#not quite infantilization. not really white-washing.

[thornsent]

Hi sorry I didn't mean for the tone to come off that weird and I was on mobile. I took for granted that lesbianchemicalplant is pretty well known to be Like That and should have provided proof. One of the reasons that you can search spacelazarwolf and not get too much is because she mostly uses screenshots and also tumblr's search feature is garbage.

Anyway, she frequently is weird about trans men and calls any talking about their experiences Privileged and transandrophobia truthers

And then is also weird about Jews. Like all the time. Any time any jew talks about their experience she claims they are a zionist

hey! it's all good, and thanks for not being afraid to come off anon. I don't wanna be hostile to people but it's easy to read anons as being in poor faith for.. obvious reasons lmao, average tumblr experience

anyway I do agree this shit abt transmascs is vile. it's very funny that she has baeddels in her dni but is basically regurgitating their shit.

as for the jewish stuff, I still have to reiterate that she herself is jewish according to her about, and I feel like she has the right to cricitize her own community especially wrt orthodoxy & trauma. to be honest, these screenshots still feel real cherry-picked and don't have much context behind them. most of the claims of zionism I'm seeing on her blog are pretty well-founded, especially when a few of these people overtly call themselves zionists. the exception is when she uses fanpol to justify accusations of bigotry, which I think is generally a stupid stance anyway

I don't really use this website for discourse or news LMAO this is the website where I talk about being a faggot and look at images and sometimes reblog opinionated posts. I rb'd the post we're talking about because to me it spoke to a broader issue wherein tumblr's attempts at acceptance/inclusion become infantilizing and erase problems within already-marginalized communities... Treating a community like it is Inherently Progressive is clearly better than antisemitism but it's still bad, you know?

overall I am far from a fan of OP and I don't 100% agree with everything she says or believes, but I don't necessarily think that I have to. I might delete the post because, while I am learning, I am not myself Jewish & don't wish to overstep. but I don't think she was being weird about jewish people, I think she just cares about zionism and doesn't like jumblr being full of libs lol

[t4tozier]

in the hot for teacher verse do you have a desc doc for what you think the rat grinders look all human? :)

i don't have a specific doc for it because the first chapter was truly just vibes and i didn't expect to be writing more about them, but i do have some ideas in mind! the humanoids are pretty generally the same so for fun i'll give you some facts about all of them in the verse as well! putting this under the cut because it got quite long.

oisin: i was originally picturing him as black w locs, skinny teen who beefed up over the previous summer (lowkey wendell from nsbu before wendell existed) but i was mulling it over earlier and i actually really love the idea of samoan oisin?? he comes back from visiting his family over the summer and has gained so much muscle and fat and got some pe'a and everyone thinks he's so cool for it. he's got long hair that is usually up in a bun. probably also shoots up to 6'2, 6'3".

he's into manga. people who don't know him think he's really intimidating but he's the sweetest guy ever. ivy brings out the bitch in him lbr but for the most part he's just a really buff nerd. am i just describing ify nwadiwe. i swear it's not intentional.

ivy: i don't have a specific race for her but described her in got it bad as olive-skinned, brown hair with blonde highlights. i think she gets the chunky bleach highlights that were popular in like 2020-21. oisin is definitely the tallest of all of them, lucy the tallest of the girls, but ivy's probably second/third-tallest at around 5'8, 5'9.

she runs an anonymous aguefort confessions blog and has a viral tiktok account that mainly went viral as a result of the jace (and porter) videos. jace always says she's gotta quit with the gossip but will still ask her about it he's the worst enabler. she does archery and rides horses at aguefort! she transferred in middle school and everyone was very intrigued by her because she's british. they kept asking her if she's met the queen. she just started saying yes eventually.

lucy: since i made porter a white southern guy lucy is also white and southern by default. i think that she doesn't have the accent her uncle has because her dad married a new englander, so instead she's got this southern/new england mix that leaves her pronouncing certain words very oddly. she still has vitiligo--instead of gray hair she's got light brown with patches of white, and maybe a port wine stain on her face. she's about 5'11" - both of her parents are very tall so she inherited her height from them.

she got bullied pretty badly in elementary school and middle school. she is very sensitive and cries with basically every emotion so it can be hard to determine why she's actually crying if it's not obvious. she's not good at standing up for herself but her friends will hunt a bitch down for her. she will cry if you kill a bug instead of letting it outside. grew up knowing porter's best friend jace bc he gets brought to all the family events and was very grateful when he didn't make anyone call him mr stardiamond when they started his class because that would've been a weird switch to make.

mary ann: shortest one of the group at just around 5 feet. black, box braids with little charms on the ends, braces. her favorite outfit is overalls and her pink hoodie that she's been wearing for years on end because it's been washed so many times it's the perfect texture. between her height, her clothes, and being quiet and autistic, she gets infantilized a ton and she hates it so she will sometimes overcompensate by making dirty jokes at inappropriate times.

she's usually of the mindset that if someone isn't speaking directly to her or talking about something she's interested in she probably doesn't really need to join in the conversation. she was one of those toddlers who didn't speak until she could say a full sentence. she's the first girl on the football team--nobody thinks that she's gonna be any good but she's small enough that she just kind of darts between all the players and can hold her own more than people think.

buddy: truly just the same. sorry buddy i have nothing special for you. he's like 5'7". his grandpa runs the town's megachurch and he keeps trying to get everyone to come with him. he sort of latched onto their group but he genuinely is nice he's just also brainwashed so they haven't like actively tried to kick him out. i think that after spending enough time with them all he gets more chill especially because they call him out when he says something outright fucked up and he likes being friends with them so he wants to not offend them--it's just that he genuinely doesn't think he's saying anything wrong.

kipperlilly: also looks relatively the same but slightly taller, probably like 5'3". she and jace bond over having the same clothing organization app. she doesn't wear the prep-school kind of stuff she wears in canon but it's definitely still very clean, she probably irons everything. type a but not as much Like That.

jawbone realizes the conflict of interest when she starts talking about her anger issues and hating the others and actually has a parent teacher conference to recommend external therapy. can often be found with her journal after that. she and riz are in competition to see how many more ap credits they can gain than each other. rarely seen without lucy by her side. they have a homoerotic relationship for years because neither of them realize that they're more than girl best friends (and lucy's uncle porter always has his best friend everywhere, that's how adults are!)

ruben: i'm thinking he's maybe mixed, black and hispanic? he's got frizzy curls because he's much more invested in writing songs on his ukulele than paying attention to the right products for his curl pattern. he also has braces and mourns when his tooth gap closes because he can't whistle as well. 5'4".

he thinks it's the coolest thing to have his uncle work at the school and he and lucy bond over it even though he doesn't actually take his uncle henry's classes. he's part of the school band and plays in the orchestra for the theatre department - in addition to the ukulele he also plays acoustic guitar and piano.

[sweetfire01]

Becoming an angel of the Father (Daddy!Simeon)

Tw: forced infantilism, religious themes

Words:1.500

When Simmy came to wake you up this morning, you had seen the strange twinkle in his eye and how he looked more affectionate than usual, giving even more kisses to your tummy and cheeks as he changed you out of your dirty diaper and removed your footies. It was only after you drank your bottle of milk on his lap, skin-to-skin as usual, that you noticed the first strange thing: instead of taking you back to your nursery to dress up in one of your onesies for the day, the angel decided to take you a bath. And what's more, a quick one, with not bubbles nor toys. "I know little lamb, I know." he cooed at your confused look as he lowered you into the warm water "But we all need to be clean for today, it's your special day." Special day? You tried to keep track of your time here, the water gently flowing through your hair. Maybe your birthday? You weren't sure how long it had been since you were brought here, but somehow it didn't feel right. Opening your eyes - hey, when did you close them? The angel was too good at rubbing your head - you glanced at the bathroom window. There were no seasons in the Celestial Realm, just the sun that was always shining, so you couldn't even tell what month it was. Maybe it was Simmy's birthday? Michael's? Was there some kind of feast? No no, just a second. He didn't say today was a special day, but your special day. "Are you trying to watch the birds, little one?" You winced as the angel's voice distracted you from your thoughts. The sponge was now passing over your back, and even without the massage you received with every bath, you found yourself relaxing again. Simmy continued to wash you gently but quickly, occasionally planting loving kisses on your cheek. You wasn’t really happy when he picked you up to get you out of the tub but he just shushing you. And after he laid you on the changing table and put you on a new diaper, he did another unusual thing. He dressed you with a strangr tunic that reached just above your knees. It was light blue, with a white lace collar. No buttons, no decorations. It was relatively simple, you knew that in your closet you had more elegant or at least cuter clothes that you could wear for a "special day". But this? "It looks like you don't like it that much, hmm? Don't worry sweetheart, we'll get you a prettier one later. This one is just more pratical" The angel had noticed your confusion, after all you weren't used to wearing those kind of things! He secured your paci with a clip and, with a last kiss on the forehead, he carried you back to the living room, laying you on the pram. Even if the mat was comfortable, you couldn't feel at your ease anymore. For some reason, you had a bad feeling.

And the bad feeling was justified.

Simeon held you in his arms, rubbing your back as he tried to make you relax. He could imagine why you seemed so shy: his little lamb was not used to being around so many people, with all the other angels looking adoringly at you, pleased with how this pure souled little human officially became a member of Celestial Realm. No more big bad demons, no more corrupted humans, just happiness and lots, lots of love from everyone!

He adjusted his grip on you, as the other angels stepped back to allow Michael to get closer to you two.

You had no doubts why he was considered the strongest archangel, the aura he emanated was so powerful that you could feel it even if you turned your back on him. A small whine of fear left your lips as you sucked on your paci harder, snuggling even deeper into your caregiver's arms. It was all too overwhelming. The change in your routine, too many people around you, focused on you, you didn't understand what was going on. You didn't really pay attention as the two angels spoke, too scared to listen, until Simmy passed you into Michael's arms.

“Ooh, I expected them to fight more, but they seems to be quite comfortable with you,” the archangel said with an amused look, noticing how your arms tensed trying to reach your caregiver.

"I wouldn't have proposed baptizing them if they still tried to escape." Simeon's face was relaxed, you were seeking his comfort, confirming that the days of pushing him away were almost over. The archangel settled you better in his muscular arms, commenting how you were small compared to him, before moving towards a free bank of the spring. No longer able to hide your face, you could see for the first time exactly where you were. The lake wasn't very large and it didn't even seem deep, maybe more towards the center, but on the shore you could see the bottom of colored pebbles, the water so clear. The small waterfalls on the opposite bank produced a light, almost calming downpour. Only the cheerful chatter of the other angels ruined the otherwise silent atmosphere of that place. After passing through the neatly trimmed grass, Michael reached a  gravel patch and addressed the crowd. Silence immediately fell as he began, in a solemn voice, to speak.

