#please feel free to point out any wrongs/mistakes in this post

[arscorpii]

little observations of episode 16 of revolutionary girl utena: cowbell of happiness

(these are just some thoughts i had. i tried to organise and articulate the ideas the best i could.)

(all dialogues are from the empty movement website)

this is a nanami-centric episode. it begins with the regular fairy-tale-like scene of utena meeting prince dios when she was younger.

this is an interesting screenshot from episode 16:

the dialogue for this scene (as in, for this specific shot):

as anyone can see, utena wasn't wearing her red socks here (she wore the red socks even when she decided to wear the girl's uniform in episode 12 [screenshots from episode 12 below, for clarity]). thus, this shot caught my eye.

another shot where utena wasn't wearing her red socks in episode 16:

the dialogue for this scene (as in, for this specific shot):

at first, i surmised that these were just animation errors because these shots lasted for only several seconds. however, upon watching and rewatching several times, the only times utena didn't wear her red socks were when she's directly confronting nanami about the cowbell. utena was the only person openly calling out nanami about it, as opposed to others who either ridiculed, ignored, or tiptoed around the matter. tsuwabuki tried saying something about the cowbell to nanami, too, but was quickly shot down by her:

generally, not wearing socks while wearing shoes can be somewhat uncomfortable, especially for long periods. it's much worse when one walks or runs while wearing shoes without socks, as this could cause skin irritations, foot blisters, etc.

when people buy certain types of shoes (or any, i think), it's common to buy shoes with a little room for toes and heels, rather than a tight, perfect fit, for comfort. when worn with a pair of socks, these shoes would usually fit perfectly. without socks, these shoes can feel loose and thus, affect gait/movements (i believe this depends on the type of shoes).

based on some readings i've done, some of the common interpretations/themes of nanami's situation in this episode (oversimplified):

exploitation and abuse of girls and women via indoctrination of patriarchal norms that simply equate them to mere livestock; raised as subservient as a calf to then be slaughtered and reduced to a piece of meat to be consumed by men.

nanami was so blinded by the love she held for her big brother that she was willing to do anything to keep that love, to maintain her bond with him. she was willing to make a fool of herself, and ignore the ridicule and concerns from others. however, deep down, she was aware of how this could all go wrong and hurt her terribly later, and all of this could very much be orchestrated by her own beloved big brother. (i hope i worded these properly)

to relate the themes of the episode to the visuals of utena not wearing socks and her dialogues: in my opinion, i think utena calling out nanami on the cowbell puts utena in a somewhat uncomfortable position (hence, wearing shoes with no socks); it's akin to challenging detrimental societal norms of a patriarchal system. notable examples that come to mind regarding detrimental societal norms are fashion and beauty standards (as in this episode). people usually don't take too kindly to the safety of their realities and status quo being challenged/questioned critically, because these are what they have been raised with, what were taught to them, and what they have been made to believe to be right and true. therefore, the person who challenges/questions these is often ignored or triggers aggressive reactions, even from the individuals who have been detrimentally affected by the status quo, in this case, nanami. "the deeper the attachment to the status quo, the greater the willful blindness." this quote by clark (2023) from his writing about challenging one's organisation's status quo felt fitting for nanami's situation (although the case with nanami definitely requires more nuances than what the quote can present).

nanami said that utena's boy uniform was very weird (dialogues above) in response to utena calling nanami's cowbell weird (2nd picture). they perceived the other's pursuit as weird because it didn't align with their ideals (an adult's fashion sense versus a noble prince). these things weren't quite the same, in a literal sense: nanami essentially wore the cowbell to appeal to the students of the academy, to be an idol of the school, to stand out, be special. meanwhile, utena wore a boy's uniform to become a prince/emulate princely ideals. however, fundamentally, both did not truly understand (at this point, at least) what these truly entailed (to be the most special girl at school versus to be a prince).

when nanami said that utena's uniform was very weird, the focus was on chu chu drinking milk from a bottle. then, at the end of the argument, chu chu was shown to have been stuck in the milk bottle, after drinking the milk. these visuals may be indicating how nanami and utena's attempts at striving towards respective impossible ideals they envisioned for themselves may be self-fulfilling at first, but will eventually have them equally trapped and hurt, you know, something like "in the end, all girls are like rose brides." (i may be wrong here)

a look at other episodes: one may say that the shots where utena didn't wear her red socks were indeed animation errors based on this shot from episode 24:

however, this shot was from the scene of episode 16 as narrated by anthy based on what was written in tsuwabuki's diary. we can see this as tsuwabuki's perspective while the previous shots as the audience's perspective (this is how i chose to see it, at least).

watching through other episodes, utena also wasn't wearing her socks when her foot was injured in episode 30, throughout episode 33, and in episode 37 when utena went on a date with akio. i pondered the correlation between utena's sans red socks moments from episode 16 and those specific events. based on episode 12, i think one can conclude that the pair of red socks was a part in which utena expressed her sense of self (because it made up her whole outfit of emulating a prince). hence, i think that nanami's situation in this episode was also a foreshadowing of utena's future, in a way (this was also illustrated with the chu chu stuck in a milk bottle imagery after drinking the milk during their argument, as above). as described earlier, utena called out nanami twice on her cowbell; on the second time, utena thoroughly explained to nanami in japanese that a cowbell is a bell that cows wear, as in the dialogues below (the following scene after these dialogues was the 5th picture; 6th picture contained the corresponding dialogues):

i think it's safe to conclude that nanami may not know what the english word "cowbell" means. this was further emphasised by utena admonishing nanami for not knowing what a cowbell is all about (see the 6th picture). everyone around her called it "cowbell" and knew what it was (what the word meant). upon explanation by utena, nanami finally came to her senses (as in, turning into a cow). relating to utena's case in later episodes, i think this could be synonymous with the fact that utena was unaware that akio was actively grooming her. several people noticed the changes in utena due to akio's grooming: juri and miki in episode 36, where juri said that utena looked more like a girl; touga asking whether utena was in love with akio in the same episode. and of course, anthy was the most aware of what akio's doing to utena throughout.

the point detailed above regarding nanami's situation in episode 16 foreshadowing utena's future can be further supported by the fact that the cowbell and the earrings akio gifted to utena were closely identical in design (interesting to note that the cowbell was purchased by anthy for her cow named nanami while the earrings were picked by touga on behalf of akio).

from my understanding, nanami turning into a cow may be equivalent to utena accepting akio's proposal to be his bride, to take kanae's place. much like a calf raised to be slaughtered for consumption (nanami's dream), akio groomed utena to be his bride. and similar to how wearing shoes without socks can be uncomfortable, utena was evidently uncomfortable in these scenes as well (the worst being episode 33). in episode 30, utena's left foot was injured. akio offered to help her, then proceeded to kiss her. akio was grooming utena to be fully dependent on him. also, since the red socks were synonymous with her self-expression, these moments (episodes 30, 33, and 37) were when her true sense of self was gradually repressed through akio's grooming. utena not wearing the red socks during the most gut-wrenchingly blatant depictions of grooming and sexual assault ⟶ how grooming and abuse can ultimately strip you of your personhood and cultivate this cycle of dependence of victims on their groomers/abusers, not being able to stand on their own feet.

after nanami turned into a cow, utena tried, and succeeded, in taking off the cowbell from nanami. i think this would be analogous to utena rejecting akio's proposal.

nanami then turned back to her human self ⟶ utena wearing back her prince outfit.

to reiterate:

critiquing the status quo may induce harsh feedback even if it's done in good faith.

nanami's situation in this episode can be seen as a foreshadowing of utena's fate in later episodes.

[macfrog]

sweet child o' mine | pt. iii

now taking name suggestions for my joel's duck doodle. must rhyme with a curse word. most creative wins.

pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader

summary: as your pregnancy progresses, you and joel are getting closer. dangerously closer.

warnings: reader is literally pregnant so typical pregnancy symptoms & descriptions of stuff like extreme nausea and gagging (reader throws up off-page, no graphic description past sore throat/esophagus afterward), body changing, nerves around birth/becoming mom, another sonogram (gender reveal...?), baby kicks felt, labor pains shhh, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), joel is dating someone who isn't reader, our girl hates nye (she's valid), tommy uses colors to represent gender (he is Wrong), joel is for sure emotionally cheating at this point and reader knows it, joel kisses someone who is not his partner again, f masturbation, memories of the hot dirty sex they had whew, a SPRINKLING of breeding kink, praise kink, size kink, another parent dies (i love parents i promise ????), jealous!reader, protective!joel, alcohol consumption, cursing, a LOT of angst, lots of fluff, lil bit of smut, and duckie has the best comedic timing of any character in this entire series. :) DISCLAIMER: this series covers some issues which i know may be sensitive and possibly triggering to some. warnings will always be as thorough as possible, but if there’s ever anything you feel i’ve missed, please let me know. feel free to drop by my inbox anytime.

word count: 11.4k (sorry. lots to cover lots to do.)

pt. i / series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🩵

December.

The days are funneled by a quick pinch of dark, the breeze heavy in its sail. Houses lined with twinkling lights and windows pierced by pointed trees. Crooning from every radio station, teary-eyed movies on TV, and spiced apple everything.

You hate every fucking minute of it.

“Wait a second,” Tommy sits forward, leaning in, “you never do nothin’ for New Years?”

You shrug, lifting your eyebrows. “Nope. Just don’t like it much. That a crime?”

He considers it as he hands his empty tumbler up to Joel, his head lolling some. He’s on his…fourth drink of the night, right? Though, if you take into account his earlier argument – I’m eatin’ as I go. It don’t count. – it’s probably more like two. But it’s whiskey, so –

Never mind.

“Yeah,” Tommy finally decides, “kinda. The hell’s wrong with you, girl?”

“Tommy.”

Joel’s voice is a warning, edged by the sharp clink of three glasses pinched in his fingers.

His brother laughs amiably in response, though, nodding to your mock-offended expression. “At least you’re spendin’ it right this year. Last one before lil’ Dickie comes along, huh?”

Maria slaps his shoulder, rolling her eyes. “It’s Duckie,” she hisses, glancing over to you.

“Shoot,” he says, chuckling. “I knew that. My mistake.” And then, hand out towards you in an apology which makes your shoulders jerk with laughter, “I did know that, I swear.”

Tommy and Maria flew in a few days ago; the younger Miller adamant that he’d spend one last New Years with his big brother before he became a father. The night they arrived, they showed up on your doorstep – a hamper filled with diapers and muslins and baby socks hanging from Maria’s arm. They’ve asked to hang out with you every day since.

They’re good fun. Tommy likes you, at least, enough to tease you as much as you figure a brother might. He’s definitely the louder of the two – sometimes you swear you notice Joel cringing at him, something caught between a laugh and a frown on his face. And Maria’s sweet; she’s asked probably six times every hour since she first saw you if you’re feeling okay, if you’re tired, if you’re hungry.

Joel text you yesterday morning. Tommy and Maria wondering if you feel like coming over for NYE. No pressure, he added, I lie pretty good.

A smile snuck its way across your lips before you had the chance to tame it. Sure, you typed, I’ll bring the newspaper.

What Joel’s told them, about the wedding and the baby and everything since, you’ve no idea. You guys almost talked about it when he told you they were flying down after Christmas, but before you got the chance to ask him, Vanessa pulled up out front.

Not exactly a conversation you felt like having with the dude’s girlfriend hooked around his right arm.

She smiles at you, now, as you shuffle to the edge of the armchair you’re curled up in. Joel’s armchair – the plaid blanket cradling you, the leather soft and crinkled beneath. Your eyes quickly drop from hers when his hand reaches for your mug, your fingers crossing as you pass it up. “Let me come help,” you say, pushing from the chair.

He holds up a palm, shaking his head once. “Stay. I got it.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, settling back. Vanessa resumes smiling. You wish she’d fucking quit it. You wish you’d fucking quit focusing on her.

Joel knocks the mug gently against your shoulder with a small, almost sympathetic smile, and heads for the kitchen – leaving you sat between Tommy and Maria on one couch, and Vanessa on the other. You tuck your heels under your thighs, picking at a hangnail as you wait for the conversation to thaw.

Maria makes some comment about Austin in the winter: how different it is to Jackson, and the three of you nod and hum in agreement before the chatter fizzles to nothing again. You glance over to the clock, watching the hands chase one another to twelve.

This isn’t what you imagined a get-together with Joel’s family would feel like. Tight, tense. So tense that you can feel the weight on your chest, closing your lungs. Talking about the weather and the holiday traffic, talking about nothing to avoid talking about everything.

Tommy’s chin lifts, after a second too long of silence. “Hey, Joel!” he barks. “You ain’t shown me this nursery yet!”

Joel leans around the doorframe, half-distracted. “Barely even started it, little brother. Crib only got delivered yesterday.”

“Sheesh,” Maria’s eyes widen, “you sure are prepared.”

Vanessa laughs when Joel rolls his eyes and vanishes again. “You got no idea,” she says, “I have never seen him so…pedantic, right?” She looks to you, still smiling. So sweet, you worry your lips are pursing at the sight of it. Your neck tensing. Your eyes watering.

“Yeah,” you reply, nodding shyly and swallowing back the saccharine. “I think he’s more nervous than he’s letting on.”

Joel’s voice calls from the kitchen again: your name. When you answer, he says, “Why don’t you take Tommy up, show ‘im what we got so far?” and then, leaning back around the door, “She picked the color ‘n whatnot.”

“Ah,” Tommy says, palms pushing down on his knees, “so you’re the brains, then?”

You mirror him, accepting Joel’s request. As though you had any choice in the first place. Standing beside the younger Miller, you mutter, “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

He holds a hand out to usher you ahead, following you upstairs. Past the tousle-haired boy in grayscale, past the German shepherd, past the Christmas Day portrait. Wandering like you know the house inside out, like you might’ve picked the exact coordinates of each nail the picture frames hang on yourself.

Like the photographs pinned to the walls aren’t still as alien to you as they’d been that day you first set foot in here, the dress Joel would come to tear from your body slung over your arm.

You twist the gold handle and unveil a homely little room, painted by you and Joel just last week. The soft blue drying into his knuckles, random splatters on your palms and your jeans. The giggles drawn from your chest; the thief either the chemicals from the paint, or the man rolling it over the walls – and you’ve a pretty good idea of which.

Tommy sniffs roughly, nodding. Taps the toe of his boot against one of the two bulky boxes leant against the wall, a crib printed on one and a rocking chair on the other. His tipsy head bob bob bobbing. “Alright. ‘s nice, ain’t it?”

You settle against the window, the glass cold at your back. “Real nice, yeah. Be even better once it’s done.”

“What’s yours look like?”

“Mine?”

“Nursery at your place. Your one pink, ‘case it’s a girl?”

You snort. “Mine is a little greener. More…I guess it’s duck egg. Had some leftover paint.”

He clicks his fingers and points to you. “See what you did there. Duck egg. Duckie.”

“Hm. Wish I were that poetic. I just like the color.”

Tommy stuffs his hands in his pockets, wanders around the bare room. The faint lingering of whiskey putting up its best fight against the clean bite of fresh paint, the sweet scent shaking from him when he nods some more at the blank walls and naked windows. He clicks his teeth and asks, “How you holdin’ up, anyways?”

“How am I holding up?”

“Yep. With, uh…” he nods to the door, eyes wide, “…Vanessa,” he whispers. Louder than he must think – probably echoed, if anything, by the palm he curves around his mouth.

You cross your arms protectively, shoulders bunching. “She’s fine,” you say, voice deliberately low. You both ignore the crack in it when you add, “I like her. She’s – she’s taken this all like a champ.”

Tommy leans on the window ledge, a rugged hand you reckon you’d know was a Miller’s just by looking at it. Same rough-cut quality as Joel’s, like they’re torn from the same sheet of sandpaper. He props the other on his hip. “But, boy – it’s gotta be complicated, right?”

“I guess. But she’s real sweet about it. And Joel’s been great, too.” You sniff, the memory of your kiss flashing behind your eyes. The steady drum of Duck’s heartbeat, the gleam in Joel’s eye when he looked down at you. The guilt seeping from your skin like beads of sweat, prickling along your spine and fizzling against the cold windowpane.

Tommy blinks at you, liquor-glazed eyes scanning. His shoulders jerk, a loud huh propelling from his throat. When your head cocks in confusion, startled from your daydream, he spills. “He ‘n I had a mighty long talk when he told me.”

You feel yourself leaning in, magnetized to him – body hunched as though you’re gossiping in the corner of a house party. Inhaling secrets with the tinge of alcohol on Tommy’s breath. “Oh, yeah?”

Tommy hums. “Just wanted to make sure he’d thought it all through. Not you – I always knew he’d take care a’ you and Duck. But…involving Vanessa,” he lowers his voice again, glancing over to the warm light spilling in from the hallway, “I just wanted him to be sure.”

Your blood begins to warm, heat flooding through your body as you step closer, murmuring, “What’d he say?”

He flicks his head, seeming to toss his initial response to the wind. “You know Joel. He is his own man.”

Your face screws, head jerking back. “What’s that mean? He is his own man?”

A voice from the doorway interrupts. A shadow swimming in the golden light. “Who is?”

Tommy steps away from you, loosening his arms as his big brother drifts into the shadowy room. Dusting the conversation under the rug. The smell of whiskey backs off. “Speak of the devil. Nice paint job, Joel. Missed a couple spots, but – I’ll let you off.”

“Uhuh.” Joel’s eyes thin, his body slanted against the wall. Arms crossed, bottle of beer hanging from his fingers.

Tommy swaggers forward when Joel holds the bottle out, taking it with a wary glance at the tall figure. A dog meandering back to his owner, tail between his legs and ears flat. It takes his gritty voice to jolt you back to the room, splintering your gaze from Joel’s toned arms and huge chest. “Looks real good, you two. ‘s one lucky kid.”

Joel’s jaw lifts, his eyes landing on you. Dogs are terrible liars. “He talkin’ your ear off?”

You smile; recognizing the softer Joel you’ve grown used to over the last three months replacing the stern, cold version you once knew so well. “Only a little.”

“Tommy,” he says then, “Maria needs you for somethin’.”

The denim-donned Miller nods knowingly and heads out of the room, thud of his boots receding downstairs.

“Maria okay?” you ask, making space for Joel as he settles beside you.

He shrugs. “Only said that to get him outta your hair.”

You frown. “You sent me up here with him in the first place.”

“So I could come up ‘n check on you. Know this must be a lot – the two of them, tonight.”

“I’m fine. Promise. I’m a big girl.”

You both sigh, turning to look out at the dark street. Your arms cross, sitting somewhere above the tiny slope of your bump – a new development you’re still getting used to. Your stomach feels tighter, a little more solid than usual when you touch it. A little more…real. There’s someone in there, right? Like, actually there. They’re changing the way you look, the way you feel.

“This is it, right?” you say, staring at the white lanterns illuminating Alice Brown’s rose bushes. “This is the year.”

“The year,” Joel agrees.

“Mhm. Become a mom. Become a dad.”

He purses his lips. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’ve had bigger years, kid.”

“Let’s hear it, old man. Let’s hear about your biggest year. God knows you’ve had plenty to choose from.”

He sucks a deep breath in, eyes tracing the silhouette of the houses across the street as he thinks. “Senior year, nineteen ninety-three. Asked Stacy Moore as my date to the prom ‘n she said yes. I was so nervous that I forgot my bow tie. Was a pretty good year.”

You hum, agreeing, and then, “I see your ninety-three, and I raise you: two thousand and one. There was this bike I wanted for-fucking-ever; it had, like, little beads on the spokes – would make this ratatatat sound whenever it moved. Tassels hanging from the handlebars, all iridescent. I begged my mom the entire year for it, and on Christmas morning I woke up, and…” You lift your hands, air puffing from between your lips. “Santa Claus delivered that year, dude.”

“Well,” Joel clicks his teeth, shell hardening only a little, “thanks for making me feel old as hell.”

“You’re welcome.” You beam back at him, breaking into a laugh when he does.

The two of you stand a little distance apart, denying yourselves the innocent brushing of shoulder against shoulder, the nudging of elbows and swaying of hips. Admiring the empty sky and emptier street, bathing between the cold moonlight of outside and the warm lamplight in.

And from somewhere deep in your belly, somewhere tucked behind your ribs, beneath your slow-growing womb: an urge to ask about her. To bring her up. To tend to the curiosity that Tommy poked a clumsy, drunken finger straight into, tearing it apart at the seams.

Like pressing on a new bruise, satiating the hungry need to know where you were hurt, how you were hurt, when you were hurt. A bent fingertip, pushing heavily into a sensitive splatter of dark purple; the burst blood vessels hissing in response, whispering, You don’t know, and you don’t want to know.

