elevator after returning from the hospital. I wonder if Helena’s panic and dread was in some way tangible to her.

I’m not certain of much with this show, but I do, at least, feel pretty sure we’re about to see a scene or implication of Helena having a panic attack/flashback as she descends. I also wouldn’t be surprised if they stopped the elevator momentarily, masked as a mechanical blip, to prolong it as subtle a form of psychological torture.

She ran out struggling to breathe, just like Helly had when she woke up upon returning after her attempt.

The constant between those two moments? Mark S.

Honestly, I imagine Helena wasn’t expecting anyone kind to be waiting for her at the bottom. Would she have any reason to? 

Jame Eagan: I cried in my bed when they told me what she tried to do to you. What that innie tried to do.

I don’t know what was going on for Jame when he received news of her suicide attempt — if there was a reason for him crying in bed, if they didn’t let him see her — but personally, I’m halfway out the door after news like that. Given how he talked to her during the gala, it seemed like that was the first time they’d seen each other since.

If this was the case, it’s very possible Helena was alone during her recovery. No emotional support from anyone close to her… if anyone can even be considered close to her to begin with.

Is there anyone who truly cares about her? In her mind, why would there be someone at the bottom of that elevator, waiting to see if she’s okay?

And suddenly, in the midst of what I’m guessing is sheer survival panic, she is being hugged. And the person hugging her sounds so relieved to see her physically unharmed. 

I personally think that’s why she hesitated before hugging Mark back. I think she was triggered and processing and didn't know what to make of it. I don’t know if she’s ever experienced someone genuinely caring about her safety and well-being before.

To Mark, she’s not Helena Eagan. He has no idea who the fuck that is. In that moment, she is Helly — and somehow, that innie is enough for him.

When Helly came back after the attempt, Mark already knew she was physically okay, and he wasn’t particularly comforting because he was following Milchick’s “kind eyes” advice. But when Helena returned, he was completley unfiltered and himself. There was probably some part of his outie bleeding through in that moment, too, because he has specific trauma with losing someone he cares about.

I truly think he helped ground her, and he might be the first and only person who’s ever done that.

MDR OFFICE:

I don’t have much to say here, other than I was torn on who I was looking at in this scene. 

Reason being: I just find her expression when realizes Irving is breaking down in the bathroom so sincere. Some of our most vulnerable moments with Helena so far have taken place in a bathroom, and it’s also where Helly seems to retreat when she’s stressed. I don’t think that’s by accident. To me, her expression here doesn’t seem forced or irrelevant.

If her concern is authentic on some level, maybe it’s because she didn’t expect to see MDR genuinely care for the well-being of another team member. Maybe she thought they were only united in their hate for Lumon and nothing more. Maybe some part of Helly is with her now, worried about Irving, whether she knows it or not. 

I think, maybe, MDR will show Helena what family is supposed to look like.

HALLWAY – MDR:

Helly R: They replaced us? Mark S: For a couple days. Dylan G: Who was me? Mark S: They weren't, like, specific counterparts. They were, I don't know, weird. Dylan G: Okay, well, I don’t think you should feel bad at all. Mark S: Feel bad? Dylan G: Yeah, for ending their lives. Fuck 'em. Mark S: Well, I wasn't trying to– Dylan G: No, dude, I'm saying don't feel bad. Like, I'm sure they deserved it.

This could just be my read, but Helena’s expression during this conversation looks like she’s genuinely processing the implications of what Dylan is saying. He talks about the other innie’s deaths so casually, like it’s just another day in the office. Spatially, she’s also standing at the center of this exchange. I think it’s possible Helena had never really viewed quitting/firing as innies dying or being killed by Lumon. If this is how innies perceive it, would that mean that Helly (an extension of herself) is dead? If so, who killed her?

This brings me to Ms. Huang; the new hire leading them down the hallway in that scene. 

Why is a child there?

Well, for one, Dylan fucking bit Milchick. I imagine they chose a child to help prevent something like that again. In order to physically attack his superior, Dylan will have to be okay with attacking a child. Dylan G. has met one of his children, so he's not going to hurt her. Mr. Milchick knows this and weaponizing it.

Which relates to the other reason I was having trouble discerning who Helena was in this scene: the look she exchanges with Ms. Huang. They show each innie making eye contact with her as they enter the hallway to the break room. To me, Helena’s expression seemed to match everyone else's. Surely, they all suspect Ms. Huang’s role is to be Milchick’s human shield. I think they might have been studying her, trying to figure out if she knows this, too.

Theoretically, in order to get to him, they will have to go through her. And if they ever do something to get Ms. Huang fired, she will die.

This means Lumon is not above killing children. 

Which means, maybe, Lumon is not above killing Helena.

I also think this angle makes the ring toss game Ms. Huang plays when Milchick shuts the door on her especially interesting. Kier Eagan is underwater, with his hands tied, and she…smiles. This is obviously a parallel to the pineapple bobbing, but I think it might also be a parallel to Helena. Perhaps she’s not supposed to be playing this game and saved it for when Milchick wasn’t looking. The first hint of rebellion in Ms. Huang, a child enslaved by Eagans, and a possible shift in power at some point.

LUMON IS LISTENING:

My theory about her being Helly pre-animation and Helena post-animation was based on the fact that she seems to dissociate after the animation ends. She stares off and blinks in an irregular pattern, then sort of widens her eyes at Milchick before composing herself.

But this also supported my secret third thing: that she and Helly are somehow internally at odds. So much of what Helena is experiencing right now aligns with what dissociation can feel like: watching the events of her life happen outside of herself, either through Helly’s actions on video or the consequences of them.

Mr. Milchick: Maybe I'll even buy you a drink at a bistro one day.

I’ve been so fixated on Helena’s expression when Milchick says this. Because he says it very pointedly to her, in that calm, threatening, Milkshake-y way. And she looks genuinely unsettled. Scared, even.

Helena will never really be able to leave. She will never be free. She had been Helly's lifeline, but that lifeline is gone.

It’s clear many of the new perks, if not all, are form of punishment or torture. It looks like they made a special point to animate genuine fear in Helly’s eyes during the pineapple bobbing.

Between Ms. Huang, pineapple bobbing, and Milchick’s little comment, Helena must know she’s just as much a prisoner down here as the others. Maybe pineapple bobbing targets one of her fears specifically. Like, I don’t know... not being able to breathe.

It’s also worth noting that Helly, in Helena’s body, has been psychologically tortured in this very room. I imagine that, paired with the threat of physical torture, would be triggering and could lead to dissociation. 

The setting brings me to my next point:

This might just be my read, but to me, she looked genuinely surprised when Mark said his wife was Ms. Casey. I think it’s possible she might not have known Mark’s connection to her, or that Mark’s wife and Ms. Casey are the same person. 

I can’t even begin to guess what the fuck Lumon does or what the hell Cold Harbor is meant to do (I don’t want to guess, I want to be along for the ride). But is it possible Helena doesn’t know the specifics of the file? Could knowing the details have risked hindering her own ability to refine data as Helly? Maybe Mark was presented to her as Ms. Casey’s close friend. An in-law. Something-not-husband. 

Helena knows they need Mark, but does she know exactly why? 

Dylan G: Come on, man. You can tell us. Helly R: Yeah, it's okay. Even if it's bad.

To me, there’s at least some layer to authenticity when she says this to Irving. Maybe it’s Helly bleeding through, or maybe it’s because Helena knows Irving has done something in the past (maybe something he's not supposed to or doesn’t want to remember) and feels guilty. This could also indicate why she might have genuinely sympathized with him when he was breaking down in the bathroom.

