#no they meant SYSTEMATICALLY

[mossterunderthebed]

Jujutsu Kaisen Observations #11:

oh my gosh i LOVE fushiguro megumi

fork i never really understood it bc i thought he was just another black haired emo anime guy but no. no he is BEST black haired emo anime guy. he is GOOD BOI. i am WEEPING

i love fushiguro megumi everybody give him pats this is my new boi he has just been added to my Emotional Support Character Arsenal

[sweetandsourcookies]

lying here in bed and thinking abt how alienated out i feel in the cookie run fandom. and then theres a polish sitcom playing in the background from a different room.

[luckyshouse]

NOOOO TUMBLR USERS WHO RELATE TO FACTORY MARES DERPY NOOOOOOO SHES A CAUTIONARY TALE NOOOOOO SHE IS A TOOL FACISTS USE FOR EUGENICS NOOOOOOOO DONT IDENTIFY WITH HER

[jackals-ships]

gnawing on jackal akkarin Specifically i am gnawing on them in the form of jackal frequently just. Staring at him. he's long since used to the fact his husband is Just Kinda A Freak (once you accept the fact ur s/o is Decidedly Not From Your World you kinda roll with the punches) but he brings it up once and they just

don't answer him. slide into his lap instead, put their head on his shoulder and Refuse To Move for a good long while

[yangscowlick]

Anyway Piltover and Zaun are going to team up to oust Noxus, Vi/Jinx is gonna be the bridge and Zaun will be independent at the end. Vander tried, but he couldn’t do it because he ignored the discontent represented by Silco and it depended on the good grace of Grayson as an individual and not an equal power balance, etc etc.

[thermesiini]

favorite thing about vampire knight was like if the incest wasn’t enough for you it also has this massive overarching mega racist eugenics shit going on to really tie everything up in a neat little bow

[nerdnag]

I hope everyone who reads this is having a better day than I am 🙏

[hopegrasping]

LOVE pessimism, I find so much joy and glee in it, the irony, the comedy, I wouldn't be alive without it. Pessimistic nihilism however................ Do anything else. You mean you genuinely think everything is Bad and there's No Point by god pick a fucking struggle

[foldingfittedsheets]

The mattress company I worked for the first time no longer exists. It was long ago eaten and assimilated by a bigger company. But when I started it was an incredibly intense five weeks of training. I was told I was extremely lucky to be selected, and I was. From a pool of a hundred applicants only fifteen of us made the cut to entering the training program.

The course covered how to talk to customers, how to ask open ended questions, how to close a sale, and product knowledge. I learned a lot, and truthfully my greatest takeaway was a lot of social scripts that I could use in other areas of my life.

We also had a midterm exam and a final. Both included a roleplay element with a trainer and a written portion. They told us when we started that the course was challenging but it was still a shock to come in after the midterm and realize half the class had failed.

I was named valedictorian of training- a dubious honor as it meant I’d done the best in the class, but popular lore had it that valedictorians struggled the most on the sales floor. Lo, I struggled.

Not because I wasn’t good. I was. But because my manager set out to systematically destroy my self esteem. Every sale, every interaction I had was scrutinized and criticized.

If I sold a bed with protectors, moveable base, and pillows he’d ask why I hadn’t managed to sell pillow protectors too. His first trainee had thrived on being challenged and he’d never bothered to learn a different way to coach.

It was wretched. My performance started strong but nosedived after a few weeks with him. My trainer, a man I loathed for stonewalling me in my interview, came in to inform me I was on new hire probation. If I couldn’t get my sales numbers up I’d be let go.

His actual phrasing was, “When you have a bandaid do you like to rip it off or pull it slowly?”

Since it was eminently obvious why he was visiting and because I thought it was condescending I sweetly informed him that I liked to soak my bandaids in hot water so they come off on their own.

He was briefly startled at this derailing but then got on with the bad news. I signed some forms stating that I understood my job was in peril.

I went home furious. I thought long and hard about why I wasn’t succeeding and how frustrated I was with my manager. I came in the next day and my anger had crystallized into a cold sharp edge.

My manager opened his mouth to address the probation and I snapped, “Just leave me alone. Go in the back if I have a sale. If you must address a serious issue then you will give me praise on two things I did right and present it as a compliment sandwich. Otherwise just say good job and shut up. Your constant nitpicking just makes me anxious and I do worse. Back off.” Belated and begrudging I added, “Please.”

He raised his eyebrows in dim surprise but I’d gauged him well. He backed off. Dutifully he’d meander into the back when I had a sale and praised me when I closed it. I resented knowing it was only because I’d demanded complimented but they still boosted me up. My numbers skyrocketed, I landed my first split king sale, and I exited probation with flying colors.

The trainer came back in to congratulate my manager for turning things around. To my gratification he gave me credit for setting him straight and said I’d taught him a different way to lead. My manager would often genuinely praise that moment when I’d stood up to him, impressed with my stubborn refusal to fail and my insight into what would help.

My biggest takeaway from the whole thing was just that people need positive reinforcement to succeed. Praise people for doing a good job. If you’re ever in a position where you need to criticize someone put it in a compliment sandwich instead of just saying the negative.

[mypatronusisamiddlefinger]

Sitting watching my dad ask my adult nieces if they sort colored candies into color groups before they eat them or if they do it “the wrong way” and connecting some dots about my genetics.

This was the day after he watched my (also adult) sister and I each individually eating our own plate of yellow and red grapes, which we both sorted by colors, then ate the color with more until there were an even amount without counting, after which we alternated and finished on the better ones.

[queeranarchism]

I think the left completely failed to form an effective covid-safety strategy.

First they failed by putting far too little effort into winning systematic changes (access to health care, access to paid sick leave, ventilation of work- and public spaces, etc) and putting most of the focus on individual behaviors that they could judge individuals for (vaccines and above all masking).

Their second failure was to then primarily rely on punitive pressure and scolding people to achieve that behavior. Which meant that this strategy only kind of worked a little when they had enough people to keep up that pressure. The moment that pressure wasn't enough anymore, most people stopped masking because they'd only even done it because of external pressure.

This left us with nothing. No systematic changes and no group safety.

At that point, the third failure was to change nothing once it became abundantly clear that these tactics weren't working. People wrote comics and long reads and video essays about the lack of solidarity of people who stopped masking, and while there was truth there, that didn't change anything.

Yet at no point did people take stock, re-assess and change strategy. To this day people are just doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. In fact, people seem to just double down. Where they talked about a range of safety measures in the past they've switched to only talking about masking. Where they used a range of tactics in the past, they've switched to only scolding.

And when you challenge them, the response is something like "But I am right, this is unjust, so people should change when I tell them it is unjust". But that's not a strategy. Creating societal change doesn't require being right, it requires having an effective plan on how to actually achieve real change.

And I don't have a full draft of what would make an effective strategy. I think unions could play a big role in achieving things paid sick leave and proper ventilation. But I don't have all the answers either. I think there needs to be an acknowledgement that what's currently happening isn't working, and that a new strategy is long overdue.

[pomegranatelifethis]

The first excitement

The day you found out you were pregnant, Bruce first hugged you tightly, then, with deep seriousness, said, "I will provide the best environment for you and our baby." At that moment, you didn’t fully understand what that meant—until a few days later, when you started noticing that everything you loved and found cute was piling up in the house.

At first, you liked it. Knowing Damian’s fondness for kittens, one day, you casually said, "Little cats are really adorable." The next day, at least five different plush cat toys arrived at the house. Then, you mentioned that you liked the tiny penguin design on Tim’s coffee mug. Bruce heard this, and within a few days, the kitchen was filled with penguin-themed utensils.

But things spiraled out of control when Dick showed you a baby elephant video to cheer you up, and you exclaimed, "That’s insanely cute!" A week later, a corner of the Batcave was overflowing with elephant-themed baby toys. Even Jason walked in, raised an eyebrow, and said, "Even I think this is too much."

At some point, the house became suffocating. In the peak of your hormonal fluctuations, you stood in the middle of the living room, looking around. Plush toys everywhere, tiny blankets, cute animal figures on the walls… And suddenly, your eyes welled up.

"ENOUGH!" you exploded.

Everyone froze. Dick stood still, holding a tiny teddy bear. Damian, petting the new kitten Alfred had just brought him, looked at you. Tim slowly set down his coffee mug. Jason leaned back on the couch, watching the scene unfold with great amusement.

But the biggest reaction came from Bruce. "But… I was trying to create the best environment for our baby," he said, his eyes wide with confusion.

Between hiccups, you cried, "Yes, but our house looks like a toy store! I’m hormonal, I’m exhausted, and everything is overwhelming me!"