But you defy them. You do want to know. Want to satisfy the disturbed thrill you felt, leaning into Joel’s brother. Hands turning over one another, wet bottom lip trembling as he rounded the corner on some sort of…what was it, a secret? Some sort of truth, a long-buried revelation about the other woman. She’s a witch, have you spotted her crooked nose? She’s plotting something, I swear. She’s up to no good.

Your eyes lift again, focusing back on the dull color of the outside world. The bland canvas of reality. She’s not a witch, nor some genius mastermind. She’s a boring, relatively normal woman. Kind, thoughtful. Naïve and a little too eager to please; too willing to forgive a situation which warrants no such kindness or empathy.

She’s just…fine. Lukewarm. And you’ve no idea why that pisses you off so much.

Which, incidentally, makes the bruise sting all the more.

“Maria, Maria,” Tommy’s voice claws its way upstairs, “turn it on, turn it – Joel? Joel! It’s midnight, Joel, you two better come on down, now! Have we missed it –? Have we –?”

The sound of cheering slowly bubbles to life behind his drawl as the TV volume picks up, the tittering of Maria and Vanessa chiming in.

“…five, four, three, two, one…Happy New Year!”

Joel’s looking over his shoulder, waiting for footsteps or voices or a girlfriend who never shows. And he ignores his brother, for he is his own man, and turns to you instead. Bracing himself on the ledge, he blinks down with a plain grin on his lips. “Happy New Year, Mom,” he whispers.

You return his smile, taking his hand when he reaches out to you. “Happy New Year, Dad,” you reply, squeezing his palm.

He pulls you in for a hug, kissing your cheek briskly as you hook your arms over his shoulders. His beard scratches your cheek, grazes the curve of your shoulder, and you don’t mind. Your small, swollen belly presses against his; the tiny curve safe in the midst of your embrace.

Outside, the sky crackles to life with the distant spatter of fireworks, color shattering across the black canvas – red, blue, green and gold, dissolving as quickly as they explode into the now-January night. A burst of purple light washes between the two of you, and you turn your head on Joel’s shoulder to watch as the sparks rain over your neighbors’ roofs.

“I should get goin’,” you whisper, feeling his heartbeat a little too strongly against your own. Becoming suddenly aware of the weight of your frames locked together.

“Glad you came,” he says as he leans away. “I know this ain’t…I know we’re all tryin’, but you’re tryin’ the most, and I appreciate it. I hope you know that.”

“I know it,” you tell him, rolling your eyes. “Now, go. Go kiss your girlfriend.”

He chuckles, making for the door. “You want me to walk you home?”

Your eyes close serenely, the image of him doused in flickers of gold burning behind your eyelids. “I’ll survive the walk across the hedgerow, Miller.”

Joel nods once and leaves, plodding downstairs to be greeted by his open-armed girlfriend, a peck between them, arms crossed behind his neck. The lyrics of Auld Lang Syne slurred against his lips.

And you think – You know what? If it’ll rip you apart from her, if it’ll keep her bright red lips and her shining curtain of hair away from you, if it’ll stop her sucking in your air and your smell and your attention for thirty fucking seconds –

Then, yeah. Walk me home. Stay for a drink. Sleep in the goddamn guestroom.

Walk me home.

You slip out of the front door when the two couples are in the kitchen, missing Joel’s calling your name – or perhaps just ignoring it altogether.

“Spread the love at St. David’s this Valentine’s Day…”

Joel slows alongside a wall of cerise hearts, each one fluttering like wings whenever the hospital doors slide open and the breeze sneaks inside. Slips scrawled with names and messages: Love you M! and J + A, crude drawings of stick figures holding hands. Your lips curl into a smirk, watching him flick through each one as you palm your round stomach.

You just saw Duck for the second time. The last time, Freya was kind enough to mention, before they’re tearing you in two. Sorry, she mouthed when your expression dropped, and went back to twisting the probe over your stomach. Silently.

You’re getting better at it, you think. Playing Mom. Like some little game of make-believe, which is only real for as long as you’re looking it square in the eye – attending doctor’s appointments, updating the neighbors on your newest list of symptoms en route to your mailbox.

A little surer on your feet, now that you’ve found a balance to it: taking it as seriously as it warrants, a dry little pill stuck on the cliff of your throat, and making it easier to swallow with humor like water, a huge gulp anytime the fear claws its way up your spine.

And no more panic, since at least before Christmas. Only a little flustered this afternoon when Freya asked if you wanted to know the sex.

It felt too big a thing to hear, too real. You’re only just getting used to the backache and the bleeding gums. (And why didn’t you know that your gums would bleed? Isn’t that something they should fucking warn you about? Congrats, you’re pregnant: prepare for blood seeping from your jaw.)

No. No, thanks. Your head shot around to Joel. No, right?

He shrugged. Makes no difference to me.

Are you sure?

I’m sure, kid. Promise.

‘cause we can find out. I mean – if you want to.

He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, tapping you amiably on the shoulder. I don’t. You’re good.

You don’t?

No, I – He sighed, a hand dragging through his hair. If you want to, I want to. If you don’t, I don’t. Alright?

Freya bit back a laugh, the closed fist over her lips doing little to hide it. You guys should write a book on co-parenting.

But then she left the room again, closed the door on that same old little bubble – the three of you perched on the bed, you and Joel blinking up at the grains of your child onscreen – and you cried. Again. More.

Everything clearer, everything even more human than before: the globe of their skull, the tiny slope of their nose. All glowing in the dark waves of your womb, twinkling like the most beautiful constellation you could ever come across. Their ankles were crossed, feet forming a tiny heart shape in the top corner of the sonogram. Your hand lifted to point it out to Joel, and before the words found voice, you choked and broke down again.

He held you, lips to your hair, body solid as a rock as you melted into him in waves of salty tears. Smiled that honey-glazed smile and said he was so proud of you, said, look what your body’s doin’, darlin’, look what you’re growin’ – which only made you weep more.

And you pretended not to wait for it – for the moment when you might tilt your head up and your lips might line with his, and he might close the achy space between you again, might shush your cries by stealing the air from your lungs and the beat from your heart.

But he didn’t.

Which is fine.

Right?

“Somethin’ on your mind, kid?” he asks now, eyes still glued to the sea of hearts.

Your stare snaps from him instantly, unaware it was even held there. You tug on the hem of your sweater and pull the sleeves over your hands, mumbling, “Fine, I’m – I’m just…Come on, man. I’m hungry. I didn’t eat lunch today.”

“’n whose fault is that?”

You glower at him. “How considerate,” you seethe, “Vanessa’s a fucking lucky woman, you know that?”

He ignores you, a dumb smile on his face. The usual. “Let’s leave one for ‘em.”

A hot temper begins to boil below the surface of your skin, squeezing between your teeth in a fist-swinging breath. Also the usual these days, apparently. “For who?”

“Duckie. Somethin’ to mark the second scan. Last time we see them, before –”

Your hand flies up, eyes closing with a wince. Shut the fuck up. “Enough. I know.”

Joel hms, still smiling to himself. His beard has grown out a little: thicker, darker, gray sewn through like little whip stitches lining his jaw. He fishes a heart shape from the tub along with a pen, which he twirls annoyingly around his fingers as he thinks.

You sink back against the clinical white wall, an offensively bright color, holding your cheeks up in something of a smile when a nurse wanders past, nodding to both of you. Your face drops back to a scowl as soon as she’s over Joel’s shoulder, and your eyes meet his again – his brows raised, expectant.

“What?” you ask, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

He holds the slip up. “What we gonna write?”

And whatever charm the moment may have held, withers instantly. You throw your arms up petulantly. “You wanted to do it! Pick something. See you soon, or something, I don’t fucking know.”

“I don’t fucking know,” Joel muses, creases by his eyes when he smirks. “Poignant.”

“That’s what you should write,” you step closer, shoving your shoulder into his as you study the trembling hearts on the board, “if you can spell poignant, write that.”

“Hilarious,” he mutters, bending to scribble onto the shape, shielding his work from your view when you hang around his shoulder to pry. Cupping over the message until he’s straightening up, tossing the pen back to the desk, stealing a pin from the tub.

“Let me read,” you protest, tugging on his flannel sleeve.

“I will,” he says, shaking you off. “Patience, darlin’.”

Joel turns to the wall and pins the heart higher than the rest, in a spot clear of its own on the corkboard – thick arms stretching higher higher higher and pulling your gaze with them. As he steps back, he takes you gently by the waist and positions you in front of his body, your shoulders brushing against his chest. Your ribs hold your heart back from hammering into his.

You push up onto your tiptoes and squint at the note, which quivers when the hospital doors pull open again. “Mom and…Mom and Dad f…You fucking…”

Joel dodges your batting arm, snickering with you as he turns to make for the exit. “You don’t like it?” he tosses over his shoulder.

The heart stares down at you, black ink carved into the paper, watching as you turn and hurry after him, giggling. “Mom and Dad fuckin love you? So much for my potty mouth. And the –” another wheezing laugh you’d otherwise be ashamed to let him hear, “– the drawing? It looks – it looks more like a giraffe than a duck. Or, like, you know those long-necked dinosaurs?”

Joel’s head tips back, his own laughter caught up by the breeze when you wander outside, slipping your wrist around the crook of his elbow. Something infectious about it, something which stirs your own laughter until you’re walking arm in arm to the truck with a man who, six months ago, you’d barely look at twice over the fence.

The blind rage bubbling from your empty stomach seems to dissipate, dwindled to nothing in the face of that same man – his swollen cheeks and crows-feet eyes. And you say, “You’re disgustingly sentimental, you know that? Like, sickening.”

And Joel smirks, the way he always fucking does, and says, “You love it. Can’t lie to me.”

“I love it,” you concede, nudging into him as he opens the door for you.

The drive home is quiet, but not uncomfortable. There’s another thing you’re getting good at: being around Joel without need for snide remarks, without feeling your tongue curl under the weight of some snappy quip, loaded and aimed. Being around him and talking about Duck, asking how Tommy and Maria are. Forcing your teeth and tongue to carve out words which ask how Vanessa is, what she’s up to, when he’s seeing her next.

None of this is ideal, that’s for sure. Joel’s girlfriend aside, you’ve spent the last five months cohabiting your body with a stranger who lives most peacefully in the eye of a raging tornado of hormones – flitting between fits of giggles and pulsating joy in your veins, to waves of tears and an anger so hot beneath your skin that you wonder if your emotions might dry up completely by the time this is all through.

It's tough. It’s scary. And some nights you lie in bed, alone, wet eyes fixed on nothing, waiting for someone to burst into the room and announce that it’s all a prank. Just a silly joke. You and Joel can go back to tossing newspapers and casting glowers.

But for now, sat in the passenger seat of his truck – the seatbelt warped around the curve of your belly, the Eagles lilting softly from the radio – it feels like you’re making a home out of that tornado, too. Feeling the swirling walls of wind toss your hair like the breeze through the truck window; the chilled caress of the evening around your outstretched arm, soaring down the highway.

Yeah, you think. I can make something outta this.

“You know what I’m craving?”

Joel’s watching the light, waiting for green. “What’s that?”

“A fucking bagel. Cream cheese, pastrami,” you groan.

He snorts, cringing when he adds, “Pickles?”

A moan tears from the base of your throat, head lolling against your seat. “I could orgasm just thinking about it.”

The light turns, and Joel swings right. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he mutters, turning the wheel with one palm. “I got bagels back at the house, if you want one.”

You stare at him, jaw loose, saliva pooling behind your bottom lip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He smiles, shaking his head. “Let me make you one, ‘fore you go home. Big day, ‘n all.”

And you hate it – hate the way your cheeks fill with a genuine happiness, something swollen and achy, impossible to ignore when it lifts your eyes and hurts your teeth. Appreciation, or admiration, perhaps, that you figure you’ll only ever have for him. You don’t know what the fuck to call it.

So you sum it up into three words. “That’d be nice,” you whisper, and Joel places his hand over your knee, shaking it lightly as he drives on.

It stays there, until he’s pulling into his driveway.

He pushes the front door open and steps back, an arm extended to let you by first. An after you, ma’am, between his lips. And you turn to make some mocking joke, the beginnings of some comment about how gentlemanly he is, when you’re socked square on the nose by a heavy-fisted, bitter scent.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, stumbling backwards across the threshold and onto the porch again. Your throat constricting around nothing, your tongue twisting, your stomach lurching.

Joel catches you just in time to stop you from falling on your ass. “The hell’s the m–? Oh.”

“Hi!” Vanessa calls from the kitchen, leaning around the doorframe to wave you both in. “Almost ready! Take a seat.”

“V–? Hey, sweetheart?” Joel calls back, one hand around your wrist and the other between your shoulders. “What – what’s cookin’?”

She pauses, glancing back at the stove. Pulls the dish towel between her hands taut. “I…I made pasta.”

“Yeah, what kind, sweet?”

“…Bolognese.”

He can’t cover his own sigh quick enough. Thick with something which feels like anger. “Shit,” he turns back to you, “I am so sorry.”

You pull in a deep, unsteady breath, your lungs struggling to separate night air from tomato juice. A weight rolling at the bottom of your stomach, your entire body beginning to tremble with it. “I feel like I’m gonna – Joel, I’m gonna –”

“Breathe,” he whispers, voice urgent, palm slipping to cup your jaw. “Just breathe for me.”

But your throat’s tightening, swallowing hard around gags which come stronger and quicker the more you try to fight them down. “I can still fucking smell it –”

Her shadow blocks the stretch of light from the house. A nervous little thing, a timid creature’s shadow stretched wide across the porch floor. “Is…everything okay?”

“It’s – it’s fine,” Joel sighs again, torn between comforting you and letting Vanessa down gently, “it’s just – tomato is one of her…her aversions.” He’s unable to pull his eyes from you, privately asking, “Are you okay?” when Vanessa turns back to the kitchen.

“I didn’t – I didn’t know,” she mumbles, thumbnail between her teeth. “I am so sorry.”

Suddenly, your will not to throw up is overpowered by your will to tell her, “It’s fine,” sucking in a deep, sickly breath before adding, “I’m just gonna – I should go.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Joel says, his teeth guarding the words from his girlfriend.

“I’m gonna clean up in here,” Vanessa points over her shoulder, and you think she must’ve heard him, “get outta your hair. I’m so sorry, again. I would’ve never…”

Joel lets go of you as you stagger backwards, the cold air tearing down your throat to meet the burning acid tickling up your esophagus. “Please don’t apologize,” you lift a weak hand, “how could you have known? I’ll –” another sharp gasp, “– I’ll see you guys around.”

He must say your name, must try once more to pull you back to his side, but the blood’s rushing through your ears, and your heart’s pounding at the back of your tongue, and your stomach’s notching its way up your spine. You make it to your kitchen sink just in time.

He keeps you waiting all of one hour before he’s calling you. Your arm reaches over to your nightstand, fumbling in the dark for your heavy phone, the screen cold against your cheek.

“Mhm?”

“Are you okay?”

Your lungs pull a deep, slow breath. The acid painted across your throat tickles as the air passes by it, an uncomfortable, scratchy feeling.“Mhm.”

“That a lie?”

“Only a little. Is Vanessa okay?”

He takes a second to answer. Lets go of whatever he was going to say with a sigh, replacing it with, “She just left.”

“Is she mad at us?”

Another second. “Just me. Not you.”

You massage the slope below your breasts, the ache in your esophagus throbbing when you move. “Why just you?”

Ruffling, like he’s settling back into his couch. Sinking into the cushion, his body as heavy as yours feels on your mattress. “I should’ve told her you didn’t like tomatoes. ‘cause now I’m a goddamn mind reader. I mean, why the hell wouldn’t my girlfriend be in my house cookin’ a damn pasta dish while I’m out, y’know? Jesus Christ.”

“Joel,” you turn slowly onto your back, bravely waiting for the waves of nausea still lapping around your stomach to turn with you, “it was a nice thing, what she did. She didn’t mean to…She probably thought she was helping.”

“Naw, I know,” he replies, the sharp bite of his words softening again, shrinking under yours. “I don’t care about her and her helping, though, darlin’, I care about y –” He barely catches it in time. “I care about you carrying my child, and I care about making sure you don’t spend your nights fuckin’…throwing up tomato sauce.”

You gulp, neck convulsing. The backwash of bile swallowed back. Your chest floods with a heat of quick panic. “Can we…maybe…not use the word? I just –”

“Sorry, baby. Sorry. This is just – it’s a lot easier if she would just…”

Your eyes close over, a salty sting sweeping behind them. If she would just lay off. Back off. Fuck off. “…but she won’t, Joel. She loves you. ‘n you…”

The words drift off, taken by the tide, swept off into silence. And neither of you bother with trying to retrieve them – you just watch, stood safe on the shoreline, as they fold under the waves of something too big for either of you to acknowledge. Too dark, too dangerous.

So, you say, “I get it,” instead; say, “I get why you’re mad. Just – let’s forget about it, okay? Sorry for…ruining dinner.”

Joel scoffs, that old, pissed-off Joel scoff. You can see his deadened expression on the back of your eyelids. You may as well have just thrown his newspaper to the end of the earth. “You know damn well that you didn’t ruin anything. How you feelin’?”

“Tired. Throat kinda hurts.”

“Still feel like that pastrami bagel?”

“Not really. Sorry. Appetite’s gone.”

“How about a water?”

“I got some here. Thanks.”

“Okay,” Joel sniffs, “how about: you take the hint and let me come over there to see you?”

You giggle, hand over your eyes to mask your expression from the dark. “I hate you. Yeah, come over. Door’s unlocked.”

Date night – six month anniversary or whatever. Call me if you need anything.

And I mean anything. OK?

Your thumbs hover over the two gray messages, an awkward jig as your brain scrambles to offer words back. Where are you guys going? Too interested. Too weird. OK, what if I’m bored? Delete delete delete. Trying too hard. Sure, have a good n–

The ellipsis pops up and you freeze. A stupidly polite swish delivers Joel’s third text.

Boredom counts as anything, by the way.

And the fucker steals another smile from you. You notice it when you look up, clocking yourself in the mirror. Accompanied by a warmth which drips down your spine, swirls around your tummy; a fluttering you’re not sure is Duckie or something else.

Have a good night, Dad, you type back, tossing the phone to the end of your bed when you hit send. Swiping for a pillow, holding it firm to your face. Pressing so deep into the plush that even the linen won’t be able to see your grin.

Joel told you about this six-month anniversary last week. He wasn’t too thrilled about it then, either. Dinner to celebrate six months? A year, fair enough. But six months?

You swallowed your pride, swallowed the same throttling ecstasy which seeped through your pores on New Year’s Eve, on that February evening she cooked– never mind; a desperate desire to tear apart the very notion of Vanessa and her cutesy little date nights and candlelit dinners. I think it’s a fun idea, you said. Y’all should do it.

And Joel listened. Because he always fucking listens to you, these days. Listens when you tell him that you like the watermelon Sour Patch Kids best, and picks them up anytime he’s at the store. Listens to you when you tell him he should move the crib away from the window, in case the streetlights shine on Duck while they sleep.

Listens when you ramble about how sore your feet are, how heavy your belly feels, how there’s a clammy heat lingering under your skin at all times, bubbling and bubbling and never rising to anything more than steam collecting on the underside of your flesh.

Listens when you tell him to go spend time with his girlfriend. And neither of you pay attention to the jealous shadow behind your words, the hesitant quiver behind his.

He replies almost instantly, the ping like a gunshot at the beginning of a race. Pillow slammed into the mattress, body lunging forward.

You too, Mom. Don’t have too much fun without me.

You lock the phone and slide it back under your covers, smiling dumbly.

There’s still a small part of you waiting for the big reveal: none of this is really happening. A dream, maybe, something you’ll wake from with a tiny throbbing headache, a dry mouth and a new reason to avoid your neighbor at all costs.

But it seems that, each time that thought crosses your mind, you’re quicker and quicker to quash it. Realizing each time that what lies ahead – Joel, your baby, this future version of yourself that you’re yet to meet, still just a little out of reach – fills you with more excitement and wonder, than it does fear.

Mom.

It’s not something you ever imagined for yourself. Not someone you ever thought you’d be. And yet, each time you say it out loud, each time you look in the mirror and picture a baby in the crook of your arm, a toddler perched on your hip, a kid stood by your side, tugging on the hem of your shirt – she feels a little closer. A little clearer. She just has to look over her shoulder, notice you waiting. I’m right here, she says. Come find me.

Mom. Mom and Dad.

You imagine Joel right now, sat in some ritzy restaurant with jazz music and stained-glass lamps on every table, ordering Vanessa some glorified lentil soup and slapping his card over the bill before the waiter has a chance to reveal the damage to him. Your lips twist at the thought – her jewels and her long hair and her sweet little smile laced with a smug possession.