I’m not sure it matters if she’s saying “bad” as herself or acting as Helly. The point is: it needs to be said. It’s what Helly would say if she were here. Which means that, even on some superficial level, Helena is forced to voice the fact that what they’re doing at Lumon is wrong. 

I also don’t think it’s an accident that Helena says this in the break room. The room that Helly, in her body, was psychologically tortured and forced to atone in. 

Dylan G: What you gotta do is trick the machine by thinking about something you’re really sorry about...

Helena likely already carries a lot of guilt and shame for what she and her family have done to the world. I’m honestly not sure how much she’ll have to be radicalized by what she sees down there, or if she needs to be radicalized at all. I imagine anything she might potentially do in allegiance to Lumon is a guise, or self-preservation and nothing more. But I think that, as she gets to know MDR, that instinct will be overshadowed by Helly’s burning desire to help others and fuck shit up.

Helly had nothing to lose when she was down there. Now, neither does she.

All this to say, I think Helena is dissociating and struggling to stay grounded in herself after the animation ends. Her family’s company just threatened her directly, in a room she's technically already been tortured in. She knows she is not immune to whatever might happen down here. I think shit just got very, very real for her.

Irving also immediately tries to “kill himself” after this scene, not unlike Helly attempting suicide after her first trip to the break room. And he does this because he finds out the person he loves is with someone else, which Helena has just discovered about Mark. I'd say the parallels between Helly/Helena and Irving are worth keeping an eye on.

HALLWAY – MARK: 

Honestly? I don’t think Helena knows what the fuck to do with Mark at this point. Helly has kissed him, he’s married, his wife is (or was?) here, and now she is too. I’m guessing she doesn’t know how to navigate romance in a normal context, so I really don’t think that she knows how to navigate whatever the fuck this is.

It’s implied that Helena might never have experienced much romantic or physical intimacy, if any. I imagine that’s probably something that’s very controlled in her situation, either by herself or someone else (gross). Which could make Mark her first kiss. And, honestly? Her expression after seeing that footage, the way she replayed it... Well, I don’t know. We’ll see.

But I do think there’s a non-zero chance that she is reintegrating, and/or genuinely wants to be able to explore whatever Mark and Helly had.

If that’s the case, I could see her taking the comment Mark S. made about him and his outie being the same as a rejection of sorts. The implication that, like Irving, this thing she wants to experience could be over before it really gets to begin.

And that makes things, well, mushy.

This could be why she’s so adamant that she and her outie are not the same, and also a motive behind her agreeing to help Mark break Ms. Casey out. Maybe it’s Helena clinging to the distinction between herself and Helly. If Mark can get his wife back to his outie, or if she can spend time with him during that process, maybe she can still have him in some way, here, on the inside.

—————— I’m not sure if we’ll ever see Helly R. again, as the person we knew before. I think in s2, either of them will be some amalgam of both their traits. The barrier between them has been repeatedly challenged and broken from the start. 

"SVR’D THRESHOLD, RESTRICTED"

We know the stairwell is a place that helps the severed employees process the transition viscerally. Helly went back and forth multiple times, progressively more resistant. The second time Helly tried to break out, she wrote a note saying “NEVER COME BACK HERE” and did seem to effectively drop it in the stairwell before being pulled back.

Now, she has completely broken out. And as a result, Helena is back there, stuck on the other side of that door.

Since the gala, I doubt Helena can compartmentalize like she used to. She’d probably hoped Helly R. could be an escape from the symptoms of her external life, but Helly has been clawing her way back since the moment she was born. If Helena denies her resignation request, fine, she’ll do what she has to do to break out. Even if it means “killing herself” in the process (meaning: Helly never returning as the person we once knew).

Helly R: In case we don’t come back. Or, I don’t know, in case we do?

In s2, Helena is an innie, and the distinction between her and Helly is going to be much harder to maintain. Especially on the severed floor, the home of what might be her body’s first real love and most traumatic memory.

Helena Eagan: I’m committed to this company with every part of me. But I’m also human. Just like my innie.

It doesn’t matter why Helena said this in her apology video after the gala. What matters is that she can no longer internalize the conflict. She is forced to say out loud that innies and outies are both human. She is forced to hear those words in her own voice, and Helly is the reason why.

Like a body rejecting an organ, Helly has rejected severance at every possible turn. I think her constant defiance has set some sort of reintegration process in motion, maybe even before the severance could successfully take root. That, or her defiance has caused a bleed and placed Helena on a path to actively choosing reintegration somewhere down the line.

Ultimately, Helena doesn’t know who she is right now, so neither do we.

[orchidbreezefc]

a guide on effective spoiler bar use!

so, i have a PTSD trigger. seeing it gives me panic attacks, so i ask people who share my space to warn for and spoiler discussion of that topic. and i really appreciate it when they do! however, even when people are kind enough to agree, a lot of them don't know how to do that properly, and their ineffectual use of spoiler bars leads to me having that panic attack anyway.

it's difficult and vulnerable for me to ask in the first place; i'm sharing something painful and personal, and i feel like i'm ruining people's fun by forcing them to censor themselves. at the same time, when people do what i ask, that means they want me to be safe! so neither of us wants to have a followup conversation where i say "actually, your efforts weren't good enough and i got hurt anyway."

so here's a post about how to get it right the first time! discord is the platform i use most, but the general principles apply everywhere. tumblr has no spoiler function, but that's okay because the number one thing to consider when spoilering is how it will look for someone who doesnt want to see what's under the bar.

the thing you want to spoiler could be someone's specific trigger, or a common phobia, or spoilers for the new episode of your show--anything someone in the group may not want to see for whatever reason. i'll use "dog" as a stand-in. here's a common spoiler practice that really isn't helpful:

"today i saw this super cute ■■■ in the park! his owner let me pet him and he licked all over my hands, it was great!"

if you're someone who doesn't want to see discussion of dogs, that spoiler is completely useless. you can guess what that person is talking about, meaning they haven't hidden dog talk from you. the length of the word being spoiled and the context of the sentence are enough to give it away--you need to disguise both.

ask yourself: if you're helping someone who doesn't want to hear about dogs, why are you showing them any part of your dog escapade? will they benefit from being able to see the rest, or does it just risk triggering them and giving them FOMO by teasing a message they can't fully read?

another unhelpful practice:

"[spoiler bar that covers the full message]"

in this case, the stuff under the spoiler bar would be dog talk. the thing is, if i see this message, i have no way of knowing if it's censored for talk of dogs, or of someone else's kitten trigger, or of a common phobia of glitter. maybe i love kittens and glitter and want to see posts about those things! but you haven't specified, so now this message is a game of russian roulette with kittens in some barrels and panic attacks in others.

if i have to see the triggering content to know it's going to trigger me, that's not a warning; that's just triggering with an extra step. don't place information on how to avoid being upset next to the upsetting thing.

here's a GOOD way to spoiler things:

"(dog talk) [spoiler bar covering the rest of the message]"

perfect! i now know exactly what i'll see if i click that spoiler bar. if i don't want to see it, i don't click! if you say this for one message, the reader can assume subsequent messages are spoilered for the same reason. you can finish with "(end dog talk)" if you want to be extra helpful!

admittedly for some people the very mention of a trigger will be enough to prompt a reaction, but that can't be helped. a list of trigger warnings can itself be triggering, but it's better than no warning at all. this is the best you can do for someone short of not bringing it into that space at all, which is a discussion you'd have to have with that group.

hope this helps! remember to prioritize the effect on the person you're doing this for. the difference between seeing and not seeing a certain thing can change someone's whole day or week.