Silence. Then Dick bit his lower lip to keep from laughing, but Jason let out a loud, mocking chuckle. "I wish I had recorded this. The mighty Batman, completely lost in the middle of an emotional crisis."

Bruce quickly composed himself and gently pulled you into his arms. "Alright, alright… I went overboard. I’m sorry. What do you want me to do?"

Taking a deep breath, you mumbled, "Just… let’s scale it down, okay?"

That’s when the Batfamily sprang into action.

Tim immediately started making a list. "Alright, we can return the unnecessary stuff."

Dick grinned. "And we can donate some toys. The kids at the orphanage will love them."

Damian, with a serious expression, declared, "The cats stay. They’re non-negotiable."

Jason shrugged. "I’d personally burn half of this, but donation works too."

Bruce sighed and nodded. "Alright, everyone, get organized. We’re sorting this mess out."

In the end, the house became livable again. And you realized that, no matter how chaotic they were, the Batfamily always came together in moments of crisis. And maybe, just maybe, a little extra cuteness wasn’t so bad—at least, in moderation.

The Batfamily’s attempt to systematically resolve the “excessive cuteness” crisis had turned into complete chaos. Tim was sorting out items to be returned, checking his list, while Jason, clearly bored, was tossing some plush toys into the air.

"Let’s donate this one."

"This is unnecessary—trash."

"Can we keep this one? It’s so cute!"

Then, Damian turned to Bruce, holding a tiny plush bat. "I’m keeping this one. Because it makes sense. We are bats."

Jason sighed. "Yes, of course. Because logic is what truly matters here."

Bruce, however, still didn’t seem ready to part with anything. As Batman, he had stopped countless criminals, fought in Gotham’s darkness for years… but now, the real challenge was getting rid of plush toys without upsetting his loved ones.

Noticing Bruce’s hesitation, Dick stepped closer, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Hey, you’re getting used to being in dad mode, you know? Don’t panic. We got this."

Bruce took a deep breath and nodded. "Alright. But… let’s keep a few things. For our baby."

Sitting on the couch, watching the scene unfold, you felt your emotions fluctuating—thanks to your hormones—but at the same time, a warmth filled your chest. Sure, Bruce was going a little overboard, but that was because he just wanted you and your baby to be as happy as possible. And now, the entire family was involved.

Eventually, most unnecessary items were sorted out. Tim and Dick organized the donations, Jason planned to dispose of some in his own way, but Alfred stepped in to ensure everything was properly sent off. Meanwhile, Damian had somehow succeeded in increasing the household’s cat population—there were now three instead of one.

That night, after everyone had left, Bruce sat beside you, resting a hand on your stomach. "I guess I got a little too excited," he admitted.

You smiled and leaned your head against his shoulder. "A little?"

The two of you chuckled softly, settling into a comfortable silence. Bruce’s protective, loving nature could sometimes be overwhelming, but with this chaotic, affectionate family by your side, you knew everything was going to be just fine.

Late into the night, just as you thought you’d finally found some peace, you lay down in bed and closed your eyes. However, just as sleep was about to take you, the bedroom door creaked open. At first, you assumed it was Bruce coming in to say something, but instead, Tim stepped inside.

"I just wanted to make sure… Do you really want to donate the penguin-patterned blanket? Or maybe, you know… we could keep it, just in case you like it?" he whispered.

You sighed, keeping your eyes closed. "Tim, I’m trying to sleep."

Tim nodded but didn’t move from the doorway. "Okay, but… are you really sure?"

Before you could answer, another voice echoed from the hallway. "If you're going to keep bothering her, at least do it quietly, Drake."

Damian stood in the doorway, arms crossed. "Disturbing a pregnant person only proves how useless you truly are."

Tim rolled his eyes. "I just care about her preferences, okay? This is a delicate process."

"How ridiculous." Damian sighed and walked away.

Just as Tim was about to leave, another troublemaker appeared at the door—Dick. With a wide grin, he slid into the room and immediately crouched beside the bed.

"Are you okay? Do you need anything?" he asked, his eyes shining with concern.

Bruce stirred, cracking one eye open. "What’s going on?" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

"Nothing! Just checking in!" Dick quickly raised his hands in surrender. "We’re here to help!"

Before Bruce could give him a stern look, Jason’s voice drifted in from the hallway.

"If everyone’s taking turns barging in, I might as well join. What am I missing?"

You buried your face into your pillow and groaned. "Why is everyone suddenly in full-on parent mode?"

Bruce rubbed his eyes and shot the others a sharp glare. "Everyone. Back to your rooms. Now."

Dick glanced at Bruce’s serious expression, then shrugged with a small smile. "Alright, alright, we’re going. But remember, I’m always here for you." He walked out the door.

Tim clutched the blanket to his chest and quietly slipped away. Jason, clearly amused by the whole thing, chuckled. "That was fun to watch," he said before disappearing down the hall.

Finally, the door closed, and silence returned.

Bruce, still half-asleep, pulled you close. "I know they can be a lot, but… they really care about you."

You smiled, resting your head on his shoulder. "I know. But if they keep this up until the baby is born, the real crisis will happen then."

Bruce let out a quiet chuckle, pulling you even closer. "I’ll keep them under control."

But both of you knew that keeping the whole family in check was harder than cleaning up Gotham’s crime.

In the following days, the Batfamily’s overly attentive behavior showed no signs of slowing down. At this point, you had to take a deep breath before entering any room because, without fail, someone would be there—thinking about you (and sometimes overthinking for you).

One morning, when you went downstairs for breakfast, you found Damian standing next to Alfred. As usual, Alfred was calmly preparing a nutritious meal for you, while Damian, brows furrowed, was scribbling something in a notebook.

"What are you doing?" you asked.

Without looking up, Damian replied, "I’m researching the ideal age range to begin the baby’s combat training."

You paused mid-bite and stared at him. "Combat… what?"

"If they start young, they could master basic fighting techniques by the age of ten. Of course, we’d have to modernize Father’s traditional training methods. Also—"

Shaking your head, you held up a hand. "No. No, Damian. Our baby will not be training for combat anytime soon. They’ll play with toys, listen to bedtime stories, and—oh, I don’t know—just be a normal child?"

Damian frowned. "But—"

"No."

Alfred smiled softly and patted Damian’s shoulder. "Perhaps we should revisit this discussion in a few years, young master."

Just as you thought you could finally relax, Tim walked into the kitchen, balancing a laptop in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

"Hey, you’re up. I made a chart to monitor your vitamin D levels. We need to increase your daily intake because during pregnancy, your bone health—"

You groaned, rubbing your temples. "Tim, please. Just one morning without a health chart while I eat?"

Tim hesitated, then nodded. "Sure. But I’m still going to ask you to check it later. The data is really interesting."

Before you could respond, Dick entered the kitchen carrying a bag.

"Surprise!" he announced, pulling out tiny, brightly colored baby onesies. "I saw these and had to get them for the baby!"

You picked one up—it was bright blue and had “Future Acrobat” written on it.

"Dick…" you said, exhaustion in your voice.

"Wait, I haven’t shown you the best one yet!" He excitedly pulled out a yellow onesie from the bottom of the bag. Across the front, in big bold letters, it read: "Mini Nightwing."

As Dick beamed at you, Jason walked in and observed the situation. He rolled his eyes.

"Great. The kid’s already being pushed into circus life before they’re even born."

Dick shot him a glare. "Hey! Flexibility is important!"

Jason turned to you, smirking. "This is all a bit much. But if you ever want to see the baby in a tiny leather jacket, I’ve got ideas."

Laughing, you shook your head. "Jason, I am not putting a leather jacket on the baby."

Jason shrugged. "Alright. But let me know if you change your mind."

Just as you thought the chaos had peaked, Bruce walked into the kitchen. Everyone immediately turned to him. He raised an eyebrow at the sheer number of people gathered.

"What’s going on?"

Without hesitation, you rushed to his side and tugged on his sleeve. "Please. Get me out of here."

Bruce studied you for a moment, then turned to the others with a sharp look. "Alright. Everyone, clear out."

The group erupted in protests, but as soon as Bruce’s Batman glare came into play, they reluctantly started to disperse.

With the kitchen finally quiet, you took a deep breath. Bruce crossed his arms, watching you.

"Are you really that exhausted?"

You shot him a tired but affectionate look. "Your family is… a lot."

Bruce let out a small chuckle and nodded. "I know."

Smiling, you leaned into him, wrapping your arms around his waist. No matter how chaotic they were, one thing was clear—this family cared about you and the baby more than anything. And that meant you were part of the safest—and most insane—family in the world.

