#the other thing (which shouldn't be a thing but it is)

[dreamingdormouse]

Back when Mr. Dormouse was in the Navy, he was for a couple years assigned to Pearl Harbor, as a nuclear mechanic on the submarine engines. (My husband is one of the most brilliant people I know, by the way, that's a very difficult job to get. But also it's hard work, long hours, lots of stress, and not very good pay.)

Shortly before I arrived to join him, his gross-motor twitches became more pronounced. They'd started when he was in training, and gotten stronger over time. He would be thinking about something or working on something, and abruptly his arm would flail out to the side, or his leg would kick like you'd found the right spot to tap with the little reflex hammer.

This was not as dangerous as Gallus's Dad without his glasses and with a gun, but still rather hazardous, as Mr. Dormouse quite often had a wrench in his hand, which was wont to go flying if his arm jerked!

His coworkers teased him about it in the friendly/mean way that is common in the military. He began the process of getting it checked out - the military, for all its flaws, has/had an amazing health care system.

The docs on base ended up deciding that

1) It's not Tourette's (which can manifest physically as well as the more well-known version of accidental cussing)

2) It's very similar, though, but, uh... not actually any of the things in our textbook?

3) Stress makes it worse

4) Sorry, Chief Petty Officer Dormouse, there's nothing else we can do for you

5) But you really shouldn't be in the military anymore

Well that was helpful.

Worse, commanding officers didn't care. Wouldn't hear of discharging him early. On the plus side, the submarine he was assigned to was in drydock for a year or more of preventative maintenance (if it was a car, it would've had an oil change, tires rotated, rust inspection, emissions test, the works), so at least he wasn't underwater like that, on multi-week trips, in a crowded environment 24/7.

The other engineer/mechanics around him knew he wanted to get a medical discharge. They began to joke that they should assign him to stand close to the officers, carrying a knife. Not in a threatening manner, oh no! Just as a tool. It wouldn't be anyone's fault if he just... twitched. And maybe then the officers would get the idea that this guy shouldn't be in the military?

Eventually somebody with some ability to sign papers decided to do so, and Mr. Dormouse was assigned to the equivalent of garden duty - a stint in the quartermaster's office. It took another 6-9 months before he got his discharge, because there wasn't a form for "IDK, I think it's Tourette's-adjacent, should we do another brain scan?" like there is for myopia or a heart murmur.

But at last he got out of the Navy and went to college for nuclear engineering, and it's been more than a decade. Not being in the military took away a lot of the stress, so these days he barely twitches at all. Sometimes it just looks like a full body shiver, and it happens a lot less frequently.

He does tell me that it is quite traditional to get stuck with the pin when a medal is being awarded, so it's possible that Captain Redacted lightly stabbed Gallus's Dad on purpose and as per custom. But it also might've been the whiskey. 🥴

The Hummingbird

The Story of my Father’s Very Brief military career.

Content Warnings: Military, guns, hummingbirds, Profanity, Lots of Profanity, spectacular incompotence, catholicism mention, alcohol mention.

As usual, all names have been changed or redacted to protect people’s privacy.

In the fall of 1969, my Dad was hit by a car and suffered a serious concussion, causing him to miss midterms and put his grade in a hole he wouldn’t be able to recover from, as this was the days before a lot of professorial accountability.  Like a sensible person, he decided to Withdraw for the semester and focus on recovering and maybe take a part-time job to pay for spring tuition, because you could do that back then.

“Son,” My grandfather asked, sitting on the couch with Dad shortly after he was discharged from the hospital. “What about your college deferment? I’m worried about you getting drafted.”

“Dad,” Dad said, filling in job applications. “I’m legally blind without my glasses!  I’d be a danger to anyone around me with a gun.  Even if I get drafted there’s no way in hell I’d pass the medical exam.”

“Don’t swear in my house.” Said Grandpa, under the entirely mistaken impression that the US Military was run with any sort of competence.

Literally a week later my Dad’s draft papers came in, and he reported to his local draft board, driver’s license and doctor’s note in hand to prove He Is Legally Blind Without His Glasses, only to be waved through without so much as a sideways glance by anyone resembling a doctor.

“They must be desperate.”  My dad concluded when he got home that night to pack.

The news was devastating to the family, as both his parents had siblings to WWII.  Grandpa was ready to beg, bribe and otherwise compromise his intensely catholic morals to get Dad out, and Grandma prayed to any available saint that would save her son from the fate of her brothers.  She had quite the collection of saints in her sewing room, some forty figurines and dozens more candles and images, along with some stained glass she’d made herself of saints, landscapes and animals, including a large hummingbird that lived on the sewing room window since they’d moved into the house.

Dad pleaded with them to not do anything they’d regret, and returned to the base for basic training.

Dad’s drill sergeant was a man whose real name was “Ross” but insisted on being called “Bulldog” or “SIR!” by everyone depending on rank.  Dad supposed this might have been a defense mechanism as Bulldog had an intensely jowled and acne-scarred face that did greatly resemble a fighting dog well past their prime.  The image was not helped by the fact that he was constantly smoking rose-flavored tobacco in a pipe that had seen better centuries, and consequently smelled like a terrible combination of trailer park and the women’s perfume counter at Macy’s.

Bulldog was also… not great about following protocol, which is a terrible failing in a Drill sergeant, but Dad supposed at that point in the war Bulldog had become horribly depressed by the sheer numbers of young men he was sending to their deaths and had kind of stopped giving a fuck about their safety and his own.

Which lead to an incident about three weeks into Dad’s training camp when in the middle of a Weapons Qualification lesson, Bulldog pulled Dad’s glasses off and bellowed “YOU WON’T HAVE THOSE COKE BOTTLES WHEN THOSE [incorrect slurs, because there’s no such thing as an informed bigot] BLAST YOUR ASS TO KINGDOM COME.” before stomping off to go change the paper targets, leaving Dad standing there with an M-1, squinting in what he hoped was the general direction of the targets.

To give you an idea of HOW bad my dad’s vision is, I once asked him at what distance things got blurry, and he responded by taking off his glasses, putting his hand up to his face, and slowly moving it back.  He stopped about eight inches from his face and nodded.  

“So I can see my hand from here but I can’t distinguish my fingers.  I think that green blob over there is your mother.”

“I’m in the living room.” called mom. “You’re looking at the blender.”

So it should come as no surprise that as soon as Dad heard someone shouting “Ready! Aim! Fire!” He did precisely that.

Hummingbirds are often mistakenly characterized as Delicate Little Rainbows that are a gift Direct from Heaven when the truth is they’re really Vicious Little Bastards thrown out of Hell for being too Nasty.  

You would be too if you could eat nothing but frappuccinos and the occasional chicken nugget, everything around you was at least the size of a pickup truck and regarded you as a tasty snack, and you were forced to defend your fridge from not only equally vicious rivals but goddamn insects that are bigger than you are.  

Being a hummingbird is awful under normal circumstances, and now there are maniacs with loud machines and projecties as big as you are stomping around and yelling and well-

At that exact moment, one of the nesting hummingbirds, having grown progressively more exasperated with the activity on the base, dive-bombed my father, hurling it’s tiny body directly into his ear and slicing the lobe up, and making him jerk slightly as he fired.

He missed Sergeant Bulldog by mere inches. Dad still isn’t sure if the Hummingbird caused him to miss or put him closer to accidental manslaughter, but it mattered little as Bulldog grabbed him by the head, shrieking in spittle-flying fury-

“ARE YOU FUCKING BLIND?”  He roared.

“YES!!” screamed my father, also hysterical. “SIR THAT’S WHAT THOSE ‘COKE BOTTLES’ ARE FOR SIR!”

Bulldog stopped, suddenly and uncomfortably confronted with the nature of causality.  He only let it stymie him for a moment.  “GET YOUR IDIOT ASS TO THE MEDIC, I’LL DEAL WITH YOU LATER!”

At the medical center, an extremely befuddled doctor dilated Dad’s eyes, took pictures because Dad had the worst case of myopia he’d ever seen and wanted to put him in a medical journal, and asked him:

“What the HELL are you doing here?”

“Very nearly shooting people sir.”

“Well, we can’t have you shooting people while you’re in the army!  I’ll get your medical discharge started.”

Dad decided not to comment on that statement, thanked the doctor, and wandered blindly back to his bunk.

It took them a full thirty days to process Dad’s discharge, perhaps largely due to the fact that actually FINDING the captain was a task for hercules- The man had an almost phobic aversion to his office and a tremendous love of whiskey so actually locating the man and early enough in the day that he was still sober enough to sign anything was a race against time and a battle against the wits of a man determined to get out of work, which is when humanity is at its peak intelligence.

In the meantime, it simply wouldn’t do to let dad bike the five miles back to his home and come back for the paperwork, nor let him sit quietly and not accidentally maim anyone, so he was put on garden duty.  

Supervised by recently-suspended-from-instruction Sergeant “Bulldog” Ross.

By the second day Bulldog had mostly run out of steam, perhaps out of a sense of really, whose fault was that? So He would mostly stand in Dad’s general vicinity, waxing philosophical on the nature of war, government and whatever else he could be crotchety about that day while continuously smoking his rose-flavored tobacco in his pipe.  Dad planted a frankly absurd number of flowers, trying to make a planted display that would spell out the name of the base in eight-foot letters, just in case someone has managed to miss all 824,594,359 signs beforehand.

On day five, perhaps attracted by the bright colors or the stench of artificial rose, the Hummingbirds found the new garden.

At first, it was timid little trips to the edge farthest from Dad and Bulldog, testing this new territory for both risk and bounty, but upon finding it full of sugary goodness, they became bold, getting closer and closer to Dad, zipping in as soon as he got up to get the next flat of flowers, then not waiting for him to finish planting them before they were up in his face, squeaking angrily for him to get out of the way of their lunch.

One male objected to Dad and Bulldog’s presence particularly strongly, dive-bombing and buzzing angrily at them, an ounce and a half of glittery impotent rage.  After a month, he’d gotten quite aggressive, and one day flew directly up to Bulldog’s face to chitter curses at him eye-to-eye, only for Bulldog to take out his pipe and blow a cloud of smoke at him, laughing as the bird tumbled over backwards in midair.

Agitated with the sudden noxious cloud, or perhaps merely a violent psychopath in its own right, the bird flew back, then straight up into the air for a good fifty feet before going into a dive, aimed directly at Bulldog’s face.

Dad doesn’t recall actually moving, only a sense that he ought to do something, and launched himself out of the dirt, arms outstretched to clap and force it off course-

“SHIT! What the hell was that for?”  Demanded Bulldog.

“Well, the hummingbird looked like it was going to attack you, Sir.  So I stopped it.”

“How noble.  What are you standing there like an idiot for?”

“…I think I caught it sir.”  Said Dad, staring at the tiny bill poking out from between his gloves.  The two of them leaned in close as dad very slowly opened his gloves and peered inside.

The hummingbird immediately forced it’s tiny head out to peep furious profanities at them both.

“How is it,”  Bulldog wondered aloud as the hummer continued to curse the both of them for the next seven generations. “That you can’t see to hit the broad side of a barn but can pull a shitty little bird right out of the air?”

“I’m wearing my glasses, Sir.”

Bulldog looked up at him, glaring with such intensity his face ceased to be a face at all and transformed into a dali-esque collection of wrinkles.

“Fuck you. Now go take that damn thing to the other side of the base so it doesn’t come back.”

��Yes sir.”  Dad nodded, nearly saluting out of reflex before remembering that he was holding a live and very angry bird.  It took him several hours to get to the other side of the base, with literally everyone stopping to ask him what the hell he was doing, well I have this bird sir and I was told to release it on the other side of the base- how in hell did your blind ass catch a hummingbird, well I had my glasses on- Fuck you, go ditch that thing already.

At three o'clock on the dot the very next morning, two MPs woke up my dad and told him he needed to report to the front office right away, no time to get dressed, right away right now.

They marched him directly to the main office, barefoot and in his Pajamas to be greeted by not only Sergeant “Bulldog” ross, but nearly every officer on the base, including the lieutenant and the Captain, all of whom were… attempting to stand at attention with varying degrees of success, most weaving slightly, some snorting with poorly-concealed laughter, and the entire room reeking of booze.

“GENTLEMEN!”  hiccuped the lieutenant, before shaking himself and continuing, “WE ARE GATHERED HERE TODAY TO HONOR OUR ‘COMRADE’ -snort, giggle- IN ARMS -louder derisive laughter- FOR HIS BRAVERY AND SERVICE IN THE FACE OF EXTREME DANGER-”

“IN THE BEAK OF EXTREME DANGER!” Howled one of the assembled officers.  