And then you slap your own wrists, hissing to yourself to shut the fuck up.

“She’s nice,” you argue out loud, thin air holding no debate. “She’s kind, and I like her. She’s good for him.”

And then the air replies. Good for him, it swirls, but you could do it better.

Your arm lifts, lingering for a beat before batting the thought away.

Three weeks. Three fucking weeks, between pushing yourself out of his embrace in bed, and pulling yourself back into it – armed with a pregnancy test and a chest full of fear. Three weeks of dodging him, of your cheeks bubbling with embarrassment and regret anytime you thought of it; of hoping to God that Alice or Diane or Steve and Kris across the street wouldn’t clairvoyantly know what had transpired that night and corner you on your own front lawn.

A one-night stand. That’s all it was. Two lonely bodies, excitement enough to convince you both that it was a good idea; a fitted suit and a backless dress crumpled together on the floor. Liquid courage lacing it all together.

Three weeks, then, of reminding yourself how it felt: how amazing you were together. Your hand between your legs and Joel’s name between your teeth.

Fuck. If only he knew. Goodforhimgoodforhim she’s so good for him but I’m better.

You did it better. You know you did. The sun was cresting the horizon by the time the two of you stopped. You hauled yourselves down to breakfast and sat at least three people apart, made forced conversation with Maria about the DJ stumbling off with one of her cousins, while the ghostly ache of Joel’s body churned somewhere deep inside you.

It travels through your veins the way that everything does right now: urgent and unforgiving. A need to be dealt with, immediately. Coursing through your body, an arrowhead pointing somewhere you know it shouldn’t. But your hands lift anyway – following it, loosening the waist of your sweatpants and skimming beneath your underwear.

Your body lights at the first touch. The first dip of your middle finger against the plush over your clit. Knees bend, thighs part. You push your underwear down your hips, settling your bottoms loose on your legs. You’re already wet. You’re already there.

Good fucking girl. She’s good but I’m better, right? Take it, baby. Does she take it like I take it? Take it. Can she take you like I did?

Quicker and quicker and quicker, your fingers heavy on your clit. The other hand sifting between your folds, dipping to collect a glimmer of wet. Yeah. Just like that. Do you fuck her like you fucked me? You feel what you do to me? Fuck no, you don’t. You’ve never fucked anyone like you fucked me.

Head back, eyes fluttering closed, lips parting to breathe answers to a man who isn’t here. To a man who, as he dips sourdough into an overpriced soup, sure as hell isn’t thinking about that time he fucked you so good he got you fucking pregnant.

Well. Maybe he is. You are, right?

Voice without body, drawl etched in your memory. Think she can take it all? You hum in amusement, waiting for him to answer his own question. Yeah, she can.

Attagirl. Your legs spread further, knee lifting as you insert two slick-coated fingers. His hands are on your thighs, following the dip of your hips, holding your waist as you guide him back inside. Attagirl. That’s my – Fuck, Joel, you’re so b– That’s my fuckin’ girl. Take it. Touch it. His thumb on your clit – his, not yours. You like that? Yeah, that’s nice, ain’t it?

The flesh of your breasts filling his palms, squeezing and nipping and rolling between. The warmth leaking between your legs: his and yours and fuck, he’s so deep and he’s filling you again and he’s groaning as more dribbles from where he splits your body around his own, holding you still until he’s done. Until he’s empty.

“Joel,” you whine, a third finger pushing in.

Between your hips. Headboard hammering against the wall. The sun hanging loose at the bottom of the sky. Gonna make me come again, baby. Do it. Do something irreversible. Change me forever. Fuck me fuck me fill me and then pull out, push back in with the wet squelch of your come mixing with mine and changing me forever. Making me brand new. Making me yours.

Another moan. Louder. Sharper.

Yours yours yours. All mine? All yours. We’re good at this. I know we are. Who fucks you like this? No one – No one – just you – just me. It’s so big, fuck, but I can take it. Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day, baby. All I do is think about you. All I fucking do – You gonna come for me? – is think about you.

Know you need it. Let ‘em hear you, downstairs.

Fuck, I’m thinking about you. Come home. I need you to come home, need you to –

Fuck me, Joel, I’m –

Good girl.

– fuck me.

Atta fuckin’ girl.

She’s good but I do it so much better.

We’re good at this. ‘s do it again.

She’s not as good as me.

Again? Again.

She’s not as good. She’s no fucking good.

Your walls clamp around your fist, entire body shuddering to a stop. Breath held by something shaped like the hook of his accent, two fingers either side of your throat. The same smirk on his lips that convinced you in the first place. Fuck, baby, fuck me.

“Joel,” you cry out, the sound ripping between your vocal cords, punching against the ceiling and reverberating in your ears. Your body convulses on the mattress, back arching and slackening again. “Fuck, I’m – oh, my –”

Just feel it, baby. Feel me. You got it.

Let go.

Your lungs lurch open again, breath flooding in like waves spilling over the gunwale and rushing down to pool at your feet. A lulling rock to your movements, chest rising and falling like the steady tide. Soothing, coming down. Foam and salt carrying the flotsam away, the jagged glass of his name disappearing to sea again.

And then he’s gone.

And you’re just alone in your bedroom.

Last you checked your phone, now face-down on the carpet at your hip, it was eight p.m. Streetlights on, the sky painted by the pale dregs of daytime.

Now, you lie in near-darkness, blinking up at the ceiling. Hand sifting through a bag of glow-in-the-dark stars, comparing the different sizes, considering where to stick them, and then tossing them back in frustration.

Your front door clicks open, a pause between the sound and his voice.

“Anyone home?” Joel calls, and you lift your wrist as though he can see it from the bottom of the fucking stairs.

“Up here,” you eventually announce, knuckles rubbing your tired eyes until Catherine wheels spatter across your eyelids.

His shadow splits the light from the hallway, the long rectangle crossing over your swollen belly. “The hell are you doin’?” he asks, wandering in.

You lift the bag. “Decorating. The hell are you doin’?”

He pulls your nursing pillow from its temporary home in the crib and tosses it down on the carpet, bending to lift your shoulders and slot it underneath. “Scooch,” he says, groaning as he lays back beside you. He smells like whiskey and cologne. All woody, pine and spice.

“You got a bad back,” you warn him. “You shouldn’t be all the way down here.”

“You’re seven months pregnant,” Joel clicks his teeth, “neither should you.”

“What if you get stuck ‘n can’t get back up?”

Offense pulls his brows together. “What if you do?”

You smile in response, feeling the heat of his shoulder against yours. Sucking the scent of him through your nose. The pair of you exchanging smirks and batting eyelashes, wrapped in the cool darkness of the room. It’s juvenile and intimate.

You’re trying not to think too much about it.

“I can’t fucking figure this out. I put two of the big stars over there,” you point to the far corner of the room, streetlight splintered by the shades on the ceiling, “but it looks stupid having two so close. So, then I thought,” moving your arm to the right, “a cluster of smaller ones, right over the crib. But I couldn’t move the damn thing to climb up, so…I’ve been down here ever since.”

Joel lifts his hand, stopping your train of thought. “Please do not climb on anything, bein’ that you are…with child.” And then, when your eyes roll to meet his, he grins, adding, “Nesting got you good, huh?”

“You should see my kitchen cupboards. Never been tidier.” Your expression dissolves, voice quietens – your most desperate plea since that morning you shook hands on his doorstep. Your broken wardrobes and his lonely wedding invite. “Will you help me?” you ask.

He thinks it over less than once, dragging his gaze from the twirling star in your fingers. A quick shake of his head, like it’s obvious. “’course I will. ‘s what I’m here for.” And then he yawns, lowering a hand absentmindedly to settle on the curve of your stomach; a gentle pat in greeting to Duck.

“How was dinner?”

“Good,” Joel lies.

“Vanessa okay?”

“Good,” again.

“Sorry.”

Joel’s eyes roll, fingers pausing. “Why do you always gotta be sorry for som’?”

You shrug when you realize it’s not a rhetorical question. He’s genuinely asking. “I don’t know. Just tryna be polite. I know you’d probably rather be at home right now, not…deciding where some plastic fuckin’ stars should go.”

“For my kid’s bedroom? For you?” He huffs something shaped like disapproval. “Do me a favor – stop with the sorrys, alright?”

“I’m not even done with the last fucking favor I said I’d do you.” Your eyes flit down to your bump.

He stares blankly. You know there’s a laugh gathering like hot air on a windowpane behind his eyes, threatening to shatter the glass.

“Fine,” you concede, “dickhead.”

“Better.”

You sigh, looking back down at the phosphorescent shape in your hands. Turning it over and over and over, matching the rhythm of his fingers tensing and then untensing on your belly. His fingers, matching the rhythm of your chest rising and falling with breath. The room quiet. The night’s eyes averted, even just for this moment.

“If it’s anything,” Joel says, “I think the stars look alright.”

Another stolen smile. Another defiant show of teeth. You place your hand on top of his: a thankful gesture, an invitation. Something in between.

Joel blinks back at you, his eyes flitting from yours to your lips. The dim light in the room swallowing the two of you whole, secluded in the upstairs of your home. And you think, Kiss me, kiss me kiss me kiss me, and you will the words over your tongue in a ragged breath – hoping that Joel might breathe them in and feel their sharp edges as they absorb into his bloodstream, each cell flipping like the star in your hand and whispering the same two words to him: Kiss her kiss her kiss her.

But right then –

There’s a burst of movement. Under your fingertips. A fluttering, like bubbles popping right below the surface of your skin.

Your eyes snap down at the same time Joel’s do; your fingers separating and hovering over your tummy.

“Did you – did you feel –?”

“Yeah. Did you?”

“Uhuh. Was that –?”

“I don’t know. Was it?”

He takes your hand, pressing it back against your stomach with his on top. Your knuckles safe in the canopy of his palm. Both staring into space as you hold your breath.

“They’re not…they’re not doin’ it, now…”

“Maybe it was just –”

“Wait! Did you feel that?”

A second burst on your womb, a tiny beat on the other side of your bump. A wide grin breaks across your cheeks, a disbelieving laugh escaping.

Joel laughs, too. “Is that – is that the first time they’ve ever –?”

“Yeah,” you sniff, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, “that’s the first I’ve ever felt ‘em, anyways.”

“Wait,” Joel says, lifting his hand and holding a finger up. Just yours on your belly. “They doin’ it?”

Your head shakes.

When he lowers his hand, Duckie kicks again. The two of you lean in to one another, exchanging laughter. You lift your own hand, watching his expression as he waits patiently.

But then his head shakes, too. “Nothing. They’re only doin’ it when it’s both of us.”

“What the fuck?” you laugh, replacing your hand and waiting for the baby drum. “How can they even tell? What the f–?”

You shift your hands around the globe of your bump, pausing every so often to feel for Duck’s movements. A tiny fist punching, or a heel kicking, or an elbow shoving right above your navel in a way that’s bordering on painful, but numbed by the sheer thrill of it.

And for a while, it’s all you do: play tag with your unborn baby, giggling when they respond to your tapping fingers and cooing voices.

Joel sits up, leaning on his elbow to talk to his kid; runs two fingers across your shirt like a pair of legs scaling a cotton covered hill. And he laughs, and you laugh at his laugh, as if he’s a kid himself again – tearing apart gifts on his birthday, gasping and throwing his head back with glee at whatever he uncovers.

“It feel weird?” he asks, glancing up at you.

“So fucking weird,” you tell him.

“Does it hurt?”

“More…ticklish, if anything. Might get kinda annoying, if they start doing it when I’m tryna sleep, or somethin’…”

Joel lowers his jaw to your stomach, whispering, “You know what to do, Duckie. Make your daddy proud.”

You slap his shoulder, muttering, “Asshole.”

“Alright,” he says, splintered by a laugh. He pushes himself to his feet, swiping the bag of stars from your side. “Let’s get these up so you two can get some sleep.”

You groan as he pulls you upright, one last pat on your stomach, looking at you a second too long and a touch too meaningful. Too warm, too inviting.

It’s the calm before the storm, though you’re still stood motionless. Still trying to work out whether the tornado is moving away, or headed directly for you.

At five in the morning, Vanessa’s sister calls her.

“Heart attack,” Joel tells you a few hours later, the rustle of paper crinkling in your ear. The truck hums in the background. He speaks through a mouthful of sandwich. “Her dad always had a condition, but they thought they were managin’ it with medication,” another crinkle, and then, voice even more obscured, “but he got rushed to hospital durin’ the night, and…”

“Poor Vanessa,” you reply, nail drawing shapes on the curve of your bump in attempt to lull Duck into a more relaxed state than the sharp kicks they’re throwing at your ribs. Now big and strong enough to do considerable damage, your voice falters each time they swing. “Is she – son of a bitch – is she okay?”

“Shaken up,” he says, turn signal ticking over his voice. “She’ll be alright. She’s pragmatic like that. Problem is – they’re in Houston. Her whole family. So I guess that’s where the funeral’s gonna be.”

You swing your legs off the couch, heaving your awkward, nine-months-pregnant body to your feet – the irritating scratch of hunger suddenly gnawing at your stomach. “Yeah?” you say, waddling through to the kitchen. “So?”

“So,” Joel takes another bite of sandwich, “she has to – I mean, we have to…go. To Houston.”

“We?” You slot the phone between your cheek and shoulder as you fish out a couple slices of bread.

“Me ‘n Vanessa.”

“Uhuh,” you carve a knife around a jar of peanut butter, “you gotta be there for her.”

Joel sounds a little defensive. “I know. And I am. I’m goin’ to be. ‘s just – I gotta be there for you, too. For – for Duck.”

Your stomach swirls, a fire catching which lights your chest in a trickle of flame.

“You are. You will be. Houston’s only, like, three hours away.”

He sighs.

The turn signal fills the silence between you, between Joel and an appropriate answer. Clicking like the sound of a tennis match, his head spinning between his grief-stricken girlfriend, and the third-trimester mother of his child.

“I’m here,” he says, and you hear the squeal of brakes out front. “Give me a sec.”

The door pushes open as you sink back into the couch, balancing the plate on the planet beneath your breasts. Joel crumples his sandwich paper in his fist and lowers his hand over the back of the couch, scrunching his fingers over your belly as he passes.

“Thought you hated that stuff,” he calls over his shoulder, disappearing into your kitchen.

“I had a craving,” you say, ripping the first bite from your sandwich. “You made me hungry.”

He returns a minute later with a glass of water which he sets down on the coffee table in front of you. He lifts your legs, letting them fall gently in his lap when he collapses into the opposite end of the couch, heels of his palms pressing against his eyes.

You tap his thigh with the ball of your foot and he turns to you, placing a hand over your ankles. A sticky paste of peanut butter and bread between your molars, you ask, “What’shup?”

Joel holds back a smirk at your chipmunk cheeks. “Just – just worried that you…you know, while I’m gone, is all.”

You scoff, gulping. “Come on. I am not gonna go into labor in the, what – two days? How long would you even be gone?”

He seems to wince at the thought, fingers sifting through his hair – a gray sweep sat casually over his left eyebrow; flicks following the curve of his ear towards the hinge of his jaw. “Less than that, if I can help it.”

“Joel.”

He turns to you, saying your name just as deflated in response.

“You have to go.”

He rolls his eyes, thumb and middle finger massaging his temples. Crosses his arms and huffs like a teenager. “Well, I ain’t happy about it.”

You snort, unable to hold it in as you take another bite. “I ‘on’t think Vanesha’sh too happy about it, either, to be honesh wih ya.”

Joel’s jaw slackens, a choked laugh bursting from the back of his throat. He lifts a cushion and swings it in your direction. “Heartless. That’s heartless, you know that? Jesus, baby.”

He leaves on Saturday morning.

You stand on your porch, watching him shove a suitcase into the backseat of his truck, squinting in the sunlight as he stalks across your front yard. Joining you in the shade, he leans into you, shoving you lightly.

“Quit it.” Your hand locking with his, steadying yourself. Something in the back of your mind begging him not to let go.

And as if he can hear the thought: “I can stay. You know I can stay, right?”

“I don’t want you to stay,” you tell him, sweeping the hair from his forehead. “We will be fine. We’ll stay up late, eat junk food and watch TV; I’ll do audio description for Duck…”

He scoffs, glancing across the street.

“…and then you’ll be back home, back to buggin’ the hell out of us. It’ll be Monday before you know it.”

Joel’s jaw tightens. “And what if…?”

“You really think that’s gonna happen? You think your kid’s that much of an asshole?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah,” he shrugs, tongue in his cheek, “they’re half you.”

“Alright,” you click your teeth, turning away from the simper on his lips, “why don’t you just fuck off to Houston now, asshole?”

“I’ll fuck off, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Uhuh. Here’s hoping you don’t break down, or get a flat, or get struck by lightning, or anything.”

“You’re so funny,” he whispers, leaning closer.

“Hm. Now go.”

His jaw turns, beard grazing your skin. And then his lips; soft and warm, damp when he kisses your cheek. A moment too long. And he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t lean back the way you both know he should. No, he lingers – his lips by your ear, eyes flitting up to the street to make sure nobody sees.

“Joel –”

“I know.”

“We shouldn’t –”

“I know.”

But your arm is hooking around his neck, asking him to do it anyway, and his lips are lowering to yours, submitting to your request, and what’s supposed to be a goodbye kiss lasts at least a few seconds too long for it to mean anything less than a don’t go kiss.

You pull away when you feel the wet dab of his tongue against yours, realizing with an ice-cold shock where you are, and who he is, and what’s happening. Realizing how fucking stupid it’d be for both of you, how catastrophic and terrible the outcome.

A one-night stand.

A one-night stand.

A one-night –

He leans his forehead against yours, nose nuzzling your cheek. “I’ll call you when we get there.”

Your arm loosens, letting him go.

Just – letting him go.

Saturday Night Live ends just after midnight.

You arch your back into the couch, your swollen belly pushing forward. It’s an effort to get to your feet, what with the steady ache in your back all day, the weight on your front, and the fucking human being smushed into every vital organ inside you.

A deep breath feels like it inflates your lungs only halfway, Duck using the bottom half as a fucking ass cushion, and scaling the stairs takes another ten minutes – by the end of which, you’re slumped against the handrail, pausing before making off for your room.

You sink into the mattress, creasing the cool, smooth sheets. Duck stirs inside you, stretches out and throws a right hook against your bladder. You curse under your breath, hoisting yourself back to your feet.

“We gotta sleep, baby,” you hum, swaying back and forth with a hand under your belly. “Shh, ‘s okay. Take your fuckin’ fist outta my bladder, you little asshole.”

Whichever traits of yours and Joel’s have blended into the human cocktail growing in your uterus, you know one thing for certain: this kid has your stubbornness. The weight remains on your bladder, regardless of how much swaying, or pacing, or rubbing, or threatening you do.

You growl, wandering through the upper floor of your house in attempt to shift Duckie, or distract yourself, or, at the very least, tire the two of you out enough to fall asleep.

From the nursery door handle hangs a little wooden star, a tauntingly sleepy smile painted on it. You push the door open with two hesitant fingers, stepping into the still bedroom, the weak wash of streetlight meeting moonlight on the greenish walls.

You suck in a deep breath, floorboards squealing as you take your first step. Over the crib hangs a plastic mobile, soft plush shapes twirling slowly. The matching changing table slotted alongside it, a rocking chair over by the window.

You pad across a fluffy rug and lower yourself into the chair, tilting back and forth on your toes as you glance around one of the two rooms you and Joel have spent the most time in since that October morning bonded you forever. A baby duck ornament perched on a shelf above the dresser, its orange legs dangling. A multi-photo frame Joel’s mom bought you, both scans in the first two slots and the third empty, lying in wait.

Your breathing fragments, struggles, eyes slipping over to the baby clothes hanging in the closet. “You know, little Duckie,” you whisper, rubbing your bump and thinking back to Tommy’s words six months ago, “you are a pretty lucky kid.”

The hooded towel robe on the back of the door, the perfect size for a newborn. The framed prints sat atop the chest of drawers, waiting to be nailed to the wall: a rainbow, a frog, a starry sky.

“You got two houses. Two bedrooms, all to yourself. You got two parents who already love you more ‘n the whole world. And,” you gulp, “you got Vanessa. And she loves you, too.”

You glance down, watching the tiny pulse of movement when the baby stretches in your womb. Your hands scoop them up, as if holding them closer than they already are. As if already cradling them, forcing yourself to feel less alone.

Duck seems to quieten, to still; seems to consider what you’re avoiding. Reads between the lines, hears the words you’re not speaking.

Two of everything, you think, and I barely even had one.

The most evidence you have of being loved by anyone in your life is the house you live in. Four brick walls and three decades’ worth of belongings, more inheritance than memories. But they roll around like marbles – they echo against the walls when they hit them. There’s nothing binding them, no thread of love, or family, or anything real enough to hold it all together.