[linkcharacter]

Really like the recent analysis. I know I speak of curly in a more defensive way than most but I generally try to get the point you made across at the end of the day with my analyses on him and his behaviors.

People love to lock analyses around Curly solely based on what he could’ve done as a physical action and have this avoidance to acknowledging the realistic barriers at play when it comes to those solutions. It’s. The game tries to treat the pre-crash section as if they are grounded in social and organizational realities. So the what if he did this questions about the situation always fall short when the real answer is he either couldn’t or it wasn’t an actual viable option. But then when they talk about what he actually did do it’s surrounded by such bad faith interpretations that his actions were completely intentional or still not affected by outside sources. He’s a very much “road to hell is paved with good intentions” character. He cared too much and that’s a big part of his problem.

There’s such a “perfect victim or nothing” mindset in the fandom where people can’t admit that there are no such things as perfect victims but that also shouldn’t mean that even if there were it would absolve them of the mistakes they made. People want to moralize every action of every character that they don’t realize that some actions are done without any specific morale factor. People just do things, like you said. People assumed failed intentions immediately flip the thought process behind them “he meant to do good but bad happened, he must be bad” and that just is not how people work. It’s how perceptions work but only of the observer.

It’s such a sensitive topic because, yes, you are supposed to be frustrated, even mad, at what Curly didn’t do, but you have to acknowledge the fact these were good intentioned acts even if that good intent did jack squat in the end. That his responses are human and it’s supposed to be uncomfortable and hurt that they were realistic faults of his.

He enabled his friend and it ended bad for everyone including him. No one really tries to argue this fact but everyone seems to think it has to be tied to the morale dilemma and not certain human natures and social factors.

This is all to ask, why do you personally lean towards thinking Curly wouldn’t turn Jimmy in? Are you speaking in the short term of realizing how bad he got or long-term/overall? I feel like he could but it would not be easy and no matter the necessity he’d always have this guilt at feeling bad for doing it.

Ah yes Curly the most imperfect human man character.

Yep yep yep absolutely, people love to assign morality onto characters and call them good or bad and diminishing the depth and nuance of Mouthwashing, filling discussions with bad-faith interpretations or speculating on inconcrete understandings of the incomplete, intentionally vague, context. I adore Mouthwashing to no end for having this oppressive suffocating and constant atmosphere surrounding everything in the game. Really shows off that the environment festers, no one well-meaning guy could create a happy ending with individual actions alone because it's all systematic.

To elaborate from your question tho, at the point Curly was in (if Anya wasn't pregnant scenario), definitely no don't think so (would depend on Anya a too on whether or not she would go to the authorities outside). Curly knew Jimmy was a danger, and I do believe that subconsciously Anya's report to him on Jimmy gnaws at him, but not vividly enough. I want to point out a moment where Anya tells him about the pregnancy, he begins asking "Who would you-", then he's nudged by Anya that she told him and he should know who it is, and he does, instantly saying he's known him a long time and will talk to him. That moment of, for a second not connecting that Jimmy is the assaulter responsible just makes me drag my palm across my face for how much of a man (derogatory) Curly acted like for one dialogue line. Like he just 'forgot' for a brief moment that Jimmy harassed Anya prior? Granted, he instantly believes and takes Anya seriously, immediately dropping the search for the gun he was on in that scene, realizing the severity of the situation and of Jimmy. We also don't know what Anya has told him specifically, how long ago it happened, etc. but the 'implications' of the scene make me believe Jimmy's known sexual harassment on the ship slipped Curly's mind due to him being more invested in "the bigger picture" of Jimmy, not latching onto a harmful and a very serious fucking trivia fact about Jimmy because of his perception of who his friend is as a whole (and with his foggy sleep-deprived mind at the moment), 'losing a needle in a haystack' with how much unknown history Curly and Jimmy shared, so to say.

Maaaybe in some other circumstances, like if Jimmy didn't crash the ship or smth long term I could see him doing it, it would take a lot effort like you said, no matter the necessity. We will never know. If we're going into speculation and imaginary scenarios though, if Anya HERSELF were to try and get justice, Curly would be backing her up undoubtedly (still not disconnecting himself from Jimmy though and feeling guilt on his behalf). But that's all suppositions from my reading of the characters.

[girlgenius1111]

someone who loves you wouldn't do this

the fourth and final chapter of family line solstråle faces some more challenges and makes some important decisions. angst. like angst... but then fluff :) cw: more of the same... poor mental health on sol's part.

it must be said that this chapter would be absolutely NOTHING compared to what it is now without @wileys-russo. for every comment you leave on this, YOU BEST leave bailey something telling her thank you, too :)

------

“Solstråle… that is just… wood. Your bed would just be on some wooden slats on the ground.” 

You beamed at your sister. “I KNOW. It’s so cool. It’s like camping. But with a comfy mattress, and it’s oversized, so I don't need a nightstand, it’s like a built-in shelf! It'll go so well with my new map because the wood is the same as the frame and…” 

Ingrid didn’t need to hear your reasoning; the excitement on your face was more than enough for her. She would have bought you anything, no matter how hideous, just to keep seeing this joy on your face. This alleged bed frame wasn’t even that bad; it was woodsy and earthy and the precise thing you loved. 

The bed frame was the final thing you’d needed. Ingrid had come in with a gameplan, because of course she had, and you had systematically made your way through the store. 

You’d seemed unsure at first, and very hesitant to really pick anything out. Mapi, meanwhile, was too excited to see that she was overwhelming you. After the 8th time you’d said the words, “I don’t know, do you like it?” your sister knew she had to step in. 

Mapi was busy talking your ear off. “OOO what about this dresser? With the matching mirror? Or we could get the other mirror with this dresser and paint the wood framing so it would match. Or we could get-”

Ingrid cut her off. “María, darling, I love you, but take a breath.” You watched amused as Mapi literally took a deep breath at Ingrid’s instruction. “Okay, now go pick out a couple new mugs over there and then come back.” 

Mapi nodded enthusiastically, bounding off towards the mugs. “Do not run, María Pilar!” Ingrid shouted after her, smiling to herself when Mapi slowed down to an awkward shuffle. 

Your sister turned to you then, a sympathetic look on her face as you regarded her cautiously. 

“Which dresser do you want?” 

“I don’t-” 

“No. Which dresser do you want?” Ingrid insisted. 

You shrugged, looking away from your sister, and inexplicably starting to tear up. You didn't want to pick the wrong thing, and you didn’t want to make anyone buy anything for you. 

The brunette put her hands on your shoulders, looking down at you insistently. “Listen, Solstråle. I want you to have a space that is yours, with things you pick, and things you like. Let me do this for you? Please?” 

You sighed, nodding slowly. “I like that one.” You said softly, pointing at one of the dressers Mapi hadn’t even glanced at. 

“Good.” Ingrid said. “MARÍA, come here.” 

Mapi returned like a puppy being called back to its owner, with a single mug in her hands. Ingrid had been about to scold her, and tell her to stop hijacking your shopping trip, when Mapi handed out the mug towards you. You took it into your hands, turning it around until the design was facing you. 

It was a ceramic mug, painted with a minimalist map of Spain. There was only one marking on the map, signifying Barcelona. It was a little sun, right on the coast, marking your new home. 

“Get it? It’s a map. Like the one I got you. And it has a sun. Mapi and Solstråle. Un mapa y el sol.” She joked, clearly thinking you’d laugh, and put the mug back, as it wasn’t normally the sort of thing you’d like. 

You grinned at her, though, looking between the Spaniard and your sister, who also had a big smile on her face. “Can I get it?” You asked. 

Mapi looked surprised, but Ingrid just kept smiling, knowing instantly that the silly mug meant something because Mapi had seen it, and thought of you. “Of course. María, she picked out a dresser.” 

“Which one?” Mapi asked, looking around excitedly. 

You’d laughed, shaking your head, and pointing at the one you wanted. Ingrid was a little worried Mapi would jokingly complain that you hadn’t picked one of the ones’ she’d pointed out, and inadvertently make you feel guilty, but Mapi just nodded enthusiastically. 

“Oh I didn’t see that one! Good call pequeña!” 

You’d looked relieved, Ingrid felt relieved, and Mapi was just happy to be there.

-------

You couldn’t sleep. It felt dumb, laying in your new bed, in your redecorated room, but your mind just wouldn’t turn off. You’d spent the day with Ingrid and Mapi, and they’d done everything right. Everything. Your room felt like your room, now, not just the guest room. Their home felt like your home. 