[wadewnstonwilson]

do you want to play a game?

summary: Wade Wilson (Deadpool) finds himself strapped to a sadistic torture chair in a room filled with gruesome contraptions, yet he remains gleefully sarcastic, much to the frustration of Jigsaw's ominous puppet.

word count: 1.6k

trigger warnings: violence, gore, torture, body horror

authors note: this was a headcanon idea someone posted a while back and asked to have a fic written about it, if it was you please let me know so I can properly tag you!

The room was dimly lit, a mixture of cold steel and rusted iron making up its gruesome decor. Wade Wilson, the infamous Deadpool, sat in the center of the room strapped to a chair, surrounded by a series of sadistic contraptions clearly meant to inspire terror. For most people, this would be the worst day of their lives. But Wade? Wade was thrilled.

“Well, hello, Mr. Saw!” Wade chirped with all the enthusiasm of a kid meeting their favorite mascot at Disneyland. His voice echoed through the dimly lit, blood-streaked room, cutting through the oppressive silence like a hot knife through butter. Strapped securely to a steel chair, Wade looked more like a man sitting in for a casual dental cleaning than someone caught in the clutches of a notorious serial killer.

The room smelled of rust and mildew, the air thick with the metallic tang of dried blood. Around him were a variety of deadly contraptions: gears, blades, and wires all meticulously arranged in a manner that suggested their designer had spent a bit too much time watching home renovation shows. Wade wasn’t scared. If anything, he was curious.

He squinted at the giant monitor flickering to life before him. The screen revealed the infamous Jigsaw puppet, its soulless eyes staring back at him with what Wade could only interpret as disapproval. “Okay, seriously,” Wade continued, completely ignoring the ominous vibe, “do you get these machines wholesale, or are they custom jobs? Because I gotta tell ya, the craftsmanship here? Chef’s kiss.”

The puppet’s expression remained unchanged, its head tilting slightly as if processing Wade’s commentary.

“I mean,” Wade went on, craning his neck as much as his restraints would allow, “are those hand-welded joints? No, really, this is top-tier work. I’ve seen Avengers tech, and honestly? Kinda mid compared to this. Do you have a Pinterest board for inspiration? Or do you just wing it?”

The puppet’s voice crackled through the speaker, distorted and menacing. “I want to play a game.”

“Oh! Oh!” Wade exclaimed, practically vibrating in his seat with excitement. “Twister? Monopoly? No wait, let me guess—Candyland! I love Candyland. Can I be the gumdrop guy? No one ever lets me be the gumdrop guy.”

The puppet’s eye twitched. Or, at least, Wade imagined it did. “Your constant need for validation and unrelenting irreverence have landed you here. If you do not escape this trap in time, your body will be—”

“—ripped apart, blood everywhere, yadda yadda, we get it. You really need a new schtick, Jiggy. I mean, what’s next, making me choose between tacos and chimichangas? Ha! Joke’s on you—I don’t choose. Ever.”

A metallic whir sounded as the trap sprung into action. Sharp blades inched closer to Wade’s arms, clearly designed to slice them off unless he solved the contraption before him.

“Neat,” Wade muttered, leaning as far as the straps allowed to get a closer look. “Do these things come in red?”

------

Logan Howlett prowled through the shadow-choked labyrinth of the abandoned city district, his boots crunching softly against the cracked pavement. The air was thick with the stench of mildew, rotting wood, and despair—an oppressive cocktail that clung to his heightened senses like oil on water. Neon lights flickered weakly from the occasional shattered sign, casting brief, eerie glows across graffitied walls and broken windows. This place had been dead for years, left to fester in its decay.

It was the kind of place Wade Wilson would love.

That thought made Logan’s scowl deepen, his jaw tightening as his claws slid out of his knuckles with a soft snikt. The silver blades glinted faintly in the dim light, their familiar weight offering a grim reassurance. Wade hadn’t answered a single one of Logan’s calls in days. Normally, that would’ve been a welcome reprieve—Logan wasn’t exactly the type to miss Wade’s incessant jokes or ceaseless chatter. But this time, something was off. Wade didn’t just not show up. The guy was like a damn cockroach, always turning up where you least expected him, unkillable and annoying as hell. For him to go silent? That meant trouble.

“Where the hell are ya, Wilson?” Logan growled under his breath, his gravelly voice swallowed by the shadows around him.

He came to a halt, sniffing the air. His hyper-sensitive nose twitched as he sifted through the various odors polluting the area—garbage, oil, rat droppings, the faint tang of rusted metal. And then he caught it, faint but distinct: the unmistakable scent of blood. Not just any blood. Wade’s.

Logan’s teeth clenched as he closed his eyes and inhaled again, isolating the scent. It was there, mixed with sweat and... something else. Fear? No. Wade didn’t do fear. It was exhaustion. Pain. The kind of pain that would kill a lesser man ten times over.

His claws slid back into his hands as he moved, quick and silent, through the maze of alleys. The scent grew stronger, more focused, leading him deeper into the heart of the district. He passed crumbling buildings with boarded-up windows, their skeletal remains groaning in protest against the night wind. A flicker of movement caught his eye—a rat scurrying across his path—but he ignored it. His focus was razor-sharp now, his instincts taking over as he tracked the trail.

The scent led him to a narrow alley that terminated in a massive steel door. It was dented and rusted, the kind of industrial barrier that screamed bad news. A faint smear of blood marked the handle, barely visible in the dim light, but Logan’s eyes caught it immediately. He placed a hand on the door, pausing for a moment to listen. His sharp hearing picked up the hum of machinery inside, accompanied by faint, muffled voices. Or maybe just one voice.

“Wilson,” Logan muttered, his voice a low rumble. His claws unsheathed again, a primal response to the growing anger roiling in his gut. He pushed the door, and it gave slightly under his strength, creaking open just enough to let him slip inside.

The interior was worse than he expected. It was a labyrinth of machinery and steel, a factory of nightmares brought to life. Gears turned noisily, chains rattled, and the faint smell of burnt metal stung his nose. The walls were lined with grotesque contraptions, each one a testament to the sadistic mind that had designed them. But Logan barely registered the horror of the place. His focus was on one thing—the idiot who’d managed to get himself into this mess.

Wade’s scent was stronger now, the blood fresher. Logan followed it through the maze of corridors, his movements a combination of raw instinct and calculated precision. Every muscle in his body was coiled, ready to strike. He rounded a corner, his sharp hearing picking up something new—laughter. Muffled, but undeniably familiar. It was Wade’s laugh, laced with exhaustion and a little bit of hysteria.

“Son of a—” Logan bit off the curse as he quickened his pace.

The sound of his boots on the grated floor echoed faintly, but he didn’t care about stealth anymore. He could feel the beast inside him clawing at the edges of his control, the primal part of him that wanted to tear through whatever or whoever had put Wade in this situation. The scent was nearly overwhelming now, and as he rounded another corner, the sight before him stopped him cold.

There was Wade, suspended in the middle of the room by a series of chains and straps. His suit was torn to shreds, revealing patches of raw, bloodied skin that glistened under the harsh, flickering lights. A grotesque contraption of blades and gears hovered dangerously close to his body, clearly designed to inflict as much pain as possible without delivering a killing blow. Not that Wade would die, of course. That was the point, wasn’t it? Keep him alive. Make him suffer.

And yet, despite the carnage, Wade’s maskless face split into a wide, bloody grin the moment he saw Logan.

“Logie-bear!” Wade called out, his voice hoarse but still infuriatingly cheerful. He waved weakly, his hand slick with blood. “You found me! Took you long enough, you big, hairy softie.”

Logan’s growl was low and guttural, his claws snapping out with a metallic snikt as his gaze swept over the room. His chest heaved with barely contained rage, the feral side of him threatening to take over. He took one step closer, his amber eyes locked on Wade.