"In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, introibo ad altare Dei. Ad Deum, qui laetificat iuventutem meam. Adiutorium nostrum in nomine Domini, qui fecit caelum et terram. Amen." 

You didn't have the slightest idea what he had just said, however you didn't have time to think about it because, with the help of another angel, he pulled the tunic off your head, leaving you with only the diaper. You didn't really agree with that, especially when he removed your paci, your only comfort. You whimpered as the air blew over your bare skin, it wasn't cold but it wasn't completely pleasant either. Someone cooed, someone giggled, the sight of the little human wriggling and whimper was too adorable. But the archangel remained unmoved as he handled you to take in bridal carry, approaching and walking into the spring. He headed towards the center, stopping once the water reached his sides, starting again to speak:

2. "Pater, in manus tuas commendo spiritum suum, et nunc, baptizare et ablue peccata suum"

In the meantime you looked at him with a little fear. You were too exposed and vulnerable to him, you didn't know how he was going to baptize you. But come to think of it, he probably would have poured the water on your head. Simmy has always been concerned that you might drown in the tub during bathtime, so consequently you wouldn't be thrown in the middle of the pond without arm floaties or other precautions.

You were wrong

As soon as he finished his praise, he knelt and lowered you until your body was floating in the water, one hand above your lower ribs, the other under your back but not touching it.

3. "Per Baptismum remittuntur omnia peccata originalia"

There was only a brief exchange of glances between you two.

And then, he pushed you completely under the water.

If Simeon was ecstatic about this ceremony, you on the other hand were frightened by it. You could feel the water enveloping your body, in your mouth, opened in surprise, in your eyes that were burning. You couldn't move, the hand now supporting your back making sure you didn't go too deep, the other on your chest, not letting you surfacing.

Just when you really thought you were going to die, Michael pulled you back out, leaving you no chance to cough or do anything else. Because, with an "et omnia peccata personalia", he sent you back down again.

It wasn't until the third dive, which was followed by an "et omnes poenae sins" that the archangel took you in his arms, patting your back as you coughed and spat out all the water you'd swallowed. You were shivering, from cold, from fear, from a persistent cough, for whatever reason. You were crying, being afraid of anything else they could do to you. You didn't even realize when Michael got out of the water, what he said afterwards, you didn't even realize when he brought you back into Simmy's arms or when they dressed you in another long, white and lace tunic, which all new angels wore after they were baptized. The paci they returned didn't help either, but nobody was worried. They would let you vent as much as you wanted. Your crying was a small price they would accept to make you an angel of the Father.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hope you liked it! This are the translation of the latin phrases

1: “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, introibo ad altare Dei. Ad Deum, qui laetificat iuventutem meam. Adiutorium nostrum in nomine Domini, qui fecit caelum et terram. Amen” = In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. I will enter the altar of God. To God who makes my youth happy. Our Holy Helper is in the name of the Lord. Who made heaven and earth. Amen.

This was one of the used initial formula to begin a latin mass

2: “ Pater, in manus tuas commendo spiritum suum“ Lc, 23:46 “et nunc, baptizare et ablue peccata suum “ Acts of Apostles 22:16. = Father, I commend their spirit into your hands, and now I baptize them and wash away their sins.

3. “per Baptismum remittuntur omnia peccata originalia et omnia peccata personalia et omnes poenae peccati” = by Baptism all original sins and all personal sins and all penal sins are forgiven.

I found this on the online vatican archivie and it’s an explanation about the remission of sins through baptism.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Babysitter

Pairing: Yandere!Atsumu/Reader & Yandere!Kita/Reader

Word Count: 3.9k

Synopsis: You don’t like Atsumu at the best of times. When he has to go out of town and you’re shoved into the arms of a man as ruthless as your captor and only half as loving, you find out you like his friends even less.

TW: Non-Con, AFAB!Reader, Infantilization, Graphic Violence, Water-Boarding, Drowning, Implied Kidnapping, Mentions of Past Non-Con, Bondage, and Troubling Implications.

The water was too hot.

There’d still been steam rising off the surface when Kita called you into the bathroom, barely sparing you a second glance before telling you to strip. Atsumu preferred cold showers. Utilitarian, freezing, and more often than not, rushed though when he was already late for practice or dead-tired, barely dragging himself through the end of a long day. Sometimes, when he had time to catch his breath, he’d throw you over his shoulder and force you to tolerate the frigid temperatures he preferred. Those were the worst days, when you had to huddle against his chest and let him hold you just to fight off the urge to shudder, to shiver, to give him an excuse to think of you as any more weak and any more needy than you usually were. He’d laugh and call you sensitive, and if he really wasn’t in a rush, he’d offer to warm you up. ‘Offer’ might’ve been the wrong word for it, actually. That’d imply you could refuse, and you knew better than to try anything that out-right, by now.

“I can take care of myself,” You’d said, lingering in the doorway, hoping beyond hope that he’d leave. “‘tsumu doesn’t mind, when I do.”

“Miya’s not here,” He’d responded, never looking towards you. “Get in.”

So you had, lowering yourself into the scalping water with a white-knuckle grip on the edge of the tub and a small, almost inaudible hiss. It should’ve come as a relief to feel warm, after so many weeks spent in Atsumu’s pervasive chill, but whatever comforting effect it might’ve had was negated by Kita’s stare, the feeling of his eyes prying into you, the way he touched you so casually as he rubbed body wash into your shoulders and combed his fingers through your hair, after slapping away your hand when you tried to reach for the bottle yourself.

That was what bothered you the most about Kita. This wasn’t Atsumu’s first away-game, and he’d left you alone for far longer than a week before, but it’d always been his twin watching over you. Osamu’s approach was hands-off, at best. He’d come over for an hour every night, make sure you still had food and that you hadn’t found a way to break through the half-dozen locks on every exit, then he’d leave, rarely saying so much as a word in your direction. It was simple. It was quiet. You could tell yourself he only did it because he as Atsumu’s twin, because they were family, and you were just some stranger who’d been too stubborn to give Atsumu what he wanted and too stupid to keep him any further than arm’s length.

Kita didn’t have the same excuse. Kita was an old friend, but just a friend. He should’ve called the police. He should’ve been disgusted when he saw the tattered state of your thighs, when he let himself acknowledge the trail of bruises Atsumu’d carved along your collarbone before he left. He should’ve done something, anything other than stare at you with that neutral, impassive expression and nod, as Atsumu chuckled and told him to take good care of you. It made you think about what Atsumu’s other friends must’ve been like.

It made you wonder how open he’d be to sharing, if one ever brought it up.

Just the thought had you curling into yourself, pulling your knees to your chest as Kita straightened his back, pushing himself to his feet. “I haven’t seen your room,” He started, pulling a towel off the nearest rack. There was a slight wave, a signal for you to stand, and hesitantly, you obeyed, crossing your arms over your chest. “What do you usually wear to bed?”

That was a good sign. A blessing, really, in the scope of things. You didn’t have to tell him about the lingerie, or the jerseys, or the nights where Atsumu decided you were being ungrateful and didn’t deserve to sleep in anything but the thinnest sheet he could find. “I… I don’t really have anything,” You managed, focusing on the cloudy water, soap suds still gathering around your legs. “He’s not really big on routine, you know? I can pick something out for myself.”

You cringed as he raised a brow. “Do you actually think I’m going to buy that?”

“Well...“ You had to remind yourself to smile, to stay on his good side. You didn’t know why he was doing this. There was still a chance he saw you as a person, and you couldn’t afford to ruin that. “I’m really, really hoping you will.”

There was a breath of a laugh, something between a smirk and a grimace, and without further indulgence, Kita took you by the arm, forcing you to stumble out of the tub entirely as he reached towards something on the other side of the bathroom, a plastic bag with a non-descript logo. You hadn’t noticed it before, not when every room in Atsumu’s apartment was just big enough to be disorienting, but you recognized the panic the moment it came flooding in, the anxiety that came with being at the mercy of someone you’d known for less than a day, someone you were sure you couldn’t trust. When the grey plastic fell away and something pink and sheer emerged, that sourceless dread was swiftly replaced with founded, familiar fear.

It was gratifying, in a way. A suspicion confirmed. A question answered.

That’s why he was here.

The bathroom door wasn’t locked. You’d checked once, when you first came in and again, during your bath. Kita was bigger than you, but you tried to dart past him anyway, aiming to catch him off-guard and lock yourself away somewhere dark and safe before he realized you’d ran for it. Your rebellion was short-lived, though. All Kita had to do was reach out, catching you by the waist and pulling you into his side, ignoring your efforts to claw at his forearm as he used his other hand to pull out whatever abomination he wanted you to wear. It looked like a nightgown, from what you could see, soft and pink with a white bow positioned at the dip of the collar and lace gathered around the hems. Something made for someone who wanted to feel helpless. Something made for a child.

“Miya said you were moody. You looked sweet, though, so I didn’t want to take him seriously.” The dress was slung over his shoulder, the plastic bag forgotten on the countertop, and you were left to scratch and scream and struggle, your efforts earning an annoyed grunt in return. If anything, he only dragged you closer, pulling your back against his chest as he went on. “Quit it. This is supposed to be simple, but you’re being difficult.”

“Fuck off!” It was the kind of blunt, blatant thing that’d make Atsumu roll his eyes and leave you alone, but Kita didn’t drop you, only gritting his teeth as you continued to seethe. “I should’ve known he’d invite one of his fucked up friends over,” You snapped, Kita’s arm beginning to dig into your stomach. He was stronger than he looked, but you were used to that, by now. You had to be, with a captor like yours. “I’m not wearing anything for you. I don’t care what Atsumu said, I’m not a fucking doll--”

Finally, he let you go, but you barely had time to catch yourself before his hand was on your shoulder, shoving you onto your knees and sending a sudden, shuddering crack, making you wince before he’d even tightened his grip. You managed to shut your eyes, to muffle a shriek into a low, pained growl, but if Kita was trying not to hurt you, it would’ve been impossible to tell. He didn’t hesitate to tangle his fingers in your hair, forcing you to keep your posture straight and your chest against something cool and porcelain - the edge of the tub, you realized, a second too late. Reflexively, you reached out to support yourself, but your wrists were already restrained, pressed into the small of your back with a strict severity. With the apathetic sternness of a guard restraining a prisoner, while the executioner loaded his gun.