“-AND FOR HIS SERVICE IN DEFENDING AN OFFICER OF THE UNITED STATES ARMY.  I AM ~SO~ PLEASED THAT WE HAVE CAPTAIN [REDACTED] HERE WITH US TO PRESENT THIS MEDAL.”

He turned to the Captain, who took out a small box and motioned Dad forward.  Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a chocolate box from See’s Candies.

“[REDACTED], in honor of your brave and frankly improbable service in the defense of Euge- sorry, Sergeant Ross, and the capture of a dangerous wild animal, we award you this medal-  The Flying Purple Bastard.”

He opened the chocolate box to reveal this*:

(Image Description: A piece of cardboard cut out approximately in the silhouette of a hummingbird, by someone with only a passing familiarity with what hummingbirds look like.  The cardboard has been haphazardly covered in tinfoil and cartoon eyes drawn on.  It’s attached to a scrap of ribbon and a safety Pin.)

Which was then pinned crookedly to Dad’s nightshirt, after accidentally stabbing him a bit, saluted him as someone attempted to play the bugle but made a rather melodious farting noise instead, then slapped Dad in the face with a manilla folder full of papers and shouted. “DISMISSED!”

“Dismissed, sir?”

“Those are your discharge papers.” Said Bulldog. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“Yes, Sir!”

At which point Dad biked home in the rain, and thus ends my father’s military career.

*Pictured here is actually The Flying Purple Bastard 2.0, as the original was destroyed when partially eaten and fully regurgitated by one of the cats.

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[omgthatdress]

ive been seeing people making fun of the bianca situation and calling her names and i'm so fucking disgusted by it all. his last ex talked publicly about how she had no control of her wardrobe and how he decided what she was allowed to wear in public, and bianca visibly shook her head no twice before just going emotionless and doing what she was told. it's so gross and i'm so uncomfortable with how people are actively sharing the pictures of it everywhere. it's basically revenge porn imo.

yeah. I hate to be an internet "body language expert" and say "it's an obvious cry for help!" on an extremely blank face, but he truth is for all I know, Bianca could be a sub with an exhibitionism fetish and this is extremely her thing.

Like in ANY other situation I'd say it was cunt (literally!)

BUT

Kanye is famous for being mentally stable and having an extremely healthy relationship with women (sarcasm). I just DID NOT like the whole vibe of the thing and I was just like.... yeah I do not want to look back on this in ten years and seriously regret posting those images.

I remember during Britney Spears and Amy Winehouse's lowest days, Craig Ferguson said that his experience with alcoholism made him extremely sympathetic for them and because of that he was NOT going to be talking about them on his show and I thought that was brave as FUCK and I wish more late night hosts had the same decency because seriously NO ONE ELSE was out there saying "maybe we shouldn't be doing this."

Some time before Liam Payne's death I made fun of him for getting bad plastic surgery and now I feel fucking horrible about it because I had absolutely no idea the extent to which he was suffering. Had I known, I never would have made those posts.

In this case, I DO have some idea of how abusive Kanye can be and how much his mental health has unraveled, and I don't want to be a part of perpetuating that.

[hischierjustscored]

accidentally yours.・゜・quinn hughes

summary: you barely remembered putting quinn as your emergency contact until he showed up like the universe's idea of a bad joke

a/n: this is my contribution for the winter fic exchange 2k25 by @wyattjohnston for @hanaaishi 🧡 i still owe you forever for being patient and bearing with me on this!! seriously i mean it!! thank you both for making me a part of another amazing exchange which was my first one ever but i'm so happy that i was!! it was such an experience for me diving into all this and hope i was able to do some justice on my part 🧡 i got too carried away smoothing the final edges, hence the delay again 🥺 i also changed the idea we talked about a little but i hope it's all good in the end 🧡

warnings: mentions of injuries (light concussion, ankle sprain), hospital, parents pressure, overthinking, scratchin on the surface???, and i trusted myself to do a reader insert so bear with me once more

word count: 5.5k

You remember when you were 8 and took your brother’s bike to try out his self-made wood ramps in the garden, only to fall 6ft from the side and drop straight onto your left hip. That day you found out that grass wasn’t nearly as cushy as it looked but it was your mother’s “told you so” you never forget, lingering in your ears from where you sat in the backseat on the way to the hospital.

You also remember your best friend Lia leaving you in charge of booking an Airbnb for your first trip to Austria together, and you were proud of that cozy little place you found nestled in a mountain valley. But the "cozy" and "European" charms you both imagined left you searching desperately for a hotel in the middle of the holiday season instead, and Lia didn't have to say the words. You could hear the "I told you so" for really trusting someone with the username wanderlustgirl98.

And you remember moving to Vancouver a year ago after your studies, taking up your former professor's advice to follow one of its renowned urban development programs and put your "big-picture" skills to work. He didn’t have to try hard to convince you. You’d already been thinking about it for a long time until it felt like your chance to finally prove yourself. Perhaps even more to your parents. A naive part in you hoped you'd fit into their expectations for once. But if you really did, you'd reach out more than just on birthdays and festivities, maybe even give in to that other more vulnerable part in you and tell them how over your head you've been lately or that, deep down, they were probably right about all of this being a huge leap you still weren't ready for.

And you can only imagine…

Told you so.

It long replaced the loud ringing and the whole new level of woozines you felt an hour ago on the bus, as you watched the nurse adjust the brace on your right ankle, all black and chunky.

You sighed heavily for the 5th time in under 2 minutes, because what did you do to deserve all this?

Oh right, maybe being a chronic people pleaser, staying late at work to set other people's shit right. Fixing last-minute deadlines, cleaning up mistakes that weren’t yours, saying yes when you wanted to say no.

But you couldn't help it.

"It shouldn't take more than 3-6 weeks to heal completly, your lucky it's just a moderate strain. Nothing that can't be fixed."

She looked up at you over the rim of her glasses, still perched hideously, before she slowly swiveled back to her desk.

"Can I still work in that thing?", you tried testing out the waters, bending your feet just a little, then more until you sucked in a sharp breath when the pain hit.

"Honey, what do you think this is?", she drawled follwed by a low chuckle as if she couldn't quiet believe this being your first question.

“It’s meant for the healing, you have to keep it still completely and not put any weight on it. And that includes not working."

The last straw keeping you grounded right now is that this could have been much worse.

From the moment the bus driver hit the brakes like in that one Harry Potter scene, your new plateau sneakers giving out on you and your head bracing the inevitable fall on some window. Your initial hope bubble of no one noticing quickly busted as people came to your side, but you brushed them off mumbling that you were fine through the worst cringe of unwanted attention. Until you tried to balance yourself, only to realize you couldn't, and straightening up nearly made you sick.

You shifted, bracing your palms against the mattress to find a more comfortable position, minus flaring your ankle up again. You’d been in this bed for too long, it was driving you crazy.

"But how am I supposed to do that? Other than floating maybe..."

The mocking arch of her brows made the wrinkles on her forehood stand out more, but you couldn't care less, it was the pure frustration blurting out of you at this point you weren't even kidding about the last part. The last thing you needed on your mind was your boss' face to your sick call tomorrow morning. Not with the mayor visiting your office in 2 days, waiting to hear your thoughts on improving Vancouver's climate neutrality through sustainable architecture. And what you’ve worked tirelessly on, perfecting every detail from start to finish.

And you thought if all of this is some sort of reverse karma. Only for being hardworking. Is that a thing?

You were so lost in thought that you didn't notice the shuffling in the room until she came back with something that, if any shred of humor was left inside you, you would've laughed at. But instead, you just slumped back against the headrest, the wave of déjà vu taking you back to when you were 8 looking between the crutches in her hand.

Hardworking karma, reverse karma, just trying as hard as you can karma...

"I think you will be good with these", she offered, leaning them against your bed within reach, "maybe if you try hard enough you will actually float."

Her chumy tone you still couldn't quite feel yet, had your eyes roll back in an instant before closing them, grumbling to yourself, "Just great, really, really, great", but it was a mistake once you did as you fought off the urge to drift off completly.

A piece of mind for the first time in hours. Maybe for the first time in forever even.

The last months have been...immense to say the least, throwing yourself into anything that kept you running on autopilot, saying yes when you wanted to say no, but you needed it.

The last months have been...immense to say the least, throwing yourself into anything that kept you running on autopilot, saying yes when you wanted to say no, but you needed it.

After the biggest "told you so" that was bound to happen eventually. 2 months from now or more, or perhaps between his work, your work, balancing on a life that went past deadlines and demands, between 2 people who have their own reasons to prove themselves to everything around them, you slipped out of each other’s reach.

But it’s not like there was ever an official you two.

It was just the version of the story you always liked best.

“Here you go, I was able to find one in the random stash we keep in our break room, but it should work though," a voice light and sweet snapped your attention back faster or not fast enough, you didn't know, blinking against the lights now.

For a second, you felt like you were back on the bus with the dizziness and nausea creeping in again.

But no. Just him. It was just the thought of Quinn.

Your weighted gaze shifted to the bubbly blonde next to you, then down to your forearm where she lightly nudged a charger against it, and you suddenly remembered how determined she was to get it for you when you realized your phone powered down.

You couldn’t even text Lia back in time, knowing you were already too late for the rare occassions of missing your daily Facetime calls, with her still being back home in Seattle. Not in a trillion years you expected to feel this way about her, but right now you're glad she is.

Because if she she'd see you like this, she'd already know the answers without you giving it to her, that you take on more than your chronic people pleasing heart could handle sometimes.

And he'd always know too. When to snap you out of it, when to just exist beside you with no words. He'd never have to ask.

"Oh yeah, thank you", you forced out in the most put-together tone you could pull off right now, hoping our smile was convincing enough to distract her from the way your clammy palms were rubbing against the mattress, or the rapid thumping of your heart that you’d see too on your chest if you dared to look down again.

"Just enough to call a Uber and you can take it back."

She gave you a simple half-shrug, taking your phone from your outstretched hand, "It's stuff patients leave behind soo..", and plugged it in for you. But before you could brush her answer off again, the low calling of your last name made you snap to a tall man in the doorway, and his two long strides toward you could either mean more bad or good news.

You held your breath as you listened to him in silence going over your completly normal labs and scans which only told you everyone was making a bigger deal out of this anyway. You were fine, biting the inside of your cheeks reluctantly when he added they'd be filling out a sick report too.

"-though we would like to monitor you here for a night just in case you develop more symptoms that can’t be ruled out from the hit, and given that you already experienced dizziness and nausea-"

No person or force on this earth could make you stay here for one minute longer.

You released your cheeks with a click of your tongue, cutting him off quickly, "Uhhh that's not necessary, I mean I feel way better now and you just said it too didn't you?", which finally made him look up from whatever, clearly taken aback, his suprise mirrowing your own for a different reason.

Plus, you knew your rights. They couldn't keep you hostage here, you were ready to remind him of their own policy.

"I'm glad you do, we just want to make sure that-"

But you barely registered his next words, lost beneath the familiar sound of your phone finally wrapping up in your hands, and you were as happy as a little kid seconds away from unwrapping the biggest gift under the Christmas as tree, just, it didn't ask you to press your thumb down to unlock it as it normally would but...

"Damn it."

The one time your phone decides to ask for your SIM card code, and you’re completely blank.

Hardworking karma, reverse karma, just trying as hard as you can karma...

Yes, you really believed now, you did everything wrong tonight and this was the real karma of it all.

Your thumbs brushed the screen, trying to remember 4 digits like your life depended on it with the only 3 attempts you had.

The day you bought it you scribbled it down, along with the backup code (of course), and put it on your fridge because your memory rivaled that of a goldfish sometimes.

Was it 5678 or 5679?, and you heart dropped as deep as the Marianna Trench when it said only 1 attempt left.

"...and with how things are right now, we wouldn't encourage you to leave on your own. Do you have someone you can call right now to pick you up? Someone safe?"

Was he still talking to you?

"Huh? What?", the phone nearly slid from your grip, your palms starting to clam up again, and he lowered his clipboard studying you with an expression you weren't sure you had the energy to fully read, but it felt too damn close to pity.

"Or anyone we could call...?"

Quinn knew now that he could only trust Jack when it comes to discussing goodreads.com reader's favorites, ideas for lake house interior, and shooting pucks.

Not with anything close to dating. Or helping him out with that.

He was doing just fine. Thank you very much, but he knew Jack. Too much for his own good sometimes.

"Why do you act like you don't want it when you actually do. You need this. Get out of your head.

Sitting in this Italian restaurant that was a little too crowded for it being a secret "gem" as Jack said suggesting it to him, and he didn't even live here, listening to his date "soul-searching" trip to Bali was far from want and need.