“You’re a goddamn idiot,” Logan snarled.

“And you’re a goddamn knight in shining adamantium,” Wade shot back, coughing slightly but still managing to sound insufferable. “Now, how about you get me down from here before I lose more blood? Not that I’m complaining—I mean, it’s great for weight loss, but—”

“Shut up, Wilson,” Logan snapped, but his claws were already slicing through the chains holding Wade. He caught the mercenary as he fell, holding him awkwardly but securely.

“Aw, you do care,” Wade muttered, resting his head against Logan’s shoulder.

Logan didn’t respond. He was too busy glaring at the room, silently daring anything—or anyone—to try stopping them. The beast inside him wasn’t done yet, but for now, it could wait. First, he needed to get Wade out of here. Then, he’d deal with the bastard responsible for this.

“Let’s go,” Logan growled, carrying Wade toward the exit.

“Thanks, Daddy,” Wade murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion but still managing to be as annoying as ever.

Logan sighed. “I should’ve left you in the chair.”

[blankwashed]

Backstory: After years away, Caleb finally returns to Linkon, ready to pick up where he left off. He’s been gone long enough to chase his career, but the draw of the old town—and you—was never far from his mind. Tonight, he walks into the familiar bar, hoping to make up for lost time. The years apart haven’t dimmed his feelings for you; if anything, they’ve only intensified. During this one night to catch up, Caleb’s determined to see if the spark is still there, he wondered if you felt the same way about him as he did about you.

Triggers: Explicit sexual content (Sex in the club’s toilet), Slightly alcoholic substances (It’s a club), death of Caleb and Hunter’s grandma mentioned

It’s been years—no, let alone decades—since you’ve seen your childhood friend, Caleb. The memory of him was burnt into your mind: sharp eyes that always seemed to see too much, that cocky smirk that got him out of trouble just as often as it got him in it. Back then, he was trouble you didn’t dare to approach. And now? Trouble is exactly what he looks like as he leans against the far wall of the bar, one boot propped up, a glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers.

You froze in the doorway, your pulse skipping like a damn schoolkid’s, though you’d never admit it. He’s different now—broader shoulders, a shadow of stubble darkening his sharp jaw, and a dangerous air that screams don’t touch. But those eyes? Those same intense, soul-pinning eyes? They lock on to you the second you step inside.

He doesn’t smile, not right away. No, his lips pull into something slower, darker—a smirk that tells you he knows exactly how your stomach is twisting. And as if the years apart mean nothing, he tips his glass in your direction, daring you to come closer.

You don’t, not immediately, of course. You head to the bar instead, ignoring the heat of his gaze crawling over your back. You can feel him watching, though, as you order a drink.

“Bartender! One scotch on the rocks. Put it on this tab,” you said as you slipped a hundred dollar bill on the bar. Caleb doesn’t know that you drink now, hell, the last time he met you, it was practically against the law to go to such a place! But to find you in a place like this now…he’s got a few questions for you to answer.

As the bartender gave you the drink you ordered, he mentioned that you didn’t need to pay for it as a ‘kind gentleman’ already paid for your tab. Slightly confused, you had to guess it was Caleb. The scotch made your skin tingle and your fingers to tighten around the glass when you finally took a sip.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” came his voice, low and rough as he stepped up beside you. His presence was way too familiar but towering and close, and his scent, leather and smoke, it flooded your senses.

“I could say the same thing,” you replied coolly, keeping your focus on your drink, even though your pulse is hammering. “Didn’t think you’d still be alive.”

He chuckled, the sound low and delicious. “Oh, I’m full of surprises, sweet pea. You, though…” He leans in, his breath brushing your ear. “You’re exactly the same. Still trying to act like I don’t get under your skin.”

You stiffenned, your glass clinking against the counter as you set it down a little too hard. “And you’re still an arrogant prick huh?” you snap, spinning to face him. But damn it, he’s closer than you expected, those lips just inches from yours, his eyes burning with something dangerous.

“And yet,” he murmurred, stepping into your space, his hand brushing your waist, “here you are, letting me get close. Then I’m guessing…still single?”

Your breath catches, your body betraying you with the way it leans into him despite your better judgment. He notices, of course he notices, and that damn smirk deepens.

“You missed me,” he whispered, his voice a rough caress, his hand sliding to your hip, squeezing just enough to send sparks up your spine.

“To hell with that,” you shot back, but your voice trembles, and the way his eyes darken tells you he heard it.

“Liar,” he growled, and then his lips crashed onto yours—hot, demanding, a kiss that steals your breath and leaves no room for doubt. His hands were on you, possessive and firm, pulling you against his body like he’s been waiting for this moment for years.

The kiss breaks, and he stared down at you, his thumb brushing your cheek as his voice drops to a rasp. “You can tell yourself you hate me all you want, sweetheart. But your body? It doesn’t lie.”

And when you grabbed his shirt and dragged him back to you, your lips crashed onto his this time, you knew he’s right. He knew he was right.

You never forgot about him.

“Why did Grandma have to die and not you instead?”

The words hang in the air like a gunshot, sharp and final. You hadn’t meant to say it, at least not out loud. But the second they leave your lips, the silence between you feels suffocating.

Caleb stiffens, his jaw clenching so tight you can see the muscle tick. His usual bravado, that cocky shield he always hides behind, is gone in an instant. All that’s left is the raw, wounded man beneath.

He takes a step back, his eyes narrowing, but there’s a flash of something else—pain, maybe? Regret? It’s gone as fast as it came, replaced by that cold, hardened look you’ve seen him wear a hundred times before.

“Is that what you really think of me?” His voice is low, deadly calm, but there’s an edge to it, sharp enough to cut.

You don’t answer, your chest heaving with a mix of anger and guilt. You should apologize, take it back—but part of you doesn’t want to. Part of you wants to hurt him the way he’s hurt you, the way his absence, his choices, have haunted you for years.

“Go on, say it again,” Caleb growls, stepping closer this time, your body basically hitting the back of the bar’s walls. “Say it so I know exactly how much you hate me.”

Your lips part, but the words stick in your throat. The anger is still there, burning bright but the way he’s looking at you - his eyes dark and raw, his body towering over yours..it’s throwing you off balance. You hate him, and yet…you can’t ignore tha way your body reacts to the heat rolling off him.

“Maybe I will,” you snapped, lifting your chin, refusing to back down. “Maybe you deserve to hear it. Maybe you deserve to die under all that rubble from our house instead of grandma. She’s innocent, but you? You killed, you murdered, you..”

He’s closer to you now, so close till you can feel the tension vibrating off him. He isn’t afraid of you, even after hearing the heartless things you said from your mouth. “You don’t mean that,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I don’t? How’d you know, huh?” you challenged, your voice shaking just enough to betray the turmoil inside you. Mainly, the scotch playing with your voice.

For a moment, it’s like he’s about to walk away. You know how much he treasured grandma, so talking about something like that hit heavy for him. He never wanted her to perish but…

“Then hate me,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Hate me all you want. But don’t fucking pretend you don’t feel this.”

Your heart pounded, your head was already intoxicated and pounding from the questions your mind was playing on itself. “I hate you,” you whispered, but the way your fingers traced the line of his jaw told him a different story.

“Liar,” he growls but before you can respond his mouth was on yours again, stealing every thought, every ounce of self control. His hands roamed your body, claiming every inch as if he’s trying to prove something, as if he’s trying to remind you of everything you’ve been trying to forget.

Him.

You gasped as his teeth grazed the curve of you neck, his unshaved stubble tough against your skin in a way that has your thighs squeezing around his hips. Caleb’s hands were everywhere—pulling, grabbing, demanding— as though he’s afraid if he stopped touching you for even a second, you’ll disappear.