And yet. You were still empty. It wasn’t enough. You weren’t convinced. It didn’t make any fucking sense, because they’d gone out of their way, over and over, to show you that they loved you. That seemed like something that couldn’t be reality, though. You weren’t… loveable. How could you be? You were just you. And that had never been enough, no matter how badly you wanted it to be. 

You couldn’t stand laying in bed any longer. It was too soft, too comfortable. It felt too safe, like everything was about to be ripped away from you. The living room was safer. It was so viscerally Ingrid and Mapi’s space. You didn’t have anything to lose down here. 

You turned the TV on, appreciating the array of Norwegian options Ingrid was subscribed to, and put on a mindless one. You sat and watched, and tried not to think. You weren’t very successful if the way you jumped when the couch moved next to you was any indication. 

“Can’t sleep?” Mapi asked, tucking herself under the blanket you were using. 

“Nope.” 

“Thinking about how much better you’d sleep in that race car bed we saw? That’s why I'm up.” Mapi replied wistfully, causing you to crack a smile. 

“Something like that.” You replied softly. The defender studied you for a moment, before throwing an arm around your shoulder, contact you leaned into, almost on instinct. 

A scene came on in the drama that was playing, one which took place in a tattoo shop. Mapi perked up, and you saw an opening to change the subject before your mood could be questioned. 

“How old were you when you got your first tattoo?” You questioned. 

“18. It was this one.” Mapi said excitedly, holding out her arm to point at the partially covered up tattoo. “I covered it kind of a couple years later. Would you ever get a tattoo?” 

You weren’t a bad liar, but for some reason, you didn’t feel like lying to Mapi. She felt like a judgment free zone, in a way your sister didn’t. “I have one.” 

Mapi looked at you in surprise. “You do? Where? What is it? When did you get it? How did you get it?” The law in Barcelona was that you could get one at 16 without parental consent, but Mapi hadn’t known when you would have done it. 

You laughed at her rapid fire questions. “I got it in Norway. It was a stick and poke, I don’t even remember getting it, I was blacked out.” 

Mapi tried to school her features, but you could sense her disapproval anyway. It wasn’t for the reason you expected, though. “Someone gave you a stick and poke while you were blacked out?” She asked evenly. 

You just shrugged. “I asked for it, apparently.” 

It was quiet for a moment while the defender tried to act like that didn’t upset her. 

“What is it?” You blushed, then, and Mapi cracked a smile. “Tell me, tell me. I won’t tell your sister.” 

Instead of telling, you showed her, pulling your shirt up so your rib was exposed.

So the 23 clearly inked into your skin was visible. 

Mapi’s touch was delicate when she traced over it, a small smile on her lips. 

“23, huh?” 

You shrugged. “It was the only thing I asked for, apparently. I couldn’t remember the number, I was so drunk, but I made someone google what it was, and then… got it.” 

“That’s really sweet.” Mapi said quietly. 

“Hope she doesn’t change her number.” You said quickly, trying not to linger on the sentimentality of it all. 

“Eh. You can always turn it into something else. Tattoo cover ups aren’t that expensive.” Mapi said casually, knowing exactly who was just a few steps from the family room. Sue her if she wanted to see Ingrid’s reaction to your tattoo. 

“Tattoo? TATTOO? You have a tattoo, solstråle?” Ingrid asked, practically falling into the room. You tensed, suddenly terrified that this would be it. She’d make you leave after this. But while ingrid looked a little stern, she didn't seem angry. Still, you were a bit frozen still, and Mapi took her opportunity. 

“Stick and poke. Got it while blackout drunk.” She said, holding up a hand for you to high five, despite clearly disapproving minutes earlier. Apparently, Mapi only needed to be a protective adult in Ingrid’s absence. You high fived her, allowing yourself to smile a bit, though you shot your sister a nervous glance. 

Ingrid pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers, sighing heavily and sitting on the couch. 

“Alright. Let me see it.” You sat up to lift the side of your shirt again, stopping when she threw a hand over her eyes. “Wait, no. Is it bad? Is it a bad word? Is it a vagina?” You and Mapi collapsed into giggles, and Ingrid rolled her eyes, removing her hand from her face. “Oh grow up, both of you. Let me see, solstråle.” 

A bit smugly, now, you showed her the tattoo, watching carefully as her face morphed from apprehension, to surprise, to… emotion. Ingrid was tearing up. 

“Oh my god, don’t cry, please, Ingrid,” you begged, sitting up and looking at your sister anxiously. Mapi was shaking with silent laughter next to you, and Ingrid was waving her hands in front of her face frantically. 

“I’m not crying, I’m not. I’m just- tattoos are bad. Really bad. You shouldn’t have that. Tattoo. Of my number. On your body forever. My baby sister,” She trailed off, biting her lip when it began to tremble. 

“Ingrid,” you complained, looking away uncomfortably. 

“Ven aqui, princesa,” Mapi said quietly, pulling Ingrid into her side, though she was still smiling. Ingrid took a few calming breaths resting against her girlfriend, staying silent even though she had a million things to say. Her girlfriend took the opportunity to break the ice, seeing as though you looked to be on the verge of bolting out of the room. “ You know what would look good, solstråle? A 4, on the other side.” She suggested with a grin. 

Ingrid sat bolt upright. “NO! No more tattoos. María, I swear to god.” 

Mapi laughed, throwing her hands up in the air. “I’m just kidding, princesa, relax! God you sound like Alexia when I joked that I was going to tattoo Fresa when she was 12.  I thought Ale was going to hit me.” 

“I might hit you.” Ingrid mumbled, crossing her arms over her chest, glaring at her girlfriend. 

“Nah. I’m too hot for that.” Mapi said confidently, leaning in to kiss her girlfriend’s cheek. Ingrid fought a smile and you turned away with a grimace on your face. 

“Well. I’m going to bed. Please, keep the volume down, I don’t wish to be scarred this evening.” You said, walking briskly out of the room, ignoring Mapi’s cackle, and Ingrid’s gasp. 

“We don’t have sex! We don’t! Abstinence is key!” Ingrid shouted after you, sighing heavily when she heard you laugh from the stairs. She turned to Mapi with a defeated look on her face. 

“Nicely done, princesa.” Mapi teased. 

Ingrid groaned, collapsing against her girlfriend. “She laughed a lot today. Like really laughed.” Ingrid commented after a minute. 

Mapi ran her fingers through Ingrid’s loose hair. “I know. It was nice. She’s making progress, mi amor. You’re doing really well.” 

Ingrid smiled shyly into the Spaniard, privately thinking that she’d do a lot worse without Mapi around to help. It takes a village, she supposed. 

-------

You hadn’t quite drifted off when you heard your bedroom door open quietly. You were half asleep, too sleepy to open your eyes, assuming that either Ingrid or Mapi were putting something in your room you’d forgotten downstairs. You cracked an eye open after a second when you heard a noise closer to your bed, and saw your sister picking up Snø, who had fallen off your bed. She turned towards you, and for some reason, you shut your eyes before she could see they were open. 

You pretended to be asleep. You weren’t sure why. 

You were glad you had, though, when you felt Snø placed just next to your face, felt the covers pulled up a little until they were just under your chin, and felt Ingrid press a soft kiss to your forehead. 

“God natt solstråle, jeg elsker deg,” she whispered, before quietly creeping back out of the room. 

You were wide awake now, opening your eyes as soon as you heard the door shut. You weren’t quite sure what you were so upset about. Ingrid tucking you in had felt safe and loving and warm. Those were all good feelings… so why did it feel like a part of your chest was caving in on itself?

It was just… where had Ingrid learned to do that? You couldn’t, for the life of you, remember your parents doing anything similar with you. Even when you were young, putting you to bed consisted of them standing in the doorway while you got under the covers, and them bidding you a goodnight. Had it not been like that for Ingrid? 

The more you thought about it, the more obvious it seemed. Of course it hadn’t been like that for Ingrid. She had been intentional, wanted. She was their favorite. They loved Ingrid in a way they never loved you. Of course they tucked her in, and kissed her forehead, and told her they loved her. Words you hadn’t heard from either of them in a long time. Ingrid got everything you always craved, and you couldn’t even really be that mad about it. Because if anyone deserved the absolute best the world had to offer, it was your sister. 

You cried yourself to sleep that night, quietly muffling your sobs in your pillow. It was a sadness that plagued you, mixed with hope. Your parents didn’t love you, you were pretty sure of that. But it seemed like, maybe, Ingrid did. 

-------

The following day was a match day. Well, not for Mapi, obviously, but it was an important league match for the team, and for Ingrid, and you were actually looking forward to going. 