You’re the only living organ inside a skeleton’s cage. A lonely little heartbeat, making noise for no one to hear.

And that’s the way it has been, at least since you were eight. The absence of warmth and safety isn’t anything new to you – it left the second your parents did. The last scrunch of your mom’s nails on your head, the last kiss of her lips to your plump little cheeks. The passing over to your grandma, like you were cargo, like you were a box to be checked.

Maybe you found some distant flicker of heat in the way Joel looked at you, the day you told him you were pregnant. Maybe you saw the same glimmer of a flame that you used to see in your mom’s eye. The rosy smell of her perfume, the feel of her finger inside five of yours. Maybe, for the first time since you were a kid, you felt safe.

We’re gonna work it out, he said. I’m here. We’re in this together, alright? I am not running out on you.

Together. And yet, now, sat in your child’s nursery – a room built from scratch by Joel’s two hands and strung together by every beat of your heart – you’ve never felt more alone. The same two hands that are wrapped around Vanessa right now, consoling her, wiping her tears away, massaging her shoulders and sweeping her hair from her eyes.

And the same heartbeat which quickens now, fueled by an angry desire, an impulse scratching deep into your flesh to march all the damn way to Houston and tear the pair of them apart. Like he’s yours; like the way he touches you and looks at you and talks to you means anything more than his child growing inside you.

Like it’s you he’s touching and looking at and talking to, and not Duck. Like his attention won’t cease to shine on you, the second this little baby leaves your body.

And then, washing over the scorching hot sand of anger: a foam-lined wave of guilt. Of shame, for wishing for the breakdown of something that clearly makes the two of them happy. That makes Joel…happy.

He doesn’t owe you anything – he was never yours to begin with. Just one drunken night, a mistake until you noticed the two pale lines on the pregnancy test. And by that point, he was already hers again. You had missed him without even knowing it.

You sigh, pushing up from the rocking chair and reaching for a tissue from the changing table. Turning back, giving the room one last teary glance before closing the door, you sniff.

“You’re just…the luckiest little kid who’s ever gonna live.”

At one twenty a.m., cicadas chirping and trees rustling, the low breeze carrying the sounds through your half-open window – your back begins to ache. A blunt, gnawing pain. Feels like your period, and in your doze, you stuff a pillow between your legs and pray you don’t stain the sheets with a show of blood.

The realization comes over you as if that stifling breeze flips to freezing. You slowly come around, eyes peeling open as you think it over twice, then three times, then four. Duck shifts somewhere deep inside you, somewhere you’ve never felt them shift before.

“…No. Not right now, Duck. You gotta give me, like, twenty-four hours. Just – wait until your dad gets ho–”

A blinding pain interrupts you, the moonlit-blue room fading out of focus for half a second before you’re wide awake, clutching the bottom of your spine where you’re sure the kid just tore a fucking hole straight through your uterus.

“You’re a fucking dick,” you whimper, fingers clenching in tight fists around the bedsheets. “You’re a fucking – dick.”

One twenty-three. You go into labor.

[percygranate]

⚠️PSA – ickybatz is back! Predators on AO3⚠️

⚠️TW for Mentions of Child Sexual Abuse, Child Abuse, Minor Sexual Content, Pedophilia, GROOMING, and Pedophile Conversations. PLEASE read and reblog if you can.

IMPORTANT UPDATE: Demobatz is NOT ickybatz, also known as batty-ruski, battyrusk.

I made a mistake by assuming due to the names, and after being in contact with Demobatz, I edited the post. I apologize for this but don't fully regret calling them out, as it helped Demobatz realize they made a mistake and it brought a lot of attention to the issue of predators on AO3 and Tumblr.

In-depth explanation [HERE]!

This 13/16-year-old CHILD is out here asking for pedophilia requests and getting encouraged and groomed by predators.

I accidentally came across it, and I encourage you to report them and everyone interacting with their work. There is a difference between dark romance, dark fics, and straight-up romanticization of children being assaulted.

They write about these children actively partaking and enjoying it, hoping they can please the adult taking advantage of them. These works are clearly written for the type of person that gets off on it.

——— Update ———

Their way of writing to cope with past trauma was groomed and manipulated by predators on AO3.

——— Update ———

——— False Information | Demobatz isn't Ickybatz ———

So much for “Oh, they are a traumatized child and made a mistake.” They now know it's wrong and continue doing it, even worse than before. And people continue to support it.

Their fucking apology was absolute bullshit. And everyone that came to their defense should be ashamed of themselves.

——— False Information | Demobatz isn't Ickybatz ———

↓ Here are AO3 accounts supporting this. ↓

Yes, they put warnings on their work and say “Don’t Like It, Don’t Read It!” But I would like to show you what they are writing, and how they are getting the attention of predators. I am sure you have to agree with me that they and everyone supporting this need to lose any type of platform they own. Demobatz should NOT be in any contact with these men.

⚠️They encourage each others to write this and Demobatz, A 13/16-YEAR-OLD, is actively putting themselves in danger by making “friends” for roleplay, and exchanging social media, with very likely, PEDOPHILES. They are actively getting groomed by people that know what they are doing.⚠️

——————————————————

↓These are their two original works↓

Financial Struggles — The summary says it all. But I feel like I should point out their conversation under their post.

Mother’s Milk — Sexual Assault of a male baby.

——————————————————

↓This is their work in the Stranger Things Fandom↓

Their work “Deceit” which is taking requests and actively posting has, as of May 21st, 16 Chapters.

1 — “Using this as a coping mechanism for my own trauma. Please request, any age is allowed❤️”

2 — Eddie Munson, 25 y/o | Reader, 17 y/o

3 — Uncle Steve Harrington & Eddie Munson | Reader, 6 y/o

4 — Eddie Munson, 20 y/o | Reader, 12 y/o

5 — Steve, 19 y/o & Eddie, 20 y/o | Reader, 14 y/o

6 — Dad Steve | Reader, 8 y/o

7 — Dad Steve & Eddie | Reader, 8 y/o

8 — Big Brother Steve | Reader, 4 y/o

9 — Big Brother Billy Hargrove | Reader, 6 y/o

10 — “Posting this so that you all can give me ideas on what to post next❤️ Anything is allowed/ age can be whatever you want♡♡!”

11 — Billy & Steve | Reader, 3 y/o

12 — Hopper & Joyce | Reader, 4 y/o

13 — !BILLY HARGROVE AND A NEWBORN BABY!

14 — Billy | Reader, 6 y/o & Max, 7 y/o

15 — “It hasn't been a week and I'm almost at 2,000 reads! Thank you all so much♡♡ Feel free to drop suggestions, request or even ideas/blurbs♡♡”

16 — Big Brother Eddie / Reader over the years, starting at 6 y/o

——————————————————

They actively encourage pedophilia and put themselves on a silver platter for predators.

If you are still trying to justify these types of works, please do it off anon and openly so you can be blocked since you are part of the problem.

Do not send threats, bullying, or harassment their way. Block and Report.

If you know one or more of the interacting blogs, call them out.

⚠️UPDATE: 22nd of May⚠️

Dear fellow Bloggers, Demobatz pedophilia fic “Deceit” has been taken down!

Yet their two original works (mentioned above) are still there. I ask you to keep reporting them!

Demobatz is currently using Wit as their social media to exchange ideas for their CSA & incest Erotica, and worse, to roleplay with potential predators.

⚠️Update: May 25th⚠️

AO3 has removed their account or they deleted it themselves. Their Wit profile has been deleted.

Due to this post, my blogs keep getting shadowbanned and reported.

⚠️Update: May 26th⚠️

DEMOBATZ CONTACTED ME AND I CAN CONFIRM THIS APOLOGY TO BE REAL!

In-depth continuation and explanation [HERE]!

⚠️I turned off Reblogs as the original post with false information is still making rounds and therefore people are missing information.⚠️

[qqueenofhades]

I'm watching the results come in for the French legislatives first round, and I have been following American presidential race and supreme court from afar. I am depressed. Please say something wise that will give me hope. I never thought to live through times like this.

Anonymous asked: Hey I know you said you’re avoiding posting about politics so absolutely feel free not to reply, but any tips about not getting hopeless? Especially when the fellow young people in your life are all clamoring to talk about how both parties are the same, they won’t vote, etc, etc (😑)?

Welp. It seems that what the people want to hear at this point is some Wise Words From Internet Grandmother Hilary, so... I will do my best to see what I can come up with. It bears repeating, as I have said many times before and will do so again, that I still have heard no better advice for living through The Horrors than the Gandalf: "So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us." Because, yeah. That, in its simplest essence, is it. We cannot control The Horrors. Individual people have never been able to control The Horrors, and five thousand-odd years after the invention of documented human history, here we still are, making the same stupid fucking mistakes. That is pretty maddening to deal with, and if you try to think of it like that, it is impossible to wrap your head around and it will only drive you crazy. So, then. What?

I will freely admit that I am scared too. Despite my best efforts, the post-debate furor wigged me out, I had to log off all social media and news sites for most of the weekend, not look at anything aside from one site I trust for two minutes, and try to get myself back in an okay headspace. So yes, rule number one: STOP DOOMSCROLLING. Please get a muzzle on that little voice in your head that says you HAVE to look, you HAVE to read everything, you have to KNOW JUST IN CASE HOW BAD IT COULD POSSIBLY BE. Then you look at stuff that makes you upset, and that leads to other stuff that makes you more upset, and then there you are in a stew of anxiety and anger and everything else that doesn't help. Do not look at the Bird Site Formerly Known as Twitter or news sites or anything else that is liable to have stuff that upsets you, especially in Panic!!! moments like this. It is designed to make you feel worse and it obscures the fact that nobody actually knows. Like, I devoutly hope that the anonymous "adviser to a prominent Democrat" and the NYT editorial board and everyone else screaming about how Biden should drop out right now step on ten Legos a day for the rest of their lives, but they also DO NOT KNOW (and given the NYT nakedly admitting to a personal vendetta against Biden for not giving them an interview, everyone can see exactly what this crass and unbelievably stupid sabotage attempt is, but yeah). Even if they get quoted in prominent publications, they do not know what is going to happen. They are not prophets. The NYT has, as noted, showed its ass 800 times before and keeps coming up with polls that are so ludicrously pro-Trump that it's becoming a cottage industry to debunk them. They are crass and cynical and trash and all that, they have vested interests, they have a platform, but repeat after me: WE DO NOT KNOW "FOR A FACT" THAT EVERYTHING IS DOOMED AND WILL NEVER BE OKAY AGAIN IF WE DO NOT LISTEN TO THE ALMIGHTY NEW YORK TIMES. In fact, the NYT has been so fucking wrong so fucking many times that at this point, I would bet on it being the other way around.

As part of my Bad Headspace Night on Friday night, I did picture the worst-case scenario of Trump winning, American democracy being overthrown, fascists around the world being emboldened, etc. It was a nasty mental picture and I didn't like anything that would come about if it did, but I had to remind myself that even if it did happen, well, the world would still be here, and good people who care about its future would have to do something to make that future happen. It would be ten times harder and it would be the result of another unimaginably evil and cynical fascist sabotage campaign, but... those are not exactly unprecedented in human history. (See: making all those mistakes over and over again.) People in the past were faced with those same exact moments where everything seemed monumentally hopeless and doomed for a generation, and they fought back, and they won. That's the thing. Fascists are evil and awful and terribly unnecessarily destructive, but they are not unbeatable, and they never have been. If we make the choice to resist them, then, well, they can be resisted. It will not happen by posting vaporous screeds on social media, or sitting on your ass and waiting for some miraculous savior/revolution/whatever to swoop in and save you, but it can happen, and it can work. That's what is very hard to remember in the current Horrors, but it's the way it's been for as long as there has been evil. It is not the be-all and end-all of the human experience and never will be.

Likewise: if a la the second anon you're being surrounded with people who are saying stupid things and making you feel worse: just don't be around them any more. It's that simple and you should do it. You can unfollow people who are posting defeatist rubbish, or you can avoid spending time with people railing about how everything is already doomed and voting is useless, etc. You may feel guilty because these people are your friends or you don't want to cut off contact, but you need to do what is best for your mental health, and if all you hear is BS, then, yeah. Pull the plug, cut the cord, do whatever you want. You do not owe anyone else your headspace, your attention, your mental health, or anything else, especially if it is demonstrably idiotic and incorrect. Find ways to do something. Go out and volunteer. Put down the phone (again, this cannot be overemphasized) and stop looking at doomerists on Twitter who get their engagement fix from making you upset and angry. Read a book, watch a TV show, visit a friend in real life, take a walk outside (if you don't live in a furnace, which unfortunately a lot of us do right now). Just sit and close your eyes and meditate. Stretch or move your body. Drink water. Super basic ordinary things that get you away from the increasingly frantic death spiral mindset and put you back in the reminder that things are never over and there is still a lot of time for everything.

As I said: I am doing this myself right now. It is not easy. I know it is not. I wish that we lived in a kinder timeline where this was not necessary, but as Gandalf says, nobody ever wishes for this and yet it happens nonetheless. But we can still control how we react to it and identify the things that are doing their best to make us feel terrible and doomed and hopeless, and make a choice to move away from them. We do not know what's going to happen, no. But we also do not know that everything is doomed, and you know what, it usually ends up not being that way. So that's what I can offer for now. Courage.

[nightwngz]

dbf! hal jordan needed!!!💖

— 𝐃𝐀𝐃’𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃 !! 🧪

hal jordan x fem!reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬… porn with plot. smut. age gap. dbf! hal. fingering, blowjob, dirty talk, pet names “doll”, p in v.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁. . . no copying of my work is allowed. Free translation is allowed as long as I am credited.

𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞… as I said in my other posts, English is not my first language. I have tried to make corrections with the translator, but as you all know, it is prone to making mistakes, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes or if anything sounds weird.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞… This is definitely my favorite request ever. I NEED MORE REQUESTS ABOUT HAL 🙏🏻🙏🏻. I hope you like this <3

For as long as you can remember, Hal Jordan has been your father’s best friend. The friend who occasionally ate lunch at your house, and the friend you were never supposed to be attracted to.

And in the darkness of his apartment, when the two of you were alone in his room, you realized it was a complete mistake to get involved with him. But as bad as it was, you couldn't stop looking for him.

He was in front of you, but you weren't watching him because your mouth was busy doing other things. Specifically, your tongue surrounded every inch of his erect cock, staining your mouth with his wet essence.

At the same time, he held your hair to guide your movements. But when his size started to suffocate you, that was the moment when you started to cry because you couldn't stand it.

— Come on, doll. I thought you could handle it.

He smirked as he pulled your mouth away from his cock to admire your smeared face. He even reached out to wipe some of his cum off your chin with his thumb, only to put it back in your mouth later and have you lick it all off.

— Did you swallow it all like I taught you?

Tears soaked your cheeks, but you nodded as best you could.

You were then roughly thrown onto the bedspread. He positioned himself against you, pressing your body against the mattress. His mouth threatened to touch somewhere on your naked body, but the touch of his lips was the least you could feel, so you began to feel more anxious than usual.

— You want this, don't you, doll? Look at you, crying like a slut just for a few caresses. — He whispered in your ear.

— Please…

— That's all you can say? What's wrong with you? Has sucking my dick made you stupid?

You began to breathe heavily as you felt him begin to move down your body. With one hand, he outlined your bare thighs with the suggestive intention of opening them until he could reveal what was hidden between them.

— Shh, stop crying. I'll give you what you want.

His warm hand traced the wet outline of your pussy, the simple touch it was enough to make you feel more and more sensitive. Then you felt his long fingers sloshing through the wetness of your pussy, moving up and down until they finally met the all-important main thing. His fingers had the eagerness to close by squeezing your swollen clit between them. And so the terribly pleasurable sensation was not long in coming, nor were your moans.

— Hal…

That was the name you moaned over and over again. And as bad as what you were doing was, it felt incredibly good.

— I know, I know. — He comforted you. — Do you know how easy it is to make you beg for just two of my fingers? I'll do this as many times as I want.

One of his fingers slipped inside your hole. It was wet and tight, but still, it began to swallow Hal's fingers completely. He was able to stretch them until he found the key spot inside you and began to touch it, causing your back to arch and soon, the mixture of stimulation brought you closer to cumming.

You couldn't even think clearly when you reached the point where his hand would end up stained all over your orgasm, but as soon as you regained consciousness, you looked into the man's eyes and witnessed an obscene act as he enticed you to suck his fingers.

— Clean up your mess, doll. — He commanded and then proceeded to stick his fingers in your mouth and finally be completely cleaned of your essence thanks to your tongue. — That's right, good girl. Your daddy would be so proud, look how obedient you are.

Not long after, you found yourself face down, with your head buried in the pillow and your ass in a position that would make it easy for Hal to fuck you comfortably as he pleased. The sound of sighs, moans and your skins colliding was all that could be heard in every corner of the room.

You could feel it. You could feel it stretching you and taking every bit of you. The pleasurable sensation that filled your body was impossible to define or explain. The movements were precise, hitting the same sensitive spot where he had touched you before. You could feel the satisfaction so deep in your belly that deep down you were begging for it to never end.

— Believe me… when I met you, from the first day, I wished I had you like this. It's funny, really, your daddy can't even imagine how slutty you are and how well you take me every night.

[treasure444]

Title: I'm so in love with you. Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Fem!Reader WC: ~3.7K Content Warnings: SMUT (Unprotected, Simon is a biiiit of a bottom, Simon likes being bit) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, feels, Reader gets injured, angst but it does have a good/happy ending. I know I just posted a Simon Riley fic, but the brain rot DO be brain rotting. My current hyperfixation. I have lots of other stories half-written or fleshed out for all the characters I write for, and I am getting to them, I promise!!

Wonderfully beta'd by the ever amazing @universitypenguin - if you have not read anything Alice has posted, please do so! The Princess and The Lawyer is AMAZING!!

Requests are open, feel free to submit, and to those who already have, I promise I am working on them!!

It was moments like these that you genuinely dreaded, sometimes wishing that you had chosen something different. Everyone, even now, always questioned why this was the career chosen. You had never been able to fully answer, always giving a vague, ‘I’m in it for the same reasons everyone else is.’ Never truly knew why, what pulled you here. 

The satisfaction when you had won was unlike any other, but so were the nightmares. The constant replay of the field, the battles, the close calls that could have ended up much worse. It was never about you, no, rather your teammates. The close calls they faced, that were your fault. If you had been a few seconds quicker, or had just slowed down and aimed properly, you could’ve avoided these moments.

That’s where you currently found yourself, in a meeting with Captain Price, and Lieutenant Riley. Both very terrifying men. At least, Price was trying to make it easier on you, giving soft smiles, and ‘Ghost, relax. Everyone makes mistakes.’ 

A bite of ‘doesn’t matter, they should be able to conduct themselves properly.’ Was fired back. It was no secret the Lieutenant had a distaste for you. Maybe because you were ‘reckless’ as he had described you multiple times. Perhaps it was because at the end of the day he ended up having to save you more than once. Soap had attempted to calm your nerves one day, explaining ‘he gets like this with everyone. ‘S not just you.’ 

You saw the way he acted upon passing. With other soldiers, it was a very slight almost imperceptible nod of his head, but for you the ever-present scowl on his face seemed to deepen. No matter what you had tried, you could never get that recognition that you so desperately wanted. 

“Captain,” you said, gaining his attention, “W-While I appreciate the help, he’s not wrong. I-I don’t agree with the way he’s making his points, but I should’ve been paying more attention. Gaz could’ve been seriously hurt i—“ 

“He could’ve been killed! Because of you!” Ghost’s voice boomed across the Captain’s office. You jumped in your seat.

“You’re absolutely right,” you said looking at Ghost, “and I am sorry.” 

He grunted in response, before stalking out of the room.

“Ignore him, he’s stressed out over the next mission.”

You shook your head, “He’s right. Gaz could’ve died because of my mistake.” The guilt sat stationary in your chest. 

Price offered a sympathetic smile, “Ghost’s has also had some close calls. That is very similar to the potential today. We all have had some pretty close calls. Don’t let him get in your head.” 

You nodded, and rose from the chair on a shaky breath, “thank you.” 

Price nodded, “You’re welcome. There’s a debriefing in an hour.” He reminded. 

You nodded and walked out to get ready for the meeting. 

Three hours later you had found yourself in the middle of the battlefield. According to Price, it should’ve been an ‘easy’ mission. Gather the intel and get out, you hadn’t planned for the ambush. You had been almost positive you were safe, hidden behind a barrel, Ghost beside you. That was until you caught sight of the enemy behind you. 