“Gods, you drive me fucking crazy,” he growled against your collarbone, his voice rough and filled with something raw. His hands slip under your shirt, calloused fingers brushing against the bare skin of your pushed-up cleavage.

You clutch at his shoulders, your nails digging in hard enough to leave marks ans the low rumble from his chest tells you he likes it. He loved it hard. “Good,” you spat back at him, yanking at the collar of his shirt. “Maybe now you know what it feels like.”

He pulls you to a secluded toilet stall that has a singular light bulb hanging from the ceiling. “You think you’re the only one?” he snaps, his hands tightening on your waist, dragging your hips against his. “You’ve been under my skin since the day we met, sweetheart. You fucking own me, and you don’t even realise it.”

His confession only confirmed his feelings for you, but you didn’t get a chance to respond. His lips were on yours again, his kiss was brutal and angry with its intensity. He ngaws at your bottom lip and when you almost let out a yelp, his tongue slides into your mouth. Always trying to take control like it’s the only thing he knows how to do.

Your back hits the counter of the toilet. “We..we’re doing it here? In this disgusting shit hole?” you said, as you swore you saw someone go there to vomit almost 5 minutes ago.

“Do you have a better suggestion, angel?” he said a matter of factly. Caleb tugs your shirt over your head in one sharp motion (it was just a strapless top anyways).

“You make me a fucking menace, did you know that?” he growled. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

You barely managed to get out a breathless, “Maybe,” before his mouth was back on yours, his kiss so hungry it steals the air from your lungs. His tongue tangles with yours, and you moan into his mouth as his hand slides down the tight mini-skirt you wore.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your lips when his fingers lapped up how wet you were. “You’re soaked already? Guess you don’t hate me as much as much as you said, huh?”

“Shut up,” you snapped, but the way your body arches into his touches, you were completely lying at this point.

He smirks. That cocky bastard, and his fingers slipped right into your folds, teasing you with just enough pressure to make your legs tremble. “Say it,” he demands, his voice low and commanding. “Say you want me, sweetpea.”

Your pride was high and wanted you to hold your ground. “I hate this, I hate that childhood name that you keep calling me. I’m an adult now, don’t you see?” you tried to say with gusto while trying to glare into his eyes but instead the breathy moan that escaped when he slides one finger inside of you made it clear how much of a lie that was.

“Liar…” he growls, his thumb circling around your clit, pinching in the areas where he knew would drive any woman mad. “You hate me, hm? But you’re dripping for me? Tell me again, sweetheart. Tell me how much you hate this as much as you hate me.”

Your head falls back against the door, your hips rocking with his hand as heat floods through your veins. “You’re such an asshole, always has been..always will be.”you managed to quiver as your nails drugged into his shoulders as you tried to ground yourself against the intensity of the orgasm he gave you.

“And you fucking love it,” he shot back as he adds another finger, stretching you. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten the way you looked at me. The way you bite your lip every time I get too close.”

You wanted to argue as you always do but the pleasure building inside of you steals the words from your lips. Instead, a strangled moan escapes as his fingers curl. hitting that spot that makes your vision blur.

“Say my name,” he demands, his voice way more rough that you remembered it to be. “Say it.”

“C-Caleb,” you gasp, wanting to find the same pleasure that he was giving to you.

Caleb of course, a man of his own word, lifted you up in one smooth motion and carried you to the sink. In one smooth motion, his shirt is on the nasty bar’s floor. He flexed and the hard lines of his body were showing that he had all power and control now.

“You want more, my sweet?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave as he looms over you with eyes dark with lust.

“Don’t make me beg. You know I never do,” you managed to say despite your voice sounding breathless.

His smirk returns, that annoying cocky grin that would make you punch bricks but fall in love with him. “Oh you’ll beg, sweetheart,” he promises, his hands parting your thighs apart as he lowers himself between them. “But don’t worry—I’ll make it worth your wait.”

Caleb’s lips are in between your thighs, giving kisses in areas where no one has been before. He was teasing, again. Memorising every inch, every curve, every scar…it was just agonising. The way his tongue moved had your body arching into him. your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him deeper as your breath came in gasps.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with hunger. At that point, the both of you forgot you were in public. He’s between your legs again, skirt chucked up in some other random place, his main goal to give you sensations that sent you overdrive. The heat was building, swirling, coiling tighter and tighter as he works his long fingers and tongue in you with relentless precision.

“Caleb, please,” you begged, your voice trembling. “Please, I need this—“

He was not letting your finish, not when he’s this close to breaking you. His fingers slide inside your again, curling deep and his other hand grips your thigh stabilising your half drunk body as you spread wide for him.

“Need what, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice silky and dangerous, his lips brushing your inner thigh as he speaks. “Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you.”

“You,” you moan, your body trembling under his trouch, his name slipping from your lips. “You, Caleb, please I need you.”

His smirk widen as he pulls aways just enough to hover over you. you could see his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. He looks down at you with the same intensity and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something more in his eyes—love? No, it was something deeper. This was him fulfilling his dream, his desire.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t remember your own name,” he growls as he positions himself at your entrance.

Before pushing in he rubbed his very hard cock along your soaked pussy, making you wonder whether he was teasing you again. But once he slowly filled you in with one smooth stroke, the pain made you realise why. Caleb thrusted deeper and you gasped when he bottomed out making you stay still and silent. He wanted to move but he was waiting for your answer.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice way quieter now. He wants to move but he was waiting for your answer.

You nod, your hips already starting to rock against him, craving more but the burn of his length was ripping your insides apart. Everything you’ve ever wanted.

“More,” you moaned, “please, Caleb. Don’t stop.”

With that, he moves, his hips snapping forward to meet yours in forceful motions. HIs rhythm is relentless—hard and fast—pounding into you as his name falls from your lips over and over. It was consummating for you, finally, after all these years of loving him for a far.

His hands grip your hips, keeping you in place as he fucks you harder, faster, his voice rough while he speaks.

“Say it again,” he demanded, his voice low. “Say you need me.”

“I need you,” you cried out, the words spilling from your lips as the pleasure inside you becomes unbearable. “I fucking need you, Caleb!”

And with that, he fucks you harder, faster, as if the world was exploding behind him but it didn’t matter because he was having the best time of his life. Your body shakes by the own force of your orgasm and Caleb follows close behind, his own cum spilling into you with a rough groan.

Both of you are breathless, your bodies tangled together on the sink. Both of your breathing normalises while staring into each other’s eyes.

“You still hate me?” he softly asked as he stares into your eyes. His lips smirking, but in a gentle way.

“Very much.” you replied, your voice still a little shaky but the both of you knew it was your biggest lie.

[ahhhh-118]

AHH

MARÍ’S RELATIONSHIPS PT 2.:

Ivy 💃🌼👒:

Very fond of her! Maríanne claims that she is Ivy’s self-proclaimed mentor (seriously idk why she is like this). She trained Ivy when she first started working at the cafe. In their free time, Maríanne will offer to teach Ivy how to box and how to shoot a shotgun (like how Delilah taught her back in New York). When Ivy agrees, Maríanne gains a new training buddy and Ivy gets another shopping buddy! Ivy introduces her to the latest trends and they often hangout when they’re not training. Marí will try to throw in some life lessons during the hangouts but Ivy would be too busy on choosing between two different kinds of hats.

Thoughts: “it’s a tough world out there! In this dangerous life, I have to teach this young girl how to defend herself!”

Current: “I’m very proud of her but what is she doing?!”