You woke up well rested in your bedroom, warm sunlight streaming in through the cracks in the blinds. You looked around when you woke up, a bit confused at the transformation it had undergone. It was cozy, and you relished laying in bed for a bit, not in any rush to leave this newly comforting space. It felt like home, and thought that still scared you, it wasn’t as terrifying in the daylight. Everything was always better in the morning. 

And though the morning was good, the afternoon only went downhill. 

You’d disappeared up to your room to get some homework done before you were set to leave for the game, and Mapi and Ingrid were lounging downstairs, watching a WSL match. Ingrid was ignoring the repetitive texts from her mother. After another one buzzed her phone, quickly followed by a sharp ring as her mom resorted to calling her, Ingrid flipped her phone over with a heavy sigh, turning to hide her face in the crook of Mapi’s neck. The Spaniard frowned sadly, wrapping her arms tight around the Norwegian, softly rubbing her back. 

“I love you.” Mapi whispered, not really sure what to say, but figuring that those words couldn’t hurt. Ingrid whispered them back, feeling a bit braver now, before pulling away and reaching for her phone again. 

“I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t want to talk to her right now, but she can tell something is wrong. I never ignore her like this.” 

“You’re not ready to talk. Just say that.” Mapi suggested. Ingrid thought for a few moments, before slowly nodding and beginning to type a response. 

Please stop calling. I am focused on Solstråle right now. You’ve really hurt her, and neither of us are ready to talk to you yet. Please respect that.

Ingrid showed Mapi before hitting send, an apprehensive look on her face. 

“Perfect, amor.” Mapi assured her, watching as Ingrid hit send and snuggled back up against her girlfriend. She felt the words more than she heard them when Mapi spoke into her ear. “I am proud of you. You’re doing the right thing for your sister, and I know it’s hard, but you’re doing so well, mi princesa. I’m so proud of you.” 

Ingrid blushed heavily, but smiled to herself. She wasn't sure why, but it suddenly felt like things might be okay from here on out. She would be wrong. 

-------

You shouldn’t have answered the phone. You should have known better. You couldn't help the hope that bloomed inside of you when you saw your mom’s name on the caller ID as your phone rang, though. You answered the phone. 

“You’re ruining our family.” She ruined it first. 

“You’ve made my daughter hate me.” You’re her daughter too. 

“Ingrid doesn’t want you there. She’s not your parent, I am.” Ingrid says she wants you here. And Ingrid acts more like a parent than she ever has. 

“If I'd known how much trouble you’d be, I wouldn’t have bothered with having you.” Sometimes you wish she hadn’t bothered with it. 

“You cause more trouble than you’re worth, and one day Ingrid will see that. And I won’t be here to take you back.” You were a lot of trouble, weren’t you? Your mom was right. One day, Ingrid and Mapi would reach the point she had. And you’d have nowhere else to go. 

Your thoughts only spiraled from there. You hung up the phone without saying a word, letting it fall to the ground. You curled into yourself and thought. Thought hard. Until your mind felt like a prison you were locked in, and you weren’t sure how to get out. Until the room disappeared around you, and all you felt was hatred. Not towards your mother. But towards yourself. 

-------

You wouldn’t look at Mapi. You wouldn’t move. You didn’t even really seem to know she was there. You sat with your knees pulled to your chest on the floor by your bed, a vacant look in your eyes. 

“Come on, pequeña, come back. I’m right here, you’re safe.” Mapi said softly, careful not to touch you. She’d come to ask you if you’d be ready to go in an hour, wanting to leave at the same time as Ingrid and spend time with the team as they got ready in the locker room. She’d found you like this, making yourself as small as possible against your bed. You looked tiny, and Mapi spoke quietly, delicately, trying to coax you back to her. 

Still, even her soothing words didn’t bring you out. And she knew she needed to get Ingrid, even as she knew that Ingrid would freak out.

She stepped away from you, leaning into the hall and calling quietly towards her room, where your sister was. 

“Ingrid, come here please.” She said, as calmly as she could. Ingrid appeared in the hall, walking towards your room as she fiddled with the braid in her hair. 

“What’s up?” She asked, following Mapi into your room. “Solstråle?” She looked between you and her girlfriend in confusion. 

“I think she’s a little out of it right now. I’m not sure what happened, I found her like this.” Mapi explained, trying her best to not make Ingrid panic. 

Ingrid sat down next to you, grabbing your hand. When you didn’t even flinch, she looked at Mapi in horror. 

“María, what do we do?” 

“She’s all right, amor. She just needs a bit.” Mapi reassured, sitting down on your other side. 

“I… I don’t understand, what happened?” 

“I don’t know, mi amor. Something probably upset her. She’s very vulnerable right now.” Mapi replied, before pausing briefly. “Do you remember when I withdrew from camp for the first time? I got like this. I was okay, I just needed some time, and my brain was trying to protect itself. Solstråle is okay, she just needs the same.” 

Ingrid nodded slowly, because she did remember. That was different, though, that was… a traumatic experience for her girlfriend. And whatever was happening with you right now, this couldn’t be a reaction to a traumatic experience. Yes, you were struggling, and yes, the last couple years had been hard, but you weren’t… traumatized? 

As Ingrid sat and waited for you to come back to her, though, she realized that you were. If she put herself in your position, she couldn’t see how you could have come out of everything not traumatized. The marks your parents had left on you ran deeper than Ingrid had realized. And there wasn’t anything she could do to fix them unless you let her. 

“María,” Ingrid said quietly, a desperate plea for some reassurance as minutes passed and nothing changed, as she stared into your eyes and you didn't react. 

“I know, cariño, but she’s okay. She’s okay, I promise. Just try to stay calm.” 

Ingrid wasn’t sure how much longer she could stay calm. Especially when she glanced at her phone and saw it was several minutes past the time she was supposed to leave for the match. “Can you call Ale? And tell her I can’t come?” 

Mapi was nodding before Ingrid finished her sentence, standing and stepping out of the room. The phone only rang once before Alexia picked up, her reassuring voice calming Mapi, who was pretending to be a lot less panicked than she felt. 

“Hola.” 

“Ingrid and I can’t come.” Mapi said simply. 

“What’s going on? Are you both okay?” Alexia asked with concern. Ingrid wouldn’t just miss a match she was supposed to be starting. Not unless something was wrong. 

“It’s her sister, she’s not… well right now. We have to stay here with her. Ale, I’m really sorry,” Mapi said, cutting herself off before she got choked up. She wasn’t an emotional person but seeing you like this, seeing Ingrid so upset, and hearing her best friend’s voice over the phone… she couldn’t help it. 

“No, don’t be sorry. Family first, always. I’ll talk to Jona. Do you need anything? Can I help?” Alexia asked. Hearing Mapi cry was always unsettling, because it happened so rarely. 

“No, we’ve got it. Thank you, Ale, really.” Mapi said back, clearing her throat. 

They said goodbye, and Mapi walked back into the room, raising her eyebrows when she saw Ingrid on your phone. 

“She talked to Mom. Like 20 minutes ago, she answered a call from Mom.” Ingrid stated. “Could that…” 

Mapi took her spot back next to you, absentmindedly taking your hand in hers. You gave it the faintest of squeezes, but the Spaniard didn’t want to put any pressure on you, so she said nothing. “It could be that. It makes sense. A lot of this seems to have to do with your mom. I don’t know what she said on the phone, but… it probably wasn’t good.” 

Ingrid sat with that information for a bit, startling slightly when you slumped into her. Carefully, she lowered you so your head was in her lap. You seemed a little more aware, now, but still nowhere near normal. Softly, she began to pull your hair out of the braid it was in, combing it back away from your face. 

“Our Mom did this to her.” She said evenly. Mapi rested her chin on Ingrid’s shoulder, nodding slightly. “I am never letting that woman near Solstråle again. I don’t care what I have to do. She’s been hurt enough. I won’t let her be hurt anymore.” 

It didn’t matter that Mapi had come to this conclusion a couple days ago. It mattered that Ingrid was there now, and Ingrid was going to keep you safe. 

You heard what Ingrid said. Your ears still worked, you were just a bit… out of it. You heard what she had told her girlfriend. And as she sat above you, relaxing you with every touch of her fingers to your scalp, you knew that you were failing at the rules you’d set yourself years ago. 

Don’t get attached. Don’t expect anything from anyone. Don’t get your hopes up. Don’t listen when people tell you they love you; they almost never mean it. 

You were trusting, again. Just a little bit, piece by piece, and you knew that it would take time before you healed fully, before you trusted fully. Very quickly, though, you were losing the will to be independent, losing the will to be strong. You didn’t want to have to be strong anymore. And you were beginning to think you didn’t need to be. 