He checked her Instagram highlights before, clicking on her profile Jack DM'd him. A friend of a friend. If overpriced veggie bowls and infinity pool thirst traps were anything soul-searching she's deluding both of them, and so was his thinking that maybe he should give this a shot. Getting out his head like Jack said with the season already hitting him with flashbacks he wanted to forget fot the sake of his sanity, and keeping away from anything that kept him running on autopilot.

"It just put everything into perspective", she said, her voice pulling him back just enough to realize he had no idea what she was talking about.

And he knew the moment he looked up from stirring the ice in his water with his straw for the past 5 minutes, there wouldn't be damn thing he'd remember about her either. She was beautiful, that much was obvious. The kind she knew and had probably been told her whole life, she didn't have to try too hard.

He preffered not trying at all. It was his favorite.

Probably ever since you took his drink at the coffee shop one day, the place too crowded for names to be called, just cups sliding across the counter and you didn't even look down at his name scribbled on the side in Sharpie when you slipped past him on the way out, not bothered to notice him eiter. The moment he should've said something, tap your shoulder, say anything when he just kept watching you move outside, tilting your head at street signs like they weren’t second nature yet, checking your phone every few seconds like you had somewhere important to be. Grabbing the wrong coffee without a second glance wasn’t his only hunch that you weren’t from here. Then, the sip. Too strong. Wholebean. Definitely not yours.

You turned back, ready to go back inside, but he already had yours in his hands on his way out to you when they started calling out names again, and no one responded to except for him.

A moment, A pause, your cold fingers brushing against his warm ones, or when you laughed at your mistake all crinkly around your eyes, perharps for the first time in a while that day, that should have been it, but wasn't, because between all of it you just became a part of his routine.

“…And then, on the third day, we did this sunrise meditation hike just me and a few people from the retreat, barefoot, totally disconnected, away from everything."

She kept going, oblivious to the way his focus had disconnected, his mind already elsewhere, lost in the memory of the last time he wanted to get away from everything, and the cushion underneath him slid akwardly when he shifted in his seat.

I wasn't about overpriced veggie bowls or infinity pools. But his favorite place in Michigan. Always.

And he wanted to take you there.

It had been a vague idea, one that had come up in the quiet moments in betweeen road trips and late-night talks at his place that were too deep and glances that lingered too long to mean anything less than what he had already convinced himself was true about you. The same feeling hit him when you gave him that slight curve of your lips, the one that always told him you had him figured out when when he told you about the days being slow and the nights nothing but still stars at the lake house.

"Hmm, that's not true stars are moving constantly, we just don't see it."

He laughed, quiet but warm,"Can you at least pretend to fall for it?" just to get stuck in his throat.

"It never is with you."

"What?"

"Pretending."

It never was with you either.

But it never became anything more than vague. Because there was always something else. Texts left on read for too long, you and your own world to keep up with just as much as he did with travel schedules that blurred weeks into months, not leaving room for things he didn't know how to hold onto. Or someone who didn't know either.

A low buzz from behind, easy to miss if it hadn’t lingered just long enough to jolt him back before he knows. He shifted again, and even though this was only ever one-sided, a genuine "Really sorry, I will turn it off" left his lips as he gawkly reached for his jacket over the backrest.

He hadn’t meant to look, a habit more than anything. But then his thumb hesitated mid-air, double-taking the number.

Unknown. Vancouver area code. Probably nothing. Probably something.

But always a red flag, especially for someone in his industry.

"Thought you were turning it off?", she mused, tipping her wine glasss to her lips, watching him over the rim and he forced a quick exhale, "Yeah, I-", but he didn't have a real answer with the buzzing still alive in his hand.

And he should've turned it off, ignore it, and sit through the night rest of the night pretending like he hadn't already made up his mind about this whole thing.

You need this.

But Jack was wrong.

He wasn't even sure what "this" was even supposed to be. Whatever, it never felt right since the start.

His phone buzzed again with the same caller, but now he thought about it being a perfect timing.

"I gotta take this...", he mumbled, barely shooting her a glance, and he swiped right before his mind could really caught up with it.

"Hello?"

A breath, a pause, nothing good he thinks already but he used it to press his index finger to his ear to drown out the noise, shifing again.

"Uhm, yeah, hello it's Vancouver General Hospital am I speaking to Quinn H?"

Well this was new.

"Depends, who is this?", ignoring the "H" making it sound like a witness protection program name. Not that he planned on correcting them. Or rather, a nurse as she introduced herself, surprisingly professional, enough to raise his interest and, slowly, his concerns too.

"Sir, we have your sister here, she was brought in with a mild concussion and a sprained ankle some hours ago. But don't worry, she is totally fine, she just needs someone to pick her up which is why we're calling."

His brows snapped together, head jerking back to the slightest bit like his brain needed an extra second to process.

"My what? Excuse me?"

Last time he checked it was Jack and Luke. Their parents would never screw them over like that, no way the would forget an entire human being for twenty-something years. Right? Not even back when they first sat him down to tell him he’d be a big brother, and his two-year-old self, without hesitation, decided he wanted a sister. But by the time Luke came, he was bound to live with brothers. He wouldn't change that for the world now.

So when the nurse repeated the words that his sister listed him as her emergency contact Quinn could only stare blankly ahead, "Yeah, I still think you've got the wrong number..."

She is wasting her time on a call when this girl was really waiting to be picked up, and he was just about to put it in terms she’d finally grasp, until-

You.

The noise around him, muffled laughter and the hum of conversation, the restless tapping of manicured nails against the table cloth across him, faded into nothing. And if with his thoughts already going from 0 to 100, this is his breaking point.

Your name.

He cleared his throat, but his voice came out strained, throat too dry, "Come again?"

Of all the names, hitting his ears after all these months but thought more of than he'd ever admit. The name he'd seen on his screen too many times, resisting the urge to check, to ask, to do something.

Everything dropped, turned over, a slow ache pressing against his ribs, too overwhelming and far too familiar.

But his body moved before his mind could catch up, momentum taking over. Someone said his name. Maybe, he couldn't care less. Something about a drink next, about sitting back down, but he ignored it again.

Because you were still ringing in his head, louder than it had in months.

And he wasn’t about to ignore it now.

"He said he's already on his way, shouldn't take longer than 10 minutes"

It made your brows furrow in confusion, "He's in the area?", but you said it more to yourself than to her, not that she heard it either in the crowded waiting room you were sitting in now, your ankle on a cushioned chair they'd given you.

Turns out you had listed an emergency contact the last time you were here, one you didn’t even remember leaving behind. Apparently, hospital policy included holding onto records long enough to make you wait nearly an hour, because the name they had on file was your brother. And, of course, he was on a business trip in Abbotsford, 1 hour away. The only reasonable choice to put down when they’d asked back then. Then again, you barely remembered.

Except for the fact that it was your first public unveiling of a project you led. You had invited your parents, that small, hopeful part of you giving in, calling them, telling them you’d be happy if they came. You were almost surprised by their promising tone, as if, finally, they’d understand this wasn’t just about concepts and sketches but about your dream.

But they didn’t come, texting out of everything, with an excuse that felt too made up. And hours ago, when your stomach had already sunk from scanning the crowd for them every time a new group arrived, it sank further. This time with the mix of one bad shrimp and something stronger you’d used to numb the disappointment.

How could you forget when you really really wanted to.

"Is you brother like...famous or something, because your records were pretty mysterious."

You looked up to the same bubbly blonde nurse, still standing in front of you with her lips pressed together,

"I think we're close enough he'd care to tell me or I would've found out sooner or later, but no, sorry to dissapoint you or anything", you corrected, hoping that was enough while you were already done processing the absurdity of it all. You slumped against the rigid backrest, sighinh as the exhaustion crept in again, but rest was the last thing anyone was willing to grant you right now.

“Your record,” she rambled on, not getting the memo, "it was… kinda mysterious.”

One eye popped open, then another when you saw her crossing her arms now. This conversation slowly glided out of your hands, you just leaned forward, jerking your head to the side, silently urging her to make sense of whatever this was.

"Your record just said Quinn H. and nothing more. I had to call him Mr. H. the whole time, but I figured he prefers this kind of privacy and that's what you want for him too. He didn't tell me his last name though, so like I said, all mysterious."

Your fingers now hoved near the cushioned stool, reaching for your calf to lift it off with more force than you should've and the sting was instant. But it was nothing compared to the irritation climbing its way up your throat where your heart already pounded in it.

Because not your brother was about to walk through that door. The person who should've been here.

No.

It will be Quinn Hughes.

And suddenly you were mid-fall again, right there on the bus, every last bit of control slipping past your grip. Nothing you could do.

Because drunk you put him down as your emergency contact that time. The one you barely remember.

"Wait, no", a breath left you, unsteady, "Call him again and tell him it's a big fucking mistake", your hands twitched in flight mode as you darted between her and the sliding doors open-mouthed, cause you remembered her saying he was only 10 minutes away. 5 even, if you're unlucky.

The same Quinn you stopped talking too, who if you looked into his eyes again, the same on that always made you wonder, if they could get any darker, any greener, would he notice?

That you mever meant for things to be this way? That it wasn't him, not really but your own mind, the way this new life kept pulling at you, and how you wanted to reach out when things calmed down. When you had space. When you could be the version of yourself that he deserved.

Maybe he was waiting for you. Maybe he thought you didn't care. It was only fair, but it didn't loosen the knot in your chest, nor how you blinked away the sting in your eyes that you told yourself was from the stuffy air with too many people breathing in here.

Because you did. You always did.

"Hey sis."

And in that instant, it felt like all the oxygen had been sucked from the room, how else could you explain the way your lungs refused to function, as if they’d forgotten how, when you snapped your head to where he stood now inches away. How long?

His navy blue shirt was barely visible under his coat, his hair grown out just enough for the ends to curl, for it to peek out from the beanie he held in his hand, looking too good even with his hair tousled still like he'd always did asking you if he looks okay, what you could see him doing in whatever thing you interruped him in before he got here,

It pressed in too heavy, you had to cut through it.

"Why are you here?"

"What happ-"

You barely felt the ache in your ankle over the blood rushing in your ears when you shifted your weight standing now, his gaze dropping to the crutches you stood up without, your brace, the subtle wince you thought you hid. And it was fucking with your heart that he wasn't just looking at you, but like he was piecing something back together.

He parted his lips, but his eyes flicked past yours first, toward the nurse behind you, when his fingers around his beanie, "You were brought in here", he hesistated, "Needed someone to pick you up."

That was the objective, something everyone would've done perhaps if they received such call, being a good or person, or the simple fact that he was your emergency contact.

You needed the subjective.

You huffed, shaking your head, "This is not what I meant. You could have said no."

"I didn't."

"You should have."

The words sounded sharper on your tongue than you wanted them to be, and you didn't know what hurt more, the way his expression barely shifted like he'd expected to be shut down again, because you were getting so good at it, or how your insides churned 360 degrees of how much you already regretted them.

"What do you want me to say? You're the one who put my name down I didn't even knew until now or let you bolt out of here with an concussion like they told me?"

Bolted. Floated. Whatever to get out of here finally.

"Well, neither was I, and I'm fine", you muttered fixing you gaze on the sterile floor instead, on anything but the way how he was fixing you, "but let's just drop it to the part where you go back to whatever you had going on before coming here I guess and me saying sorry for it."

The bittersweet taste in your mouth.

Only when the dull ache flared up in your good ankle did you realize you’d been standing without your crutches all this time. and before you even thought to reach for your crutches, he was already moving. Anticipating. The moment your balance gave out on you, he was already there, steady hands at your elbow and bicep, grounding you before gravity could do worse, and your pulse skipped how easy it was to sink into it.

His breath hitched, and so did yours, the warmth of his touch pooling through your fabric like you swallowed an ember, and his eyes, god his eyes, the darkest green, you don't even have to look up to be convinced about it again, all on you, as he murmured, barely a whisper.

"Don't be sorry, because it didn't mean anything."

Sitting in his car with the seat warmer already on like he remembered how easily cold you can get, watching as he pulled up your adress from his "saved", it fucked with your heart all over again.

You should have protested, insisting you were fine enough to make it out on your own, scoffing when the nurse told Quinn, not you, that you needed monitoring, just in case.

But exhaustion had already settled too deep in your bones, that you were almost thankful for the silence settling between you since he helped walking you out and insisted to drive you home at least.

Almost.

You would’ve been the biggest fool alive if you let this slip again, like you always did, like you always regretted.

"I am sorry though."

"And I told you not to be."