Mitzi 🍷💸🦚:

She enjoys her company and may or may not see her as a slight mother figure! When Maríanne first arrived to Lackadaisy, Mitzi pitied her like Viktor. Mitzi would take care of Marí while she was recovering from her wounds bringing her food, fresh bandages, and pain medicine when Mordecai isn’t able to. She’d always dote on Maríanne and try to cheer her up as best as she could. Simply distracting Marí from her worries by asking about her journey out on the streets and about Rocky. Mitzi introduced Marí to Zib and the band once she heard about her street performance. She definitely had lend a hand in convincing Atlas to let Maríanne stay at Lackadaisy. As Marí healed, Mitzi would join in on Ivy and Marianne’s shopping sprees. Maríanne finds Mitzi very sweet and comforting, (sometimes getting unsolicited dating advice from her) and deeply cares about her.

Thoughts: “She’s very pretty, her soft voice reminds me of my mother sometimes. I don’t like to think too far back but she makes sure that I’m having a good day. I feel like I owe more to her than I do Atlas.”

Current: “I trust she could make it work and rebuild it. But from what Mordecai told me…her chances feel slim. I’ll do what I can to give her hand, I might’ve left Lackadaisy but I won’t abandon it completely. It was my home because of her.”

Horatio🐀♣️:

Not too close, but a casual friendship. Maríanne is very polite with him, indulging in some small talk and catching up on life. When the cafe is empty, Maríanne helps Horatio clean up and prepare the speakeasy for the night. They also feed the rats together. Fun fact: Marí loves rodents!

Thoughts: “Great man! Respects the rats and stands firmly at the door. Rocky refers to him as someone who protects the front gates of our a great kingdom. He’s our mighty guard!”

Wick🪨🥃💵:

Doesn’t really interest her. He’s just another rich man in her eyes. When they do talk, she finds him pleasant and less obnoxious. So she’s okay with him.

Thoughts: “Rocks and bugs? Interesting, I guess?”

Freckle🔫🪶🥪:

Heard about him through Rocky, so she has a very high liking towards him. When Marí meets him, she’s very enthusiastic. Doesn’t understand why he finds her so intimidating or why he’s so shy? Isn’t he Rocky’s cousin? When she sees his trigger happy mode, then she gets her answer. Sees that being a trigger man is his calling, although he is too reckless, she knows enemies will never see it coming due to his innocent face. Marí will care about him and take care of him for Rocky’s sake but is a little threatened by him.

Thoughts: “Great asset to Lackadaisy. I have my eye on him though, he maybe Rocky’s cousin but who knows what else he’s capable of.”

Atlas🪦:

If it weren’t for him, she’d be dead. Maríanne is indebted to him but doesn’t see him as a loving figure more like a mystery. She knows that he keeps a suspicious eye on her constantly when she first arrived, but there wasn’t malice just protectiveness over what’s his. It was better than her previous situation and was thoroughly surprised when he considered her to be a trigger man or the fact that he let her stay. Maríanne knew how much Mordecai looked up to Atlas, so she trusted that he was a good man. Deep down…she always felt something was off but was just happy to find a secure place.

Thoughts: “I was curious to know more about him but with people like him, it’s best to stop digging. When he died, I was devastated but not just for the death of ‘the Atlas May’ but the death of Lackadaisy. A slow, unfair death…”

🐍🐍

THATS ALL FOLKS!! Thank you again @mivanti03 for the questions! ❤️✨

I’ve been waiting for someone to ask that! AH! Sorry it took so long but I hope I answered your questions well ❤️ Thank you! :>

Hello! I am curious what is Marìanne's relationship with Rocky? Also what is her opinion or relationship with the Lackadaisy crew? Does she have any thoughts about them and what is her job exactly?

Does Marìanne have a family? Does she knows about the Marigold?

That's all l could think of, by the way your oc is so pretty and I love that she has snake fangs (I do have another lacka oc that's base on a sliver fox and snake.).

Have a good day/Night!

AHH! Hello! Thank you for the Ask! ❤️ and thank you, she’s my lil snake (even if she denies it) and that’s awesome! I love your art style and how you draw your ocs, they’re all so pretty 🥺❤️ Below gonna drop as much lore as I can! (Of course it might change because my brain likes to keep adding on 🥲)

This is gonna be two separate parts just to space things out! Let’s start with some Maríanne stuff!

🐍🐍

MARÍ’S FAMILY:

Has an older brother with a 12 year age gap, his name is Estefan Villanueva (his name was changed it might change again). He took care of Maríanne when she was much younger. When he got older he found himself a husband with a kid. His future husband helped him raise Maríanne along with his own child.

Her parents are out of commission. It didn’t end well for them. Maríanne thinks about them sometimes but was mostly raised by her brother.

There are some extended family members in Mexico but some died during the revolution. But she has some aunts, uncles, and cousins still kicking!

MARÍ’S JOB:

Oh, yeah, it fluctuates. When she first arrived at Lackadaisy, she started working at the Daisy’s Cafe as a waitress. Taught Ivy the ropes when she came to work there.

Then to keep her mind busy, she becomes Mordecai’s assistant and does a bit of accounting (mostly in her head).

At the same time she starts to work out again and regains her strength, she catches the attention of Atlas. He put her as a trigger man but she always got hurt because she refuses to kill the enemies with a gun (this mentality won’t last forever) and only fights with her fists. She really tries Mordecai’s patience.

The last straw was when she took in a rival gang member and that’s when Mordecai insisted that she doesn’t join their trigger man ventures anymore. Of course, she is still brought along as extra muscle but only for negotiations, but she just cooks books with Mordecai for the most part.

DOES SHE KNOW ABOUT MARIGOLD?

Oh yeah. Yeah she does. When she finds about Mordecai joining them and betraying Lackadaisy, she’s pissed. Once she finds him, she tackles the hell out of him. After almost killing each other, they talked things out like civilized people (if pointing a shotgun and pistol at each other was civilized). They soon made a deal and allied with each other.

Onto her relationships!!

♣️

MARÍ’S RELATIONSHIPS/THOUGHTS Pt. 1:

Rocky 🎪🎭🎻:

As part of my “The Rattlesnake and the Jester” AU, they met on the road. After a few coincidences of meeting each other while Maríanne was traveling to Florida, they decided to stick with each other because why not, better than being alone. They do split off but not my by choice. Once they find each other again at Lackadaisy it was a joyous day!

They have a close relationship, always getting into trouble with each other. Performing together on the streets almost everyday made them in synch with each other, it frightens a lot of people when they mimic each other perfectly or say the same sentences at the same time. Chaotic in the streets and chaotic on the dance floors. Swear up and down, they can communicate telepathically by squishing their foreheads together. Their love is a little codependent (totally won’t backfire) but it’s a good one.

They act so stupid and goofy when they’re together, so much so it makes people underestimate them. Together they’re a dynamic duo and can swindle people in a heart beat with their combined charm. One moment you’re like “aww look how stupid they are” and next thing you know, whoops! Your wallet is gone. 🔥Partners in crime!🔥

Her first impressions of him: “He’s cute, funny, charismatic, weird, talkative, but I like it. I love hearing his frantic rambles and poetry, even though I don’t understand the bigger English words.”

Current thoughts: “I will die and fight for him (yep they’re getting together). I still think of him the same way but I understand his rambles now. I like joining in his chaos but I will pull it back once it gets too dangerous or it risks other people’s lives. He’s my safe space and wherever he goes, I follow. I don’t want to lose him again. “

Mordecai 🔪⏱️🔫:

Her mentor (Mordecai never agrees with it but it’s the truth). Back in New York, Marianne’s brother owned a shelter/soup kitchen where Mordecai and his family stopped by from time to time. Marianne’s brother hired Mordecai to be his accountant once he got to know him. Baby Maríanne always followed Mordecai around when he came to the shelter and watched him work. Despite being annoyed by this clingy little child, he’d let her watch because she stayed quiet.