Of course, healing isn’t linear. Nothing is that easy. So even as you slowly sat up off your sister, and inquired as to why she wasn’t at her game, some part of you knew something else would go wrong. It had happened too many times for you not to know any better. There was still a hesitation when you leaned into the hug your sister offered, as she explained that you were more important than football. There was still hesitation when she asked what had happened. You told her the fewest details possible, which she clearly wasn’t happy with. You were still holding yourself back, somewhere in the middle of healed and broken. It was almost a race to see who could get to you first. It would either be Mapi and Ingrid to reach you, to put you back together. Or it would be the trauma and pain that pulled you backwards, back to the version of yourself you hated. Breaking you for good. 

------

The answer would come in the form of a knock on the front door, later that day. After you’d gotten up off the floor of your bedroom, and returned to pretending to be okay. You were in the garage with Mapi, working on the bike, while Ingrid cooked dinner. You were loosening up a bit, and Mapi could tell you were getting closer to telling her what your mom had said on the phone. 

Your sister answered the door, thinking maybe it would be one of their teammates, coming to check on them after her rather abrupt withdrawal from the match. 

When Ingrid opened the door, though, it wasn’t her teammate on the front porch. It was your father. 

-------

Your father, who was significantly less at fault than your mom, but still complicit in how you’d been treated. Your father, who always worked too much to really have a say in anything regarding your life. Your father, who you’d always felt closer to, always trusted more. 

Your father, who loved you more than he’d ever admit. 

Ingrid knew what he was there for the minute she saw his face. She was proven right when she got you and Mapi from the garage and brought you into the family room. When he began to talk and explain what he wanted, began to try to convince you to come home. 

“I know Mom messed up. We both have, really. Our home isn’t the same without you though, Solstråle. I officially retired yesterday, which is why I wasn’t here sooner. I want to make things right. We weren’t good parents, but I’m here now, my darling. I want you to come back home. We can fix things with your mom. We can fix things at your school, get you back with your friends. We can be a family again.” 

We can be a family again. A few months ago, maybe that would have gotten you home. Maybe the temptation of your friends and Norway and the promise of being loved would have worked. Things were different now, though. You felt like you had a family here, or that you could. 

You’d always had a better relationship with your Dad. He loved all the outdoorsy activities you did, and though he’d been busy with work practically your whole life, the little time you spent together was always nice. Him retiring would ensure one sane person was home with you, that it wouldn’t just be you and your mom. And maybe you would have said yes, if you hadn’t seen the fear in Ingrid’s eyes, and decided it was because she wanted you to stay. She wanted you here, you told yourself. You wanted to be where you were wanted. And that wasn’t Norway, not with your mom. 

“No.” you said simply. 

“Solstråle,” your father began, with an exasperated sigh. 

“No. I appreciate you coming here, and I appreciate you caring but it’s too late. It’s not enough, and it’s too late. Mom doesn’t want me home. She made that clear on the phone today. I don’t want to be where I’m not wanted. I don’t want to go back to Norway.” 

Next to you, Mapi, who had been silent this whole time, squeezed your shoulder reassuringly. 

Your Dad shifted uncomfortably in his seat. You got the idea he thought this would be easier, which made sense. You hadn’t put up any fight when they’d sent you to Spain, and your Dad hadn’t expected any fight now. 

“Take a day or two. Think about it. For me?” 

Ingrid and Mapi wanted to snap that you didn’t owe him anything and he was in no place to ask you for anything, but they didn’t want to cause any more conflict than was necessary. Besides, you could handle yourself. 

“I’ve made my decision but if you want to hear me repeat myself in two days, that’s fine.” You said calmly. Ingrid bit back a laugh, but Mapi smiled openly. 

Your Dad didn’t seem phased, to his credit. “I’d like to talk to you both. Alone.” He directed that at the older girls, and you took the opportunity to flee upstairs, far away from the man that was… doing nothing but confusing you about your feelings towards your parents. 

Your Dad didn’t stay for much longer, giving your sister a little speech about encouraging you to “make the right decision,” and why the right thing would be sending you home with him. 

It left your sister with a bit to think about, her parents often making her rethink her decisions. Mapi could sense this turmoil, but she didn’t say anything, knowing Ingrid would come to her. Ingrid was completely silent as her and Mapi went to clean up the kitchen from dinner, allowing you space and time upstairs to process.  

After a few minutes, though, Ingrid spoke up. 

“Are you sure we’re making the right decision?” Ingrid asked, turning to Mapi as she finished putting away the dishes. 

“We aren’t making a decision. Your sister is.” Mapi reasoned. “Besides, Ingrid, you said it yourself. Solstråle shouldn’t be around your mom. There are no real, tangible reasons why she shouldn’t stay here.” 

“My dad had a couple.” Ingrid said skeptically. 

“Okay. Why should Solstråle go back to Norway?” Mapi asked, taking a seat at the counter across from her girlfriend. Ingrid sighed, and began to list off the reasons her father had given her. 

It was, of course, at this moment that you came down the stairs to fill up your water. This moment, the worst possible moment, as Ingrid tried to convince herself that you should stay, while inadvertently convincing you that she didn’t want you to stay. You froze in the hall, just out of sight, after hearing your name when Mapi asked her question. It was a miracle you stayed silent and on your feet, as every fear you still harbored about being a burden to Ingrid and Mapi was, apparently, proved to be true. 

“She doesn’t have friends here. She doesn’t speak Spanish very well. We’re both busy athletes, and she is… not easy. We’d have our hands full. We are young, and we aren’t her parents. I’m her sister, not her mom. She needs help, and I’m not sure how to convince her to get it. My mom and dad can get her back on track better than I can.” 

Ingrid was simply restating what her father had said. None of it she agreed with, none of it felt true. You didn’t hear her tell Mapi that, though. No, you quietly crept back upstairs, and sat on your bed numbly. Your stupid bed that she’d bought for you. In the stupid room she’d redecorated. With the absurd presents she’d gotten you. All of it wasn’t true. All of it was a lie. She didn’t want you here, how could you have ever let yourself be convinced that she did? Just like that, with only a few sentences overheard, every ounce of trust you’d begun to place in your sister had evaporated. They were downstairs, talking about how they didn’t want you, after spending so long lying and saying they did. 

It should have been confusing, this contradiction. But it wasn’t, because you’d spent your whole life feeling unwanted. And what is a few days of being told something against 18 years of being told something the complete opposite? Your mom had been right. Ingrid had come to her senses. You weren’t wanted here. Your Dad said he wanted to fix things, and though that was hardly believable to you, you’d go back. Maybe you weren’t wanted anywhere, but you’d go back to Norway, where no one cared what you did as long as you didn’t get in trouble. You supposed they didn’t really care here, either, they’d just been pretending to. It had all been an act, probably to spare your feelings, but an act nonetheless. You ignored that it didn’t make sense. You pretended that the complete contradictions in what they’d been telling you and how they’d been acting didn’t exist. Because you’d rather convince yourself then be convinced by them. You’d rather hurt yourself than let them hurt you first. You’d take the first step. You’d make it easy, and you’d go. 

Very suddenly, you couldn’t stand to be in this house, this room for a second longer. You pulled out your phone, and told your dad you’d reconsidered. You took a few calming breaths, preparing yourself to rid your sister of the burden that was taking care of you, apparently. You shouldn’t be surprised by this. You'd been right, the whole time, to not trust her when she said she wanted you here. She didn’t. Of course she didn’t.

Doubt swirlied around in your head. Nothing made sense, nothing made any sense. There had always been one constant in your life, though. And that was being unwanted. Ingrid didn’t want you. Ingrid couldn’t want you. It was too good to be true. 

You stomped down the stairs, hearing Ingrid and Mapi’s voices grow quiet upon your approach. You assumed they’d been talking about you, and they had. About finding you a therapist. Not about wanting you to go. 

You entered the kitchen, startling both girls with the hard look on your face. “I’m going back to Norway.” You asked, voice monotone, but shaking dangerously as you regarded your sister and her girlfriend. 

“What?” Ingrid asked, thinking she must have misheard you. 

“I am going back to Norway. I texted Dad.” You turned to leave, but Mapi grabbed your wrist, spinning you back around. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” She asked. You could only glare at her.  

“You said you wanted to stay, solstråle, I don’t understand…” Ingrid said, trailing off. 

“You don’t want me here, Ingrid, and I don’t want to be here.” 

“Of course we want you here,” Ingrid began, growing more and more confused with each venomous word that you spewed at her. 

You wrenched your arm out of Mapi’s grasp and stepped towards your sister, your outstretched hand connected with her chest as you shoved her backwards. 