You heard it before you felt it. There was a splash, the sound of water hitting tile, and then you felt it dripping down your chest, still too hot not to jerk away from. Cold acrylic bit into your chest, and all too abruptly, your head was submerged, forced just deep enough to let the air escape from your lungs when you instinctually tries to scream, just deep enough to make all your fighting useless. Atsumu’d never done this, before. He’d lost his temper plenty of times, caught you trying to use his phone or sneak a note into the pocket of his jacket and made sure you had the scars to pay for it by the next day, but he wasn’t creative, he wasn’t composed. Kita’s resolve didn’t waver. When you started to go limp, your vision dimming at the corners and your mind doing everything in its power to convince you to breathe, he didn’t even flinch. He didn’t move, not until you were genuinely slumping forward, not until you were convinced you were going to die, and he was going to be the one to kill you.

You were shaking, when he finally pulled you up, trembling so violently, you almost thought Kita might be concerned. He might’ve been. He let you gasp for air until your lungs stopped throbbing in your chest and your pulse began to slow, but that was where his kindness seemed to end. “Want to try that again?” It was a question, but your answer was lost somewhere beneath a blend of panting, blood rushing past your ears, and Kita’s tone, so calm, so measured. It made you sick. “I brought you a gift. What do we say when someone is nice enough to bring us presents?”

It took you a second to remember how to open your mouth. It took you another to realize you actually needed to speak. “I… I d-don’t--” You had to stop. Your voice was weak, as uneven as the hasty breaths you were still trying to rush. If you’d been more aware, you would’ve just told him what he wanted to hear, but your skull was stuffed with cotton and your tongue felt too heavy to lie with. “It isn’t… It’s not my gift if you’re the one having fun.”

To his credit, Kita didn’t try to deny it. He only forced your head back down, and you lost your chance to sputter out an apology.

You couldn’t be sure how long it lasted. You lost the ability to tell time after he pulled you back up, barely allowing half a hitched sob before deciding you hadn’t learned your lesson quite yet. It was a cycle - a relentless, constant, agonizing cycle, one that left you begging away what little oxygen you could’ve retained, muttering incoherent pleas into uncaring water, dripping with sweat and tears and blood, from where his nails cut into your scalp every time you tried to squirm. By the time he stopped, actually stopped, the process had sapped your energy, your strength, leaving you frail and malleable and unable to do so much as get up, when Kita let go of your wrists. All you could do was cross your arms over the wall of the bathtub, burying your face in the self-made nest. Part of you hoped you would make it just a little harder to tell you were crying, that it’d make it just a little easier to meet his eyes tomorrow. The rest of you just wanted this to be over.

Kita didn’t seem to like that idea as much as you did, unfortunately.

“See? It’s not that hard to behave.” You felt him tap your cheek in approval before he shifted, moving behind you. There was a rustle of fabric, a foot between your knees, edging your legs apart. You hesitated, but you relented. You couldn’t fight back, not like this, and running wouldn’t work. All you could do was hope and pray he’d be satisfied with the dress.

Luckily, he was kind enough to smother that delusion before you could really put your faith in it.

“Has Miya fucked you, yet?”

You stiffened, but you managed to shake your head. It was a pathetic lie, an obvious lie, but Kita only clicked his tongue, moving to crouch behind you. For a moment, you almost wished he’d taken the time to dress you, to put you in something pastel and immature that might’ve served as a barrier between you and him, however flimsy. But, then you imagined what it’d feel like to have that soft fabric pooling around your waist, where his touch might drift as he pushed the skirt out of the way, and you decided there wasn’t a better option. You were already on display for him. It couldn’t get worse. It couldn’t get worse.

That’s what you thought, at least, before his hand wrapped around your thigh, keeping you still as his fingers swiped over your cunt, barely bothering to play with the idea of decency. “You should be honest with me,” He explained, half-heartedly. Still dedicated to lecturing you, but distracted, now, his mind having moved on to other, less-verbal form of punishment. “But… your boyfriend probably wouldn’t like it if I gave you something to whine about when he came back. We’ll compromise.”

You were beginning to see why he and Atsumu got along so well.

The shame was more potent than the pleasure, at first. It was a gnawing anxiety, a constant spark that kept your nerves on-edge and your senses unpleasantly alert, only made worse by the moan you had to fight back as he moved to your clit, two fingers drawing harsh, practiced circles into every sensitive spot you didn’t want him to find.

His fingers were calloused. You noticed his palm was, too, as he tightened his hold on the flesh of your thigh, holding you up in spite of your shaking legs, but it was different from the harshness Atsumu tried so hard to fight off, tried so hard to mask with soft words and praises and the stubborn belief that you could enjoy it, if you let yourself. Kita didn’t seem to care. He did whatever he had to, whatever turned breath sobs into little, pitiful whines. Whatever dampened the shame and replaced it with guilty satisfaction, with the admission that this wasn’t nearly as bad as what he’d already done. Whatever made your pussy drool, the slick soon building up and staining his fingers and becoming impossible to ignore. For you and for Kita, both.

He let out a low, long whistle as he slipped his ring finger into you, your cunt sloppy enough to make the stretch tolerable. To yourself, you wondered if he’d planned this, if he’d accepted Atsumu’s invitation and walked through that door knowing he was going to, or if your misbehavior had just been his lucky break. It felt planned. Everything he did felt planned, from the way he hardly waited for you to adjust before forcing another finger in, alongside the first, to how slow his pace was, any decent rhythm interrupted by pauses and twists and curls that left you arching your back and crying out, despite your attempts to muffle the sound. You almost thought about telling him to stop, but as soon as you opened your eyes, as soon as you saw the water that was still so close and must’ve been so cold, the air hitched in your throat and any denial was choked down, replaced with a more agreeable keen.

Kita seemed satisfied with your wordless submission. Finally, he fell into a decent tempo, letting you slump against the short wall and let waves of content warmth roll over you with every stroke of his fingers. “It’s easier this way, yeah?” He asked, his free hand moving towards your hip, rubbing gently as you failed to fight back. Rewarding you for good behavior. “Never thought I’d feel bad for the jerk, but he told me what you used to be like, how determined you are not to change. It’s a shame,” He rambled, his tone growing more affectionate as you bucked into his hand, letting him grind against the soft, spongey spot that had you seeing stars. You didn’t try to stop yourself from mewling as he pushed another finger into you, you didn’t want to try. Kita didn’t want you to, either. “If I took you home, you would’ve been good for me, right? Miya doesn’t know how to treat sweet, emotional little things like you.”

You might’ve nodded. You might’ve denied it. You might’ve offered no reaction at all, because by now, you were too busy chasing after that feeling, that high, the bait he’d been kind enough to kick just within your reach. Your knees buckled under the pressure, your legs finally giving in, but Kita was there to catch you, wrapping an arm around your waist as he coaxed you closer and closer and closer. You could feel yourself clenching down around him, and for once, you didn’t care about how embarrassing it’d be, you didn’t care that you were a prisoner of someone who’d once sworn up and down that he loved you - you didn’t care. You deserved this. You deserved to feel good. You deserved it, and…

And you weren’t going to get it.

Kita pulled away suddenly, leaving you whimpering and grinding against his palm as he chuckled, the sound throaty, careless, sobering. You didn’t want him to see your expression, the sincerity of it, the genuine hurt. As soon as he pulled you into his chest, one arm hooked under your knees and the other supporting your back, your face was buried in the crook of his neck, keeping you hidden away and safe, even if you were still in the arms of your temporary captor. If Kita minded, he didn’t make a show of it. He was grinning as he kissed the top of your head, and when he spoke, it was barely audible, but clearly happy. ‘Pleased’ might’ve been a better word for it, but you tried not to think about that. “Needy little thing,” He muttered, more for himself than for you. “Try not to get too mad at me, (Y/n).”

This time, when he reached for the nightgown, you didn’t try to run.

“We still have all week to ourselves.”

~

The house was quiet, when Atsumu got home.

It was almost unsettling, honestly. He’d gotten used to hushed cursing and metallic clicking, to scraped glass and you, smiling innocently, trying and failing to hide a paring knife behind your back. It was a routine, and the moment it was broken, the moment he undid the deadbolts on his apartment door and didn’t find you trying to pick the wrong lock on the other side, he couldn’t help but stop, close his eyes, and appreciate it. Just for a second. Just long enough to entertain the thought that Kita might’ve managed to train the brat out of you.

This peace was shattered by light footsteps, a mug settling onto a marble counter. “You’re early,” Kita said, by way of greeting. “I didn’t think you’d be back for another day.”

“Caught a flight,” He shrugged, dropping the dufflebag slung over his shoulder next to the door. Even if it’d been Osamu, he would’ve hesitated to spill his guts about how little he’d slept, how many times he’d thought about calling, how the anxiety ate away at his gut and his mind until it was all he could to do remember that he would come home, eventually, and you’d be waiting for him. You’d always be waiting for him. He’d made sure of that, after you made it clear how little interest you had in waiting for just him. “There somethin’ wrong with that, ‘suke? A man can’t be dyin’ to see his sweetheart?”

He was given a scoff, but Kita was already smiling, turning on his heel and waving for Atsumu to follow. That’s when he noticed the buzzing - light, at first, but it got louder as Kita led him towards your bedroom, more unignorable until they were outside your door and Atsumu could hear it clearly, a constant, electrical drum. He almost asked, but the door was already opening, and whatever he might’ve said instantly faded into a small, surprised ‘oh’.

The dress was a nice touch. Mint green, the kind of shade that might’ve passed as white in sunlight, with sleeves that clung to your arms and a neckline so high, he almost couldn’t make out the collar beneath, pink and lacy and adorned with a small, sweet bell that chimed every time you took a decent breath. Your socks, a complementary shade of grey, managed to reach your thighs before they tapered off, or… one of them did, at least, the other hastily wrapped around your ankles, keeping your legs clamped together as you laid on your side. Your wrists were bound, too, tied behind your back with the same pale fabric Kita’d used to cover your eyes and stuff into your mouth, keeping you quiet despite the little whines and whimpers he was starting to make out. The skirt was hiked up to your waist, wrinkled and folded underneath you, but Atsumu couldn’t complain, not when it gave him a perfect view of your soak panties, of the vibrating wand pressed against your cunt so snugly, you’d be able to convulse and writhe and complain all you wanted and it wouldn’t move an inch. Not until you were feeling more considerate of your boyfriend’s feelings

Fuck.