The darkness in his eyes gave way to the streetlights flickering through them as you turned to face him, "You don’t get to tell me what I should and shouldn’t be sorry for, Hughes", you jested and Quinn huffed out something close to a laugh, shaking his head lightly. The soft glow from outside looked too good on him when you stopped at a right light, you swallowed hard, "What kind of brother would I be too?"

You groaned, rolling your eyes. "Oh my god, stop. I didn’t even mean to put you down as my contact."

"Keep it, I don't mind."

"You say that like you wouldn’t have blocked my number by now if you had the chance."

Quinn smirked, tilting his head against the headrest, his eyes flickering toward you. "Would’ve done it already if I wanted to."

Then, before either of you could think too much about it, his hand reached out, his pinky brushing against yours on the center console, like testing the waters, like answering more questions without words. It was enough.

He squeezed your hand once.

You squeezed back. An answer.

[xxchumanixx]

May I please request a fic where the reader (who's a famous singer) falls in love with Tim but is reluctant to fully trust and be vulnerable with him due to bad experiences she's had with men in the past? The reader could eventually write and sing a song about her love for Tim which blows up and even wins awards like Grammys too which makes their relationship stronger and she opens up her heart more? 🥺

Be myself

Tim Bradford x fem!reader

Warnings/Tags: fluff, a bit of angst, mentions of physical abuse / hitting (please look for help if you're in an abusive relationship! Being abused is not normal and it shouldn't be simply endured and viewed as it) Word count: 2.421 Authors note: I don't know if I used the gif before (probably did), but it just fits perfectly. I know you linked Whats love got to do with it by our legend Tina, but I kinda didn't vibe with it. I hope you'll still like it, though (if it was even meant for reference to the song the reader writes). I'm in no way a songwriter, so I'm not at all sure about that small part i wrote there. I know I posted a sneak peak for something different, but this gave me so much motivation to write so i put it first. Enjoy!

He didn't know how he ended up with you of all people.

Not that he'd complain.

Never.

But a famous singer like you and a cop like him? It had to be fate that brought you together when him and his rookie had been called to deescalate a situation at a concert of yours.

He didn't expect to fall for you - hell, you probably didn't either. It just kinda happened after you gave him your number before him and his rookie left.

It had been meant more like a joke - yet he hadn't been able to get you out of his head and neither did you. So he texted you.

Three weeks later you went on your first date.

You had been cautious, bad experiences with previous boyfriends and dates branding you more than you'd have liked to admit.

And so you didn't.

The date went great, leading to another one shortly after.

Tim swore you were playing some magic trick on him. The speed in which he fell for you was shocking. In a few weeks you had him wrapped around your finger.

It didn't take long for him to admit his feelings to you, saying he'd understand if you weren't ready for anything yet, and as he rambled on, you'd cut him off with a kiss.

Because you were indeed ready.

At least that's what you thought.

Not that you didn't have feelings for him - you had, and they were strong. You just had trouble letting yourself be too open, too vulnerable.

To trust easily.

Though, right from the start, you knew he was different. He was interested in your career, yes, but in a way that didn't profit him or made him want to brag about his girlfriend being famous.

Or try and hit you if you didn't spend all your money on him. It had happened once, leaving a mark on your soul you had trouble getting rid of. Getting rid of the douchebag wasn't exactly easy, either.

But that was another thing.

No, Tim supported you, took days off to watch your concerts and be there for you. And maybe to have the time of his life with you in your wardrobe backstage.

For a while now, you had been working on a project - a new song that one day came to your mind when you thought about the past few months and your relationship with Tim.

It had almost been a year now, and you started to question whether your cautiousness was misplaced.

Not that you didn't trust him.

You trusted him more than you did any other man you'd been with, it just was like a habit of sorts. Some sort of protection your mind had put up in the beginning.

It wasn't easy to let that guard down.

It was one of the main parts you included in that song. How he made you want to be more open, to trust and give up that control you so desperately held onto.

To love without the constant fear of it all going downhill.

Your producer, Savannah, supported you all the way. You wrote your song, recorded it over and over again until you were a hundred percent convinced that it did Tim justice in a way.

Or rather his love for you. The way he never treated you differently even though you were famous.

Sure, there were times when his face would be plastered along magazine articles alongside yours - especially the beginning hadn't been easy.

Hiding a relationship wasn't easy and it certainly didn't work in this case, either. The first time it happened it had been on Instagram.

Someone had seen you and him together, taking a video and posting it for everyone to see. Once it reached a certain amount of views, it spread like wildfire, and everyone knew.

Tim wasn't very happy about it.

He understood that it was part of your life, but he didn't like it - and that included him - plastered all over the internet.

When you were shopping and hoarded by paparazzi or too many fans and he'd notice you were overwhelmed, he'd play the 'I'm a cop, please stand back' card, effectively getting you out of the situation.

Another thing you loved him for.

He didn't thrive on the constant attention, didn't suck it up like a sponge and used it to his advantage. Not like other men had tried to do before.

So why was it so hard to let go? Why was it so hard to trust, to let yourself be too vulnerable?

When you published the song, Tim had yet to hear it.

Yes, maybe you should have let him listen to it before publishing it, but you were too nervous. Too nervous he'd laugh at you, tell you that you were crazy for writing and publishing that song.

It would have also meant he'd question the origin - why you had such trust issues, had these problems of opening up.

You didn't want to be judged. After all, you still hadn't told him about it.

Only a few days later, you and Tim were driving in his truck home, when suddenly, the radio moderator announced your new song. Tim's gaze snapped to you - normally you'd show him your upcoming projects, talk to him about them.

He didn't know you'd just published a new song.

Your cheeks heated up as he stared at you in confusion before his gaze fixed back on the street. You knew he was listening, picking up on the lyrics.

Another thing you loved about him.

He didn't just hear the songs, he listened to them. Analyzing them, understanding them.

So it was no surprise he did understand this song, too. About a minute into the song he parked in his driveway, killing the engine but leaving the radio on.

You nibbled on your lip nervously, heart beating wildly as you tried to make out his reaction. You couldn't read his thoughts, so you had to rely on his body language.

And when he understood the song was about him, his gaze snapped to yours right as the second chorus hit.

You let me be myself, and I thank you for that.

You ban all the bad thoughts from my head.

No matter how hard I try, I can't find anything bad about you.

And I hope you see me like that, too.

You support me, give me strength,

It is wrong to hold you at arms length.

I love you and I hope you see,

that your're the best thing that's ever happened to me.

You swallowed, not interrupting him as he listened to the rest of the song. This certainly hadn't been how you'd planned this.

Sure, you wanted him to know about the song and all the things it expressed sooner or later, but when you published it, the thought of him hearing it that soon hadn't exactly crossed your mind.

When the song ended and the next came up, he immediately turned the radio off.

He stared at you, shocked, surprised.

In awe.

You bit your lip as his own parted, though nothing came out. His head tilted slightly, thinking.

"Is it true?" was the first thing he asked. "Or is it just... I don't know, a random love song?"

Your eyes widened slightly, and you shook your head. "No, it's not a random love song." you said. "It... It's about you, Tim."

He nodded slightly, still shocked. "What about the- the trust issues you talk about? Or sing, for that matter." he inquired further. "Or the 'keeping at arms length'?"

You swallowed, sighing quietly as you looked away. "It's all true, yes." you admitted quietly. "And I know I should have told you, and I know you're having a lot of questions right now, but... I'm sorry."

Tim leaned forward over the middle console and placed his finger under your chin to lift your head, his blue eyes meeting your Y/E/C ones. "Hey, you have nothing to apologize for." he said, shaking his head slightly. "Yes, it would be nice to know the details behind it, but I understand that you didn't tell me. Or show me the song beforehand, for that matter. It's great, by the way - just like everything else about you."

You blushed, suddenly feeling undeserving of him. He was way too caring and understanding.

"I mean, I assumed some things..." he continued, tilting his head from side to side for a moment. "But I never pushed you to tell me. And I won't now. Neither did you on the subject of Isabel. If you want to tell me, I'm happy to listen, but you don't have to. Just know that I feel incredibly honored and love you."

Tears burned in your eyes, and suddenly, you knew you could trust him with everything. No more keeping him at arms length.

"I love you, too." you breathed out, smiling through the tears. "I just- I don't know." you shook your head in sudden embarrassment. "Ever since I got famous all the men seemed to want the same thing. Fame, my face as their way into Hollywood. To brag about their girlfriend being famous and make themselves look more important. Or try and hit me for not spoiling them like the ungrateful bitch I am." you grimaced, and his eyes widened before they narrowed. "I know you aren't like that, I do. I just couldn't shake this... habit of closing myself off and trying to avoid another one of these situations. I'm sorry, Tim. I know you are better than them. That song is about you and it is supposed to express how I feel about you."

Tim smiled, cupping your face with his hands. "You're so much more than your career, Y/N." he told you, wiping the tears away with his thumbs. "You're a caring, beautiful and brilliant woman. You're far more than I deserve yet I'm too selfish to ever let you go. I love you more than you can imagine, and I want you to know that I'd never try to get any fame or benefits or whatever from you or your career. Let alone lay a hand on you. I love you too much to risk us - not that I'd need your fame or money. I'm a cop and I love being a cop. My girlfriend just happens to be an amazing singer."

You laughed quietly, blushing more. His words spread a warmth through you like no one else ever did. "You're flattering me." you mumbled sheepishly. He cocked a brow. "I'm not." he said. "You are an amazing singer. You're amazing in general, all over."

You laughed once more, a smile on your lips. "You're way too good for me, Tim Bradford." you said. "I'm the one not deserving you."

He huffed, tilting his head from side to side again. "Debatable." he said. He leaned closer, capturing your lips in a sweet and gentle kiss. "Come on, let's head inside." he mumbled against them. "I want to celebrate this song."

It had been about two weeks until your song seemed to have gained massive popularity, and when the letter landed in the mail weeks later, you screamed.

Tim had rushed into the kitchen, gun drawn as he tried to find out what happened. When he saw you with the letter in hand, pressing a hand to your mouth, he lowered the gun, stepping beside you.

One look at the letter and his lips parted.

You looked up in your excitement, almost headbutting him where he was looking over your shoulder. "Tim-" you breathed out, cutting yourself off with another squeal. He grimaced at the high sound, though laughing as he moved to hug you from behind.

"Baby, that's amazing." he breathed out. "I'm so proud of you." You bit your cheek, heart pounding wildly. "I- I mean, I haven't won anything yet." you said, fingers trembling as they held the letter. "But..." "But you're nominated." Tim finished for you. "That's more than most can wish for. This is amazing, Y/N. God, I'm so proud of you."

You smiled widely, clutching the letter to your chest. You giggled and jumped up and down in his arms, pressing a hand to your lips. Tim laughed quietly, holding tighter onto you, his nose brushing the shell of your ear. In the last few weeks you'd grown even closer, and it all felt more right than ever.

"Told you you're amazing."

Nervous wasn't word enough to describe your current state.

The Grammys.

The fucking Grammys.

Never would you have thought this would happen. Who would have thought you'd make it this far?

Fidgeting with your small clutch nervously, you took a deep, trembling breath. Tim grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers and giving them a reassuring squeeze. You'll be okay.

The wait had been torture.

Waiting for the day to come, waiting for the announcements. It was like a dream come true, yet the wait left you on edge.

You'd been nominated for single of the year. Your song about Tim Be Myself had literally exploded, landing you a spot at the Grammys.

You inhaled shakily as the nominees were announced before the moderator opened an envelope. She drew it out, making the anticipation rise higher and higher until your heart suddenly slammed to a stop.

"Best single of the year goes to... Be Myself!" Your lips parted, not believing what just happened. Tim cheered, the crowd applauded, and you got up on shaky legs.

You couldn't believe it.

This was more than you could have ever wished for, and as Tim pressed a kiss to your cheek, giving you the biggest, most proudest smile you'd ever seen on him before he ushered you to the stage, you knew it.

You knew he was the one.

He was the one that treated you right. The one that loved you unconditionally.

And you'd be forever grateful for that.

Tag List

@laheysfilm @newobsessionweekly @augustvandyne @RookieTrek @dhundhchrih @nachofriess @dtftheavengers @wonderland2425 @skywalker0809 @freyathehuntress @caplanbuckybarnes @sacredwarrior88

[xclowniex]

Fuck off you dumb fucking cunt

We can all agree that what happened to her was very bad, and I wish that was the end of what I'm about to say. Stop comparing Palestine to the holocaust. They are two separate situations.

And this isn't even about if they're on the same level or not as that doesn't matter. Please just stop going "oh is this the new holocaust? Is this the new Anne frank? Are Palestinians the new jews they're semites too ya know" like shut the actual fuck up.