“Oye!” Mapi shouted, getting in between the two of you. You were beside yourself with rage, suddenly. Why had she lied? Why had she gotten your hopes up? 

“No. You. Don’t. Stop lying, both of you.” You pushed Mapi away from you then, ignoring the angry tears that had begun to well in your eyes. “You don’t want me here, you think I’d do better in Norway. I don’t speak Spanish, I don’t have any friends,  I’m too much work, you are young and you don’t need a teenager to take care of. I’m mean and quiet and stubborn and my own fucking mother doesn’t love me. I heard you earlier Ingrid, you don’t need to lie. I’m used to it. You don’t want me. Stop pretending you do.”

At some point during your speech, Mapi and Ingrid understood what had happened. You’d overheard something out of context, clearly. And it was evident that you’d reverted back to your original belief that they didn’t want you. It hurt them, how easily you’d been convinced. And suddenly, they weren’t confused and they weren’t angry that you’d pushed them. Their faces softened, and they inched closer to you and you hated it. Because everything inside of you was screaming to believe what you knew what they were about to say, to let yourself fall into their arms, for good this time. To trust them. 

You couldn’t. You couldn’t be hurt again. It would kill you. 

You stepped backwards, and both girls stopped moving. It was Ingrid that spoke first, her voice low and soothing. 

“Solstråle, I don’t believe any of that. Dad said all that, to try to convince us to let you go back to Norway. We want you here. I know it’s hard for you to believe us, honey, but we do. More than anything, we want you to stay.” 

You shook your head frantically, teardrops hitting the floor under you. “No. No.” 

Mapi nodded, stepping a bit closer. “Yes, mi sol. We want you here. We love you, and we want you to stay.”

“No, stop!” You shouted. Ingrid was crying now, and you tried not to care. “You don’t mean that, you can’t mean that. Please, stop lying, this is too confusing, and it hurts too much, please. Just let me go.” 

You didn’t mean you wanted them to let you go back to Norway. You wanted them to let you go. The tension in the air thickened at this, as both of them realized what you meant. 

“No. I won’t do that. You’re staying here, with me. Here, where you are loved, and wanted. You’re not going anywhere, you aren’t allowed to.” Ingrid said, carelessly wiping a tear off her cheek as she stepped closer to you. 

Mapi stepped closer, too. “Nena, I promise you. On everything I love. On my parents, on football, on Ingrid. I want you to stay. Please.” The emotion in the defender’s voice startled you, and very suddenly, all of the fight had gone out of you, all of the anger. 

You wiped your eyes like a child. Because really, that was the part of you crying. “Why?” You cried. “Why do you want me? No one wants me.” 

Mapi shook her head, for once at a loss for what to say, as Ingrid let out a rough sob at your words. “How could we not? You’re my baby sister, Solstråle. You are kind, funny, and caring. You’re a good person, honey. You are good, and we love you.” 

It was quiet as you heaved in a few breaths, looking between both girls as you tried to decide what was true and what was false. And, ultimately, when you made your decision, it was because you were too tired to do anything else. Too exhausted of hating yourself to continue punishing yourself. Too exhausted of not letting yourself believe that you were worthy of love. Because you craved it, so deeply inside of you. And as much as you didn’t want to, and as much as you wished you didn’t care, you did. 

You are good, Ingrid had said. And if you were good, you could let yourself be loved. 

“Do you promise?” You asked, your voice cracking at the same time Ingrid and Mapi felt their hearts break for the 10th time today, at how completely disbelieving you sounded. 

“I promise.” Ingrid said. You looked between her and Mapi silently, and Ingrid took a hesitant step towards you, before Mapi pulled her back, shaking her head slightly. You needed to go to them. You needed to decide, all by yourself. 

It was the desperation in your sister’s voice that really got you, the tears in her eyes. And maybe it was also the desperation inside yourself, too,  and the ache in your heart that you knew you didn’t need to carry anymore. You wrapped your arms tight around your abdomen, and prepared yourself to say the most vulnerable, most terrifying words you had ever said, and might ever say. 

“I want to stay with you guys.” 

The words were barely out of your mouth before you were being squished into Ingrid’s arms, Mapi’s quickly following. Both of them hugged you tight, giving you the comfort you had been trying to give yourself. You didn’t need to do that, anymore. They would do it for you. 

You wouldn’t have to do any of the things you’d spent a long time doing alone, alone anymore. 

It had been years and years of wishing you had a family that loved you, thinking you’d give anything for a family that cared about you again. It turned out you didn’t need to give anything. You could just… have it. You just deserved it. 

-------

def not the end of my girl sol ☀️ we'll see more of her... soon ish :)

hope everyone enjoyed this little series <3 I love and appreciate you all very much

also... i was 🤏 this close to leaving part 4 on a cliffhanger where mr. engen shows up but the second part wouldn't have been long enough and i am much too nice

[nostalgebraist]

Honestly I'm pretty tired of supporting nostalgebraist-autoresponder. Going to wind down the project some time before the end of this year.

Posting this mainly to get the idea out there, I guess.

This project has taken an immense amount of effort from me over the years, and still does, even when it's just in maintenance mode.

Today some mysterious system update (or something) made the model no longer fit on the GPU I normally use for it, despite all the same code and settings on my end.

This exact kind of thing happened once before this year, and I eventually figured it out, but I haven't figured this one out yet. This problem consumed several hours of what was meant to be a relaxing Sunday. Based on past experience, getting to the bottom of the issue would take many more hours.

My options in the short term are to

A. spend (even) more money per unit time, by renting a more powerful GPU to do the same damn thing I know the less powerful one can do (it was doing it this morning!), or

B. silently reduce the context window length by a large amount (and thus the "smartness" of the output, to some degree) to allow the model to fit on the old GPU.

Things like this happen all the time, behind the scenes.

I don't want to be doing this for another year, much less several years. I don't want to be doing it at all.

----

In 2019 and 2020, it was fun to make a GPT-2 autoresponder bot.

[EDIT: I've seen several people misread the previous line and infer that nostalgebraist-autoresponder is still using GPT-2. She isn't, and hasn't been for a long time. Her latest model is a finetuned LLaMA-13B.]

Hardly anyone else was doing anything like it. I wasn't the most qualified person in the world to do it, and I didn't do the best possible job, but who cares? I learned a lot, and the really competent tech bros of 2019 were off doing something else.

And it was fun to watch the bot "pretend to be me" while interacting (mostly) with my actual group of tumblr mutuals.

In 2023, everyone and their grandmother is making some kind of "gen AI" app. They are helped along by a dizzying array of tools, cranked out by hyper-competent tech bros with apparently infinite reserves of free time.

There are so many of these tools and demos. Every week it seems like there are a hundred more; it feels like every day I wake up and am expected to be familiar with a hundred more vaguely nostalgebraist-autoresponder-shaped things.

And every one of them is vastly better-engineered than my own hacky efforts. They build on each other, and reap the accelerating returns.

I've tended to do everything first, ahead of the curve, in my own way. This is what I like doing. Going out into unexplored wilderness, not really knowing what I'm doing, without any maps.

Later, hundreds of others with go to the same place. They'll make maps, and share them. They'll go there again and again, learning to make the expeditions systematically. They'll make an optimized industrial process of it. Meanwhile, I'll be locked in to my own cottage-industry mode of production.

Being the first to do something means you end up eventually being the worst.

----

I had a GPT chatbot in 2019, before GPT-3 existed. I don't think Huggingface Transformers existed, either. I used the primitive tools that were available at the time, and built on them in my own way. These days, it is almost trivial to do the things I did, much better, with standardized tools.

I had a denoising diffusion image generator in 2021, before DALLE-2 or Stable Diffusion or Huggingface Diffusers. I used the primitive tools that were available at the time, and built on them in my own way. These days, it is almost trivial to do the things I did, much better, with standardized tools.

Earlier this year, I was (probably) one the first people to finetune LLaMA. I manually strapped LoRA and 8-bit quantization onto the original codebase, figuring out everything the hard way. It was fun.

Just a few months later, and your grandmother is probably running LLaMA on her toaster as we speak. My homegrown methods look hopelessly antiquated. I think everyone's doing 4-bit quantization now?

(Are they? I can't keep track anymore -- the hyper-competent tech bros are too damn fast. A few months from now the thing will be probably be quantized to -1 bits, somehow. It'll be running in your phone's browser. And it'll be using RLHF, except no, it'll be using some successor to RLHF that everyone's hyping up at the time...)

"You have a GPT chatbot?" someone will ask me. "I assume you're using AutoLangGPTLayerPrompt?"