He was almost mad he didn’t think of that, first.

He didn’t say anything, stepping towards you with an expression of astonished, dumb-struck elation still painted across his face, but Kita was kind enough to take up the mantle. “Someone got a little overwhelmed while we were playing dress-up,” He explained, watching as Atsumu switched off the vibrator, spurring you to let out a relieved, cracked sigh. The restraints were next, your ankles before your wrists, then your blindfold, Kita’s makeshift rope left forgotten on your bed. You blinked a few times, but after your confusion faltered and reality began to settle in, your eyes darted towards Atsumu. Finally, finally, you wrapped your arms around him, using what was left of your energy to cling to him, to bury your face in his chest and refuse to let go. It was all he could do to laugh, to pull you into his lap and cup your chin, using his thumb to wipe away tears and drool and the other remnants of Kita’s work. You were still shaking, still twitching violently, but Atsumu couldn’t bring himself to be mad. Not at this. Not at you.

“I thought a couple hours in timeout might help,” Kita finished, as deadpan as ever. “It usually tires ‘em out, if the setting’s high enough.”

If you were going to defend yourself, you didn’t make a move to. All your attention was on Atsumu, just like it should be. “Please,” You mumbled, your voice heavy, your words slurring together. “Please, don’t leave again.”

“I missed you too, angel.” Despite his sympathetic tone, he couldn’t stop himself from smiling, from nodding towards Kita, still standing in the threshold, a satisfied grin pulling at the edges of his lips. Atsumu couldn’t blame him. He’d been skeptical, when Kita offered his all-too-needed services, but clearly, whatever lesson he’d beaten into your head had stuck.

He’d have to let Kita babysit again, next time he went away.

[badapricot]

Sorry if this is annoying but i was going through the lovely writer tag and saw a lot of your posts on this series. So I just wanted to ask, how do you really feel about Nubsib?

In the initial episodes, I though he was so obsessive and stalkerish, the typical "top" in all BLs and I honestly thought that the way this series was behaving "woke" for a lot of things, it'd be like mid-way through, Gene would understand his manipulative behaviour and shit would go down, and then we'll get some REAL character development for Sib.

Whoosh that didn't happen. After Sib's past and true intentions were revealed, Gene DID hold him accountable but Sib???? Never actually apologized to him?

I dunno, i just, maybe expected more from this series? Like yeah, the coming out to parents stuff was handled quite well but Nubsib's character still irks me the wrong way(even in ep10 when he asked Gene to not go to the beach without him. Bruh.) Especially when the fandom puts him on a pedestal asking for consent before kissing him, like that's the bare minimum? He's still manipulative and controlling? I'm- woah i just realised i have a lot of feelings about this💀💀💀🖐🏼

Anyways!! What do you think about Sib?

Sorry for the long rant!! if you don't want to answer it's completely fine, pls don't feel pressured🥺

I don’t necessarily agree, but I don’t think this is annoying at all. I’ll address your points one by one.

First, Nubsib did apologize to Gene explicitly in Episode 8, when he kissed his cheek over the balcony.

Second, I think where our opinions diverge is that I see and accept that Nubsib is a dark character and it’s actually something that I like about him which you can probably tell if you go through my meta tag.

On the fandom putting him on a pedestal and being a little too defensive about his manipulative and controlling behaviour: I actually agree. I think the fandom sometimes does too much to white-wash him because they want to defend him against people who call him creepy or whatever, when actually, Nubsib being a dark romantic lead that we’re seeing through rose coloured glasses is the most interesting thing about him and the show. I think people should embrace these things about him while also leaving room to praise him on the good traits he already has (caring a lot about consent) and the good traits he develops (apologizing to Gene).

Just to list some of his “bad” traits that I personally like because I think they make him interesting, but a lot of people like to ignore:

Nubsib is very selfish. He approached Gene because he wanted him, not for some bigger altruistic reason. He’s also so selfish that he knew what he was doing to Gene was wrong but he didn’t care because “the ends justify the means”. He was prepared to apologize to Gene from the start because he always knew he was wrong. Building on his selfishness, Nubsib doesn’t initally care about how his actions affect Gene, the show, the crew members, or anyone. His biggest concern is keeping Gene with him. He doesn’t generally care about others.

Nubsib is arrogant. He thought that he could protect Gene from everything and that there was no problem he couldn’t solve, which was why he was stupid enough to allow him and Gene to get caught on the beach. If Nubsib wasn’t so arrogant about his abilities, they wouldn’t have gotten caught. He also only thought about legality of dating Gene, he didn’t think about the human element which would be the fans and Gene.

Nubsib can be very patriarchal and infantilizing with how he treats Gene. We see this the most when he withholds the truth about Aey from Gene, and he expects Gene to take his word at face value while Nubsib takes care of it. Similar to the way parents want to keep their children ignorant while they deal with all the big problems, Nubsib also wants to take care of problems without Gene knowing about them. This ties into how arrogant he can be.

Nubsib’s manipulativeness is pretty self-explanatory. He thinks 5 years in advance and for most situations, has worked out every possible outcome based on his intelligence and knowledge of the person (barring him and Gene being outed). He knows how to manipulate people using his appearance, which we can assume is a side effect of him being a businessman and being treated poorly as a child, by everyone excluding Gene.

And yet, despite every negative thing I wrote, I love all those things about Nubsib. I think it makes him a compelling male lead in a series about how all BL actors wear masks because he’s not just wearing masks to do fanservice. He wore a mask to get our main character! I also think he’s a good narrative foil for Gene who is the antithesis of Nubsib. Gene is selfless, Gene is soft-hearted, Gene is honest, and Gene assumes everyone is being just as honest as he is because he’s naive.

I don’t think Gene’s soft-hearted and honest character would be as highlighted if Nubsib wasn’t as dark as he is.

[yamithediaperdork]

Legend of Zelda: Back to diapers

Link, hero of time and some other tittles thanks to a ball of timey whinmy time travel) was getting the room ready. he was having a visitor to his room in the restored castle hyrule. "So let me get this right.. Your going to have a little imp, who used to ride you while you were.." Zelda asked, again, trying to make sure she had the facts right about this. "a wolf." Link said proudly, checking to make sure they'd have enough snacks that they wouldn't need to disturb others. "A wolf..right. You're inviting her over for what by all accounts is going to be..a slumber party?" Zelda asked, smirking now and waiting for the normal reaction to such a question. "...notta slumber party, it's a reunion between travel companions." Link whined and huffed, going from the mature and self confident hero everyone knew to a huffing whinny looking young man, showing his mental age with ease. "Right right, well while you two are up all night doing each others hair " Sulky look now. "Or chatting about boys." Really huffy look from link now. "Just remember that i'm doing a castle wide inspection tomorrow so this room better stay clean or I'll make you clean it under my watchful eye..and in a maid dress if your lippy about it." she smirked at THAT mental image as link shuddered. "You wouldn't dare!" "Bring it on fairy boy." Link wisely chose to back down and instead went towards the temple of time, the cross roads to the multiverse. as he stomped off Zelda giggled to herself, he was too easy to get all blushy and pouty. not that she was complaining.

Getting the dimensional portal open was easy enough, making use of the ocarina of time and the master sword.. the real trick was getting just the right timeline and spot he wanted and then yanking the little imp free. As midna came into his timeline and universe she was in her normal little imp form, and grinned wide seeing link. "Hey bony butt! Look at you, looking so mature and not in DIAPERS fer a change!" She joked out loud, looking around and then frowning. "Awww, i thought you were gonna have some of your friends here..." She huffed. "and I thought you were gonna shut up about the you know what. this is why I left the friends at home." Link pointed out, a cute blush on his face and his hands on his hips. (if asked later he would deny he was about to flip up his tunic to prove what a big boy he was. that was totally too infantile for a hero like him!) "Link! I'm insulted that you would accuses me of breaking my wo-" Midna started, looking over the top as he held a hand to her face, as if devastated by link's lack of trust before he cut her off. "you just started to tell everyone...you kinda..proved why I was right not to trust you..." Link snickered, wagging a finger. "...shit..yeah."  Midna laughed and rubbed the back of her head. "So why don't you come with me to the castle and we can get you settled in."

Looking around the large almost storage room that link called a minor bedroom, Minda whistled. "Dammmmn you've really come up in the world. from a tree house dwelling brat in my dimension to having a room at the freaking castle. and no stinky pants!" "You make it sound like I was always pooping myself. and for the record, that was a side effect of being split across the multiverse.." Link sniffled. "like to see you not crap yourself when your split into like 8 plus copes of yourself." "awww did i hurt widdle winkys widdle feelings?" the imp teased and then tickled links side. "heyy none of that!" Link yelped and stepped away, blushing. "Awww is widdle winky still all ticklish?" "Yes! and stop calling me little linky!" "well technically I'm calling you widdle winky so it doesn't count." the imp teased. "Butttt I'll make you a deal..if I can tickle you for fivvvve whole minutes and you don't end up soiling yourself, then I'll zip up and quit. buttt." evil grin. "WHEN you make tinkles or uh-ohs then I'll get to slap a diaper on that butt!" Of course link was smart enough to know not to take bets like this, and surly knew something would be up and ergo would just tell Minda a firm but polite no. "Fine! your on!" Or you know, just be a silly butt.

five minutes later and with link over a water proof piece of cloth (that Minda insisted to her delight was links anti bed wetting sheet!) link had his tunic and under shirt off. Midna had started to claim if link didn't wet then it was because of his clothes protecting him and so, ever proud and SO sure of his own self control link was in just his white tights and bare feet (on the slight slight SLIGHT chance he did pee.. he didn't wanna have his boots squishy for a few days..) "alright puddles, ready to let it go?" the imp asked and Link just glared. "Bring it on!" he shouted defiantly seconds later he wished he'd kept his mouth closed.As her hair hand went to work link already was struggling to surprise a giggle.as the tickling got worse, going under his arm pits and the bottom of his feet and link was flopping around laughing and crying and his hands going down to the front of his tights. "A-Ah! I Yield I yield! I'll wear a diaper j-just don't make me wet my pants!" Link whined, the pain and twinging in his bladder and worse and pressing need in his behind and the thought of soiling himself in front of her too humiliating to imagine. (Never mind he'd be going in diapers later, Link was more of a 'in the now' kinda guy.) "awww is widdle BABY linky about to go tinkle in his pants like a big babbbby?" Minda taunted. She tickled him and pressed on his belly one last time and then started to draw her hand away when a loud fart blasted out of Link's behind and she groaned. "Ah hell i pushed his poopie button." she muttered and held her nose. "I-I do NOT have a P-P-POOPIE!!" Link started to argue but poped a squat instead and closed his eyes and slide his thumb into his mouth as he loudly loaded the seat of his formally white tights and well since there wasn't any point to it, let loose with his bladder too.Looking at link whimpering behind his thumb Minda had mercy and patted the poor dorks head. (though of course she was still gonna diaper that butt!)