You caught them raising their gun, aiming for the lieutenant. Soap screamed for him, you pushed him clean out of the way before hearing two gunshots ring out. One of which had pierced the enemy, knocking him down instantly. The other lodged itself into your thigh. You didn’t quite register the shot at first. Not until Soap was by your side. 

“Just go. Scan the perimeter, make sure there’s no more, make sure Gaz has the intel.” You spoke before he even had a chance to say anything to you. Soap ran off, you sat yourself down, still hiding behind the barrel. Your hand weakly pressing against the wound in your thigh. 

You leaned your head back against the barrel, closing your eyes as your hand was replaced by Ghost’s gloved appendage. You whined as he put more pressure than you had been. “I know, I know. Stay with me.” 

You giggled softly, “ironic, isn’t it?” Your head rolled to the side. “This time it wasn’t you saving me.” 

You watched Ghost’s eyes pass between your face and your leg repeatedly. His voice became distorted as he spoke into the walkie on his shoulder, more than likely explaining the situation to Price, and Gaz. Your eyelids grew heavy, so you opted to keep them closed. 

You could hear the concern in Ghost’s voice, but you could no longer hear the words. Could still feel the gloved hand pushing at your skin, but no longer the pain. You slowly allowed yourself to fall into the unconsciousness pulling at you. 

You came to, to the sounds of beeping and hushed voices. Confused, you opened your eyes, “Jesus.” You squinted, looking around. You found Price, and Ghost by your bedside. 

“Hey. How do you feel?” Price spoke, keeping his voice soft. 

“What happened?” Your voice came out weak. Ghost handed you a small paper cup with a straw. Noting he didn’t have the gloves on anymore. 

“Drink this. Small Sips. ” He spoke. You took it, taking a small sip as he instructed.

“You were shot.” Price spoke up again, and everything came back to you, “You were lucky. The bullet missed the femoral artery. Small fracture, you’re off for the next 8 to 12 weeks.” 

“8 to 12 weeks?” Your eyes widened, “No, Price there has to be a mistake! Surely it won’t take that long!” You handed the cup back to Ghost.

“That’s what the doctor has said, and that’s what we’re going by.” Price told you before his phone went off, and he walked out to take the call. 

You groaned, throwing your head back into the pillows. Ghost chuckled before handing you the cup again, “I bet you’re really regretting taking that bullet for me now huh?” 

You looked over at him, “not at all,” you smiled, “but I have to ask, where’d the gloves go?” 

You heard, more than saw, the audible gulp he took. “Had to take them off.” 

You nodded like you understood the implication of what he was saying. Which you did. You remembered him pressing his hands down against the wound trying to get the blood to clot. Saw how your blood stained the white part of the skeleton fabric. 

When you looked back up at him, you could see the fear. For once you saw your strong-willed, cold-hearted lieutenant, genuinely scared. For you. Like he was reliving what happened. Like he couldn’t believe you were still here. 

The word lucky rattled around in your brain. Echoing Price’s infliction. You were incredibly lucky, though you weren’t sure you’d admit it out loud. Something had shifted. You weren’t able to pinpoint exactly what, but something in the air of your hospital room felt different.

The aftermath of a mission always did funky things to you. Things you could never fully understand. Adding to that, the fact that you had been out of commission for the last 10 weeks. You had been a little rusty. Which was how you found yourself being dragged out to Ghost’s office. You were sure that he was mad, that he was going to berate you when he called you to his office. However, he led you past his office, and into his personal quarters. “You’re always such a problem.” He said as he closed the door behind you. 

“I didn’t see it!” You watched him. 

“I’m not saying anything.” He defended. 

“You are! You’re saying that I’m a problem.” 

“Because you are. I consistently am having to step in and save your ass because you’re so reckless.” 

“You can’t seriously sit there and get caught up in the few times you’ve saved me! Are you serious?! This is a fucking joke. You’re a fucking joke.” Your voice raised, anger shooting through your body. 

Ghost glared at you. “I’M the joke?! You must really think highly of yourself!” 

“Highl— What?! This is. No. No! I’m leaving. I will not allow you to sit here and treat me like this.” You stomped towards the door. You didn’t make it very far, before Ghost’s hand wrapped around your upper arm. 

“Do you care so little for your own life?” He spun you around to face him.

”What?” 

“Honestly, you’re reckless on the field, you almost stepped on a damn landmine today!! You took a bullet for me!” 

“I told you, I didn’t see it! I’m not reckless, and who knows what would have happened if I had let the bullet hit you! You could’ve died! I wasn’t willing to watch anything happen to you, when I could’ve helped!” 

“Why?!” 

“Because I care about you! Because the thought of you not being here hurts me more than I want to admit! Because the thought of not hearing your fucking voice every day, scares me!” You shouted, feeling the tears come to the surface of your eyes, but you refused to cry in front of him. 

The shock of your words had Ghost releasing his grip on you, if only slightly. You shook your head. “Forget it.” you sniffled and opened the door walking further down the hallway. Ghost snapped to his senses, and called you, but you were out of his sight. 

You had asked Price for some extra time. “A few more weeks, I want to make sure that I’m ready to be on the field again.” Was what you had told him, when in reality, you wanted to prolong your solitude. You hadn’t spoken to Ghost since your outburst, but he seemed content in letting it happen. Leaving you alone. 

Sure, you had run into each other a few times, damn near impossible not to, but never spoken to each other. In the time that you hadn’t been on missions, you spent it in your room reading, or in the gym trying to strengthen yourself. 

The boys had come back from another successful mission, elated but bruised. You smiled and hugged each of them with the exception of Ghost. You merely nodded at him, he stood stoic as ever. 

Soap threw his arm around you before leading you inside, with everyone following, “You’ll have to come with us on the next one. It’ll be just like old times!” He sang. 

You giggled, “yeah, maybe. We’ll see how I’m feeling.” 

“Well, at least come out to drink with us tonight! We’re heading to Bar Code.” Soap shook your shoulders lightly. He was always in a good mood after a successful mission. 

You nodded, “Sure.” 

That was how you found yourself in civilian clothing, sitting across from Price. Just shooting the shit with the boys reminded you of old times, better times. Price called your name, “you’ve been training. A lot harder than we’ve seen you before.” 

You smiled, knowing it was a compliment of the highest form, “Thank you, sir. I just want to make sure that I’m ready to be back in the field.” 

“So, I can count on you for the next one then?” 

Your smile widened, as you nodded, and Soap and Gaz whooped and cheered. “Well!” Gaz was the one to throw his arm around you this time, “I say that’s cause for celebrations! I’ll go get more drinks.” 

He moved to stand, but you put your hand on top of his on your shoulder, “let me.” You giggled as he withdrew and stood, walking over to the bar. 

Ordering what you knew everyone liked, you leant against the bar as you waited for the drinks. A slimy looking man slid next to you, “what’s a pretty little thing like you doing here all by yourself?” He clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. 

“Oh,” you said quietly, moving away slightly, “I’m not alone. Here with some friends.” Of course Ghost had caught sight of him before he got close to you. 

The man followed you, before a hand reached out to grip your waist, pulling you closer. You leaned away. “C’mon. Don’t be like that. I bet they won’t even notice if you’re gone.” You could smell the alcohol on him before he even opened his mouth. 

You kept pushing at his chest, getting more alarmed by the moment, “I-I’m flattered, but not interested,” you looked around for someone, anyone to help you, but found no one. “I really should get back to my friends.” 

In an instant, Ghost was by your side. Unwrapping the stranger's hand from you before pulling you behind him. “You okay?” He looked over his shoulder at you. 

You nodded, and walked to the table silently. From what you saw the unknown man backed down pretty quickly, given Ghost was still in his tac gear, minus the vest. 

Ghost had come back with the drinks and set them down. Not another word was said between you and him for the rest of the night. 

Getting back to the base, everyone went their separate ways. Everyone except Ghost who pulled you with him into an empty barracks room. It was a standard room, with a bed in the back corner, small desk and lamp on the right side, and an armoire on the left.   “Ghost.. What do–” 

“Simon.” He cut you off. 

You tilted your head, confused. “Call me Simon. Please.” 

“Okay… Simon. Is there something you need?” 

His eyes fluttered shut as you said his name. “I think a conversation is needed.” 

“Conversation about what?” You crossed your arms over your chest. 

“What did you mean?” His eyes opened, solely focusing on your face, your reaction to him. “You said you care about me. But there’s so many things that could mean.” 

You took a deep breath in, and dropped your arms. “I’m exhausted. We can talk about this later.” You turned for the door. 

Simon muttered your name, “You and I both know if you walk out of here, this conversation won’t ever happen.” His voice stopped you from moving any further. “Please.” His voice softened to a whisper. 

“You’re a big boy, Simon. I’m sure you can figure it out. Given the context.” 

“I want to hear you say it.” 

“Why? So you can embarrass me some more? To make me relive that specific part of the conversation for days? I already have. I shouldn’t have said anything, it was vastly inappropriate.” 

Simon shook his head, stepping closer to you. “Tell me. Please.” 

A shiver flew down your spine. “You make it sound so easy. It won’t fix anything.” 

Simon stayed quiet behind you. He was close enough at this point to feel the body heat he gave off. You sighed, defeated. “I care about you.” You whisper. 

“And what does that mean?” Simon whispered back. 

You closed your eyes, staying quiet. This time when he said your name, he coated it in adoration, in awe. Pressing his body even closer, you caved. 

“I’m into you.” You felt his forehead come to rest on your shoulder. 

“Again.” He commanded, softly as his arm wrapped around your waist. 

You smiled, biting your lip, “I like you.” 

Simon pulled you back so you were fully flush against him. “Again.” 

“I have feelings for you.” 

His grip tightened, hand moving to your hip as he spun you to face him. “Once more.” He watched you. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, “I am so in love with you it hurts sometimes.” 

“Yeah?” He breathed, and you nodded as his face drew closer. 

“Yeah” you whispered moments before he pushed his mask up just past his nose, and kissed you. 

Fuck, he was good. He knew how to hook you in, one hand resting on the hinge of your jaw, and the other on your waist. Pulling you in, while simultaneously keeping you where he wanted you.

You couldn’t resist kissing back, placing your hands firmly on his chest. You could feel the low rumble he let out. Pulling away for a second, Simon dragged his thumb down the center of your lips. Your breathing was rapid, your mind felt like it was in the clouds. 

Without thinking, you leaned back in to capture his lips this time. His hands drifted down your body, before tapping the backs of your thighs. You shook your head only slightly to still keep your lips attached to his. 

He grunted into your mouth, before crouching slightly, and lifting you into his arms. You gasped before breaking apart, “Simon, put me down.” 

You saw his lips pull up into a smirk, “gladly” you watched his mouth form the word. He walked over, tightening his grip only moments before dropping you against the mattress. 

You squealed softly, before this mountain of a man was sprawled out on top of you, reattaching his lips to any skin he could find. Kissing down your face, to your neck. Hands pawing at your body, lifting your shirt to caress your skin. You whined, before sitting up only enough to pull your shirt off. 

“Atta girl.” Simon praised before reattaching his mouth to yours. His hands roaming your body, gently groping along his way as he finds the buttons on your jeans and slides them along with your panties off in one motion. 

You truly don’t know what came over you, the need to have Simon under you, succumbing to whatever you wanted, was overwhelming. 

So that was exactly what you decided to do, as you heaved your body so you had him pinned beneath you. The surprise of it alone had him pulling away from you. Hands coming to rest on your thighs. 

You made a show of removing your bra, the accompanying groan from him as you removed the last article of clothing was satisfying. You carefully slid down his body, removing articles of clothing as you went, until he was completely naked, and completely at your mercy. You looked down at him, your lip between your teeth. 

“Not so big and bad now are you?” You spoke softly, lining Simon’s leaking cock with your entrance, not able to stand another moment of the teasing.

“Don’t be a fucking tease, baby.” Simon gritted out. 

“Me? Never” You spoke, sliding him inside until you were flush with his hips. Gasping, as he gently bucked up into you. 

The grunt Simon let out had you clenching around him. His hands clasped around your hips, expletives being whispered into the air around you two. 

You brought yourself up just enough for him to slide out enough, before dropping yourself back down. “Fuck, yes. Just like that.” Simon whined. 

The sound alone had you falling forward, hands coming up to catch yourself on his chest. You let out a moan, as his hands roamed your body. “C’mon. Need me to take the lead?” He teased. 

You bit your lip as you straightened yourself out, and started bouncing on his cock. Simon’s head rolled back further into the pillow. Small chants of yes left his mouth. You glanced down at him, completely at your mercy, and you let out a borderline pornographic moan. 

Simon’s neck had been on full display, the veins distended, almost inviting. He was clenching his teeth, so as to keep all those little sounds in. Eventually, the intrusive thought won and you leant forward. Lips and teeth sucking a bright red hickey into his neck. “Oh, Fuck.” Simon mewled. 

Laving your tongue over the new mark, you felt a swell of pride. “Can’t take it?” You whispered into his ear, gently biting down on his earlobe. Simon let out a high pitched whine. “Who knew Simon Riley liked being bitten huh?” 

His hands settled back on your hips, “please” he grunted. 

You cooed, straightening and planting your hands on his chest once again, as you worked yourself against his cock. “Awwww. D’you wanna cum?” 

Increasing your speed, you could feel the stutter in his breath under your hands. One of his hands running up your back, to cup the back of your neck, pulling you down. 

Capturing your lips, he kissed any and all smart comments, and thoughts out of your head. Simon pulled away from you enough to let out a long, drawn out moan, as your hips stuttered, and you felt the warmth of his cum flooding you. 

You gasped, not expecting it so quickly. The pure, unadulterated power you felt in this moment was enormous. You just made big, bad, cold-hearted Simon Riley cum before you. 

Simon’s hands fell to your thighs, gently running his fingers over where the bullet had entered, “shit.” breathing labored, unable to think. 

You looked down at him, breathing picking up, eyes wide. “One more.” You surprised even yourself. “Give me one more. Si, just one more.” You spoke, grinding your hips against his. 

He grunted your name, “I can’t.” 

“Yes, yes you can. Gimme one more. You’re such a good boy, Si. You can gimme one more, yeah?” You whined, resuming bouncing on his cock once more. 

Simon whimpered, “Please.” 

“Yeah, there it is. Look at you. Letting me use you like this. Fuck. So good for me, yeah?” 

You watched Simon’s eyes roll back in his head, mouth open just slightly, allowing all the little noises loose. The little moans, hiccups, and half whines. You’d be lying if you said it wasn’t getting to you. 

“You’re so hot like this. Can’t shut you up, can I?” You spoke, hips faltering. 

Soft chants of please left Simon’s pretty pink lips, head rolling from side to side. He was a sight. “Gonna cum again for me, Si?” You taunted him. 

Simon hiccuped, and nodded furiously. His entire body tensed, letting out an absolute wrecked moan, you once again felt the warmth of his seed, which only triggered your own orgasm this time. 

Head thrown back, grinding your hips before slowing to a complete stop. Slowly you lifted yourself on your knees and climbed off him. Simon chuckled as you collapsed beside him. 

“That definitely was not expected.” You wheezed out, attempting to catch your breath. 

“What part?” Simon smirked, pulling his mask back down. 

“All of it.” You yawned, and curled into his side. 

“We can dissect it in the morning, get some rest.” Simon ran his hand along your back gently, and you fell asleep in no time.

[girls-are-weird]

YR fanfic pet peeves (and corrections): latin america edition

so. i was originally going to post this in january as a kind of "new year, new opportunity to learn about simon's hispanic heritage" kind of a thing, but life got busy, and then my computer died and i lost my original list, so i've had to reconstruct this from memory as best as i could. there may be some stuff missing, so perhaps i'll just keep adding to this post as missing/new points come to mind.

disclaimer 1: if you've included any of the points made here on any fanfic of yours, please don't take this as a call-out. this isn't intended to shame anyone, but rather as an educational opportunity. it's very rare that a latin american nationality that is not mexican or colombian or puerto rican is showcased in an international show, especially outside of the US, and it's given me such joy to have all of you lovely folks make the effort to be open to and research and understand the idiosyncrasies of simon's (and omar's) heritage because the rest of latin america tends to go overlooked in most other fandoms. so i don't intend to scold anyone with this. we can't all know everything about every other culture-- lord knows i don't know everything about sweden, but i want to be respectful to the country and its people and that is why i heavily research anything i don't know and ask people who do know when my research doesn't quite cover it and am open to corrections when even that falls short. i expect most of you come to write about simon's family background in good faith and also want to be respectful to his family's culture, and so i thought i might make things a bit easier for you all by putting the most common errors/misunderstandings i've seen in one handy post. but once again, it's not a call-out, i don't get offended by these things, and i'm in no way implying, if you've done any of these things in fic or in life, that you are a bad person. i understand people make mistakes when they don't know things.

disclaimer 2: i am not venezuelan myself. i was born and raised in the same general region of latin america, though, and i have venezuelan friends and have worked with venezuelan people and have visited venezuela. generally speaking, i feel their culture is very similar to mine (though our spanish is much closer to spanglish than theirs is, haha xD) and feel a deep kinship with them. but of course, i'm no native, and if you're venezuelan and catch anything here that you feel is incorrect, feel free to point it out and i'll add a correction in your name.

warning: this is very long. christ almighty. DX if you can't make it to the end, tl;dr-- feel free to ask if you have any questions or if anything isn't clear. my ask box/messages are always open.

1- "mijo." this is the only one that legit has caused me to click out of several fics/chapters, at least in the beginning, but i've learned to grin and bear it by now. it's not so much that it's wrong, per se, but rather it's more of a location issue. "mijo" is, to my ears, very much a mexican (or, if you stretch it, northern triangle) slang. it IS used sparingly in other countries, but rarely used unironically. instead, if you hear the term used in the caribbean region of latin america (which my country is part of, as is a large part of venezuela), it's almost always used… let's say sarcastically. for example, if your grown-ass adult friend is being a dumbass and doing something reckless, you might call out "oiga, mijo, se va a romper el cuello" ("hey, mijo, you're going to break your neck"). basically, it's a way of calling someone immature like a child. it doesn't have to be ENTIRELY unaffectionate (kinda like the way someone might call their significant other "idiot" or "dummy" but mean it endearingly. in fact, in colombia it's way more common for spouses to call each other "mijo/a" than it is for them to call their children that), but you can also use it with complete strangers-- like if someone cuts sharply into your lane while you're driving, you might yell at them "oiga, mijo, a donde le enseñaron a manejar, en un potrero?!" ("hey, mijo, where did you learn how to drive, in a horse paddock?!"). but even in these sarcastic/neggy cases, it's rare. and EVEN RARER to hear a mother call her children "mijo" or "mija" in this region. it's just not a thing. so when i read it in fanfic, it immediately takes me out of the story because it's so weird to me that linda would sound mexican-- it's a very distinctive accent, which carmen gloria 1000000% does not have. (plus, "mijo" in spanish is a type of birdseed. so it gave me a chuckle the first few times i read it in a fic because i always have that brief second of confusion where i go "why is linda calling simon birdseed?" before it clicks. xD i'm a dork.) it's much more likely that linda would just say "hijo" or "mi hijo," instead.

1b- the way you decide on whether to use "hijo" or "mi hijo" is important because "mi hijo" can sound overly formal in the modern context especially, much like it would in english. in fact, you can use the english version of it, "son" vs "my son" to guide you on which of the two to use. like for example, if linda were to say directly to simon "i love you, my son," she would sound oddly old-timey and anachronistic, so you would just use "son" ("hijo") in that case. whereas if she's talking about simon with someone else, for example saying "i told my son to be here on time," you'd be perfectly okay to use "mi hijo" in that sentence in spanish. it's very transferable in that case.

2- speaking of non-transferable, though, you can't use "cariño" in all instances you would use "sweetheart" or "sweetie." it really depends on the grammatical construction, and it can be tricky to get it right, but it depends on whether you're using it as a direct address or as an object. for example, if you're using it in place of someone's name-- say, a mother telling her child "te quiero, cariño" ("i love you, sweetheart/sweetie") is perfectly fine, because in that case, she could also say "te quiero, hijo" ("i love you, son") or "te quiero, simon" ("i love you, simon"). but if, say, simon says to wille "you're my sweetheart," you would not use "cariño" there; you'd go instead with some syrupy way to say "boyfriend," like "eres mi novio" or "eres mi enamorado" or even "eres mi amor," and if sara tells felice "you're a sweetheart," that would also not involve "cariño" at all. in addition, "cariño" is also very rarely used in plural; if linda is using a term of endearment for both her kids, or for a group of teens her kids' age, she would use a different term of endearment altogether: "hola, mis amores" ("hi, my loves"), "hola, bebés" ("hi, babies") or "hola, mis tesoros" ("hi, my treasures") among some examples. one exception is when you say "cariños míos" ("my sweethearts"), but very rarely the plural by itself. in fact, "cariño" is often slang for gift or present, especially in the diminutive-- for example, if you go to someone's celebratory party for some occassion (birthdays, graduations, baby showers, heck even christmas), you might hand them a small gift and go "te traje un cariñito" ("i brought you a small present"), and if it's more than one gift, or you're bringing gifts for several people, then you'd say "unos cariños" or "unos cariñitos" in the plural.

