#these are what folks call normal cultural differences

[angelsaxis]

Not to sound like an america defender of any kind but sometimes non Americans can be so melodramatic about something that Americans do that they don't, like being friendly or smiling (whether too much or too little) and it's like. Just because y'all don't do it or don't understand it doesn't mean it's wrong, that's just cultural bias speaking. And just because you don't like America or you read about it or interact with/deal with Americans on social media a lot doesn't make you the slightest expert in American culture (the fact that people always neglect the differences in southern and northern terms of politeness if they even are aware of it is one example). Especially because I start to doubt that these people are aware of how friendly folks from their own countries can be when traveling overseas. There's Americans that go overseas and are friendly and loud but there's ppl from other countries who come here or go to other places and are also friendly and loud and exuberant. There's Americans who smile at strangers and some who don't it really depends on the sub culture they're from and even then, their own disposition.

Because again from a cultural standpoint this is just folks doing shit different, not something inherently wrong. And I've seen people from more physically affectionate and open cultures criticize Americans for being stiff and unfriendly and I've seen people from more conservative cultures and subdued ones saying Americans are too open and friendly, and both will be framed and reblogged as Total Fact and Unbiased Truth and not the nitpicky opinions of someone who's basically saying their cultural background and how they do things should be the standard.

Especially when you consider again this country is not homogenous and for me at least it's definitely varied enough that you can't go painting everything with the same brush. Why did i see a post once that was like "um well in my country you can literally kiss your Uber driver hello Americans are so stiff" or something like girl there's lots of countries where they don't do that 😭 like what be fr. I promise you it's not just Americans that are avoidant of close physical contact outside of close friends and family like plleeeeeaaaasseeee use your brains

And then the other side is like "why is this American expressing what's naturally polite for them in their culture" frankly if you think that's threatening that's on you like idk what you expect anyone to say or do about it realistically

[nthspecialll]

The fandom glorifies Arthur Morgan

Now I am not talking about about low honor, I play high honor and got it as the top at the end of every damn playthrough but my Arthur, as it is the cannon Arthur, is not a good guy. I am not going to talk about all of the murder, robbing and stuff he does, because we are majorly aware of it, I am talking his sexism, casual ignorance and disrespecfulness.

I quite often see people say that Arthur Morgan is a woman lover, and he definitely is, he is better than a lot of men from that time (which isn't hard), but he would not hold up in modern times, because he is not from modern times.

Generally speaking, Arthur Morgan is a man who believes in gender roles, he believes in the idea of "a man being a man" and "a woman being a woman." He has opinions about what a woman should do and what a man should do.

I think the biggest hint at this is his relationship with Sadie, because while he accepts her running with the boys he doesn't seem entirely happy about it. "You got a pair of pants and all of a sudden you think you're Landon Ricketts?" "You want to ruuuunnnn with the men?" and also "can Ms Grimshaw spare you?" when the girls asks if they can come to Valentine with him.

Talking of that quest, when he runs off to get Jimmy Brooks he puts Uncle, a lazy old bastard, in charge of getting the girls home even though they are more than capable of doing it themselves as they are healthy young women who knows how to handle horses.

In several antagonize lines against women performers (which are just as cannon as his greet lines) he shouts things like "That isn't very ladylike!" or "Go back to the kitchen" and "go make someone supper."

People keep saying Arthur would "treat them right" and he would, to an extent, he would care for you, he would be nice to you, but he would force those gender roles. He does have a belief women are somehow "softer" and that he as a person with a provider gene should do more of the harsh work.

So now we covered that, lets talk about the racism, or as I probably should rather call it, ignorance, because it is very commonly know Arthur does not judge by the color of skin.

The first one is that Arthur uses the whites-only saloon in Rhodes. Tilly mentions it to Arthur that they don't allow people of color into it, and yet he still supports it, it isn't a big thing but it is something of notice.

Secondly, when he talks to Eagle Flies where he "sets him in his place" Arthur, honey, you are so wrong here. Eagle Flies is being chased by the government for the mere fact that he exists with a different culture, you are being chased because you murdered so many folks, you can run across the sea and live a good life, they are fucked regardless.

When we first arrive in Lemoyne, Lenny and Arthur talks about the Lemoyne Raiders about racism and Arthur says "These boys got a manner about them but I haven't particularly noticed," Arthur of course you wouldn't, you are a tall, muscular, white man with sun kissed hair and blue eyes, you are the poster boy for eugenics.