And this wouldn't be such an issue if it wasn't paired with the erasure of jews (snd roma) from the holocaust. Like we are literally seeing the holocaust be rewritten online where instead of people acknowledging that antisemitism was the motivation behind it, and that antisemitism was steeped into other forms of bigotry like homophobia being antisemitic homophobia because the Nazis thought jews were the reason why people were gay, instead of recognizing that, it's being rewritten to just be this amorphous bad event(tm), which every minority was affected by equally. This is in part due to shit holocaust education as well as antisemitic conspiracy theories surronding the holocaust.

And going "oooo is this the new holocaust" about Palestine is just so fucking stupid. Because no it's not. It can never be, because the holocaust was unique in the fact that it was about HATING JEWS. IF A GENOCIDE IS NOT ABOUT HATING JEWS THEN ITS NOT THE NEW HOLOCAUST.

And the combination of the two just make it so fucking insidious. We are being written out of our own fucking history in more ways than one.

And also like, not to mention, calling what is happening in Gaza the "new holocaust" is not letting Palestinian history stand on its own. It's not letting the nuance flourish. It shouldn't be the new anything, it should be its own thing. Why does everything else get to be its own thing and get it's own name yet for palestinians its always compared to or dubbed the "Palestinian holocaust".

[zeyris-daydreams]

Imagine being chosen to become Mydei's wife. And it's not any ordinary thing either, as a chrysos heir he has lots of responsibilities on his plate, and so to help with that, the community tries to give back to the heroes.

Many people feel differently about chrysos heir and their influence over Amphoreus, but the facts remain undeniable; chrysos heir is necessary. And so, to show any gratitude, the community prepares a celebration.

You are dressed in their most flowy clothes as you stand near other brides, ready to be wed, and the nervousness eats at you like an eagle eating a titans liver. The women picked the best women for the heir, and you were dragged out of the comfort of your home to be here—and while it's not a general occurrence to have to take such mistreatment, it's not that general population is special like the heir is, either.

You've heard lots about Mydei, of his nature. They call him cruel.

The only kindness you've been given was one of the women informing you who you would be wed to. And you'd rather not know. Why not Aglaea? Why not Phainon?

The two young men entered the hall while bantering over something, and you had assumed they knew about all of this. Why would you be here otherwise? You clenched the white gowns in your hands as they looked over, you should feel honoured. And you should feel happy to be here.

Yet the bitterness in your chest was unmistakeable.

The ceremony was swift, merely a formality, before Mydei took you home. And you've long realised the tales weren't as true as they sounded. Mydei, once you arrived to his home, left you to your own devices.

And maybe you shouldn't be offended to be abandoned on your wedding night, and, well, all the nights that followed. But Mydei wasn't a bad person.

Something must've been wrong with you.

The part which brought you close wasn't a cliche of treating his wounds, or comforting him when he came home. It was when his exhausted self entered the kitchen after a long day of responsibilities, only to find you leaned over the counter, whisking something in a bowl. The flour was spread around, and the movements of your arm were hasty. You didn't notice him, you didn't look at him at all.

And Mydei didn't know how to feel about this, either. A sense of anger born from a strange feeling of affection, and he left the room before you could've realised.

—

The situation between you and Mydei escalated. It was all in his long gazes and off hand comments that to most would be dismissed as sarcasm.

But not you.

It was all in his little mannerisms and intricacies, and you found he was not only shy, but quite shielded as well. And if it wasn't for you taking all the steps forward, he'd linger in the background—but you were his wife.

Slowly but surely you took off his armour, one that he insisted on wearing even at home, exposing his emotional vulnerabilities as time passed on. Mydei allowed you to be close; never too close.

"You can't be serious" a scoff came from your lips, and he really did it this time. He knew it. But exposing himself to danger was something inevitable for a chrysos heir.

He knew he could die. That would hurt you.

"you can't behave recklessly like this!" You threw the rag on his bare chest, looking up at him from your stance. His body and height no longer intimidated you.

Mydei frowned. "I'm a chrysos heir, don't you know that's what I'm meant to be doing?"

"Not at the expense of your health—" you snapped sharply, and his eyes narrowed at you. "I am your wife, and-"

His hand grasped your jaw, and he leaned that much closer to meet your height, his nose nearly poking yours.

"You're my wife, not my commander, nor my doctor.

So act like it."

[cupidhoons]

it's weird how you aren't speaking out for the fact that you are using a zionist for your fics. shouldn't you be apologizing or at least acknowledging it? the lack of maturity you have 😭 girl just deleted it and didn't even apologize for it.

perfect timing actually anon! i have a whole post drafted on it in my google docs but i can assure you it's not me apologizing for defending myself against writers accusing me of such things. while i do acknowledge my mistake of not being educated enough on lana del rey and her practically begging the president to fund the genocide, i hope you guys do realize that equating me to being a zionist from this situation is just as insensitive and ignorant.

i urge you guys to read my side on this & understand why me and my two other mutuals are upset.

hi guys! as you all know (or assuming that many of you know) that recently i am being accused of supporting zionism/being called a zionist in general by multiple writers on tumblr. before i go on to defending and dropping screenshots of what actually happened & going on to explain my side of the story, let's take a look at the definition of zionism & why it is absolutely NOT okay to throw it around so lightly.

ZIONISM is not only the general term of supporting israel, but also the term that supports the national ethnic cleansing of palestine, which equates to killing all muslims. (defined by @pshbites or more known as kaia & her other muslim friends who grew up knowing that this is what this word meant.) 

READ ANOTHER DEFINITION FROM JEWISH VOICE FOR PEACE (LINK): “While it had many strains historically, the Zionism that took hold and stands today is a settler-colonial movement, establishing an apartheid state where Jews have more rights than others. Our own history teaches us how dangerous this can be.

Palestinian dispossession and occupation are by design. Zionism has meant profound trauma for generations, systematically separating Palestinians from their homes, land, and each other. Zionism, in practice, has resulted in massacres of Palestinian people, ancient villages and olive groves destroyed, families who live just a mile away from each other separated by checkpoints and walls, and children holding onto the keys of the homes from which their grandparents were forcibly exiled.”

i also urge you to check for more information on kaia’s blog & her personal take on this.

so, now that we know what it means & why it's such a loaded word, let's take a look at what the situation at hand looked/looks like:

the other day i posted a sunghoon fic titled “ultraviolence” inspired by lana del rey’s song (it's now changed to “pictures of us, which was my original title for the fic but thought it didn't quite fit the vibe). now, why is this a problem? because i'm apparently “promoting” an artist that begged the president to fund the genocide in gaza, when NOWHERE in my work stated that you should stream lana’s song, become a fan of her’s, and also support/fund a genocide. 

while i do admit that i handled the “anons” (and i put in quotes bc i know for a fact they were ppl who i knew sent them in) terribly and also explained my own personal thoughts and feelings on this topic badly, my words should not be twisted and blown out of proportion to the point where people can freely accuse me of being part of such a horrible and disgusting group of people.

however, that's only the general situation. the real problem for me was when yesterday morning at exactly 7:22am (this timestamp is important for what i'm about to say later on), okwonyos or better known as jiah, texted me, letting me know that she saw the way i responded to the anon & accused me of “actively supporting” someone who “begged the president to fund the killing of millions of children, women, and men of palestine.” (see screenshots below)

now, you guys may think that she's only doing what's right & willingly called out a mutual for not having her morals straight, but to be blankly accusing someone of being a zionist when i've been it clear that i stand with palestine & basically saying i'm stupid does not sit right with me. 

her saying that she “isn't going to try and make me gain common sense” was so off topic & so unnecessary to bring up & could've left it at me having my own take on separating the art from the artist, which to many people on blr, “does not exist.” but if separating the art from the artist does not exist, then shouldn't we boycott enhypen too? shouldn't we also stop writing and supporting enhypen too? because last time i checked enhypen, and along with many other groups/artists, are underneath zionist companies. so with that logic, should we just stop consuming content from enhypen and our favorite groups/artists all in all? because if we are going by this logic, then we’re ALL zionists and we are all PROMOTING zionism. 

another thing is when she says “it's weird that you barely talked about what was happening in palestine until it was to defend a zionist.” ??? defending a zionist WHERE exactly? i told the “anons” i received a day before this conversation that i am not a hardcore lana del rey fan, and again, nowhere did i say that i was defending lana & her actions of again, wanting the preseident to fund a genocide. keep in mind also, that she DOES NOT know me personally & that i was NEVER close to her nor did i EVER consider her a FRIEND, so she (along with other writers) has no right to accuse me of “not speaking up about palestine” enough. 

so the fact that im being known as a supporter killing innocent lives of people in the enhablr community when the fact is that i've spoken up about it numerous times in my personal life & have encouraged many people in my life to donate and spread the daily click all because i don't “reblog enough” about it sits weird to me. not only that, but it also gives me the vibe that many writers on tumblr—weather it's true or not—thinks of this genocide as a trend and does it as “preformative activism” for the sake of not wanting to lose followers. (kaia’s post touches more on this too)

now obviously, i did reply to her message and did go back and forth with her for some time while i was present in school. me, being offended & GREATLY angered by her choice of words & going as far as associating me with such people, rightfully called her out on it & brought up the fact that her saying that isn't “cute” or right at all. but clearly, this was all read wrong & i wasnt able to explain or expand on it properly because i was simultaneously also in my homeroom speaking with my friends! 

and i know, someone is going to bring up the fact that i shouldn't have responded immediately or that i could've responded later in my day, but keep in mind that if i didnt, i probably would've been blocked anyway without getting the chance to explain myself properly. i cant help but feel that they messaged me purposefully during that time because they know i would be defenseless either way. 

im going to tell it straight now and say that i know i am in the wrong for not being able to explain myself properly & not touching on these points more in the moment, but i had absolutely NO time throughout the day to explain myself as i was blocked almost immediately by everyone, which says a lot, especially when one of the mutuals who blocked me right after that conversation was close to me & who i even considered my friend. 

besides that however, i will say this once more & once again that i am NOT what numerous people on tumblr think i am & none of you guys know me at all personally either. you guys can believe what you want about this situation, but i urge you all to get to know both sides at the very least before following what bigger writers say. im not doing this to maintain my following or even gain more followers, i just don't appreciate people calling & associating me with a group of people that i am so against. i don't at all appreciate people assuming they know me and my character all so well when absolutely none of them have ever bothered to reach out to me and even get to know me. 

but yes anon, go ahead and tell me how immature i am & say it with your full chest how i am a zionist for simply using a popular song that everyone has heard one way or another as my title on my fic!

[lila-kriegerin]

It would be amusing if someone did send an e-mail for each sex of that fungus while continuing to try to censor "mushroom" and other frequently repeated words so they don't easily spam block anything that says shroom, fungi, amanita... you know the drill. If the entire text became increasingly hashed the office trying to block e-mail would possibly block someone sending them too frequently, but if everyone would happen to be throwing eggs, tomatoes, toilet paper, etc., it would be impossible to spend too much time trying to block all senders since theres no time to sort kfficial mail from noise so not massive sweet bans should be happening either.

Thays an interesting IT security problem for their iffice to grapple with. It's a good thing I know nothing of those things and it's way above my paygrade and every one else's since no one could ever interfere wkth making america great again, right?

I bet someone might want to run the risk of using the global replace search function in a word processor since that is the tits for doing the task of continuing to change many recurring items like "17,000" (for example) with random alphanumeric variants which should also help keep someone out of the spam filters... though that person may be tempted to vary document length so whoever may wish to stop them wouldn't have the bright idea to block their favourite words and alphanumerical sequences, right?

The US government has many 3I373 H4X0r5, so you shouldnt even think of ever trying to have fun poking their baskets while looking for holes to shove so much data into!

That's a bad idea to call them and e-mail them too much with unimportant stuff because they need all available time to properly do their jobs instead of feeding hard drives of data through cloud analysis to find useful data in the e-mail servers. That would cost too much time, effort, and money so don't make their jobs harder!

While you're at it, don't remember the e-mail address DEIATRUTH@OPM.GOV unless you really have a real emergency to report someone illicitly using DEI practices in any place of business or society, golf resorts, etc.

It's really important to have good patriotic citizens telling them important things about those uppity minorities throwing their weight around and disenfranchising true American patriots who want to make America great again.

I would never tell someone to ever even think of swamping their phone numbers and e-mail addresses and web portals because Donald Trump is the nunber one hero to patriots who want to make American great again and you could get in trouble!

You should know it is also never worth sending copies of various film scripts in plain text format in the e-mail's body that involve anything you're interested in, although I do know someone who works there would love to find out what the actual dialogue was for the Wookiees in the Star Wars Christmas Special and all three trilogies.