No, no, I'm not. I'm trying to debug obscure CUDA issues on a Sunday so my bot can carry on talking to a thousand strangers, every one of whom is asking it something like "PENIS PENIS PENIS."

Only I am capable of unplugging the blockage and giving the "PENIS PENIS PENIS" askers the responses they crave. ("Which is ... what, exactly?", one might justly wonder.) No one else would fully understand the nature of the bug. It is special to my own bizarre, antiquated, homegrown system.

I must have one of the longest-running GPT chatbots in existence, by now. Possibly the longest-running one?

I like doing new things. I like hacking through uncharted wilderness. The world of GPT chatbots has long since ceased to provide this kind of value to me.

I want to cede this ground to the LLaMA techbros and the prompt engineers. It is not my wilderness anymore.

I miss wilderness. Maybe I will find a new patch of it, in some new place, that no one cares about yet.

----

Even in 2023, there isn't really anything else out there quite like Frank. But there could be.

If you want to develop some sort of Frank-like thing, there has never been a better time than now. Everyone and their grandmother is doing it.

"But -- but how, exactly?"

Don't ask me. I don't know. This isn't my area anymore.

There has never been a better time to make a GPT chatbot -- for everyone except me, that is.

Ask the techbros, the prompt engineers, the grandmas running OpenChatGPT on their ironing boards. They are doing what I did, faster and easier and better, in their sleep. Ask them.

[hotheadedhero]

Daft Pretty Boys

AN: I was going to try and get something Halloween-like out but it's been busy lately. Have some fluffy angst with Raph, instead :D

Raphael x Reader

Warning: kinda angsty, soft-hearted Raph ahead :)

When you blessed the turtles with your bright presence and inevitably befriended them, Raphael didn’t realise just how much of an emotional rollercoaster it would be. As a person, you are amazing. You always make a point to engage with him and his brothers, even for the small things. Other than April, they’ve never felt more welcomed by human company before. The thing is, if he were to put one fault on you, it’s your taste in men. 

You fall fast and hard, and it’s not because of their looks. It’s the ones who have this idea that they know they look good: the confidence they exude, sharp-witted flattery on the end of a hook that you can’t help biting into. You get caught, pulled in, they have their fun, and then you’re chucked back into sea awaiting the next juicy-looking cast of bait. One would think you’d be smart enough to not fall for the same routine tricks over and over again but here we are.

Each time you say, “He’s really sweet,” followed by a “This one is different,” but he never is. You’re always taking that chance, betting on the next guy being Mr Right, only for it to end in heartbreak, and every time Raph’s at your aid when you come crying to him. That isn’t said with any malice for you. He will always be there to pick up the pieces. Maybe broken pieces of these stupid shmucks if he just had five minutes alone with them.

You grasp so desperately to hope. Raph would commend you for your optimistic persistence if it didn’t break him to see you in tears. There’s only so much one heart can take. He doesn’t want you to become some calloused husk of your sweet self, too afraid to take another chance. He doesn’t want you to end up like him. Raphael knows he’s unloveable. Regardless of his appearance, he has a temper - one that he keeps as far away from you as he possibly can. His feelings for you never seem to pass despite how much he tries but he isn’t meant for love. That isn’t how this world works. You, on the other hand, should be cherished and he’ll beat the next sorry sucker who does any less than that.

How? How can someone be so foolish to drop you like these men have? He doesn’t get it. Were it him, he’d spend every waking moment appreciating you, letting it be known just how precious you are and how lucky he is to be the one to call you his. But he isn’t. The same daydream can play as many times as it likes, it’s never going to go in that direction. He needs to keep reminding himself of that.

You just deserve so much more than the cards you keep getting dealt. You’ve probably got to be the sweetest person he’s ever had the luxury of meeting. A little bubble-brained at times but that’s in part what makes you so cute. It’s also why you end up in and out of these short-lived relationships, he reckons. Much like now, for instance. It’s almost routine, weirdly systematic in a way, how you waddle into the lair glassy-eyed and red-faced wearing that grey sweater - the one he calls your breakup sweater - that’s two sizes too big for you. So much for the macho man with the green eyes. Making it to one month is a record, so there’s that at least.

Raphael doesn’t say anything, just holds a hand out whilst the other cradles the back of his neck. By now, he’s learnt that there’s nothing he can say. It’s better to wait on you until you manage to find your words. You slowly trudge towards him and smack your forehead into his chest. All he can do is stand there and stare at the top of your head whilst he battles the urge to pick you up and take you away from all this frivolous bullshit. His arm falls to his side as he watches you, and you just about say what he would expect you to.

“I really thought this one would be different,” you whimper quietly and the hiccup in your throat makes his chest burn. “He seemed so genuine.”

Raphael’s heart clenches. He wants to scream that he’s the one who’s genuine, that he’s the one who’s been here through every heartbreak, every tear. But instead, he swallows his words, feeling the weight of his own unspoken feelings pressing down on his chest.

He pats the top of your head, almost awkwardly, and sighs, “I know.”

A pained laugh muffles against his chest. “I’m the problem, aren’t I?” you ask rhetorically, playing it off as some joke at your own expense but it only angers him further.

“It’s not you,” Raph replies, a hint of a growl edging into his tone. “They’re the ones who don’t know what they’re missin’.”

“But there’s a common denominator here. It feels like it’s me.” You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. “Like, maybe if I was just different-”

“Stop right there,” he interjects, his brow furrowing. “You are not the problem. They are. Trust me on that.”

You always say the wrong things about yourself: the things he thinks about himself on a daily; if he was different. You are such an honest person and yet you lie so frequently when you talk about yourself. A nasty bi-product of those worthless scumbags treating you the way they do. You want to believe him on his word but you also can’t ignore the facts. It’s always the same song and dance. You stupidly cling to hope, searching for the silver lining that never seems to come, and end up in this sad mess of a person.

Raphael watches as you pull away, the warmth of his body replaced by the chill of reality. It’s painful to see you so vulnerable, so exposed. He wishes he could shake you out of this cycle, snap his fingers and make you see what’s right in front of you. But he can’t. All he can do is stand there, the silent sentinel, while you cry into the fabric of your sweater. The moment lingers, heavy and full of unsaid words. He wants to tell you that you deserve better, that you should never settle for the likes of those clowns who don’t recognize your worth. Yet, the words stick in his throat, tangled with his own fear of inadequacy.

He clears his throat, trying to break the tension. “Tell you what, let’s grab a couple sodas and a slice. Sit up top for a bit, yeah?”

You pull back slightly, wiping your eyes. “I don’t know if I can eat right now, Raph.”

“Doesn’t matter. You need to get outta this gloom. Plus, I’m starving,” he responds with a half-hearted attempt at humor, but the grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Finally, you yield. Begrudgingly, he might add, but food and the fresh night air is what you need right now, especially seeing as you’ve been cooped up in your apartment all day crying. He takes whatever pizza he had leftover - it’s only lasted because Mikey has luckily been out - along with a couple cans and leads you through the sewers. Whilst he’s essentially forcing you outside, he goes at your pace, never pushing you beyond that. Sure, it takes longer than it should but you get to a nice rooftop eventually, and before you know it, he’s already got you venting with a slice in your hand.

“And then he pulls out the classic ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ shtick,” you say and Raph follows with a quiet “Of course, he does,” before you continue, “and I swear, I could’ve just slapped him.”

“You should have.”

You hum shortly against a bite of pizza and shrug. “Ah, the moment’s long gone, anyway.”

The two of you glance at each other with a small laugh before returning to the view ahead. This feels better. Much better. Once again, your knight in shell-y armour has helped you bounce back from your foreboding. If you had it your way earlier, you would have loved nothing more than to curl up on the couch and watch some bad reality TV to cheer you up. Not where Raph is concerned. He’s soft-natured when you need that shoulder to cry on but knows when to crack out a bit of that tough love, too. You’re always thankful for that - him - and you hope he knows just how much of a difference he makes.

"Hey.” He nudges you with his elbow and you look up, noting the light smirk on his face, though the seriousness behind his eyes isn’t something to be ignored. “Next asshole that breaks your heart, you just point me in the right direction.”

"And be an active participant in murder? Not a chance," you laugh and playfully swat him, earning a low chortle. You think you know what he’s getting at and it’s sweet in weird kind of way. With a perma-smile now glued to your face, you rest your head on his arm and speak more gently, "Thanks, though."

He glances down at you and tempts the idea of stroking a hand over your head. His fingers clasp into a fist and he looks ahead again, taking a gentle breath before responding quietly, "Yeah... don't mention it."