To say any fight was gone from link as Midea lead him to the bath was a understatement. he held onto her hair hand with his left hand, his right thumb was busy in his mouth as he got him striped and washed down, then wrapped up in a towel and dried off. "Sheesh, you'd swear I've done this once or twice." Midena joked. Link huffed behind his thumb at that and laid on his bed. "a man of your word I see, though right now I bet you wish you weren't huh?" Midea chuckled. Link naturally nodded and blushed, but as she grabbed some fo the white cloth diapers he raised his hips. if he had to be a diaper boy for the evening, then gosh darn it, he was gonna be a darn good one! (naturally link would latter shrug off such a ridiculous thought as just being caught up in the moment.)

One important thing Link hadn't of asked though was what had Mdina down with the tarp and the soiled clothes. If he had thought to ask then he would of found out that she had just flung it out of the widow..were it had landed still on castle grounds.  a fact that was brought up to a somewhat irate Zelda who was now storming towards link's room to find out just why the hell he was fling such filth around. "i swear, if this is some sort of friendship ritual next time they meet up they can do it in her dimension!" Zelda huffed.

Midena finished pinning on the last of the diapers (prefer to go nice and thick as they didn't apperently have plastic pants in this dimension) and tugged up a clean pair of links tights, chuckling at how they were stopped before getting even halfway up. "Looks like it's just a tunic for you, unless you wanna just go all natural in just the diapies." Midna teased. Link huffed and grabbed his tunic, sliding it on and standing up to look in the mirror. turning around he frowned. There was a little peek of it coming out but you could only notice it between his legs. 'maybe if I clenched them together.' Link thought and did that it did do a much better job at hiding the front of the diaper, thought the back was even more exposed. And the back of link's diapers were currently pointed to his door as he posed in the mirror. A Mirror that let link see in slow motion terror as Zelda opened his door. "Alright Link I've put up with alot..of...you...diaper butt?" Zelda was ranting as she stormed in, pausing and staring, tilting her head as she looked at the massive diapered booty of Link. "Uh...what?" "Z-Zelda! I Uh...it's..not what it looks like!" Link yelped, turning around and waving his hands. which, one of still had traces of drool on it. "...It looks like the hero of time is a diaper wearing thumb sucker." Zelda said, amusement starting to fill her voice and a smile coming to her face. "E-er about th-" Link started but Midea cut him off. "oh yeah, he's a total big baby. been begging me since we got back to diaper him and let him nom on his thumb. Personally I think he should have a pacifier." Midea said, seeing a perfect chance for some fun and running with it. Link's jaw dropped as he glared at midea who giggled. "opps! sorry, I wasn't suppose to tell you widdle winkys secret! I bet he's about to pout and call me a liar." Midea added quickly, giggling as link struggled to find his voice. "I-I do not-" "Seee? Called it!" "But i-" "Link, be a good big baby and go shush. the big girls need to talk." if that last part had come from midea Link would of kept trying to explain himself, but sadly, the command to be a good boy had come from the smirking mouth of Zelda and Link huffed and stormed away from the two of them. he had hoped to show his displeasure but instead as he waddled and stumbled he only looked cute and ridiculous. As the two talked over all the things they should do for the cute big baby hero link groaned. and it was somewhere around a mention of bonnets he decided to tune them out and just suck on his thumb. Sadly, this was seen as a sign of acceptance, sealing his doom

Game (adorably) over

[duraxxor]

A Moment of Weakness.

And the lucky number is. . . 

9. Your muse is having a vivid nightmare and is shouting out brokenly. 

[ Warning: This entry contains internal torture and mild violence. ]

Safrona’s retirement into the night wasn’t an uncommon event. In fact, when she found herself unable to do so, whiskey was often a decent means to allow relaxation. Between the whispers of the dark and the labors that were bestowed upon her as both Courier and Harvester, one such as herself often wondered if she could potentially sleep for days. But this night was different, and she felt it in her very core. Yet, she chose to ignore it in trade for a good night’s rest. Who could blame her though? Dreams, however, were an entirely different than the realities of life though. Imaginations often ran wild… 

Suddenly, her eyes revealed themselves, taking in the scenario that appeared to be the Battle for Lordaeron. Flames charred the landscape along with the fumes of plague mist that stained the front gates. Skeletal constructs shambled across every hill in the vicinity. Ignoring the living, breathing creature that was Safrona Shadowsun. Then what came next was most unexpected. The cries of children, infantile to prepubescent alike, screeched across her ear drums like an orchestra that scrapped dagger-like nails across a chalkboard.

“ Help us! Guide us! Helllllllp Us! We want to goooo hoooome! “ Spirits of miniature size surrounded the Courier, grasping and tugging her dress in an attempt to pry her every attention. Between the high-pitched volume and their ethereal pressures, Safrona felt as though stress was taking hold of her along with the restless dead that began to close in around her. 

“ I can’t help you! Release me! “ She desperately called out, pulling herself to make a break towards the northeast. Soon after, the call of the void came to reclaim her mind once more. 

“ That which exists outside the cycle shall and will be your undoing! “ 

“ Shut up. “ She chided back, panting breathlessly as a parade of skeletons and ghastly spirits chased her all the way to the small lake that was east of Brill. Once she felt like she may have found a means to escape, the powerless warlock tripped over her own foot, falling face first into the muddled grass which left stains her beautiful robes. “ You have got to be shitting me… “ Unbeknownst to her though, it wasn’t her feet at all who had tripped her, but the hand of a creature that was rising from the earth below. A headless creature which slowly began to take on the figure of a woman. “ Oh no… No no no, not you… “ Try as she might, neither fel nor void would come to her aid. No demonic or ethereal minions to do her bidding. No. Safrona was alone and surrounded. Safrona felt fear crawling up her back, one that had always haunted her in some ways. And just when she thought she was done for, the headless creature reached back into the soil and pried out a single teacup filled with dripping ichor, as well as plucking a dirtied head full of raven black hair much like a freshly harvested vegetable. 

“ Have you come for tea, dearie? Don’t be so selfish though, or you may just lose your head! “ 

The corpse poured the dark ichor into the maw which had spoken in such a innocent voice filled with malevolent undertones. The ichor dribbled upon her lower jaw into finally the entire lower half severed itself, dropping directly at Safrona’s feet. Kicking and screaming with all her might, Safrona did the only thing she could think , shoving her entire form directly into the water with flailing desperation. To get away from the shambling horrors and the monstrosity that never seemed to die. Her desperation was met with the pull of a different current, however, along with the changes of cooled pools to the warmer currents of the oceanic waters. The taste of sea salt that stained her tongue. The war-torn landscape no longer wreaked of battle but more so of haunted wood, which in turn was engulfed in what appeared to be an eternal night. The drowned Courier gagged as she felt herself coughing up the sea itself. Manicured fingers clutched tightly against the white sands. However, as the drenched Safrona regained her own vision, thelandmark to her right was the only indication that gave her proper identification of where in the world she was. Windrunner Spire. She had somehow managed to wash upon on the western coast of the Ghostlands. “ What madness is this? Did I really pass out and wash up all the way up here? “ 

“ I am not unfamiliar to such…unions. To see what you see, know as you know, feel as you feel, taste, as you taste. Would you desire my haunt… ? “ A feminine voice echoed through the emptied canals of Saf’s ears. She began to feel unnerved by the very tone of it. She felt as though her vision had betrayed her immensely when she could see an ethereal spirit talking to a familiar face in the midst of night. Safrona then took notice that the spirit’s form bristled upward, splaying tendrils of hair outward in the manner that was akin to the banshees common in this territory. 

“ What is the matter? “ The familiar figure spoke out as the moonlight revealed that dastardly devil none other than Duraxxor Daevara himself. A crimson bead locked directly upon the drenched Safrona, inflicting her with an estranged paralysis in the process. 

Her knees buckled up and she found herself falling back down into the sandy beach against her will. “ What the bloody hell is going on? “  She wept out, feeling something clench upon her very soul. Something that was in the shape of a vengeful hand.

“ You do not belong here, abomination! You are nothing more than a thief who has taken everything that was precious to me! “ 

The banshee wailed out as the Courier’s body was lifted up from the ground by this floating apparition. The talons of this furious being pierced into her very soul with a hunger to reap everything she had. Yet, Duraxxor took it upon himself to intervene while the defenseless void-lock hiccupped for air. “ Now now, Handhour. There’s no need to destroy her. She could be… of use for you and I both. “ For a moment, Lady Shadowsun almost had a sense of relief until the former lord of Daevara finished his sentence. Ferocity had intertwined with betrayal as her void stained eyes began to shed tears. She began crying out for everyone and everything she could. Yet, while no one heard her pleas whom would remove her from this fate, it was the devil Duraxxor who answered her call. 

“ Do not worry, Laffy Saffy. I’m going to take great care of you and your corpse. “ As he spoke to her with such a malefic sultriness, her eyes bore witness to the removal of his mask, watching as crimson tendrils began to sprout out from various openings upon his facial scarring. They intertwined, releasing a sanguine aura that leaked out much like the liquid of his thirst. The Lord began to shapeshift into horrific sight. Flesh was twisted and gave form to two predatory eyes and several rows of gnashing teeth. It was as if Lord Daevara had been tainted by the Old Gods themselves and turned into an abomination much like the rumors of Naz’mir. A hellish voice spoke a language that she understood quite well with monstrous breaths to add to his carnivorous appearance.

“ I told you, one way or another, I would taste of your essence. Now I can do so and you will carry out your delivery… “ 

“ No… No, no no no! “ Safrona cried out as she flailed powerlessly in every attempt she had left in her. She felt herself unable to scream anymore. There was nothing more she could do as the maw of darkness opened wide and began to swallow her into his abyss. Gnashing teeth sunk in, creating a needle-like tension that pierced her soul in an intensity that revealed the truth of it all along with a painful awakening. 