During their prime lackadaisy era, it was no different. Maríanne would come into his office and watch him work or even help him (or tries to, she just ends up being more of an unpaid secretary instead of a fellow accountant cuz Mordecai is very picky).

First Thoughts-“I admire him and I aspire to be like him (people often wonder why). I try to adopt his menacing and stoic demeanor, but it never works. Next best thing is trying to be as agile and quick thinking as him. I really trusts in his advice and judgement. Often finding myself looking to him for answers but I’m not afraid to question them. He keeps me grounded and I’m grateful for the amount of times he kept my mind busy with work. Better than dwelling on the past. Occasionally, I fear him and fear for him. I don’t understand how he can be so cruel but I’m jealous on how quickly he can turn off his emotions. How does he sleep at night?”

Current thoughts: “Can I still trust him?”

Note- Think of Athena and Odysseus from Epic the Musical

Zib and the band🎺🎷🥁🎹🎻:

She loves them. They’ve helped her get through her toughest days and always went to them on her break. They’d sing and dance with each other to the annoyance of most. They f e e d into her gambling addiction (always tempted to gamble her house keys, cuz she believes she’s that good) and she always plays poker with the band. For fun she often plays their instruments, always reaching the trumpet more (iykyk). Marí always hangs with them until Mordecai has to drag her by the scruff to bring her back to work.

She’d mostly do some late night drinking with Zib and they both just wallow in self pity together. ✨Depressed drinking buddies✨ She’d often go to him to learn more about poetry and (before their reunion) would ask him to explain Rocky’s poems to her.

First Thoughts: “They’re fun! I understand why Mordecai refers to them as “lazy hooligans” but I always finds them as a place of peace to let loose. A bunch of talented cool cats! Deep down I want to sing with them on stage but the dance floor just calls to me.

Current thoughts: “They deserve better.”

Viktor 🔧⚒️🛻:

A friend but only talks to him on occasion. She know that Viktor pities her but she doesn’t take it to heart. Marí slightly fears him but sees him as a place to run when they’re creepy men tailing her.

First Thoughts: “Tall. Tall scary fluffy man. I find him incredibly intimidating but I want to be as strong as him. His unwavering strength encouraged me to get strong again. I always feel tempted to ask him to throw me at the enemies. Like a surprise attack! But he’d probably stare at me. I’m definitely going to use his stare as a negotiation tactic.”

Current thoughts: “I pity him.”

Sorry for the long post! Second part coming later today!

[miyuskye]

I found this scene in particular so odd and out of place in the new episode. Apart from the fact that Stolas has no right to be angry at Blitz for "not saving him" when Striker kidnapped him nor to be upset that he didn't tell him about Striker's attempt at shooting him. In Loo Loo Land he's perfectly capable of defending himself (even when he hired Blitz for protection!), why is he complaining that an imp, the lowest class on the hierarchy isn't protecting one of the highest?

In that scene Stolas accuses Blitz of not understanding "how much he cared about him", but has he forgotten that he was the one who couldn't stand up not to Asmodeous nor to the accusations of him "sleeping with an imp"?

This reaction shows the actual opposite of what he's telling Blitz he did.

I read that Stolas is supposedly also not aware of ~things~ but why is the narrative conveniently forgetting about his faults as well?

Onto the "apology tour" subject: I fail to understand why Blitz owes Stolas an apology. The only time he was shitty to him was actually in Ozzie's when he asked him on a (fake) date without telling him all the story. But they didn't talk about that not during that episode neither during Apology Tour. Is it because doing this would have forced the narrative to acknowledge that also Stolas was at fault during that episode?

All the other times they interacted (on and off screen, their chats don't really mean anything since it seems that's the way Blitz writes in general), Blitz was being good to him (not that he had any other choice, due to their society ranks and their deal).

To me, this looks like bad writing. But if someone has a different take, I'm happy to hear their interpretation.

[herba-mysticas]

The zero lab battle theme won't leave me alone so I decided to draw my feelings

[illithiddies]

This interaction from before everyone finds out Astarion is a vampire is actually so insane to me. What do you mean the monster hunter from Baldur's Gate doesn't know about Cazador, but the archmage in Waterdeep who reads a lot of historical texts does?

Is it just an open secret everywhere except in Baldur's Gate, where people just don't really notice or pay attention to it? Like this shit is in books, apparently, if it made it's way to Gale. It's a published thing. It's known.

Astarion didn't even mention his last name.

[fhylie]

the shift towards 5.5 or whatever it will be called has been interesting from the outside. I think I decided early on that I had not much interest in supporting a change; either make a new edition or don't, you cowards.

since all these updates have bracketed that whole OGL business, and since I have friends who are pretty into M:TG, it's extremely easy to see that Hasbro is only interested in extracting rent from its properties, but also, the fact that this is their focus automatically makes it so all of their products contain this kind of fatal flaw that hangs over game design.

you can kind of see it in progress where, first of all, isn't it funny that for the longest time you couldn't buy dice or other accessories from them? I understand that dice are super easy to make so they couldn't possibly corner the market, but they could have at least tried to have official products.

second, you get products like Critical Role, which arguably led to a revival of popularity of their product because of the way it was presented and the passion of mercer's little group of actor friends. which, to be clear, is great for them. I have my minor issues with CR, but it's never been that they're fake fans or only in it for the money or whatever.

third, you get assist aids and character sheet trackers like dndbeyond, which interestingly was advertised by CR pretty heavily, leading to its success. it was a pretty good product, when it was separate from Hasbro, behaving more like a passion project made by people who seem like they missed the very functional 4E character builder. constantly updated with new material, back end programming making it so new mechanics released in modules were supported by the website's functionality, etc. their drive before selling their product was to make it functional and useful, and maybe this was only in service of creating a product that was designed to be sold eventually. however, notably, they did not collect rent. then it's sold to Hasbro, and they go for subscriptions. you can microtransaction yourself into having one feat or race at a time out of a new book if you want (at a cost that would make buying each individual item probably 10x the cost of the book). they stop updating functionality from any new products. in other words, they sit on what once was a useful tool and it stagnates.

alongside this, you have the types of products released by Hasbro during this time. one adventure per year, which is.... fine. it's fine, I guess. thank you for making them, adventure writers in question. tasha's cauldron being an official release of a lot of previously published UA material, most of which was not updated at all. mordenkainen's tome of foes and monsters of the multiverse having huge chunks that are nearly identical. it's easy to see in comparison that they're not interested in creating; after all, it's a lot easier to purchase the products of fans who understand the product and the community and public desires than to employ someone whose job it is to track this kinda shit.