3- simon's skin is tan, not tanned. this… doesn't personally bug me as much because it's more of an english grammar issue, but i know people who might actually feel very offended if you get this one wrong with respect to them. "tan" is a color; a light shade of brown. "tanned" implies the original color of your skin has darkened with the sun. now, i'm sure simon can tan (lucky goat, says she whose skin burns even while indoors), but about 95% of the time "tanned" is used in YR fanfiction, it's used as a descriptor of the color of simon's skin as we see it on the show. that would imply his skin used to be lighter at some indeterminate before-time and has been darkened by the sun. this is incorrect; that is the natural color of simon's skin. so stick to "tan skin" instead (not tan PERSON, mind you. his SKIN is tan, he is not). and i would gently suggest that if you take away any single thing from this post, make it ESPECIALLY this point, as someone more sensitive than me might interpret this error as some kind of retroactive whitewashing. and i don't want anyone here to get in trouble for simply not knowing.

4- pabellón criollo is one dish, yes, but it's four different FOODS. it's not something a newbie would be able to make off of a recipe (i don't know how to make it and i've been eating it all my life), and it's not something that's likely to be taught in just one day. also, if you're bringing it to a dinner or a potluck, you're bringing four separate food containers, not just one.

4b- also, venezuelan food, for the most part, is not particularly spicy. you CAN make it spicy if you want, but traditionally, it is not. it's flavorful, maybe even saucy depending on the dish, but rarely spicy. i know the joke of white people being unable to handle spice is funny, but there's also plenty of us hispanic people who are equally terrible at it, because there's different levels of spice in the food from different regions of latin america. besides, as a friend of mine perfectly put: we are living in the 21st century now. if you can eat mild mexican food, you should be able to handle traditional venezuelan food just fine. and i'm pretty sure there's mexican food in sweden. plus, wille would probably be more used to international food-- not only does he have the means, but having traditional meals in foreign countries is kind of part of the job.

5- while i'm at it: simon is definitely half venezuelan. this is canon as of S2. there is no other place in the world where that dish is called pabellón. please keep that in mind when you're writing and researching.

5b- this, along with several of the points above, is important because it's a bit of diaspora trauma that whenever we venture outside of latin america and people learn we're latino, they immediately assume we're mexican, or that our culture and traditions are the same as those of mexican people. it happens often, and it's incredibly annoying. not that there's anything wrong with mexico or mexican people-- they're lovely, and their traditions and culture and food are fantastic-- but we are not them, and treating us like we are is reductive. the rest of latin america can be very different and incredibly diverse, and it can be dispiriting when people treat us like we're all the same. so that is why it is important when writing about simon, his family or his venezuelan roots, that you take care to actually research things as they are in venezuela, and not just pick the low-hanging fruit of latino facts you might've learned through pop cultural osmosis, which eight times out of ten will be mexican-only because most hispanic people in the US are mexican and the US exports its media all over the world. i've learned to just roll my eyes at it by now, but some people might actually feel offended or hurt, and i'm sure nobody here intends for that to happen.

6- although simon speaks spanish, neither he nor sara nor his mother nor any aspect of his mother's culture is spanish. "spanish" is what people from spain call themselves. people from spanish-speaking latin american countries are not spanish; we are hispanic, or latino/a/e. "latinx" is… let's call it controversial, at least outside of the US. most people born and raised in latin america don't like it; i personally don't get offended if people use it, but i don't use the term myself. also, you can say "latin food" or "latin music," but we usually don't refer to PEOPLE as latin, but rather latino/a/e. if in doubt, just use latin american or hispanic. they're also conveniently gender neutral.

EDIT: @andthatisnotfake also brought up a very important point: "if you spell it latinx, it makes it harder for screen readers to read (or so I've been told) and some people depend on those, so there's another reason to avoid it." (the unpronounceability of that term is at least part of the reason why hispanic people who live in latin america don't like it.)

6b- never use "the latino/a" on its own to refer to people. "latino/a/e" is an adjective, not a noun, so you would say "the latino boy" or "the latino man" but never just "the latino." kinda like it would be weird to point out the one japanese man in a room as "the japanese." there are some nationality/ethnic terms that just don't work as nouns in english.

7- spanish is not simon's one native language-- or at least not any more than swedish is. he grew up in a mixed-race household, speaking two different languages. it's pointless to call spanish his native language when comparing it to swedish. both are his native languages. also, while we're at this, wille is probably at least bilingual (i'm assuming he can speak at least english), although he only has one native language. it's hardly a competition between the two boys as to who's more of a polyglot.

7b- simon wouldn't take classes on the spanish language-- like to learn how to SPEAK the language-- since spanish is one of his native languages. he wouldn't take them at hillerska, nor in university, nor elsewhere. he wouldn't be allowed. you're literally not allowed to take classes on your native language, nor get credit for said classes. trust me, those would've been an easy extra 24 credits for me in college if that was a thing.

EDIT: have been made aware (thanks, @rightsogetthis and @plantbasedfish!) that at least in sweden and in finland one IS allowed to take classes of your non-swedish/finnish native language, in certain circumstances. i have to say, i'd be pissed if i were taking my french classes alongside a french native speaker, but hey, the system's the system, i guess. ;) so i've struck this one out.

8- dear god please don't use google translate for your spanish translations. listen, i'm not judging-- i do it with other languages, too, when i'm in a pinch. but google translate is literally The Worst (tm) so i always try to either check with someone, or stick to the stuff i already know is correct. seriously, you don't want to know the kinds of crazy stuff GT can spit out that people actually put out in the real world; some of them are quite hilarious. if you're unsure, my ask box/messages are always open and i looooove helping people with this kind of thing, hispanic language and cultural stuff. i know it seems like i'm hardly around, but i do check my messages. don't be shy, even if it's something really small.

PS: while i'm talking pet peeves, malin is wille's bodyguard, not his butler. she's nice enough to attend to him at hillerska because there's no other palace staff around and she's literally stationed outside his door, but she wouldn't do that in the actual palace. there's other staff for that. she wouldn't even guard him at the palace, i don't think, because the royal palaces in sweden are guarded by the royal guard, not SÄPO. if anything, malin might spend the time while wille is in the palace grounds at a gatehouse (like in YR 2x03 and onwards) or at some kind of security office in the palace, and then get called whenever wille needs to go anywhere. she wouldn't be giving wille messages from the queen or walking guests to wille's room or anything like that. that's not her job. (sorry, i had to get that off my chest, lol.)

[lookbluesoup]

Hydaelyn in Endwalker

At the risk of looking stupid online I'm going to field my perplexions about Hydaelyn that've been bothering me for months lol This post is... a little Hydaelyn critical. But I do offer that in good faith, I LOVE the character and I'm not trying to just trash her, I'm genuinely interested to hear other perspectives about it. (But please be nice, everyone is entitled to their own take)

Also this is not in response to anyone else's post. I haven't even seen any Hydaelyn posts circulating lately. I'm not vagueing anyone or trying to start drama. Just trying to sort out my own feelings about this character.

So my main takeaway from MSQ was that love is, ultimately, what saves you. That humans (including Ancients!) aren't perfect, and cannot love perfectly, but the shared love of you and others is still what saves you.

And, also, that grief is a part of life. Mistakes are a part of life. Conflict and loss happen, but they need not destroy you. Stand for doing right as best that you can, forgive yourself and keep trying, keep loving - both yourself and others.

There was an incredible amount of emphasis on not judging or hating one's enemies, about accepting the humanity in all of us and coming together, which I really loved.

There was also, of course, a huge rejection of self-sacrifice and martyrdom.

I saw all those themes in the Dark Knight quests a LOT (especially before the English translation changed so many scenes), and I assume Ishikawa was continuing that theme from Shadowbringers onward.

So again! I don't hate Hydaelyn!

But I feel like... at least in the English translation, she is still treated with excessive reverence, like a goddess, by the Scions - even ones it didn't really make sense to after her origin came out, like Y'sthola.

And at least on my first playthrough, while I like Venat a lot and love the drama of the Final Days pushing everyone into points of desperation, to their breaking points, and her decision to sunder the world definitely did ultimately help (help!) make it possible for us to defeat the Endsinger... I dunno.

To me she was still subject to the same arrogance as the rest of the Ancients. Whether her decision paid off or not, she still took into her hands the fate of the entire Star, she still made a decision that would result in millions of deaths.

And if we're going by Hydaelyn's own assertion, that each reincarnation is their own person, not just a missing piece of a whole... then to achieve her goal of a better world, she killed all the remaining Ancients except those three.

She chose to create a world where death and trauma would affect generation after generation - and she can say that it was for the greater good, for the world to survive. But that was essentially the Convocation’s justification too, in creating Zodiark and orchestrating the Rejoinings. Committing genocide to prove that genocide is wrong… is not noble.

The cutscene with her sundering the world, where the people insist they'll return to a world free of sorrow underneath a burning sky, could also NOT be how it actually happened. It had to be representational of her feelings and conclusion. Becoming Hydaelyn took coordination with her followers and planning.

At least in English, idk about the original Japanese, Hythlodaeus's shade describes the time of the Sundering as if the world wasn't in utter ruin at that point. It was beginning to heal, they had restored some natural systems, but the Ancients were short in numbers. At that point, they were done sacrificing their own people, in time they were going to sacrifice other life - plants and animals, to restore those lost brethren.

At the very least, Hythlodaeus's completely different account shows that the two sects of people post-Zodiark were viewing their sacrifice and end goal in completely different ways. Ethics aside, whether the competing goal was achievable or not… we will never know, because Venat stopped it from happening.

But I don't think either recounting has a monopoly on the truth. There was no One Truth, there were just competing needs and perspectives. And though Venat insists that unity is necessary to avert the Endsinger - she perpetuates this division. Azem refused her followers call to help summon Hydaelyn, and I think that's significant.

But I'll also acknowledge that Azem didn't manage to save the Ancients, either.

And you could argue that the Ancients were their own worst enemy. They kind of were.

Hermes was a really, really great caricature of severe, untreated Depression. And he had the powers of a god. His creations were sent to find a specific answer in the world beyond, and like their creator, they didn't have the tools to process hearing an answer other than what they were expecting. They were trapped in their own perspective. He was looking for answers in the stars, instead of in himself. Their own pain and inability to engage with emotion in a healthy way overwhelmed every encounter they had and created the very reality he so feared.

He did not use the proper channels for peer review before sending them out on their mission. Those rules, those checks and balances, that community approach to design, existed to protect the Ancients from their own power, and he deliberately acted in secret. He isolated himself from society, convinced himself his pain was something nobody could understand, made an island of himself and doubled down on his own jaded beliefs.

I don't know what kind of mental health facilities were available to the Ancients - we just don't have that information. But I do know that he was treated with patience and forgiveness by a significant number of colleagues, and his quirks weren't held against him. People did try to help and accommodate him, even if they didn't always understand. He had been promoted to a powerful position. I don't know if it's fair to blame anyone in particular, or even their society, for what happened. Because again... everyone was doing the best they could with what they had.

If anything, the problem was that literally any Ancient could have made a similar mistake in the right situation. They were ALL that powerful. Eventually chaos would happen. Sundered souls can certainly create destruction, but not on the same scale.

I don't personally agree with Hydaelyn's decision not to reach out to the Convocation. I understand being careful, and thinking through what the next step should be before acting. But there's a LOT of "maybes" in this argument:

And ultimately, it's her doing the same thing as Hermes, putting the power of judgement over an entire people in her own hands. She's assuming that she is in a unique position to decide the fate of the entire Star. It's not evil. But it's arrogant. She wasn't special among the Ancients, gifted with some unique wisdom. She was doing the best she could from her own perspective.

Plus... if half your population, and then another half again are about to sacrifice themselves... what have you got to lose by outing Hermes and/or trying to work with the Convocation to avert that loss of life? We don't have all the details, I'm willing to accept that there were circumstances that made it impossible, or at least made Venat decide against trying it. But even so. What did you have to lose leading up to the summoning of Zodiark? There was already panic and destruction at that point.

Hydaelyn sacrificed a lot of people to accomplish her goals. She made a goddess of herself and manipulated people like Minfilia on that basis. She killed so many children and stole so many lives even just by reincarnating Minfilia over and over on the First. She misrepresents the nature of the Ascians to the WoL, keeps secrets, and essentially charges you with being a crusader in her Holy War.

It's Emet- Selch who tries to bridge the gap. Not Hydaelyn. It's him who's willing to consider trying to achieve his goals without bloodshed, if you, the WoL, are strong enough. He says this to himself, out of anyone else's hearing. There's no reason for it to be a lie.

And just before Mt. Gulg, you can see Emet starting to question his beliefs about humanity because of the WoL's accomplishments. Hydaelyn has nothing to do with that. It's all you. And Emet succumbs to his own weaknesses too, so we never get to know what that might have happened if you'd had more time with him. He's not better than her.

But I think it's significant that he's the one who reaches out. Who's willing to consider a compromise at all.

In war you make sacrifices, I get that. But she was not more heroic, somehow, than the Ascians. Both sides were doing terrible things and denying the agency of mortals in order to achieve their ideal world.

So to me... she was not a benevolent incomprehensibly wise mother figure. Much like in real life we go from being kids who trust our moms implicitly, to adults who realize our mother was human and made mistakes, I think we’re supposed to recognize that Hydaelyn didn't do everything right and its our job to carry the future forward for subsequent generations, to learn from what came before, and hope that our own children do the same and forgive us for our own mistakes.

I think its very important to note that the WoL is just as much the Convocation's creation as Hydaelyn's. Without being rejoined as many times as they were, the WoL wouldn’t have survived. She saves you from the Ultima Weapon, Emet-Selch saves you from Elidibus, and its their powers combined that save you and your friends from the Endsinger. You are the legacy of each side’s imperfect love, equally.

WHICH brings me to my point of perplexion. Hydaelyn continues to be venerated. NPCs who know what happened continue to emphasize her side of things. I feel I must be missing something, because to me, the finale of Endwalker essentially shattered any idea that this was a Light vs Dark kind of story. People made choices. People made mistakes. It wasn't good or evil. It was human. We survived in spite of our mistakes because love was more powerful than our imperfections.

The Scions sacrificed themselves one by one just like the Ancients. And got brought back using energy from the Star... not all that different than what the Ascians had planned to do with their own brethren. I just don't see much functional difference there in the sentiments between either side.

I don't think we're supposed to hate Hydaelyn. I don't think she was evil. But I don't think she was better than the Ascians.

So while I don't expect, or want, characters to be condemning her left and right in the narrative, it's still baffling to me that there's such consistent, explicit reverence for her.

[atlasdoe]

Things that The Marauders fandom say that pisses me off

warning: i will not be holding back. if you are sensitive do not read. feel free to disagree or anything in the replies but don't be a dick

i'm only doing this cause i'm bored and have a lot of rage in me

also just to be clear if we're mutuals then i'm not on about you :)

"It's so sad that one of the only things we have in cannon is the prank"

or something along those lines. If knowing that the prank is cannon makes you upset then I have some great news for you. Nobody cared about the prank in cannon!!!! it's literally just another Tuesday for the Marauders and not once does anybody lose any friends or hold any grudges about it!! yay, now you can sleep at night!

"Dumbledore raised an army of children twice"

I've already spoken about this before but for anyone who wasn't here please know that this is a lie! Neither time did Dumbledore raise an army of children. You had to be an adult to join The Order and although the Marauders were young they were not children. As for everyone else, their ages are not confirmed. We are the ones who made Marlene and Dorcas the same age as them. For all we know The Marauder's could've been the youngest in the Order by far. As for the DA, Dumbledore literally had no part in that. It was Hermione, Harry and Ron who made the DA. All Dumbledore did was take the blame for it because they named themselves after him

"Dumbledore could've helped Regulus, Evan and Barty"

Firstly it amazes me how these three are the only Death Eaters yall have any sympathy for. I understand Regulus to a point considering we only really hear good things about him from Kreacher but with Evan and Barty genuinely what makes them so special?? Evan is in the exact same pool as Wilkes and y'all don't give a shit about them. Also Barty helped resurrect Voldemort and tortured Frank and Alice. Either way regardless on if you like them or not trust me when i say that if they would've gone to Dumbledore for help he would've helped them. When have we ever seen Dumbledore turn somebody down because they were a Slytherin. This man literally tried to help Draco as he was about to kill him and help the Death Eaters take over Hogwarts. Dumbledore doesn't know everything and he's never passed on the chance for a new spy.

"This fandom is misogynistic for making Lily/Tonks bad mothers/surrogates"

Fanfiction does not equal headcannons. Just because Lily or Tonks are bad mothers in a fanfiction does not mean that the author dislikes them or thinks that they're a bad person in cannon. Also reading about your favourite ship raise a child is a very common trope in fanfiction and as much as Harry and Teddy are Lily and Tonks children they are also James and Remus'. James and Remus are just as responsible for their children and I see nobody batting an eye when the roles are reversed. On top of all of this, Lily and Tonks were young mothers and it's very likely that they would make mistakes or in other universes not be as good as they were in cannon. That does not make them bad people nor does it make them unworthy of being liked. If you don't like it, don't read it cause i know that nobody is saying that Regulus and James raised Harry in cannon.

"Marlene/Dorcas/Mary/Evan is so underrated!"

No they're not. They're mentioned like once or twice. If anything they're incredibly overrated. Nothing wrong with that. Just facts

"Jily is dying out because people are scared to go against Jegulus"

Don't make me laugh. Jily is one of the only cannon ships we have they are literally the blueprint to the entire series. Jily is not dying out, you're just seeing more Jegulus posts because you keep interacting with them and fucking up your own algorithm in order to argue with people in comment sections

"[Insert ship here] need to stop hating on [Insert another ship here] (same with characters)"

I remember one time in the Riverdale fandom when a Bughead shipper did an interview with a magazine pretending to be Lili Reinheart and told this magazine that Bughead will be cannon just to piss the Barchie shippers off. Y'all would not survive "real" fandoms. Just because somebody doesn't like your ship does not make it hate and even if someone does say something like "Jily is trash and I hate it" so fucking what?? it's one person and trust me there is another room on the internet for the both of you. I don't even think I've seen anyone truly post hate about a ship since 2020 when i was in the instagram fandom and the Wolfstar and Blackinnon shippers had each other by the throat

"Jegulus came out of nowhere and I don't understand why people ship it"

Jegulus has been around for as long as i have (2018) and at least to me it's very obvious why people like it. It's the best friends brother, opposite sides of the war, secret relationship, forbidden romance tropes that people love. it's not that hard to understand. And as I said before we know just enough about Regulus to get some sense of what he was like but not all of the bad parts.

"Sirius was tall but Remus was TALL"

There's nothing necessarily wrong with this. I just hate it. Especially if you're commenting on somebody's post about how Sirius is canonically tall. Half the time, unless they say it themselves, they don't think that Remus is taller and don't care if you do

that's all i've got for now. i may do this again :)

[gordon-furman]

Like many others, I headcanon Gordon as someone who uses ASL (American Sign Language) and I wanted to post some signs he might use as well as examples of him using them!

Quick ASL tips:

-The arrows point in the direction of motion of the hands.

-The bolded part of the hand is where your hand will end up at the end of the sign.

-Expressions! Expressions are important to giving context and helping people understand about what you're signing. It could mean the difference between "Go over there!" And "Ugh, go over there."

-Your hands should be near the center of your body when signing, unless a specific sign calls for something different. It's easier to understand what you're saying this way!

Thank you -Press the tip of your hand to your lips, then brought downward. DO NOT make the mistake of putting your hand under your chin. That sign means 'fuck you'.

Tired -Cup your hands to chest then fold downwards. Slump your shoulders as well!

Fine/ Good -Move your hands out with thumb pressed against your chest, then move outwards.

4. See -Make a 'V' shape with your hand with the middle finger resting right below the eye. Then gesture to whatever it is you're seeing.

5. Go to -Point your fingers and make a motion as if you're directing someone to a certain spot.

6. What -Slightly wiggle your hands and shrug your shoulders.

7. With -Put two fists together with your thumbs up, and move them outwards.

8. Go -Shoo-ing motion.

9. Later -Place your hand in an "L" shape, then touch the thumb to your open palm. Then turn you "L" hand downwards! Imagine how a clock's arm moves for extra help.

If you are thinking of learning sign yourself, I encourage you to your research and learn about Deaf culture! Deaf culture is imperative to understanding sign and how to properly communicate with people in your community who will be using sign!