Whoever shouldn't do those things also definitely would want to avoid sending anything truly pornographic without protecting their parts and lil ipp because whoever could do anything that unrecommended could catch nasty bugs and worse attentiin, shame, and fines if they ended up as Don Quixote in court or even a drunk tank or on a ridealong with one of our excellent boys in the thin blue line between American citizens and their woke DEI goals.

Be careful out there, everyone!

Be a real, true-blue, dyed in the wool, American patriot!

Forget about anything except doing your jobs and using your personal time (not company time on the job) to to properly inform the right offices and contacts about unamerican activities and all the interesting things they need to know.

That way, you can really paint the town red going after those fake american wannabes by reporting them on only your own personal time when you arent misusing the moments you're bored at work. Focus on the job when you're the job, and focus on special people when at home— absolutely never on the clock —and may God bless America!

Make America great again by showing them who needs to be kicked out of the places that only the real American patriots belong— in power in the USA!!

(X) (X)

ETA a new option:

(From a source I will not link.)

[wisteria-lodge]

2 things about Lily

It's obvious that she was the one to defeat Voldemort the first time around, not Harry, but Rowling refuses to elaborate on the spell, saying that she cast it accidentally (which... yeah sure, but then she created a world where only one mother and child could do it out of love... like did other children that suffered were not loved enough? oh i so dislike that). I don't know why Rowling does it. Like I always wanted it to be an actual spell that she (and James) researched and did as part of their back-up plan, but noooooo. A woman? Win against the big bad? In the 90s?? Noooo

Lily grew up with two people that we get to know intimately, and loved them dearly. Two very miserable, envious people, who likely hid their accents and the fact that they are of working class, two people who did everything, and sacrificed many things in order to be around characters who where wealthy. Two social climbers. And you know what Lily also did? This has to be deliberate. Like, I don't think that it's a bad thing. I think that Lily definitely wasn't as insane about social climbing as Severus and Petunia (I consider social mobility to be a positive thing!!), buuut she too married into money. So there is that.

I find it sad that the prospect of Lily being crazy ambitious and wanting to have better things are always portrayed as bad in fics, if it is discussed at all. You could have made her into a person who dreams about making it and give her a conflict about marrying into money, feeling like she will become a fake, and still craving that security! But nooooooo. Pefect perfection or a sleazy seductress, nothing else ever

Extremely good points. Wanting social stability is just a real, relatable thing, and it's got to be a lot for Lily, being told you're magic... and ADDITIONALLY learning that the power structure of the magical world that you live in now is super prejudiced against you? And there is an active dark wizard *currently* targeting people like you?

Also the sacrificial magic being cast accidentally never made sense. Harry does the same thing (I guess) on purpose at the end, with the result that all of Voldemort's spells have trouble "sticking," because Harry sacrificed himself for EVERYBODY? But I mean Regulus also sacrificed himself to protect people from Voldemort, he didn't have to die. Dumbledore willingly died to protect... Harry, Draco, Snape? Shouldn't that have had some magical effect?

It honestly would have been *so* much easier to say that Lily defeated Voldemort with a spell that sacrificed the caster's life. That's very cool, old-magic vibes.

But... this slots into an larger trend with the way JKR writes passivity and self-negation as heroic traits. The best example of this is Newt Scamander, her hero with the central traits "neutral" and "pacifist." But even with Harry... there's a reason he doesn't level up his core spells, and is most heavily associated with a disarming spell that he learns in year 2 and a shield spell he learns in year 3. JKR actively doesn't want him to be a combat character. It is *true* that Harry does not cast a single spell on-page in the entire first book. He does more magic later, but that original tendency is still there: there's a reason most of Harry's level-ups consist of loot given to him by loved ones, and not so much skills that he improves. JKR's ethos on power (expressed through Dumbledore) is that the people who handle power best are the people who don't want it.

And unfortunately... leveling up your spells on purpose... now that sounds like something that a person who WANTS POWER would do. Casting super duper powerful spells accidently (which harry also does, constantly) (and Lily does, of course) ... now *that* is much more morally pure.

[nowimjustastranger]

So um… sorry if you’ve already answered this but does watchdog ford have any sort of rules for if there are two Stans in different places that need saving at the same time? Like save the youngest or most in danger or what

I touched on this before in this ask, but I'll go more in-depth about it.

The younger Stan is definitely the first priority, though he'd try his best to save both.

If he can't, he at least makes sure the other Stan's family is notified and has enough money for a funeral, which he would watch from a distance. He would carry the weight of the Stan's death with him for the rest of his life, blaming himself even though there was literally nothing he could've done.

Even when he eventually realized that he shouldn't blame himself for things that were out of his control (because of Lee and Fiddleford's influence), he would still be haunted by the fact that Stan had died alone. Even if Ford couldn't save Stan, he should've at least made it in time to give him the comfort of seeing his brother one last time, even if it was only because Watchdog Ford had the same face.

[thatonebirdwrites]

Not only that, the fucking jackasses, who don't know ANYTHING about the systems they're tampering with, are COMMITTING LIVE CODE WITHOUT TESTING IT to the Treasury Payment Systems. See here (Wired reporting) and here (an expert weighting in). This "move fast and break things" mentality will KILL people.

You CANNOT do that with government systems without months if not a year or so of thorough testing. And yet, they have failed to do even the a day of testing. None of them are federal workers, it's unknown whether they even had background checks, and they refuse to give their real names to actual federal employees.. (Honestly, that mentality shouldn't exist PERIOD. Techbros use it to try to get around laws and regulations, and end up harming folks more than helping.) I'm not even joking about this. Disabled people rely on the payment system working for our healthcare and survival needs. Please Care About Other People. Disabled people like myself deserve to live too, and what's happening can and likely will kill us. There should be people lining up to block them from entering. Make the fuckers fight to get through. Senators should be blockading entrance. Make the fuckers drag the Senators off in handcuffs, which will only prove all our points. Again, this is a fucking coup by entitled neo-Nazi pricks who want us to live in an Musky-rat-company, where Musk controls everything. That's their ultimate goal. But they can't do that unless they can leverage the Treasury to force the rest of the government to capitulate to their demands. MUSK HAS NO REAL AUTHORITY unless we cede it to him. He pretends he does because he's Trump's friend, but he was not elected, he was not confirmed, his "DOGE" office was never endorsed or confirmed by the Senate, and thus everything he does is illegal and/or unconstitutional.

Call Congress to DO something.

Protest what is happening, but be SMART about it. Do NOT invite police to a protest. You Cannot Trust Police. Many of them are in bed with the far-right.

Protest Tips:

Wear a mask with and safety glasses. (Harder to identity you and it protects you from smoke, tear gas, and diseases.

Do Not Bring Your Phone. Or at the very least Do NOT turn it on as it can be used to identify you or obtain your location.

Do NOT advertise the details of the protest and who is coming to the protest all over social media. Share about the protest's start locations as needed in your groups, but don't advertise it's march pattern or its end goal location or who is attending. These conversations about the march route, goal location, assigned roles, and etc need to happen either in-person with all phones off OR use Signal, an encrypted chat. You want to limit what the surveillance state can pull from posts.

Have designated medics who can help in case of injury or if Police try to shoot people or throw tear gas.

Have designated frontline people. These are the people at the front of the protest, the ones that are most likely to deal with police and/or fascists first. Use make-shift shields to help protect frontline people.

Have designated people who assist those with disabilities to make sure they care able to stay safe and escape if things turn sour. Stay with your assigned peeps!

Have a designated protest partner to help watch your back. Stay with your assigned peeps!

Have designated suppliers, who carry supplies for medics and/or frontline and/or other roles.

Have a plan in case the police try to kettle protesters. A kettle is when police block off routes to escape, thus trapping protestors in a smaller area. This is done to shut down protestors, demoralize, frighten, and mass arrest. Make sure everyone knows the plan and abides by it.

Write on your arm the numbers of lawyers and/or people you can contact in case of arrest.

I'll leave this handbook here in case you all find use out of it. If others have tips, feel free to add them.

I already shared/wrote a post on community care and safety plans here (that was kindly expanded on by censoredsecret).

These men just stole the personal information of everyone in America AND control the Treasury. Link to article.

Akash Bobba

Edward Coristine

Luke Farritor

Gautier Cole Killian

Gavin Kliger

Ethan Shaotran

Spread their names!

[hanayori89]

⚔️Knight Shift: BOTW Link x Reader One shot ⚔️

(DISCLAIMER: STRONG SEXUAL CONTENT. MINORS SHOULD NOT INTERACT! NOW GO- SHOO!)

One Knock.

That's all it would take to tell the woman of his dreams how he felt.

Now Link attended this recital every night. He would stride down the steely castle corridors, an expression of duty plastered onto his face, more impenetrable than the very brick that constructed the castle.

But there was one threat that seemed to make his facade of dedication crumble to the ground.

One single, detrimental threat who could unsheathe his smile faster than he could his own sword.

And that was the princess's maid.

Every night shift, he would patrol the castle's halls, always managing to stop in front of her door.

And every night, like clockwork, he would raise his shaking balled fist and let it hover a few centimeters away from the door.

It had become sort of a game. If he listened close enough, he could hear her breaths heavy from exhaustion as she slumbered. He would count each breath, and on the third, he would knock.

Except the third would come and pass.

Then the tenth.

Then the twentieth.

All he needed to do was retract his wrist and let his knuckles gently fall forward against the warped mahogany door.

And yet he never did.

He would lower his hand, and with the swiftest turn of his heel, continue his due diligence of protecting the castle and working his assigned shift. With no other sound besides the tinkling of his armored footsteps and the soft waves of blood lapping into his heart.

                   🗡️              ❤️               🗡️

Now there was one other issue that prevented Link from telling the fair maiden of his darkest desires and feelings.

And that was that he was considered mute.

Well, not actually. He could be very vocal. The princess, of course, knew this. The fact that Link spoke to no one but her created a false sense of intimacy between the two.

But the fact of the matter was, Link took an oath of silence as a knight.

But the princess's maid, never had he met someone who could communicate with his silence. He noticed this the first day he caught sight of her, in the castle's kitchen.

There was a splash of sunlight that came in through the window, causing her h/c tresses to soak up the sun's warmth. The sound of her melodious humming drowned out by her busy wrists and the whisk she held that were scraping against a bowl.

He shouldn't have stood there and watched her like that.

But he was mesmerized.

Entranced.

From the way she bit her bottom lip while she concentrated to the few wisps of hair that fell into her eyes as she sifted flour into a dense batter. And her apron, which flowed around her like a sundress, leaving her frame shrouded in mystery. 

 It was a sight he would never forget, not even if he were to be submerged in the Shrine of Resurrection once again.

But the funny thing was, she knew he was watching. And yet she never inquired as to why nor did she ask that he leave. She would glance upward at him, giving him a bashful curve of her lips. Then turn away and resume working, leaving him there.

Visiting her every day in the kitchen became as routine as standing outside of her door each night. And just like every night shift, he failed to communicate the way she made him feel.

On one particular day, Link walked into the kitchen to see her eating from a plate of nothing more than scraps of starch and meager vegetables.

All the protein piled high on plates for the frontline soldiers and the princess herself.

She quickly put her plate down, choking down the nibble she was working on. She brushed her hands against her apron, quickly retrieving a platter and passing it to Link. "This is what I've made for the princess today. Please, eat. Keep your stamina up so you may protect her."

And she said it with a gracious smile. While she stood in this kitchen alone, feasting on cold, leftover dregs.

It was then that Link saw his opening.

They both shared a sole purpose.

To serve the royal hierarchy.

But tonight, Link vowed to serve something greater.

And that was his carnal desires.

🗡���          ❤️             🗡️

Link left the Hateno bake shop, cradling his cake like a precious satchel of rupees. He carefully flipped open the box's lid, content with the cake's heart shape and soft rose petal pink piping. He shut the lid, satisfied with his purchase, and made his way back to the castle.

It was almost time for another night shift.

But tonight, would be different.

Once the big hand of the clock pointed to midnight, he made haste for the castle's east wing.

One knock.

And this time, he had to do it. Link glanced down at the box he held in his hands, taking a deep breath. He didn't allow himself to ruminate, letting his hand fall forward and his knuckles tap on the outside of her door.

Link knew it was rude to stare, but when she opened the door, her silk night robe tied tightly around her waist, parading sharp curves that her apron usually hid, he felt a giant ball of nerves tangle in his throat.

No wonder she hid, a castaway in the kitchen behind an oversized apron.

A woman like this.

A woman who looked like she had been kissed by a great fairy and emanated such a gilded glow.

A woman who looked more scrumptious than all of the royal confectionaries she baked day in and day out.

She tilted her head, her eyes conveying a mix of timidity and intrigue. "Link?"