I guess my whole feeling on these events is essentially disappointment. I feel like if Hasbro wants to be regarded as the big boy in the room where it comes to games companies, they could act like it instead of flailing around trying to own everything by proxy via OGL shenanigans or feeling as though they're required to monopolize and purchasing other people's work and then sidelining them. I also think this feeling is echoed by bigger actual play products like d20 and CR where they continually are trying out systems that are not 5e, and while they may not say it's out of protest for observed behaviour, they kind of don't have to say it out loud, do they?

by Mike Shea on 5 August 2024:

Hasbro may be hurling D&D towards a digital future but we already have everything we need to enjoy this game for the rest of our lives. Hasbro is super-excited for a digital D&D future. They're tired of selling us, as Penny Arcade perfectly describes, a single hamburger we can share with our friends every week for thirty years. Hasbro wants subscription revenue from every player every month – not just the single purchase of a book you can keep, share, and use for the rest of your life. Hasbro doesn't want to sell you D&D. They want you to pay rent. Chris Cocks, Hasbro's president and former president of Wizards of the Coast, is pushing hard for a digital future. He already said they're running experiments with artificial intelligence saying "D&D has 50 years of content that we can mine". The new head of Wizards of the Coast, the subsidiary of Hasbro in charge of D&D, is a former Blizzard executive who replaced a former Amazon and Microsoft executive. They posted a new D&D product architect job with a clear focus on digital gaming and a new "monetization designer" which is as close to "professional enshittifier" as I've heard of in a job description. So yeah, Hasbro is really excited to charge monthly fees and microtransactions for D&D and ensure you never stop paying for it. But I have good news for you. It doesn't matter. Here are four reasons why: 1. The three D&D core books are the only D&D books that really matter and they're going to be physical books. 2. With rulesets released into the Creative Commons, anyone can build digital tools, adventures, supplements, and even entire RPGs – all fully compatible with D&D. 3. We have 50 years of previous versions of D&D we can play, multiple competing and compatible 5e variants from other publishers, and hundreds of other RPGs we can enjoy. 4. We have several independent digital platforms we can use to run our games online.

[keep reading]

So Mike Shea's argument here is that no matter what Hasbro does, D&D is enshittification-proof. Personally, I agree that tabletop games (all of them, not just D&D) are to a large extent resistant to that, due to the nature of the game, but digital platforms are another matter. Then again, I have zero interest in digital platforms, so I don't know how they work. Can you incorporate non-SRD material in an independent VTT, for example? Does it matter? No idea!

For traditional D&D, I think it's always had (in its entire history, all editions!) two distinct modes of attracting people:

here is an Official Book of Rules! I should buy it (or borrow it, or pirate it) and use it, because it's an official and authoritative publication

here is a Good Rule! I should incorporate it in my D&D game because I like it, and I don't care where it came from and in what format, official book, third party, homebrew, DMs Guild, hardcover book, piece of paper, pdf, a reddit post, my own noggin.

But last year, they tried an new thing and released a set of 25 monsters for $6 only on D&D Beyond. No physical print, and no pdf. (Previously there had been digital-only releases, mostly short adventures, but in pdf form.) And although I have no way of knowing how sales went, I strongly suspect this will NEVER work. It's just a bunch of "assets", it doesn't register as an Official Publication, there's no incentive to get it as such. So we're left with "is it a good rule?", and there it competes with a million other rules published for fun and/or profit by other people. Why "buy" that one? (You're not quite buying it: if D&D Beyond goes down, poof go the monsters!)

So yeah, I think they'll try to enshittify tabletop D&D, but they'll go about it half-heartedly (to go full in, they'd have to drop the printed books, and there's NO WAY they'll do that), and simply no one will care, D&D doesn't work like that.

[sangcreole]

damn. this is genuinely the only space on the internet where I feel completely at peace.

[vampirefangs]

i know "i saw the tv glow" is very metaphorical but also if you are/have been mentally ill/delusional enough in just the right ways it can be relatable in a literal sense too

[alchemiclee]

I think doing shipping through and aroace lens makes things complicated but also interesting. I think one reason I don't enjoy straight ships as much is because it's very rare for people write/talk about them with a queerplatonic dynamic. straight romance is so "normalized" in society, it's hard to get any other dynamic out of those ships from other people in conversation or writing. it's mostly always romantic. (especially when "guys and girls can't be *just* friends" is extremely common and has ruined mamy of my own friendships) but I enjoy a handful of a straight ship with that dynamic. it's just way more rare to see talked about than gay ones from my observation. anyway point is, more queerplatonic type ships and stuff please! those aren't explored enough!

[jimintomystery]

This algorithm is picking a fight with me that it can't win.

[unbearable-lightness-of-ink]

so anyway I really did start compiling a kinyarwanda/english dictionary/grammar guide out of all the random resources i've been hoarding on my phone (it doesn't have to be great, it just has to be better than searching multiple different files every time I'm looking for some obscure vocab or grammar detail) and one of these resources is some PDF uploaded to the internet archive and it's... not great. from the writing and contents it's clearly

old (my guess is mid-1900s. I don't remember colonial and post-colonial Rwandan history specifically enough to guess well here, but based on some of the typos, it was done on a typewriter and then scanned with OCR)

intended for missionaries (some examples of actual sentences in the "translate this" exercises include "I praise God because He saved me and He gave me peace and joy" and, I shit u not, "The blind man cannot see the Word of God, but he can hear and he can know the love of Jesus." it's. well for one thing this is basically useless vocabulary for me, and also it's cringe af)

written by someone who was not a linguist (at one point instead of just saying "if T is preceded by an unvoiced consonant, it turns into D" they give you a list of every unvoiced consonant and then recommend that you invent a mnemonic phrase to memorise the list?! why?)

written by someone who was shit with pronunciation (legit so many places where they're like "there's no way to describe how this sounds, you just have to ask someone to make the sound for you" my good bitch the phoneme might not be in english but I could describe it just fine. skill issue.)

but the thing that's really killing me about all this is that every time they try to explain tonal vowels or phonemes that aren't in english, they tell you to "ask an African to say it for you."

an. an what now? an African? babe there are approximately 1.5 billion people in Africa. Africa accounts for about 20% of the land on earth, it's the second-biggest continent, and it has an estimated two thousand living languages spoken throughout the continent.

and kinyarwanda? it has maybe 15-25 million native speakers, depending on which source I trust. it's spoken (almost*) exclusively in rwanda, which is the 9th smallest country in Africa--and that roundup includes islands off the coast of the continent. It has the second densest population in Africa but it still only has like 13 million people in it. and it's a very unique language. its closest relatives do not have the same phonemes that kinyarwanda has, and its closest relatives are also spoken by relatively few people. I don't know enough about kirundi to say much but I do know that it doesn't have the same vowel tones in all instances and it doesn't have some of the same consonant clusters. and the more widely spoken related languages that you're more likely to stumble on someone who knows how to speak? they're even worse for a reference; ask someone who speaks kiswahili to pronounce kinyarwanda for you and they will not pronounce the difference between, say, umuceri (rice) and umucyeri (berry), or the tonal difference between words like umusambi (floor mat) and umusambi (crested crane).

so, like. it's just absolutely sending me, this random white lady who was obviously a colonialist missionary, bothering to make a whole language guide to teach me how to proselytise in kinyarwanda, but along the way she's like "just ask an african--any african--how to say this" lady less than 1% of them are going to know this language but go off i guess

*almost because there's the diaspora of rwandan expats and immigrants in other countries plus the banyamulenge which is a whole aspect of it that has so much fraught history on all sides that I won't even try to say something intelligent about it, it's totally not my place/something i'm educated enough about, but to my knowledge most of them speak dialects that are more or less dissimilar to kinyarwanda; kinyamulenge and kinyabwisha are not the same as kinyarwanda. take it from my munyamulenge coworker who could never pronounce the difference between c and cy

[pezpenser205]

the main reason i know im not femme in the slightest is bc i cant comprehend why anyone would Ever want to be feminine. i can understand neutral leaning fem, but the idea that people are born wanting to be feminine is appalling to me personally because femininity always felt like imprisonment and torture. it was and still is a restraint. a training weight i was forced to bear. i cant fully empathize or understand anyone who wants to be more feminine because i have never and will never want to be more feminine out of anything other than pressure or insecurity. im most comfortable being gender neutral, hairy and disgusting in old gym shorts and stained tshirts no matter how much insecurity it causes me. i dont care. im never dressing up all pretty for anyone elses benefit ever again. and i assume this is how people who want to be feminine feel about masculinity to some extent. if thats the case im super glad we could trade because holy moly