[ @safrona-shadowsun I hope I pulled this off and it was to your liking. >.> ]

[schraubd]

In Relating to our Black Allies, Jews Need To Stop Being Babies

Every toy for babies is basically the same. There is a button to be pressed, or some other simple action -- a bop or a shake or a slap. The toy emits a sound, squeak, or noise. The baby is happy beyond belief, and presses the button again. The sound repeats, and the baby is (somehow) just as ecstatic as the first time. Rinse, wash, repeat forever. Sometimes I feel like, in our relationship with the Black community, the Jewish community remains in infancy. Because we are constantly behaving like babies, and we need to cut it out. Here's the play: we find a Black person. We ask them to condemn antisemitism (Farrakhan is always a good target). They comply. We are delighted. We press the button again. They make the condemnatory noise again. *clap clap clap*. Oh, what could be more fun? And again and again and again we go, pressing the button on our fabulous condemn-antisemitism toy. Until eventually, our partner doesn't want to play anymore. Maybe they're concerned at the disproportionate attention Black antisemitism seems to receive. Maybe they want to talk about something other than antisemitism. Maybe they just don't like being used as a toy. So we press the button, expecting to hear the delightful sound of a condemnation of antisemitism, and ... it doesn't come. And then, like a baby, the tantrum begins. "How could you not condemn a monster like Farrakhan?" "Don't you care about Jews?" "If anyone asked me to condemn a racist in my community, I wouldn't hesitate!" Bawl bawl bawl. A moment's reflection shows how juvenile these demands are. There are plenty of actions by the Israeli government I oppose as wrongful or even (in some cases) prejudices. And I condemn them, often. But I would not accept anyone's entitlement to have me do so "on demand", like a speak-and-spell, any and every time I wished to present myself in a public space. That sort of behavior -- and it does happen (remember Matisyahu in Spain?) -- is rightfully deemed antisemitic. So we should understand how our parallel demands in the Black community are rightfully understood as racist. In Faces at the Bottom of the Well, Derrick Bell recounts an incident where Rep. Charlie Rangel was asked on television to condemn some antisemitic remark by Farrakhan. He did so, while also expressing frustration at the sense that Black Americans "have to carry around their last statement condemning Farrakhan" like a passbook in order to be accepted into civil society. Yet this is the effect of our infantile mode of relating to our Black peers. Whenever they swing into our orbit, we reach out and press the button, waiting for them to say those magic words for us. I'm not saying that there is no antisemitism in the Black community, and I'm not saying there aren't Black people who really do apologize for Louis Farrakhan's antisemitism. This post isn't about them. This post is about people who know full well that Farrakhan is an antisemite, and have never given any indication they think otherwise, but just resent being asked to say so over and over and over again. So to be clear: What makes a Black person an ally to the Jewish community is not that they stand ready to be pressed as a button whenever a Jewish person needs to hear the comforting sound "Louis Farrakhan is an antisemite." That's an unreasonable, frankly infantile demand. But too often it seems characteristic of how Jews relate to those in the Black community we wish to see "allyship" from. There's one other element of this analogy that I think it's important to bring forward. The reason babies love these toys is not just because they appreciate the sounds that they make. That's part of it, but just as important is the toy's testament to the baby's ability to manipulate the world around them. They can tell that when they push this button, that results -- and for an infant who generally can't really cause things to happen in the world (no matter how much they might want to), that's a really nice feeling. When it comes to antisemitism and eliciting a response to it, Jews are in a similar boat. We very much want people to respond to our calls; to condemn antisemitism when we ask them to. But for the most part, the world doesn't listen to us. When we, say, ask Mike Huckabee to not make gratuitous Holocaust comparisons, he flatly rejects the demand and snarls that "Israel and Jewish people need to make friends, not insult the ones they have." Like infants, Jews are constantly made quite aware that we are for the most part sitting at the mercy of people bigger and stronger than we are. So, when there is a spot in the world where, when we say "condemn antisemitism!", something actually happens, there is something understandably exciting and delightful about it. It is an exercise of power by people who typically feel powerless. A similar dynamic explains why sometimes there might seem to be outsized attention to Jewish racism. For the most part, condemnations by communities of color of racism instigated by White Americans fall on deaf ears, for it is a feature of Whiteness in America that they are if they wish impervious to such demands. And likewise, it is a feature of Jewish vulnerability that we are not so impervious and that therefore at least sometimes, in some spaces, we can be compelled to answer. That, I imagine, is a delightful rarity. So perhaps it's understandable why those attacking racism so often seem to draw from the Jewish well. But if it still feels like an exploitation of Jewish marginal status, that's because it is. And likewise, the reason we're able to get some Black leaders, some of the time, to condemn antisemitism on cue is because of racism. The comparative vulnerability of a Black American versus a, say, Mike Huckabee means that they have to be responsive to these sorts of demands in circumstances where others don't. The constant call to "condemn antisemitism" exploits that vulnerability -- which is to say, it exploits Black marginalization. And that exploitation is reasonably resented. If the only way we relate to our Black allies is by asking them, again and again, to condemn antisemitism, we don't actually have a relationship as allies. We have a relationship that could be fulfilled by a tape recorder. True allyship is bidirectional. It involves giving as well as taking, and it involves learning new things, not just repeating the same homilies over and over again. Most importantly, a genuine allyship involves trust -- trust to know that one's partners oppose antisemitism even when they're not saying out loud. Trust that they've got your back even when they're operating in precarious circumstances, where sensitivities are on edge and tensions run highest. And unfortunately, right now, it seems that trust is lacking. Can that lack be laid entirely at the feet of the Jewish community? No, it can't. But do we have our share of the blame? Yes, most certainly. I get, obviously, why it feels good to hear Black people condemn antisemitism. And I get the social conditions which make it easier to focus on Black people who do or don't criticize Louis Farrakhan compared to tackling the far more entrenched, but far more dangerous, iterations of antisemitism in Congress, in churches, among Soros-conspiracymongers and White supremacist murderers. But such pleasures are cheap, and we are not babies. It's time for the Jewish community to grow up. via The Debate Link http://bit.ly/2VXNNOF

[jonjost]

Yellowstone National Park

Following a week of recording in Piangipane, Emilio Romagna, Italy, and a one day stop in London, I returned to the USA toward the end of October after an absence of a year and 8 months.  For me personally much had changed – a back operation, recuperation, a few friends no longer with us, and the usual thoughts that come with some many spins around the sun.  And America had likewise undergone a sea-change.  An election had been held, a new President had taken office, and it seemed as if for the social culture a long shadow had been cast, and a general air of gloom had taken hold, at least among the kinds of people I tend to know.  Others I understand are quite happy with the changes. On arrival my own immediate life was seized with mundane chores: grab the van, update the car insurance, new plates, head on to destination #1, and so on.  Hit the road, which was the plot and plan.

Charles Therminy, August 12, 1934 – March 9, 2017, my roommate in 1963

Sam Shepard, November 5, 1943 – July 27, 2017

Dan Cornell,  Feb. 11, 1947 – April 7, 2017

The last time I’d returned to America in such a way was back in 2002, after 10 continuous years in Europe with nary a visit back in that decade away.  Then I was prompted by the post-9/11 words of friends who cautioned the air was thick with unhappiness and the steady encroachment of a police-state regime.  I wondered, and on return had to agree, except it seemed worse than what I’d heard.   America was down, riled up with old hat arguments which seem our fated history.   We were paranoid, unconscious, in endless denial.  Was 9/11 an inside job?  Why would an Arabic group attack us?  Were we safe anymore? And on and on.   The schism between urban and rural widened, Fox took hold across the heartlands, and two America’s seemed to struggle to emerge.  Not a happy time.

And now, a decade and a half later, the sour brew which had begun at the start of the Millennium has turned toxic.  A new President, not really elected by the people, but installed courtesy of an arcane system meant to reward slave-holders way back when, has done exactly what it was clear he’d do during the farcical election when with a childish petulance he revealed his Republican opponent’s vacuity with an infantile bullying BS, and they all caved, the hollow men of TS Eliot.  And then the DNC/Clinton Democrats were up, only to reveal their hubris and political deafness.  Since November 7, 2016, the nation has been in a state of shock, each day amplified by new waves of bull-in-the-china-shop actions taken by the Trump administration.  From the relative stasis of the long post-WW2/Cold War era, we’re now in a seeming terra incognita.

That we have arrived in this state should in reality be no surprise.  The underlying grounds have been more than visible for decades, if one only chose to look.  Most people instead preferred the comfort of denial or ignorance, or both.   Since World War Two, when America took on seriously its role of global super-power, wielding its nuclear weapons, its manufacturing base cranked up for war-making, intact in not having been bombed as all the other were in the war, we have lived in a perpetual condition of illusion.  And we have been lied to by our government chronically, again and again, in all that time.  From hiding and denying the evidence that our nuclear experiments in fact had seriously dangerous side-effects, on through our lying about covert operations through out the world, from Iran to Cuba to Vietnam, to Central and South America, the American government has paved the way both for our relative wealth, and for the corrosive effects of having lied to achieve it.  The JFK white-wash with magic bullets.  Gulf of Tonkin. The World Trade Center collapse.  WMD.  The story is long and full of government lies-as-policy.

“Globalization” has only served to exacerbate this process, loosening the regulations regarding corporate behavior which in turn sent jobs to the cheapest labor pools, and decimated middle-America, all under the rubric of neo-liberalism, promising great economic gains across the board while in reality culling the winners to the rich, and abandoning those lower on the totem pole.  All under the guidance of the government’s Brightest and Best, money sloshed loosely around the globe in a most un-benign manner. The whole process has resulted in an across-the-board corruption of our society – from the lowest to the highest.  From Wall Street to Main Street, from academic grade inflation to “safe spaces” for the coddled children of a misguided middle-class. The Trump administration is in fact a fair reflection of the society it represents, both “Conservative” and “Liberal” sides.   Like that society, it is corrupt – fiscally, socially, morally, politically. Trump could never have won office in a healthy society, but American society has been increasingly ill over the last 5 decades, or in truth far longer.   And the chickens are now home to roost.