She backed away from her door, allowing him to enter. Link glanced around her room; the faint scent of almond oil and musk lingered in the air, and it was clearly from whatever she put on her shimmering skin.

He couldn't recall if he had spoken that day. He cleared his throat, trying to summon his voice.

"For you." He said, reticent as if he were responding to an order from the princess.

She looked taken aback, perhaps more from discovering he could in fact speak. She opened the box, her eyes wide as she marveled at the sugary perfection housed within it.

"A cake? But why?" She sauntered toward her nightstand, setting it down. She turned toward Link, "May I?"

He nodded.

Her hand dipped beneath the lid of the box, her finger swiping across the frosting. Once it was layered with a generous dollop, she let her finger rest against her outstretched tongue. The white cream dissolving against its soft pink coat.

Link shifted uncomfortably where he stood, an erection threatening to make him evacuate.

She closed her eyes, and after a moment of silence, opened them. "Vanilla buttercream. Exquisite."

She sat down on her bed, her hand caressing the empty space beside her in a motion Link knew meant she wanted him to join her.

He also knew he wanted to taste the remnants of that buttercream that glazed her tongue.

"I understand now why you are the appointed knight. You are quite observant. But I wonder, what other things do you observe?

Link walked toward her, gently taking his place next to her on the bed. She spoke again, muffling out the primal energy beginning to communicate in their stead.

"I'll tell you what I observe. I observe... that you're always watching me. Even when you don't think I notice, like when you stand outside my door every night."

His eyes shot open, alarm rising within him. The last thing he wanted was to come off as a creep.

"Why?" He whispered in shock.

She stood, allowing her robe to slide off her body and fall to the floor in a crumpled pile. The chill of the air in the room made her nipples engorge, and goosebumps decorate her flesh.

"You and I are the same. We both are vying to be free. To exist for more than just servitude. But that freedom, I think we can find it in each other."

She hovered above him, letting her breasts tantalize him as they hung tauntingly in his face. And it worked; his hands flew up, grabbing them and capturing one of them in his mouth.

She let out a soft gasp; he released her breast, lifting his head toward hers, claiming her lips and tasting the traces of dissolved sugar on her tongue. His hands continuing to work, kneading her breasts in his palms that way he had studied her kneading dough.

She pulled away, gently falling on her knees, looking up at him with that look of knowing she always possessed when it came to him. Link clumsily stood, pulling his pants down and letting them fall to his ankles.

She took her finger and traced a giant gash on his thigh. Her lips kissing it in adoration. She found then another scar.

And another.

Each scar was dotted with wet kisses, his hard cock pressed against her cheek as she did this.

And this is what drove Link wild. There was no communication beyond shameless probing into each other's eyes and the accelerated pacing of their hearts beating.

She could see his face was tight with need. But Link understood; she had to rush in all areas of her life, with him, in that intimate moment, she wanted to savor.

So, she took her time, her tongue following the outline of every battle scar that laced his legs. Until finally, her hands dug into his thighs as she began to flick the tip of her tongue against his aching hard-on.

He let out a growl, his hand nabbing one of her breasts and squeezing her nipple gently while she continued to let her tongue dance up and down each vein on his member.

The familiar wisps of her hair fell into her eyes as she concentrated on pleasing him. Every single movement her tongue made was artful and calculated.

Until finally she inhaled, suctioning his cock into her mouth. Link jutted his hips forward, beginning to piston them in and out of her warm mouth.

He whimpered.

Then he groaned.

And then, he roared.

His body having been a hostage to the battlefield, a display case of wounds and scars, he had never felt such freedom. And his voice, carefully stowed away unless spoken to, was now free to be known.

A mess of saliva and pre-cum streamed down her chin, pooling between Link's legs and dampening the bed. He couldn't withstand much more; he grabbed her hair and pulled her up, only this time he tasted the sweetness of his own essence, not buttercream, drenched in her mouth.

"Sit down." He ordered. His nails digging into her buttocks as he positioned her to sit on his lap. His cock slid from her wet entrance to her clit, causing her to let out a cry.

When he noticed the way the friction of his cock grinding against her clit made her howl, he continued to guide her up and down against it. She anchored herself, her nails gripping his shoulders as she pleasured herself against him.

He sighed, sliding his fingers into her pussy and pulling out some of her nectar for him to taste.

Much like time behind the castle walls themselves, time seemed to come to a complete stop. Sweat blanketed them both. Hushed moans once again turned into guttural cries. She began to beg for him, and Link would never deprive her of her needs. He guided her, sliding her down onto his thick girth. Shivers danced down his body as he felt her muscles clench around him.

His brain couldn't seem to comprehend any thoughts but wanting to go deeper. A voice that he recognized as his own bellowed expletives of pleasure.

Her name, he said it over and over again, as if he were praying to her. The meaning of servitude was quite lovely when it was you on the receiving end.

But this wasn't about Link; it was about this maiden who awoke so many things within him and his obsession to oblige her the way she obliged others.

"Come. I need you to." His hand cradled her cheek as he searched her eyes.

He gripped her hips, aiding her in her hedonistic indulgence of pleasure. His bicep muscles bulging as he lifted her up and down, then back and forth.

Her orgasm, the feeling of her gushing, she was right. How could something that gripped him and imprisoned him make him feel so free?

As they both finished, a tornado of leg shaking and gut clenching orgasms whipping through them, they both collapsed on the bed. Link looked over; the breaths he once listened to from outside her door now came out in satisfied huffs beside him.

One knock. That's all it took.

And yet he still couldn't resist the urge to count them.

Edited: 1/26/25

[balkanradfem]

I wrote this post in a word document, and I named this document 'not got stabbed yet', so that's the theme today.

I mentioned someone was slashing my bike tyres in the park, and it happened two times in 4 days. I thought, you know, crazy park person was after me, and I need to stop going to the park with a bike, if I want to avoid this.

However, something else happened next. Something that truly chilled me. My bike tyre was slashed the day after, and I hadn't been to the park that day. Not even close. I've been to work, and then visited a store, for 5 minutes. Someone found my bike and slashed it either at my workplace, or at the store. Someone had to follow me to find it there. Someone knew where I worked and shopped.

The tyre had a very small hole, so it deflated very slowly, and I only realized it was flat after I got home. I didn't know whether it was slashed while I was at work, or at the store. I took the tube out to check it out, found no thorn or any natural signs of damage, and called the police again. I wanted to know if there was more reports of this happening.

This time I was in luck and got to talk to a police woman! So I was happy, and I was able to share more details, such as where, when, how many times it happened, she was willing to hear me out. However, she did not take it seriously. She told me somebody probably got offended that I parked my bike at the park, because it is 'the park', so they wanted me to stop leaving it there, and since the third time hole was so tiny, it was possible I just ran into a thorn. I allowed that it could not be ruled out, but it was incredibly unlikely since I was only riding it directly on the street, not any grass or branches, and I did not find a thorn inside of the tyre. Usually when I do run on a thorn, it will get stuck in the outer tyre.

I explained I was worried about being followed, and legitimately scared of going to work next day, but she said I can't shut myself in, I shouldn't be scared, I shouldn't let someone know they've managed to unnerve me with this! And I'm facepalming, thinking, what kind of girl power is this? Is a stalker gonna quit if the victim is not unnerved enough? Wouldn't that inspire them to escalate behaviour? I sighed and thanked her for listening to me.

There were no other reports, she couldn't even tell me if it happened before at all to anyone. I looked up online if there were records of it happening to anyone, anywhere, but only articles I could find were about mass slashing on one location, like one person slashing 30 bikes at once. It was never about just one person having it happen repeatedly.

I was thinking about what was the point of this, and decided if it's not a crazy revenge for something (and I don't know what, I don't have beef with anyone in the entire city), it has to  be to stop me from using my bike. So I would have to walk. And be much slower. Much more easy to follow. And apparently I was already followed, if they managed to find my bike at my workplace. I was scared to go to work again.

To make things more interesting, I was at that point reading 'Career of Evil', which is jkr's book about a serial killer who stalks and murders women, and some of the book was written from the killer's perspective. This part helped me, because it revealed how it could actually be a bit difficult to attack a woman if she's only walking trough public places with people around, refusing to be out at night, refusing to go into dark alleyways or overcrowded bars and dance clubs. He couldn't do it out in daylight where there were witnesses. I had to stop and think whether this book logic could translate to real life, and if this holds out in reality. Can I protect myself just by being in open public spaces, in front of witnesses? Can I be sure I won't get stabbed if I stick to these rules? And I figured, yeah, that actually tracks, nobody will stab me in front of witnesses. And if I'm on my bike, it's harder to catch me. As long as I can quickly repair my bike every time and use it to get around, I should be safer than walking.

But I still felt unnerved about being followed, so I decided to go to work in a disguise. It was a different location and I didn't want to be followed there. I put together a jacket that was a different color than my usual one, put on a wig, different shoes, pants; it was obviously mismatched upon a close look, but if you saw me zooming by on a bike, you couldn't tell it was me.

Next morning, I nervously entered the workplace all costumed up, and people thought I was pulling a funny prank on them and were delighted. They insisted I stay in my new getup to show me to more people to get a laugh. They acted like it was the most fun thing I ever did. I played along, thinking how this is a convenient reaction, because I didn't want to take the disguise off immediately, for the chance that I'm still followed.

Later they asked me why am I in a mascarade, and I explained what happened. They then confirmed I'm definitely being followed, and started listing all cases where a woman got stabbed jogging or walking outside, which was just great to hear.

My bike remained whole that day, and I got home in my disguise safely as well. Now the question remained – do I stay home scared to go out all day? Do I just go around in a disguise everywhere? I needed to know why this was happening to me. And I felt sick of being scared and agoraphobic. So I made up a plan.

*

Later that same day, I went out with my bike in my usual outfit, bright and noticeable jacket, and my laptop in my hands. I went to the park. I carefully tied my bike behind where I was sitting, and opened up my laptop, which had a bit of tape covering the light from the camera. I was filming the bike with my webcam while I was on the laptop. It was almost obvious what I was doing, from the way I was sitting and leaning, but I was there to find out whether the tubestabby was a freaking idiot or not. Either he would fall for the trap, stab my tyre, get caught on camera, and I would know who did it. Or, he would do nothing while it's being filmed, and I could sit in the park, and do whatever I wanted to, safely.

My bike was fine half an hour later when I headed home, and I then had to review the footage, to see if anything happened. Bike was on camera the entire time, nobody came close to it, but also I was on camera, and while I was reviewing it, I had the crazy experience on seeing how my own face looks while I'm online, reading messages, scrolling trough tumblr. At first all I could see were my eyes moving left to right rapidly, I was speed reading, looking all scared and nervous because I did expose myself to a possible stalker and I was not having a good time. But as time went on, I saw myself breaking into smiles, because I had read something funny, and by the end of it I was just grinning and laughing, the internet humor broke trough my nerves and made me forget the fear. Tumblr is okay.

I was satisfied. I had been to the park, I wasn't stabbed, my bike was not damaged, and if I kept this up, I could be in the park and be safe by the means of obviously recording the bike. I can't do it at night time, as my webcam will not pick up a picture in the dark.

I'm not that spooked out anymore, I was freaked out when my bike was slashed the third time, and not even in the park. It is still scary that it's happening to me only, and I'm not targeted randomly among other people. And that it happened on a different location that nobody should have known I'd be on. If I catch the culprit it will take effort not to try and fight him immediately, because I am truly weak due to my impinged nerve and that guy has a sharp object. But he is a coward, destroying my stuff behind my back, never facing me and telling me what his problem is. I refuse to be scared of a coward with a sharp object.

[brazenautomaton]

It's a difficult thing to talk about, because demonstrably, gender-based violence directed against women by men is a widespread problem!

No it's not, actually, and the assumption that it is is part of the same dynamic of men as inherently threatening and women as inherently victimized! Women are safer than men and have been for literally all of human history. Everything you think is specifically gender-based violence targeting women for being women is actually men failing to exclude women from violence like they do the overwhelming majority of the time. Rape and domestic violence are interpersonal crimes with gender symmetry in victimhood and perpetration. Every other bad thing a human being can do to another human being happens overwhelmingly more often to men. Women are excluded from violence and this is so natural and expected to feminists they see any time this privilege slips as a hateful targeted attack against women.

remember: Boko Haram killed tens of thousands of boys before it kidnapped a couple hundred girls, inspiring the #BringBackOurGirls movement about how threatening the world was to women and how much men endanger women. In Mexico City, when men were 93% of murder victims and women were 07% of murder victims, feminists protested the rash of "femicides" and said they proved how dangerous it was to be a woman and how men targeted women for violence and how the government had to do more to keep women safe from men's violence.