I am also not a professional as I am also learning ASL so if I'm wrong about something or something doesn't make sense please tell me and I'll fix it!

If you have any questions, feel free to ask! I hope this helps! ^-^

[fictionfixations]

wasnt planning on making a post but im doing it now so uh

helluva boss the full moon episode (i dont remember which one it was. s2 ep8?? i think? idk)

(i just realized i said 'hazbin hotel' my bad. if i make a mistake like that uhh oops)

and yall are stolas defenders so im gonna talk about blitz (dont get me wrong i love both of them)

let me talk about it

(i dont know if i make any sense so oops)

notice how during stolas' proposal basically (cant help but see the gem as like a wedding ring ngl) blitz's eyes are shining because he cant help but hope

and then when he goes 'ohh youre just fucking with me right? this is some roleplay shit right?'

because its so incomprehensible in his mind that this is what he truly thinks it is.

anyway people have explained before about how stolas then proceeds to shut him out like being faced with blitz being in denial about it and taking it as a rejection

meanwhile blitz is like 'wait a second you were SERIOUS?'

and then hes like 'wAIT' because hes trying to understand. to comprehend that stolas was being real about it. that someone wants him. but then he doesnt have the time to think about it because stolas is leaving and he doesnt want stolas to leave

and yknow how blitz is hes kind of an asshole so then he defaults to being angry and frustrated. (i wonder if he feels like he'll only be heard by being angry and yelling. or if by being angry, by shutting people out and being the one to break it off makes blitz feel more in control. anyway-)

no but listen before this hes like 'what the fuck?' stolas leaves, blitz follows him in silence still in that confused and hella surprised state because it was so unexpected while stolas' talking about stuff

hes silent for awhile (probably trying to make sense of it while half-listening)

and then stolas is like 'thats enough to know what this is' and THEN blitz gets all angry and yelling

and inside hes just like. ..thats it? but its like. stolas is going to leave. and he doesnt want him to go. but he also doesnt know how to express that (especially with stolas having completely shut him out at this point in his own feeling, so set in the rejection without realizing that blitz hadnt actually rejected it. had been in disbelief instead of an actual no. and i get why he didnt stay to continue the conversation it just. sucks. so bad.)

("Can I get a fucking minute to think" got stuck in my head) and then blitz gets angry and blames stolas because thats whose infront of him. someone he can yell at and get angry which is so much easier then trying to decipher his feelings, or stolas' feelings. to try to understand. to be vulnerable especially in front of someone who he may like but its also complicated considering the power imbalance, or how all royals are asses so surely stolas cant be different, how its just a transactional relationship and nothing serious.

hes also saying things he doesnt necessarily mean meanwhile stolas is taking it to heart like 'this is how he really feels about me' when that isnt true (blitz is kind of just making excuses. and instead of being 'set free' as it might seem to stolas, it seems to him like stolas is just. throwing him away. getting bored of him. hes ignoring the love confession stolas just says 'i want you' PLEASE be more blunt about it oh my god theres so many wordings that i have an issue with from stolas im going to be honest.

like LISTEn he goes 'i want you'. blitz is in denial. stolas then starts to acceptance/resignment and blitz is like 'wait a fucking second'

so blitz who thought they were going to have a sexy time. suddenly gets hit with feelings out of the blue. and he doesnt do good with those. and its so incomprehensible that he doesnt believe it. and then basically stolas rejects him right after with blitz realizing 'wait you were serious?' and then gets angry like 'what? no, it can't be over. ..well fuck YOU then!' like. he kind of feels betrayed? like 'how dare you spring this feelings bullshit on me (and then LEAVE)'

also is he projecting? has he experienced something??? and i really dont think hes had the chance to properly process so he's just shoving it aside and focusing on the then and now. which is stolas leaving and dismissing him which blitz takes offence to and accuses him of being like all the other royal assholes. because he doesnt know how else to communicate. this is not to say that he isnt an asshole because he is, but id like to say that theres reasons to all of it.

ALSO ALSO. i think its less that blitz believes stolas to be like that but (besides reasoning to himself that stolas is just like all the others so he can distance himself and cut ties even if it hurts) that its because thats the position stolas has and so its what he turns to for insults. i had more to say about this part but i already forgot, oops.

and ive seen people talk about this too but stolas conversing through words while blitz converses through feelings. so its like for blitz youre not meant to listen to what hes saying but to listen to the feeling? meanwhile stolas being through words (thus probably feeling like 'i want you' is explanation enough while blitz needs more clarification then that)

and potentially with stolas being all horny around him cause haha my crush is here and hes hot and i love him and aaah making blitz think stolas just wants him because of what he can offer? (and maybe if hes never faced love that its unrecognizable? especially towards him?) a thought to go onto another time

also another thought to go down. you think after blitz realizes hes serious that hes trying to coomunicate. with the 'can i get a FUCKING moment to think'

and then his mouth goes on autopilot and starts insulting him trying to stall trying to get him to stay even if its with hurtful words because thats what hes used to thats what he does (also defaulting to anger)

just like yelling at him trying to get stolas to just stop walking. to stop turning his back on him.

and hes just running on anger at that point because he didnt get too long to process that stolas was serious so a part of him still thinks that its just. not real? and hes running off of that because again its so much easier than being vulnerable with someone

blitz has. probably been very trustful of someone, only for them to betray him and hurt him and use him so ahdishfu

also probably blitz's attempt at trying to get them to actually communicate

to get him to stop. stand still. stop leaving. stop moving. just turn around, face him, and talk. to get all their feelings out and explain. to clarify.

maybe he even wants stolas to get angry because that's what he's used to. wants him to get angry so they can get it all out there. maybe wants a part of him to feel vindicated of 'he was right, stolas was an asshole', the part of him that doesnt want to be close to anyone in fear of being hurt

..and then stolas doesn't react how blitz expects him to. (because they DONT understand each other at all! they don't interact all that much outside of sex, and stolas offering it to blitz is rejected)

blitz realizing 'wait... shit...' to wheres hes immediately brought out of his anger by stolas' words

'goodbye'

also it almost sounds like blitz is saying 'Stolas, wait I'm s-' as in 'im sorry'

realizing it wasnt going as he expected it to. that stolas really was serious. that stolas was hurt. that stolas was going to actually leave and blitz. doesnt. want that to happen. so then he. tries.

and then goes 'what the fuck' when he appears outside

and honestly sometimes a lot of relationships need space from each other to realize who they are without them. and also to realize how much they care about the other, yknow? to understand their feelings without anything else complicated thrown into the mix.

listen: blitz could go back into complete denial like 'no fuck stolas actually-'. realize he misses stolas, actually.

cause i feel like he really did try at the end only to get shut out (its a really complicated situation because ive also seen people talk about how blitz yelling could remind stolas of stella(?) i think the person he divorced)

and it could be seen as rejection of him trying to do feelings talk. which he could double down on his 'no one can love you, itll only bring you hurt' idea, or bringing other people hurt (as in his mother's death or fizz getting hurt)

but i feel like he also needs time to just realize things. to think things through instead of being faced with immediately having to respond because theyre talking face to face. immediately having to respond because stolas is leaving and if he doesnt say anything then that'll be it.

its complicated. honestly, though. i feel like its for the better for them to have this break. to rebuild their life without the transactional relationship. i just wonder how they'll get back together (daughter plotting time? maybe?)

i wonder if hell has therapy. (...but also. what if the therapists were corrupt and didnt hold any form of patient privacy???)

hh

anyway i dont know if i made sense. ive just had these thoughts stuck in my head so ive just been spewing out all the ones related to this so i could stop thinking about it

a;sp a;sp o hjavej oirhfrj

holyfuck ok

also also i have more to add

okay so you know stolas' line of 'you have no obligation to touch me or to bed me'

you know what that sounded like with loona having told blitz 'hes getting tired of you'

it sounded like stolas didnt want blitz to basically touch him anymore. which is probably blitz' interpretation of it and thus his anger of 'you think you can do this shit just because im an imp and youre a royal?' or whatever (hes not even touching the fact of the gem. its 'am i not good enough? i can do better!' because the book was the only reason in his mind why he could interact with stolas. and just. aghhh)

any more thoughts im shoving here in the future before i get more brainrot over this

[another-nihilist]

Please comment or reblog for my selfworth:

Idea for a boldheart fanfiction- feel free to add to it!

It begins post movie when Bal is in his tower and wants to plan a surprise for Ambrosius.

But since Ambrosius is literally glued to his side, it's literally impossible. And he kind of likes his boyfriend always being with him so he wouldn't tell Ambrosius to give him space.

Instead he pretends to be nimona with these easy steps:

1. Get earplugs and put them in his ears

2. Blast full on freestyle Jazz and pretend to enjoy it.

3. A pink Streak for the hair, just to be on the safe side.

At first it works, with Ambrosius even telling him that he would never fall for such a cheap Ballister Imitation. At least until Nimona opens the door.

Ballister meanwhile focuses on planning his suprise, as he doesn't hear the two.

So from Nimonas and especially Ambrosius point of view:

1. Ballister being apathetic and kind of lethargic, doesn't seem to register anything around him.

2. Ballister listening to very loud freestyle Jazz

So of course it doesn't take Ambrosius very long to drag Ballister away from what he was doing. Nimona is along for the ride and doesn't resist when Ambrosius literally orders her to take them to the hospital as fast as she possibly can.

Meanwhile Ballister wants to convince these two that he is completely fine but makes the mistake to not address the prank.

Ballister: Ambrosius there's really no need for that, I'm fine!

Ambrosius: you were listening to freestyle jazz, have a pink streak in your hair AND didn't react to me and Nimona for full five Minutes!

Ballister: Nimona, will you at least believe me? Ambrosius is not your boss you know?

Nimona: I don't know Boss...How many arms you've got?

Ballister: Two of course. What a question..

Nimona and Ambrosius: *Blankly staring at him*

Ballister: *realising what he said, eyes going wide*

Nimona: *flying faster*

Ambrosius: *pulling Ballister closer promising him that they'll find out what's wrong with him*

Then they crash land in the doctors office. The doctor literally sees that Ballister is fine. But doesn't want to tell that to a panicking Goldenloin and a feral shapeshifter. Therefore they send Ballister an apologetic look before diagnosing him of mental exhaustion and prescribing him a month of rest.

(Basically much needed holidays, after rebuilding an entire kingdom.)

Ambrosius takes Vacation too, because with Ballister being like this he will not take any risks.

Also because he is now the one in charge he will definitely show his newfound lack of impulse control.

*at the grocery store*

Todd: Hey Ballister!

Ambrosius: *shielding Ballister from having to look at him* *growling*

Ballister: *sighting* is that really necessary?

Nimona: No need to look Boss, you're on a well deserved break.

*Ambrosius beating up Todd in the background*

Also a full month of Ambrosius and Nimona full on fussing over Ballister and a lifetime of increased protectiveness so he doesn't ever again get into a state where he hears freestyle jazz.

And Ballister learning to otherwise organising suprises for Ambrosius and of course succeeding.

Also please add something to that post 🙏

[flyboy254cnchtv-blog]

So, I've been processing things over the past few days. I thought I knew my country, but I didn't. If anything, it proved me so wrong that I've been waking up nauseous, puking, forcing myself not to sob. I'm not one of the people most in danger, but the people I care about are. So I'm gonna go stream of consciousness, and please forgive me but I need to get this off my chest somewhere. For the love of all that's sacred, don't leave us. If you need to keep yourself or your loved ones safe, do it, do not feel like that's wrong. But you are needed. You are valued. You should not let those monsters in human flesh tell you your worth. I served in the Marine Corps, and in the service I learned. I learned about "the talk" every black family in America has to give their children for when they will, will, be stopped by a cop. I learned that so much of our military is made up of the children of those who came here searching for a better life. I learned that so many of my comrades are gay, lesbian, bi, and were better Marines that I could have ever hoped to be.

This freed me from the shell I'd been raised in. Whatever lies my Irish-Catholic parents tried to feed me didn't scan any longer. The only thing I learned to take from them is that immigrants, all immigrants, deserve to exist.

I will not call myself an ally, attempting to apply that appellation to oneself feels vapid and self-absolving. I will not get everything right, because I still have to learn a lot. But I know that for now, I will wake up, shake my boots off, and do what I can. Because my friends, my family, will need me to be as strong as I can.

This will not be easy. There will be moments where we will all ask if we can even go on. We can't lie to ourselves that somehow it will all work out. We need to get together, plan, and organize where and how we can. Our foes believe we are weak. Their mistake is that this is what they think of compassion, of morality, of simple decency.

You are valued. You are here. I want to see a world where you are able to be free, happy, and safe, no matter who you are. I posted earlier the quote from Bobby Sands. "Our revenge will be the laughter of our children." I do believe that. Because the woman I love says I'm the one she wants to bring up children with, and the only way that happens is if we cast down the false idol they have raised.

I still believe in the ideals in the Declaration of Independence. That the Constitution is a living document made to be changed, to be amended so that it can adapt to the times. I swore an oath, and I'm too damn stubborn to just accept that these terrors will persist. I'm not a leader, but I know how to follow orders. Point me in the right direction, and I'll do what I can.

Whoever reads this, you are not alone. You will never be anything less than human. The fact that your very existence, your happiness, fills them with such a rage is what I want to help you keep alive. If you're a person of color, if you're LGBT+, if you're a woman, know that there are still enough of us out there who want to help. Who want to know how. We got decked last Tuesday, but one slug to the jaw doesn't end the fight. This isn't Frasier vs Ali. This is Rocky vs Creed, and we're going all twelve. It'll be easier, and worth it, if we all go along together.

They think we're out, but already there are organizations, movements, local communities rebuilding and prepping. They are proud, and they have ripped their mask off now and brag of the evils they will inflict. We will use their words against them, and we will know that those who supported them have nowhere to hide. They wanted this, and they're going to get it. We need to be ready to get back to work after, whatever may come.

I hope you forgive me for what must seem like a ramble. I hope that you stick around, too. This fight is not, and will never be over until the last trace of their hate and propaganda is wiped from the face of the earth. Stay smart, stay resilient, and stay human. We will survive, and we will hear the laughter of the children before we know it.

[itwasntimethatdidit40]

I don’t shiver, it’s just a little piece of me going away.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: +18, MDNI. Please, this shit is triggering, be very aware of this.

Tags: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. SA, drinking, zero self esteem, a lot of triggering reader’s thoughts, oral (m receiving), fingering (f receiving), groping, biting, unprotected p in v, reader feels ugly and worthless, mention of bullying, mention of harassment, mention of toxic friends. Reader has hair, breasts and vagina, wears a shirt, skirt and tights, no other description of her is given.

I wrote this for myself, it is something that happened to me and it briefly describes other episodes that I suffered when I was younger. I do not think it is an experience that is worth telling more than that of others, however I wanted to do it to free myself of this weight, because yesterday was the international day for the elimination of violence against women (I wanted to post it yesterday but I didn't have time to finish writing it), we are in 2024 and all this happened about 20 years ago, I do not feel like great progress has been made since then and I know for sure that I am not the only one and I will not be the last to have suffered this and much worse. I felt like shit when I was 20, this should not have happened anyway. Putting Joel in there is perhaps a paradox but he has always given me security, so he helped me process. Maybe I haven't been able to describe exactly what I felt but it's something. It’s still something.

It is a reflection on my mistakes, on the wrong ways of thinking that were instilled in me from my environment and now thanks to myself alone no longer belong to me. I'm very sorry for the person that I was and I'm very sorry for anyone who experienced SA.

If you have the strength to read, if you find yourself at least in part in what I say, then I hug you tightly.

Title comes from an Italian song that I love very much, the phrase in Italian is "Io non tremo. È solo un po' di me che se ne va".

I'm not tagging anyone because I don't think it's appropriate. Any type of insult will be immediately deleted.

The club is packed, you just got out of the bathroom and are trying to get back to your friend. The lights of the club are shooting in your eyes, the crowd is pushing you, you feel a hand grab your shoulder, you turn and see him. A gorgeous guy. He asks you if you want a drink.

You're already drunk but at this point what does it matter, if someone like him offers you something you accept.

You reach the counter, he orders a drink, turns to you, and you instantly hang on every word he says as you chat briefly.

“you look pretty” he says and you giggle, gulping down the drink to give yourself courage. “Shall we go out?” he asks and after 6 drinks plus the one he just offered you you say yes. Again.

"I'm going with him," you giggle, approaching your friend.

"God, he's so hot! Okay, I'll see you outside, take care," she replies, slurring her words.

You shouldn't, you really shouldn't go with this guy. Your head is fuzzy, clouded by alcohol, your legs are soft and your mouth is mushy. You feel like you are speaking softly, but in fact your voice is high, out of control. It always happens when you're too drunk, you should recognize it as a warning sign to do absolutely nothing but stop, drink some water and wait on one of the club's small sofas for the evening to end.

You can't think rationally and neither can your friend, as drunk as you are, who is talking to a guy at the bar.

Everyone's hope is to be noticed, right? To be seen, appreciated.

You were never anyone's first choice, and this disappointment, this feeling of always being neglected, makes you hate yourself. Why was I born this way, you always tell yourself, why do I have this face, this body, these limbs. Why can't I be graceful and lovely like every other girl. And this guy who had just asked you to go outside was the hottest guy who had ever spoken to you.

Tall, dark hair, eyes as black as night, a slight beard on his perfectly chiseled face, prominent nose, a dimple that opens on his cheek when he smiles. He checks all the boxes on your list.

His deep, mellifluous voice convinces your altered mind that there is nothing wrong with secluding yourself with him-when does it happen again that someone so perfect talks to you?

The awkward, insecure, never enough you. The girl who was bullied all her teenage years, called ugly and fat, the girl who was told no one would ever fuck her.

Not true, you want to scream.

It's not true, I can be seen too.

Me too, even if you see your ungainly and unattractive body.

Me too, even if you are convinced that there is something deeply wrong with the way you look. Me too, even if I don't believe it either.

So you go out with this guy, who takes you to an alley near the club.

He chose you. And he is beautiful in an impossible way. And you feel like the universe has finally provided something for you, something enticing, something that makes you feel alive.

Sure, this alley is dark and dirty and inhospitable, but so what.

It’s not like you expected something pretty overall. You deserve nothing. You know.

A quick shag, an ounce of attention, a musty filthy wall he slams you against, the smell of piss from the street, that’s what you get.

As he puts his hands on you, you think it's unreal, that maybe you're hallucinating drunk.

You don't even know who he is, you only know that his feverish touch explores you, his impassive gaze scrutinizes you as he smiles at you. You are too drunk to notice how meanly his mouth is bent, how laid his smile is, the spark of evil in his eyes.

He's touching you, and that's enough.

Joel. He’s Joel. Assuming that’s his real name.

The prince who has come to rescue you from your inexperience.

The one who took you out of the shadows.

If you were clear-headed you would see that it threw you into an even worse swamp.

You say nothing when he lifts your shirt and pulls down your bra, exposing your nipples to the cold. You don't react when he takes off your skirt and pulls down your tights and ravages your panties, not a word when he enters you furiously with his fingers calling you a slut, it almost feels right to you that he takes what he wants from you without even asking if he can do it. The pain, the distasteful stretching of his big calloused fingers, it’s what you deserve. You’re standing there barely holding on with him and that's enough. He doesn't care if you’re well, doesn’t care to remember your name, your body is his for tonight and his hands are demanding, rough, unkind and you think it's okay, after all you said yes before.

His fingers suddenly come out of you, you'd almost be relieved if you didn't know it wasn't over.

Kneel down he says, and shoves his cock down your throat like it's his right to do so. You breathe hard through your nose as he fucks your mouth, taking a fistful of your hair, while his huge shaft hurts your jaw, your eyes water and mascara runs down your cheeks.

He's not what you imagined. He's not a prince. He's just another man.

Like everyone you've met so far, not at all interested in respecting something about you, but rather in making you think that accepting what they do to you is okay.

He lifts you up and slams you against the wall again, you’re half naked with your clothes crumpled around your body, your face wet, your throat dry. He drags his index and middle fingers against your folds, his other hand grips your hip, his fingers digging into your flesh. He holds you in place while you just want to collapse on the floor like a puppet and be done with it. Instead he invades you in an instant, pushing his shaft inside you, brutally stretching the walls of your cunt, whispering loathly how wet you are, a total slut, a nice toy for him.

But yet again, If you're pretty enough to get a guy like him hard then it's okay, right?

You just have to wait and this will become good for you too at some point, right?