I came back to the States in part to see friends for a probable last time, and to try to make a bit of money.  The latter is proving a hard go – screenings promised and then cancelled, inquiries unanswered and such.  You can see a few other posts regarding that topic.  I also came back for a perhaps last look at America – its cities and landscapes.  And also perhaps to make a final essay about America, Plain Songs, a companion for my previous two films on the US:  Speaking Directly (1972), and Plain Talk and Common Sense (uncommon senses) (1987).    I’ve been back now two months, and while I have taken a few shots which I imagined to be for this new film, I sense it will not be made.  The one shot I made was from Cape Flattery, far out on the northwestern tip of the Olympic Peninsula, the farthest west one can go in mainland USA.   Nestled next to it is Neah Bay, an Indian rez town, and like most of them I have ever seen, a sad place of derelict homes, signs against meth and alcohol, and an air of final desolation.  I thought to begin with a first segment called “The End of America,” as this end-point of America, like the “Center of the Nation” in Plain Talk, is ripe with ironic meaning.   I took a shot, and inside something curdled in my soul.

Each day here is greeted with an avalanche of “news,” whether it is of the machinations of the Trump administration or of an almost Biblical kind – hurricanes flattening islands in the Caribbean, or floodinng Houston, or fires decimating California, or the huff and puff of Kim Jong-un, or the unmasking of yet another sexist man in showbiz or politics, or yet another gun massacre or cop killing another black man.  Each day seems to shriek calamity, and the social atmosphere grows dark and fraught with fear.  Amidst this cacophony one feels an aura of irrational hysteria, a society caught in the throes of a major change, one which might easily slip any direction, but seems headed for the worst.   I can’t say I am surprised, after all it is exactly what I examined in the earlier essay films [as well as in numerous fictional films, [(Sure Fire, The Bed You Sleep In, Homecoming, Over Here, Parable, Coming to Terms)]  –  this decay of American society and the costs incurred by it out in the wide world, and inside, in the personal one.

  Last of the now extinct carrier-pigeons

So I ask myself, what might I add?  And, honestly, I imagine there is ample room in my thoughts to toss in my two-bits.  But then I ask, and who would it hear it and how would that happen?  And my answer is that while perhaps a handful or even some hundreds or thousands might see such a work, in the present political reality that is tantamount to no one.   It would amount to a nano-second blip in the vast ocean of noise and shouting which envelops us daily.  And while I, and perhaps a handful of others, might derive some pleasure or learning from such a work, it would surely do absolutely nothing in the face of the tsunami of media, money, and cultural leverage which our society wields each day, every day, all day.  Socially, politically, it would be simply nothing.  Of that I am utterly sure, just as I am likewise sure – and history shows it all too clearly – that the prior two films, along with all the rest of my life’s work, have done nothing politically or socially in any way I might have intended.  Yes, a very very small number of people may have been personally touched, and perhaps even a few saw their lives slightly deflected by it.  But, bottom line, in the real world of society and its mechanisms, zilch.  Really nothing.

  Perhaps these are the thoughts of a banged-up burned-out doddering old geezer. Perhaps  – I certainly qualify for some of that.  Perhaps it is time to turn my attentions elsewhere, and leave the transitory stuff of politics to itself.  Or perhaps it is just a transitory quiver of doubt, long over-due.  Or perhaps instead of a filmed essay it will morph into another form.  Written, or….  well, we’ll see.  For the moment though, the idea of Plain Songs as a video essay has gone dormant.

Back in the US, back in the US(SR) Yellowstone National Park Following a week of recording in Piangipane, Emilio Romagna, Italy, and a one day stop in London, I returned to the USA toward the end of October after an absence of a year and 8 months. 

[gibsongirlselections]

Rod Serling Couldn’t Have Predicted This Twilight Zone

Screenwriter and Twilight Zone creator Rod Serling, who died 45 years ago on June 28, was a shrewd appraiser of human behavior and of the American cultural milieu. But could he really have predicted what the country is going through right now? Maybe, maybe not.

But it’s doubly disappointing that SyFy Channel has decided to forgo it’s annual Independence Day Twilight Zone marathon this year—we could really use the fun house mirror turned on ourselves, to remind us of ourselves, during this strange time of both social isolation and civil strife. It’s somehow comforting to settle in for a TZ episode and sense the continuity: while many of our fellow human beings are craven, crass, untrustworthy and downright unsavory, there is always hope and transcendence, of speaking one’s mind, of seeking the truth. Of good people doing the right thing.

There are a number of episodes that writers have noted are especially prescient. One, “The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street,” (1960) is about a pleasantville neighborhood, the kind Donald Fagan sings about in “I.G.Y”…the future looks bright…on his seminal album The Nightfly. Dads washing cars, moms cooking, kids buying ice cream from a man in white pressed pants on the corner. A bright light—and then—all the streetlights and appliances go dead. 

Then a teenager touches it all off with a comic book kernel of fear: it’s the aliens. And they may be among us. He might as well be the alien himself, because his words spark such dissembling, neighbors turning on neighbors, glass breaking, a man shot. It’s savage. One mild-tempered character pleads, “let’s not be a mob!” but the mob takes off without him.

Two aliens sit far up on a ridge by their spaceship. When deprived of power, says one, “(humans) pick the most dangerous enemy they can find and it’s themselves. All we need do is sit back—and watch.”

The old divide and conquer. Serling, who wrote the episode, was particularly pessimistic, but we can see today how much this kind of scapegoat hysteria works: neighbors literally turning on neighbors over not wearing masks, demanding that people wear masks, so-called Karens who call the cops, Karen-hunters stalking middle-aged women with cell phone cameras, Nextdoor posts that snitch on teenagers congregating in the park, runners breathing hard without masks on the bike path, chalk-writing in the street. The very worst is the shopkeepers and workers harangued, assaulted and harassed while doing their jobs during COVID, or beaten and looted during recent violence in our cities.

We can also sense familiarity in “The Obsolete Man,” (1961) in which a future fascist state arbitrarily decides who is essential or not, and if the latter, liquidation. “Like every one of the super states that preceded it, it has one iron rule: logic is an enemy and truth is a menace,” Serling informs us in the opening narration.

 Romney Wordsworth is a librarian in this state. The chancellor is in charge of pending “obsolescence.”  

“Since there are no more books, Mr. Wordsworth, there are no more libraries. The field investigators in your sector have classified you as obsolete,” announces the chancellor from a high perch, judge and jury.

He goes on: 

“And of course it follows that there is very little call for the services of a librarian. Case in point: A minister. A minister would tell us that his function is that of preaching the word of God. And, of course, it follows that since the State has proven that there is no God, that would make the function of a minister somewhat academic, as well.”

“Lie! No man is obsolete!” Wordsworth roars back. “I am nothing more than a reminder to you that you cannot destroy truth by burning pages!”

The chancellor gets his comeuppance in the end, as the little librarian, played by the always capable Burgess Meredith, cleverly shows that the state, like all tyrannies, is brittle, and will eat its own to survive. The chancellor is later attacked by the rabid brown-shirted mob after he himself is declared, “obsolete.” 

For Serling, it is simple, “any state, any entity, any ideology that fails to recognize the worth, the dignity, the rights of man—that state is obsolete.” 

It is easy to make the connections to today’s “burning” of history, of statues set aflame, flung down, disappeared. An ever growing mob-like organism fueled by the backlash against police violence, erupting racial fury and toxic self-righteousness, seems to think that by vanquishing symbols of the past, pushing them down the “memory hole,” we will erase the injustices of their time, but as Wordsworth said, “if i speak one thought aloud that thought lives, even after I am shoveled into my grave!” 

James Pinkerton noted in these pages this week, that the stories of the men whose visages in the form of Congressional portraits or statues are being tossed away, will indeed live on. Yes, but in the endeavoring to vanish them all, we risk making it too difficult to remember, for our children to learn from the mistakes of the past. If the mob is strong enough it will be successful in supplanting the old and creating a new society that is more fragile, more authoritarian, prevailing over a spoon-fed, infantile populace. Just look at Communist China today, a mere half-century after the cultural revolution set out to “destroy” that country’s history. There is a reason that George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty Four is not banned there, but any review or analysis comparing it to modern China, is.  

But to a young Rod Serling in 1959, he could not have conceived that it would be the progeny of the counterculture that was just awakening with the dawn of the New Frontier that would be the very thing he prophesied in “Monsters Are Due On Maple Street,” “Obsolete Man” and a handful of other Orwell-inspired episodes. 

While conservatives see the counterculture as the beginning of the end of American civilization, what Patrick Deneen has called the failure of liberalism, in TZ’s time (1959-64) it meant something quite different. There was a growing appreciation afoot for independent thinking, of imagination over conformity and the stifling conventions of American middle class life (authors like Ray Bradbury were opening up fissures with their own work on this subject), which included the dumbing down and homogeneity of society spurred on by mass consumption and technology. It also meant pushing back on suburban malaise, industrial pollution, and racial segregation. It especially eschewed Big Brother and the previous decades of snitches, spooks, and black lists. They had enough of war.

Things were happening and seeping into the prime time line-up. Serling was far from “alternative,” but TZ was reflecting some exciting things happening at the margins, and the series mainstreamed these issues enough for the entire family to embrace.

It’s cliche to say things were simpler then—they weren’t. There were just different monsters under the bed and enemies outside the garden door. As we know, things got carried away, and social movements that were supposed to make people more free and equal seem to be ceding control to the extremes, which focus more on control, retribution, payback. Instead of “coming together” as The Beatles implored, we got more tribal. Today, instead of a marketplace of ideas and open debate, news organizations are caving to the prevailing winds and deciding what is and what isn’t in the “sphere of consensus” or “legitimate” topics of conversation. In other words, deciding what we read, watch, and how we are supposed to think. A “cancel culture” has made sure that those who do not conform, even on their own side, are liquidated.

One thinks it would be difficult for the Serling of 1960 to have anticipated any of this. In his view, the burgeoning societal shift was rooted in the values of the Declaration of Independence: the dignity of the human being, liberty, and equality. Maybe when he died in 1975 he was already seeing the project going in an unanticipated direction, what conservatives would say, “off the rails.” Decades later, the landscape is unrecognizable, and it really feels like we are on a precipice, between the America we knew and something looking like Orwell’s Animal Farm.

Maybe at last, as Serling would say, we are truly entering into…the Twilight Zone.

  The post Rod Serling Couldn’t Have Predicted <i>This</i> Twilight Zone appeared first on The American Conservative.

[amnportfolio]

Shopping with Mom - Memoir

           At first, the video is unintelligible, rendered grainy from the years.