Sexism is obsessed with women's safety and pathologically callous to men. Feminism is sexism and has absolute continuity with sexism, which is why it is obsessed with women's safety and pathologically callous to men. When you have to pepper your speech with asides about how threatening men are to women, but how you shouldn't blame them for being threatening to women because they were trained by a sexist system that taught them to be threatening to women and feminism is about making them less threatening to women, you are not rejecting the mindset you decry -- you are trying to customize it.

I cannot express how jarring it was after being raised by a "Porn Addiction Coach" to get into a relationship with a woman and come face to face with the fact that she did actually want me to sexually desire her.

Like, in Evangelical Purity Culture, male desire was basically poison. It was a threat. It was this constant temptation that would destroy everything. And even after leaving, in the sort of queer, feminist spaces i spend most of my time in that wasn't something that pretty much anyone was spending time actively dissuading me from feeling.

But my desire is good. It's not something that I'm being accepted in spite of. It's a positive thing. It's a bonus. Not even just vanilla stuff, all the stuff I'd convinced myself were these weird terrible desires that were shameful to have.

It honestly took me over a decade to fully accept that. To stop dissociating during sex and confront that I was, in fact, being a massive perv and that was fantastic and preferable and that I could accept that into my self-image without shame or self hatred.

But it's important to do. It's important to leave relationships that don't welcome that part of you. To know that your sexuality is valuable and valid and worth owning and celebrating. Because the alternative is just...not being. Either existing as yourself and repressing the part of your identity that is sexual or allowing that sexuality to exist but turning off your self while it does.

[i-am-a-bad-influence-writes]

P*rn ☆  Chapter 14, Silence after the storm

Masterlist Word count: 1.7 k Sylus x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have been following a spicy content creator by the name of Red Crow for some time now. Nothing could’ve prepared you for what would happen when he moves into the apartment next door.

Author's note: Homestretch baby! Just the epilogue left. Thank ya'll for reading this story, thank you so much for all the wonderful comments. I love you all so fucking much <3

Warning! This story is meant for mature audiences. It contains sex, swear words, porn, smoking, intimate piercings, mentions of drugs, alcohol, mentions of domestic abuse, and other mature themes. Do not engage if you are under 18.

Mature content under the cut.

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'As much as I love that you stood up for yourself. You can't just go around punching your ex square in the jaw.' Sylus looks like a kicked puppy sitting on the bench behind bars. His looks already tells you that he knows, he just doesn't want to admit it. 'Anyway, Zayne is paying your bail.' 

'You shouldn't let him do that.' 

'Sylus, baby, I love you, but you know I have no control over that man. He was already filling in the paperwork by the time I fully understood what happened.' As if on que, an officer walks over and unlocks the cell door. 

'Alright, get out,' he grumbles as he gestures for Sylus to make haste, 'your bail is paid and from what I can tell, that woman isn't pressing charges.' 

'Good, then can I press charges,' Sylus questions the man as he walks out of the cell. That surprises the officer. 

'What for?' 

'Did you watch the security footage?' The officer shakes his head. 'She attacked me first and I have it on file that she has attacked me before. I want to press charges and file for a restraining order.' 

'O-okay,' the officer stutters, 'follow me.' Sylus takes your hand and drags you along. You feel like you're gleaming. You've never been prouder of anyone in your whole dang life. It is so inexplicably hot to see him take his power back like this. 

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The drive home was tense. Incredibly so. It might've had something to do with Sylus’ hand between your thighs while he was driving your car, or maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with the fact you told him he could do anything to you when you got home. You know, as a treat for being such a brave boy. 

By the time you got home, you were dripping wet and the tent in Sylus pants was undeniable. That's when he asked it. 

'You said I could do anything to you. Would you suck me off on camera?' 

'To post?' 

'Yes,' he answered quickly, a sly smirk on his lips as he took your jaw in his hand, 'you face doesn't have to be in it, but I want to show people how happy you make me. And maybe to claim you a little.' 

“Be still my beating vagina.” 

And now you are on your knees in front of Sylus. The whole thing looks an awful lot like the video he made when he first met you. 

Sylus on the edge of his bed, phone on the dresser recording, him fully clothed but some loose buttons on his shirt and his dick out of his pants. Only this time his head is in frame and only the top of your head is in it. Feels like a very strange full circle moment. 

'Take your shirt off for me, sweetie.' His voice is a rumbling command, which you had expected. He portrays himself much more dominant than he actually is, yet you can't help but give him the brattiest look you can muster up. He smirks and runs a hand through your hair, grabbing it tightly in the back and lifting a little. You quickly move with his motion as he tilts your had back. 'Are you gonna play nice for me?' 

Shit, that's so fucking hot. You nod as frantically as you can with his hand holding your hair. Since you didn't really want your likeness on the internet in this way, you agreed you wouldn't have to speak. 

He lets go of your hair and you sit back on your heels. His eyes never leave yours whiles you take your shirt off. 'Loose the bra.' You do as he says. 'Good girl.' This experience is already mouth and pussy wateringly good. You sincerely hope he'll take this role more often if you ask him to. 

'Well, what are you waiting for?' And even in this role, he tells you he's consenting but giving you all the power and looking at you expectantly to see your answer. It is the hottest thing and makes your stomach tingle. 

You move your mouth to his tip and press a kiss on top. He physically shudders, but tries to hide it a little. Then, you lick a stripe on the underside of his dick from the base to the tip, licking up his precum. He groans and puts his hand in your hair again. 

'Are you teasing me?' You don't answer, don't nod, you just bat your eyes at him looking oh so innocent. Before he can say anything else, you blow on his tip. The air out of your mouth feels razor sharp over his moist dick. Surprised, he lets out a whine, and then he looks back at you with fire in his eyes, daring you to do something else, screaming: "Try me." 

And you do. You move to his lower stomach, just next to his V-line, and bite down. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to elicit a hiss from him. In response, he pulls your head back, grabs your jaw with his other hand and forces it open. 

'That's enough, sweetie,' he states, 'choke on it.' Once again, there's a hint of question in his lust blown eyes. When you nod the slightest bit, he pushes you down on his cock, hitting the back of your throat in one swift movement. He holds you there for a while, still searching your eyes for any sign of wanting to back out. Instead, you try to force him down a little further until you feel yourself start to gag and his dick start to twitch. 

That's when he pulls you off. You take one look at him and know that he is already close. His ears and cheeks are bright red, pupils blown, breathing heavy. 'Go ahead, sweetie. You know what to do.' You nod again and slide one hand up to his chest, the other wrapped around the length that doesn't fit in your mouth as you start to set a steady pace. 

He takes the hand on his chest and presses a kiss to your fingertips. Strings of moans and groans start to fill the room as you tether him closer and closer to the edge. 'Come on sweetie, I'm almost there,' he whines, desperately chasing his release. 

You hollow out your cheeks and grab the hand in your hair with the hand that was around the base of his dick. He looks down at you questioningly, but quickly gets what you're getting at. 

"Use me." 

He starts bucking his hips into your mouth, forcing your head against him until you're almost swallowing him. It's a beautiful sight, slightly blurred by the tears stinging in your eyes. It takes mere seconds for him to fall over the edge. He pulls out of your mouth, but you hold it open, ready to take his release. 

'Shit, that's hot,' he comments quietly as you take all of his seed and swallow it. After a few seconds of heavy breathing, he leans down again and meets your lips in a passionate kiss. 'Thank you,' he breathes against your lips. His arm moves past you to stop the recording. Then, he guides you to come sit on his lap. 'Do you want aftercare or do you want more?' 

'Sylus,' you croak, not realizing the damage you've just done to your throat, 'that was the hottest thing I've ever seen. You're crazy if you think I want to stop here. Do you want aftercare?’ 

'Why would I want aftercare?' 

'Because you just forced your dick down my throat for the first time and I can imagine you might feel a little bit bad after that.' He smiles and pulls you against him, strong arms engulfing your body. 

'The only aftercare I need is returning the favor,' he whispers in your ear. 

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"Returning the favor" he said. Yeah, because one orgasm is synonymous with five. Four from his tongue and the last one with his dick. If you were croaking after that blowjob, you were surely croaking after all that. Sylus is not completely dominant, but if he were he'd be a fucking pleasure dom for damn sure. That man enjoys your orgasms more than you do. 

It's deep in the night, you are both spend. Sylus has his head on your shoulder, limbs entangled with yours as you run your hand through his hair and occasionally press kisses on his head and forehead. Soft conversation flows freely, waiting for either of you to fall asleep while both being too wired from the activities. 

'Does the "do anything to you" still count,' Sylus asks out of nowhere. You can tell there's something on his mind that he's been wrecking his brain over. 

'Depends.' 

'On?' 

'What you're about to say.' He takes a moment to consider what he's going to say and how he's going to say it. His arms tighten around your body, pulling you closer to him. Whatever he wants to discuss is something he is quite nervous about. 

'With all the steps I'm trying to take, I realized I forgot about one thing,' he starts. His mumblings soft, barely audible. 

'What's that?' 

'I realized I never asked you to move in with me.' The world stops for a second, Sylus’ heart beats out of his chest waiting for you to respond. Only for you to start giggling. He's confused, hurt. Is this rejection? 

'So you're going to make me move in with you?' He chuckles, understanding the humor in the situation. It's almost like a slap in the face. He was so sleep drunk that he almost forgot he started this conversation with the "do anything to you" line. 

The giggling dies down and you feel his hands caress the naked skin of your body, desperately awaiting your reply. 'Sylus, my apartment is basically a storage unit at this point. I'm already living with you. But, if you don't mind moving again, I'd like a place that's a little bigger if you are sure about this.' 

'I would move anywhere for you. I'll adapt to any place if you're there with me.' 

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Previous - Epilogue

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[cripplecharacters]

I write fanfic, and have some concerns about MC's baby. Baby (Hope) was made in lab and has genetic differences. Currently, I consider something like Down Syndrome?

~

Background:

In canon: character mourning his best friend (an alien), and try to clone him. (Alien later later in story come back to life)

My thoughts: When you clone someone, but use DNA from 2 people, it's actually a baby...

Since they are different species, I consider having their child being either triploid (3x chromosomes) or tetraploid (4x).

Which can be genetic issues. And disabilities. I sort of base on Down Syndrome, but also different.

~

Things I thought issues:

1. Should I just have the kid have Down Syndrome? At least it's familiar, and unrepresented. But also DS is only 3rd 21 chromosome, not all chromosoms are 3.

2. Issue about the kid being a baby. Since initialisation is a big problem for ppl w disabilities, DS especially.

3. Dad 1 (the scientist) has a "what have I done" moment. It's before the beby is born, and before her differences are showing, but can be problematic. I try make it clear this is problem bc Dad goes 1) my dead friend didn't agree, 2) i shouldn't make a kid, 3) I'M HAVING A BABY!?!?

4. Also, I don't know if there's problem with "made in lab and different"? (Like it's "punishment", or something about mutations? Idk I'm not from USA nor Christian, but I know people who are has weird issues).

To be clear, both dads love their kid. They call her their light and "our little miracle". Though can also be issue?

Thank you!! I hope it make sense?

Hi!

First, I want to clarify some points from a biology perspective:

Humans are really bad at handling the wrong amount of DNA, and really bad at cross breeding with non-hominids.

A cross-breed between two species with different numbers of chromosomes may or may not be viable (best chance is when the species are closely related), but the hybrid is nearly always sterile.

A haploid (1x) from each parent can make a new human. Most organisms also work this way. But some organisms produce sex cells with multiple copies of the genome--for example melons can be made to have 2x seeds.

Aneuploidy (3x or 4x) is lethal to most species. Some (plant) species are more resistant, but still sterile--a normal 2x melon and a 4x melon produce a seedless 3x melon, for example.

Monosomies and trisomies are not always fatal, as evidenced by Down Syndrome among other chromosome disorders.

If you want to follow biological constraints, I think having Hope be a hybrid is not the best choice.

But you can do whatever you want, and model off of any chromosomal disorder you want, since you're dealing with fantasy biology.

I think the most important/constant aspect of chromosomal disorders is intellectual disability. Hearing and vision loss are also very common.

Infantilization is not so much a worry with an infant character. It's okay to have children in a story. It becomes infantilization if the character is routinely treated as far younger than their age.

I don't think being made in a lab is a problem. Genetic disorders happen, whether chromosomes are combined in a lab or in a body.

And I also think it's normal for your character to have all sorts of emotions about having made a new person. Just like when someone is pregnant. You're clearly showing it as his complex emotions regarding his actions, not disdain for baby Hope.

Mod Rock