It’s only a matter of time. But it doesn't change when he bites your skin, down your neck and all the way down to your cleavage, it doesn't change when his rough, calloused hands grasp your tits as if they were his property, twisting and pulling your nipples to get them pebbles, it doesn't change when he makes you lie on the cold, dirty pavement and towers over you with his weight repeatedly sinking into you cruelly, his balls slamming against you, his mouth latched on your hardened bud sucking and biting ruthlessly on it.

It’s you that's wrong, it's your cunt that's done bad, maybe you never knew but you're actually frigid and you don't know how to welcome a prize like his big cock inside you.

It burns in your core, it’s unpleasant, terrifying, it feels like a blade cutting you in half.

You should feel grateful as his hands claw and touch you all over and his tongue slides lasciviously over your neck, leaving a trail of drool on your skin.

You should be okay with being naked in the dark in a dirty, public place, so wrong, so forbidden because the most handsome guy you've ever seen decided you must be.

It doesn't seem fair to you but that's only because you were under the illusion that you could receive something other than humiliation.

He was all smiles and compliments before, well dressed, perfumed, polite, as soon as you were alone he became a walking nightmare.

Everything about him disgusts you, you disgust yourself, the taste of him at the back of your throat makes you gag, your eyes sting like a million needles, his voice paralyzes you, the smell of whiskey on his breath makes your head spin.

The alcohol fog makes you helpless, unable to say anything.

You feel him rattling on you, inside you, his heavy breathing creeping on your skin but his harsh, thick voice seems to come from afar, muffled, as if it doesn't concern you while he continues to mutter lewd words into your ear.

Tears stream on your cheeks, sobs remain choked in your throat.

Your bruised skin, your sore body, the sense of emptiness that grips you, everything you thought you wanted disintegrates in front of your disbelieving eyes, his heinous cock so painful inside your violated cunt, everything reminds you that you are not entitled to anything, that after all it's your fault.

Eventually your mind totally disconnects from what is going on.

He groans draining his orgasm inside you, his hands clamped on your tits as he released his spending in the most hidden and private part of you.

You’re clenching on his cock and that’s the most horrible thing you’ve ever felt, your body reacting, probably more out of self-preservation instinct, to get everything over in order to run away from this man.

Like a glass smashing on the ground, you shatter under it, the wholeness of you squandered.

It’s the worst thing that ever happened in your life.

Much more than when your supposed friends recorded a song together to insult you, much more than when the same people threw a pie in your face while everyone pointed and laughed, much more than when your middle school classmates groped you thinking they had the right to do so just because they had suddenly grown bigger.

There’s nothing worse than feeling like a plastic doll, a disposable body, a human waste only good for cum dump.

He gets up muttering some obscenity that your brain doesn't even register.

You look around and realize you are standing near the front door of a building. You wonder if anyone saw and did nothing. You wipe away your tears, you feel a trickle of his cum slide down your thigh and a terrible nausea grips your stomach.

Your tights are runny, your makeup is smudged, your clothes are wrinkled.

Your soul is empty.

You clean yourself as best you can, dress in silence, you don't even look him in the eye, you've never felt so sullied as you do now.

You walk towards the entrance of the club and see your friend, she comes towards you “what happened?” She asks.

“Nothing” you answer her “everything is okay” It's a talk you can't even begin to have.

You don't shiver, it's just a little piece of you going away.

[gothmayoi]

because i am a huge nerd, i decided to calculate how many eye combinations you can make with the @pralinesims DIeYe kit + addons. feel free to point out any mistakes as i don't have a lot of experience with this type of calculation!

firstly, i'll consider only the base kit, without the addons. luckily for me, pralinesims listed how many swatches are available for each item, which makes my life a lot easier! (full credits to them for the image below!! taken from this post)

now that i know how many swatches each item has, i need to know how many items i can have on a sim simultaneously and which ones conflict with each other. in the basic kit, all of the items can be used at once, which makes up a total of 11 items - the main color, available as either face paint or non-default eyes, and 11 other assets, available as tattoos.

some important things to consider: the 3 catchlight packs are 3 different items with 100 swatches each, and these 3 items can be used all at once; in order to consider the absence of certain items also a possibility, i will be adding +1 to the number of swatches of each item. this means that the result i get in the end will include combinations that lack most of the items which technically doesn't make an entire eye, but i will still account for for the sake of knowing how many combinations you can make in total. (one of the combinations that will be counted is the one that doesn't have any items at all, so feel free to subtract 1 from the final result.)

if i'm not mistaken, it should be as easy as multiplying each number of swatches: 71*101*101*101*91*121*121*121*41*36*41 = 713658080539339171236. which is a HUGE number. but what about the addons?

once again, pralinesims made my task a lot easier by listing how many swatches each item has: "This addon pack includes…

3 new secondary eye color packs, all come in the DIY 120 base colors.

3 new third eye color packs, all come in the 120 colors too.

New catchlights in 60 versions.

New pupils in 100 versions." (taken from this post)

BUT some of the new items can't be used at the same time as some items from the base kit. in order to avoid my results including false possibilities, i'll consider the new items as "extra swatches" for the items they conflict with. for example: the pupils in the addons occupy the same "slot" as the pupils in the basic kit (upper right arm tattoo). so, i'll be adding 100 (from the number of swatches of the addon pupils) to the 71 i already had from the pupils in the basic kit, for a total of 171 pupil swatches. if i do this for every item that conflicts (other than the pupils), i obtain: - 360 addon second eye colors, for a total of 481; - 360 addon third eye colors, for a total of 481; - 60 addon catchlights swatches, which conflict with one of the base catchlight packs, so we can consider one of the packs as having 161 swatches. now to multiply everything! 171*161*101*101*91*121*481*481*41*36*41 = 43296407611943775605316. if anyone has any idea how the hell these numbers are pronounced, please tell me, i'd love to know!

i sincerely hope there are no mistakes in this. i double checked everything, but like i said i don't have a lot of experience, so there's a good chance i got something wrong. if you read all of this, thank you, but also, sorry.

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

s4 episode 15 thoughts

life is so fun when there is mulder and scully time to look forward to <3

(post episode thoughts: not sure how i feel about this one. i definitely didn’t hate it, don’t get me wrong, but it was really sad and after last week’s sad episode i’m ready for some happy times. i’m also trying to figure out what exactly the meaning of this episode was because there’s a detail in there that really threw me off- i shall elaborate late.

nonetheless, i thought it was an interesting ep…. just saddened the heart, and i’m trying to parse out the meaning of the whole thing. maybe that detail of which i speak was just a throwaway line and i’m overthinking everything? this has been known to happen.

but, please keep in mind: i am not an expert on all things, including jewish culture- which could perhaps explain my interpretation of the episode/confusion on its overall theme- and if i made any mistakes please feel free to point them out, but understand that they were not made intentionally and that i am merely a fan blog who is living, laughing, loving, and learning each day)

i’m so excited to see what happens next after such an amazing episode last time!! and i know better than to expect a direct continuation of that storyline. BUT a girl can hope! we covered some pretty important territory in the previous one, so to pretend it didn’t happen wouldn’t make a ton of sense- but that is usually how these things go lol

(author's note: this is exactly how things went)

also, i know a lot of people headcanon mulder as jewish, so i’m interested to see what the episode brings/if i will also be sold on the hc! i’ve definitely subscribed to it up until now, so i’m interested to see if it’ll convince me more.

without further ado…

we begin with a man praying in hebrew in new york. sadly, we are at a funeral. everyone is in black. but the way this camera is especially focused on this woman in black is leading me to believe that she is gonna be the star of the episode.

we see, through her eyes, someone being terribly attacked. she is crying as she throws some dirt onto the coffin.

we also see that the man holding her hand has numbers tattooed on his arm, which implies he is a holocaust survivor, and makes this hate crime in america all the more horrific for him to have experienced.

i would guess that this man is maybe lead woman in black's father? he is leading her away from the funeral :(

at the cemetery in the rain, we see someone making a human form out of mud? dirt? clay? actually. what is the line between mud and clay? never thought about that. not the point, though. the mud clay dirt man begins to breathe!

this must be the golem referred to in the episode description…

(spooky intro time…. always a nice ritual for me)

so, the man who was murdered was named isaac luria, scully lets us know. he was from an area of brooklyn known for racial tensions and hate crimes, two of which mulder recites off the top of his head. he is the type of guy to recite facts.

the only thing that was taken from the market where the crime went down was the surveillance tape, which was found in the VCR of a 16 year old tony.

(was that guy we saw earlier doing the shooting supposed to be 16? because he looked 25 at the youngest. yeah, hard to suspend my disbelief in that regard, having a memory of what being 16 was like)

oh! the twist is… tony is dead now! strangled to death while watching the tape. mulder says this is “very old testament”.... interesting choice of words there

and the fingerprints of the strangler WERE THAT OF isaac luria!!! mulder seems greatly intrigued by this. has me wondering how that would go down.

scully is convinced that it is a resurrection hoax, and they must figure out how someone got a dead man’s fingerprints. mulder makes some joke about casper never leaving behind fingerprints. well casper was a FRIENDLY ghost, so maybe that is the difference! casper was not intended to be a creature of revenge. actually, i could be wrong there. haven't seen the movie since i was a kid.

the agents are off to new york, and i was right, that man we saw before was the crying woman’s father. his name is jacob weiss and hers is ariel luria.

scully looks so pretty :(

it seems they’re holding shiva, and showing up with a request to reopen luria's grave is not welcomed. understandably so!

apparently jacob had called the police before the attack, who had said they were paranoid. mulder asks “so there was a specific threat of violence?” and he answers “the threat is always there” <- damn….

then he hands mulder a flyer that was slid under their door with some horrible antisemitic stuff on it that actually made me flinch

jacob seems to slip that he knows who did the murder… but refuses to cooperate. and after they explain that they can get the court to order them to dig the body back up, ariel says to do what they need to, but to please leave them alone.

and from her perspective, it does seem like mulder and scully are just here to stir up trouble- it sounds like they’re trying to protect the murderers, and like they want to make her suffer by digging her husband back up, but i’m wondering if saying “we found your dead husband’s fingerprints on the boy’s corpse” would go over even worse

(they also keep looking at that one guy tony that did the murder and calling him a “boy” as if to emphasize his youth. but again. he looks like 25, so. maybe should have cast someone else if that was the point they wanted to make)

agents in the raaaain going to the car. scully oh my GOD she’s so beautiful. so so so so so so SO beautiful. 

she thinks that jacob doesn’t want them messing with the grave because it will somehow reveal who did the killing of tony. i’m not sure i buy it. sorry scully. he would be too obvious.

mulder pulls the horrible pamphlet out of his pocket and says that whoever published it probably knows who killed isaac AND tony. how tight knit is the community of people who print hateful pamphlets to slide under doors? something i have genuinely never asked myself but now i’d like to know. 

omg!!!! someone covered in dirt is watching them!!! did the golem turn into a person? why did i think he was going to stay made of mud? this is definitely a dirty man and not a mere man of dirt! and he has a mark on his hand

OHHHH some horrific antisemitism from the guy who they are questioning, later revealed to be named curt. oh my god???? he says mulder “looks like he might be one” and that the FBI “works for them” and blah blah blah

what the hell…… sometimes i forget that people spouting such horrific stuff are people with faces and names……… you might read it in awful internet comments, but you forget those are Real Human People who are saying those words. at least, sometimes i do. perhaps that was also the point of including him, to personify this hatred.

it seems that one of the boys who did the killing is watching all of this go down through the surveillance camera in curt's shop. mulder makes a snappy comment about a jew coming back from the dead 2,000 years ago in response to whatever tf this dude’s name is (again, later revealed to be curt, do NOT get him confused with kurt with a k from last episode) being a dick about the resurrection allegations involving luria. and scully says well i assume you don’t want to be responsible for these young men dying! and they leave.

ooooo mulder tells him “bless you” as he leaves…. he is gonna mess w this guy. and i appreciate that.

but gasp… the "kid" has disappeared from the back room!

now why is this kid hanging around with this older man? and why is he killing people? there are a LOT of questions here. if i’m supposed to care if he gets taken by the golem… i simply don’t. 

the two surviving boys (who again, look older than me, a person above the age of 16) are digging up luria’s grave to see if he really did rise from the dead. but oh no! someone is watching them!!

damn, one of the killer children is dead. oh nooo i’m so sad (said with deep sarcasm)

the other one finds luria’s body just as the killing goes down, and luria appears very dead. the surviving one is being taken by the cops???

scully at the scene. looking at the dead kid. seems he was also strangled. 

scully says maybe they came to desecrate the corpse? but mulder says they were probably scared he came back from the dead. hmm.

they’re trying to figure out what exactly is going on when mulder pulls a book out from under dead isaac’s head and it catches on fire!!! what!!! how did that happen!!!!

the creep from the copy shop is clocking in. the last surviving kid (? i think idk they all look the same? unless someone else came back from the dead?) is saying he killed the man because he didn’t sit back and just spread propaganda like this guy curt does. 

well. that is a sharp reminder of how hate speech leads to hate crimes.

the book that was burnt is being analyzed. it’s the book of creation, the sepher yetzirah- but this is not something that a jewish person is buried with! no worldly possessions are allowed in the grave. so how did it get there???? did they decide to make a special exception to the rule or something?? and if so, for what purpose?

“has it ever been known to spontaneously combust?” <- LMAO mulder i know you’re being serious but 😭

scully’s talking scientific theories on chemicals making books blow up, but he is not buying it at all. keeps questioning the book guy.

oh! someone’s name is on the book!! JACOB WEISS!!! what!!!!

now i bet that someone planted that there…..

so they go back to the weiss household. ariel is very sad to hear about her father's book being at the scene, as you can imagine. 

oh wait….ariel and isaac never actually got married…. omg this changes things……… wait. now it's even sadder. and it was already really sad :(

she’s showing them a ring that every woman married in the synagogue wears, that her father had hidden during the war. mulder looks really really really upset by all of this. 

scully asks where ariel’s father is, but ariel promises he wouldn’t kill anyone. well. that doesn't exactly answer the question

agents rolling up to the synagogue. everyone must have had a lot of questions as to what the duo in trenchcoats were up to.

it seems jacob exited out a back door? it’s investigation time….

OMG the last kid has been hanged!! someone is running away from this!!!!!!!!! everything is dark and i cannot see. 

NOOO mulder is down…. and scully is down too, but she fired a shot off…. at jacob???? that was who was down here?? hmm i’m not buying it. seems too easy. 

aha! that dirt covered hand is also at the scene!

ariel is at the jail asking to see her father. and scully seems very sad to inform her that he is under arrest. 

mulder’s asking jacob why he killed him. jacob says that the kid was up in the attic and he defended himself. by hanging him? hm.

he seems shocked that his book was at the crime scene, and professes his guilt, but mulder isn’t buying it. he says someone else was up there in the attic and WHO WAS IT?

mulder picks some dirt off of his sleeve…. suggesting he is onto him….

it seems that jacob had bombed people back in israel 1959? wait. if that was the case, then how did he get to new york… 

(this line confused me greatly, because what did it add to the story? it felt like it had Implications that just. were not explored)

“he’s not our killer, though” “what do you mean? i… he just gave a confession, i stood here and listened to it” <- she sounded so shocked lmaoooo

mulder launches his second person in the attic theory. couldn’t have been the daughter. because the person shoved mulder down. mulder is big strong man.

OH! jacob says he confessed to protect ariel. omg it’s clicking… she must have used the book to make the golem, and he is taking the fall for the golem’s actions. 

the print shop guy is printing more of his horrible pamphlets and oh my god he has a nazi flag on his wall…. jesus. it’s always such a visceral jumpscare to see those. something is approaching him…… and choking him…. and the hand is dirty and has the same mark as before!!

mulder is going back to talk to the book guy to ask about the sepher yetzirah and the golem. book guy explains that it was believed a righteous man could make a man himself out of mud or clay (mud or clay! used interchangeably here! this does not help me figure out what the difference between them is), but it could only be brought to life by the power of the word. certain letter combinations. you put the word on the hand and bam.

mulder says he doesn’t speak hebrew, so he doesn’t know what emet means, but omg!!! it means truth!!! the truth…… it haunts him

apparently the golem is imperfect and must be destroyed by its creator. which you do by erasing the first letter to turn “emet” into “met”, which means dead. 

scully phone call time!! curt (the printing man) is dead (well. if i'm supposed to be sad. i'm not)

more strangling….. but at least we know that this time it wasn’t jacob that did it, because he was still in jail

they look onto the surveillance footage and gasp! it looks like the killer is isaac luria!! so did the golem take his form??? huh. that's creepy.

luria is again confirmed as very much dead, so mulder must explain his theory.

“a ghost is spirit without form, but i believe what we’re looking for and what we’re seeing here is form without spirit” <- i want him to make a compilation of his worldview so bad just so i can read it 

(indignant scully voice) "MUD?!?" <- lmaooooo she never gets used to his ideas 😭 

back to ariel’s… which is suspiciously unlocked. wherever she is, she has the ring!!!

at the synagogue, jacob is there with a candle. he’s also looking for ariel. 

ariel says to “leave us alone” WHO IS US?? the golem???! but jacob won’t leave without her.

what she brought back isn’t him…. 

they’re both crying as she recounts what happened; she made a golem, which took the form of isaac, but it isn't truly him

but da agents are here now…. and JACOB IS BEING HANGED???? so the golem does not have her best interests at heart.

mulder pulls out a handy knife to cut him down!!! mulder keeps a knife on him….. huh. i’ll analyze that later. 

scully is working her doctor skills while mulder goes on a hunt for ariel, who he finds on the floor. 

ohhhh but the golem is here….. and she’s begging him not, to but mulder is shooting at the golem…. it isn’t doing anything. and now he’s choking mulder.

she offers “isaac” the ring…. and he puts it on her hand….

but she wipes off the first letter!!!! and he crumbles!!!!

scully is here to find mulder!!!!! while ariel is saying goodbye 

that is the end of the episode, which is dedicated to lillian katz. a google search leads me to believe that she was the episode writer’s grandmother 

hmm. what am i thinking….?

well, this was a sad one. a very sad one. which i had been warned was going to keep happening over and over again until i hit episode 20. and yet! here i am! still sad!

i take it that this one was likely very personal to the writer, if that really is the writer’s grandmother that this was dedicated to and google is not lying to me. 

i think it covered really important topics, especially about how rhetoric turns into violence, and the two are inseparable. 

here’s something i’m confused about: why did they throw in that line about jacob being a terrorist? was it supposed to show that hate can effect all people, like how mulder said hate was a two-way street? it just feels like it didn’t actually serve any purpose beyond being a red herring to try and get you to think it was jacob and not the golem that did the killing. but what does that do to the narrative, to highlight someone who has suffered at the hands of hatred- and then put a different hatred of his own into that character’s hands? this is a thing that happens in real life, and real life is messy and complicated, but i feel a bit thrown off on that for the basic plot reason of “if he killed 7 people then how did he get to new york”.

implications aside of someone surviving a genocide and then inflicting the pain of death onto others, which i will admit i feel hesitant about but don’t even know where to begin in approaching that, it stuck out to me as weird and unrealistic. i mean, if they were trying to show that hate was a two-way street (which is… an interesting way of seeing things anyway), jacob’s hatred of the boys who killed isaac was already well fleshed out without a random terrorist point. is the story trying to say that everyone hates something or someone, and we are all capable of being driven to horrible things? or what? i’m a little lost on the overall meaning, and maybe i have to wrestle with it for a bit. it's not like the hatred of an oppressor to the oppressed and the hatred of the oppressed to their oppressor are moral equivalents.

i feel i wasn’t supposed to take home the message that using golems to kill nazis is a good thing but. well. if i was supposed to be sympathetic to curt and the murder boys and see their potential to change and be good people deep down, i didn’t get the memo. and also they kept calling these men who looked like college graduates "boys", as if to emphasize how hate corrupts the next generations, but. again. they did not look like boys. so if they were trying to make that point, i feel it fell a bit flat.

in terms of the jewish mulder headcanon... like i had said, i had been subscribing to it myself, but honestly, i didn't feel anything happened here where i was like "omg, canon proof!" i think if he had known the word on luria/the golem's hand i would have been more compelled to think so. but his line about hate being a two-way street felt weird, and when he didn't understand that there doesn't need to be a specific threat of violence for the threat to always be there in a jewish community also felt a little like he didn't know what he was talking about. also, he described the death at the beginning as "very old testament", which felt odd. it is an odd thing to say at all, but given that it is such a christian term, it felt loaded.

maybe, if you have this headcanon, you imagine that he grew up without knowing much about the culture associated with it? what do you think? do you subscribe to that headcanon?

while the episode was touching, i found myself confused on what exactly it was trying to say. i guess i'll leave it at that.

did you like it? did you have a solid interpretation on what it was trying to say and if it said it well? to me it felt like it was trying to be a lesson on how hate corrupts all but that also seems simplistic.

tell me all the thoughts.