           But then, the film focuses on a door and the nymph-like singing of a child can be heard. A strikingly pale hand presses against the grey wood of the door, and once again the camera has to refocus. Now, a white tile bathroom with seashell pink walls comes into view. I’m sitting in the tub, four years old, swaddled with nothing but baby fat like a child in the Garden of Eden. My tiny voice swells and fills the bathroom with a shameless yet gentle melody.  My grandma always told me that babies only sing when they’re happy, so I’m assuming in that moment, I am happy, content with the thin, warm water of the bathtub and the presence of my mother. I still retain an affinity for bathtubs.

           The woman holding the camera giggles. “What are you doing?” She asks. Her voice is deep and instrumental. It’s clear she adores me, her only daughter. In my infantile eyes, my mother is life giving goddess, a Platonic form of beauty. I smile up at my mother, dimples creasing the edges of my mouth. The same dimples dapple the outskirts of her lips, too.

           “I wrote a song, mommy.”

           “What’s it about, baby?”

           I laugh, a high-pitched reflection of my mother’s own laugh, the kind of laugh you only hear before the complexities of adulthood put their hands around a child’s throat. “I don’t know.”

           My mom turns the camera on herself, now sitting on the edge of the bath tub. The camera refocuses on a moony face with warm brown eyes and cropped red ochre hair. It is apparent that my green eyes must have come from my dad, but everything is else is wrought from the chromosomes of this woman. My mom looks at the camera lens, her pupils darting from side to side, trying to figure out where to look. We always teased her about being bad with technology.    

           “My baby wrote a song,” she asserts with a quiet pride.

           This tape is all I have of Mom before the walker and the pain pills and blood tests and Lupus. Always the Lupus.

***

           “Ok, Mom. One foot at a time.”

           I take my mom’s leggings in my hands and gently roll them up, so that they go on faster when she puts her atrophied legs in. Gingerly, I take the first foot and place it in the bunched up hole of the legging, and smooth the fabric across her soft, creamy calf. I follow the same delicate operation for the second foot, and look up at her face when I’m done.

           “Ready?” I ask.

She shuts her eyes tightly. They are almond shaped and slope downward innocently, like mine.

           In one quick, haggard movement, she shoots up off the edge of the bed onto her feet, with help from her walker, so that I can pull her leggings up all the way. A grunt laced with pain and effort escapes her translucent lips, and she crash lands back onto her bed.

           “Ok. Ok. You did it,” I murmur, brushing some lint off her knee. “You’re dressed.”

           “Thanks baby,” Mom begins, and then tacks an “I’m sorry” onto it discreetly. She is always apologizing for being my mom. While I can understand this sentiment, there is nothing to be sorry for. Despite her severe Lupus and all the consequent health problems, she is a good mom. Always has been.

           “Alright. I’m going to work. I got my cell on me at all times. Dad’s taking a nap on the couch.” I brief my mom as I open the window blinds beside her big, four-poster bed. Silvery slivers of sunlight shoot into the room, illuminating all the oak furniture and the shag carpet and the dated floral patterns. We moved into this house fourteen years ago, so it’s a different house than the one in the video. I never liked it. It’s a big house in a nice American neighborhood, the kind that the wind blows right through without being warmed first.

           “Sounds good hun. Have a good day.” My mom settles back into her pillows. I lean down and plant a kiss on her forehead, careful not to lean on her too hard. I’m afraid of breaking her.

           My workplace is a hot pink, sparkly gumball of a world. I’m a part-time key holder for Charlotte Russe, a young women’s clothing store. All my coworkers are also women, so sometimes over the summers, I forget men actually exist.

We do things like bring each other waffle fries from Chik Fil A on our breaks and give each other discounts we aren’t supposed to give. We sarcastically dance to the cheap pop music corporate makes us play, and the giggles of girls line the merchandise fabric like rhinestones.

As much as I like my work, the constant montage of moms and daughters shopping together reminds me of something I’m missing.

I see girls running out of the dressing rooms in half naked ecstasy to show their mom an outfit, and I can’t relate. I see girls asking their moms for advice on color coordination and nothing in my brain pings in response.

You see, I can’t remember the last time I went shopping with my mom. It’s such a petty, suburban detail, I know, but you don’t realise how much the little things count in a relationship until you can’t have them.

***

The first Spring Formal dress I bought, I bought alone. I bought it the spring that my mom was in the hospital (again) with pneumonia. It was the spring the dog died, and not soon after the floods came and washed out the wildflowers on the side of the road, and the road with them. Houston forgot how to swim. It was the spring I forgot how much my body was worth and slept with a boy I really shouldn’t have slept with; so it was also the spring of my almost baby, and crying in a nail salon bathroom.

           Though it was a beautiful dress, it was a dark one, more suited for fall than spring. The bodice was a nude tan with muted rhinestones peppering it, and it was slightly too big— gravity and my ribcage fought for supremacy. However, I could endure the suffering and the constant bust checks for the sheer beauty of the dress. The full length, ballroom tulle skirt was tar black. Add a couple stars, and it could have been mistaken for the night sky.

           For that Formal, I got ready at my friend’s house. I remember sitting on the stairs in my dress as her mom took pictures with her, smiling boisterous pearly smiles into the camera lens. I could almost see the camera flashes bouncing off their teeth. Her mom told her in melodic tones how beautiful she looked in her purple mermaid dress. A thick ball of an emotion I could not quite name formed in my chest, on top of my heart, and it sat there all during the Spring Formal. It was there when I danced with my friends and when I drove my friend home that night across town, the highway unraveling under my swollen feet. It was there when I arrived home at 2am and nobody was awake to greet me.

           I sent my mom a few selfies of the dress in a mirror at the dance, but the hospital always had had bad reception.

           The first and only time Mom saw my dress was on a hanger a few months later. She looked at it with an expression like flat soda in her eyes. She ran the tulle between her finger tips lightly, considerately.

“It’s lovely, Lexy. Really,” she said her wind chime voice. She didn’t say it, but we could both feel the “I’m Sorry” hanging thick in the air.

***

           “Shit. I just remembered something.”

           “What is it Lex?”

           “The Spring Formal is next weekend. I still need a dress.”

           “Why can’t you wear the one you wore last year?”

           I shake my head. “It’s too big now, Mom. I’m gonna have to go today to get a dress.”

           I look over at my mom. We are cuddled into her bed the day before Easter, an expanse of half eaten Cadbury bunnies and crème filled eggs spread before us. Her eyes are getting dewy clear and red.

           “Oh God, Mom. What’s wrong? Please don’t cry.” At the sight of my mother getting choked up, I feel a wad of tears in my throat as well. It’s a universal, primitive instinct, the urge to cry at the sight of one’s mother crying.

           “Dammit. I wanted to go with you this year.” Her voice cracks a bit, coated with a mixture of frustration and sorrow.

           “Relax. What about next year?”

           “Next year I’ll still be sick, baby.”

           Unable to respond, I walk to her side of the bed and wrap my arms around her small nymph body. I have to be careful not to step on one of the Ziploc bags of pills on the ground. We remain like that for a bit, twisted into each other like wisteria plants. The TV murmurs with “Say Yes to The Dress” in the background. I want to reach in between the static and crawl away, my mom in hand.

           “Listen. I’ll send you a picture of all the dresses, ok?” I know this offer isn’t much, but my brain is wired for problem solving like my father, and this is the best I can come up with.

           Surprisingly, Mom brightens up at this idea.

           “Deal.”

           At the mall, I try four different stores and countless dresses. I film myself dancing around the dressing room in all of them, and my mom responds with her varying, unapologetic opinions. The other moms and daughters look on in confusion, wondering what the hell I’m doing, and why I’m alone. The moms help their daughters carry the heavy dresses and are convinced of their child’s exceptionality. I am alone to haul my own dresses back and forth from the sales floor to the changing room. By myself, it is a daunting and tiring task to wriggle in and out of the dresses, but my mom’s digital voice urges me on. I can almost see the invisible thread tying us together suspended above the dressing rooms, and reaching across town and over all the heads of the other moms and daughters.

           After two hours of this, I narrow things down to two dresses. One is relatively reminiscent of the dress I picked last year; strapless, with a muted peach bodice and dusky ballroom skirt. But the other one is so strikingly different from anything I’d usually pick.

           It, too, is a full length ball gown, but instead of polite, quiet colours, it’s awash with vivid spring magentas and oranges. Water colour flowers flit about on a silvery satin ocean. It’s an open back with a crisscross. If I wanted to be buried in my past dress, I wanted to live in this one.

My mom and I are sold.

           “THAT’S THE ONE” she texts in all caps.

           Before racing to the checkout, however, I check the price tag and realize it’s egregiously off budget. I sink back into the changing room bench. In the next dressing room over, I hear a mom helping her daughter shuffle into a dress. At first they spar at one another in shrill voices, but once the dress is on, silence pervades the dressing room.

           “Oh, wow.” Her mom finally sighs. “You’re so beautiful.”

           I can’t hear the girl blushing, but I can feel it.

           I sigh and reluctantly call my dad, the budget setter.

           “I think mom and I found a dress we like.”

           “Oh great! Are you gonna be home in a bit?” His burly Caribbean accent fills my ear.

           “Well, the dress is a little bit more than we expected. Like 80 dollars more.”

           My dad makes a sharp sound by blowing air through his teeth.

           “Lex, are there any other ones—“

           He is cut off by an assertive yell in the background.

           “Well, you just got lucky. Your mother chimed in. She’ll pay the extra 80.”

           I jump up off the dressing room bench.

           “Really?”

           “Yup. Hurry home. I just made dinner.”

           “Oh. Ok. Thanks Dad. Tell Mom I said thanks.”

           He lets out a broad chuckle. “You’re welcome. See you in a bit.”

           When I get home, it is my turn to be exceptional. My mom and I coo over the dress, and I jump up and down on my side of her bed and dance around the dusty oak bed posts, hot pink hibiscus flowers bouncing victoriously on my hip bones. I think I hear every synonym for “beautiful” that night. In the shiny dress before my mom, I am rendered a bright creature, lit from within like a floral Christmas light. She just smiles and smiles and the bedroom fades into a warm whirlpool of laughter and lamp light.

           Suddenly I don’t care about the dressing rooms or the other girls or the Lupus.

           ***

           I still dream about being able to go shopping with my mom. By this, I mean that the walker and the pills melt away, and my mom rises from the bed. By this, I mean that I imagine the Lupus gene switched off, allowing us to be just a mom and her daughter.