Lastly, which will also bring me to the third point, the casual disrespect:

Arthur causally calling Javier a slur on the boat for no reason, did you really need that one-liner so badly? That goes for a lot of times in the game such as: "are you secretly normal" "what a lunatic" "we should find a better story for that scar" "But you continue to irritate me, I will kill you and make my appologies to the lady" "stick around and you might die for her as well" "oh I didn't know I was talking to a lady." All those were a slight bit disrespectful, enough to be able to annoy the majority of us if he said it to us, and they were also unnecessary.

He is also canonically chronically late, most notably we can hear Sean saying "that man will be late to his own funeral," and when you go around antagonizing characters in camp they are not surprised at all, rather they go "back at it again huh?"

All of this is just to sum up, Arthur is a pretty bad man (also counting in all the illegal stuff) and we tend to glorify him and forget some of these things, partly is also because Rockstar are amazing at hiding them, at making them seem natural, and they are because this is a historically accurate game! It is set in 1899 and this is a man from 1899 he is going to be casually sexist and disrespectful, and again, considering that he is from 1899 he is a decent guy because the majority of folk would be like Micah, not Arthur.

I definitely love Arthur, and I love Arthur exactly because the point of his character is him not being a saint but a human. His redemption is choosing to do good where he can, but even so, this is a man in 1899 and he is going to have a 1899 mindset. If you want to play a game that is set in the past but don't have that type of accuracy it is not Red Dead you want to play.

Also here is an Arthur pic as a thank you for reading all of that. I love him.

[hazardoomttrpg]

D&D 5E | Player Species: Gnoll

Ever since reading @dailyadventureprompts's post on gnolls, I've been thinking about playing as one. I've seen a few versions around on the internet, but I haven't seen a jump to the 2025 ruleset. This take on Gnolls was actually one of the jumping off points for my Folk of the Wilds project. And with their push into a more demonic direction in 2024 ('25) Monster Manual, it felt like the right time to put out a more humanoid version. Also included here is the Survivalist background; perfect for being someone who innately understands the wilderness.

Let me know what you think!

Art from Hex: Shards of Fate. Copyright Hex Entertainment 2016.

Gnoll Species Details

Gnolls are the quintessential survivors of the multiverse, living far from the farmlands and cities populated by humans, elves, dwarves, etc. While some gnolls, known as "The Hungry Ones," have succumbed to Yeenoghu's call and have taken on a more demonic nature, many continue to live in the wilderness in small nomadic clans following the migration paths of various herds.

While many outside of their communities may find their behaviors and culture as barbaric, Gnoll traditions are ultimately utilitarian: when survival is on the line, the definition of what is and what isn't useful has a much broader definition.

Some of these traditions are as follows:

Gnolls are laconic and candid when speaking. In times of survival, understanding the situation and transmitting that information as quickly as possible is the difference between life and death.

When a Gnoll dies, there is a great celebration to honor their passing. During this, the clan will consume most of the deceased's flesh: it is one final honor for the individual to provide for their pack.

Gnoll weapons and tools have hilts/handles made partially or wholly of the bones of the deceased. These will often be named after them whose bones were used in the weapon or tool, serving both as a reminder of the clan's history and as a method for the deceased to continue serving their community.

Gnolls' understanding of ownership is based on usefulness: if a tool would be best used by one member of the clan, it makes most sense for that member to be the holder of the tool.

While Gnolls not bound to the will of Yeenoghu aren't overly religious, they find some spiritual connection either to ancestral spirits or to gods of nature, hunting, and weather, such as Obad-hai on Greyhawk or The Wildmother on Exandria.

Gnoll Traits

Creature Type: Humanoid

Ability Score Increase (5E 2014): Strength by 2, Dexterity by 1.

Size: Medium (about 6-7 feet tall)

Speed: 30 feet

As a Gnoll, you have these special traits.

Darkvision

You have Darkvision with a range of 60 feet.

Carrion Feeder

You have the ability to stomach many foods which others cannot, such as rancid meat. You have advantage on Constitution saving throws triggered by eating and/or drinking. You also have resistance to Poison damage and advantage on saving throws against being poisoned.

Bite

Your fanged maw is a natural weapon, which you can use to make unarmed strikes. If you hit with it, you deal piercing damage equal to 1d6 + your Strength modifier, instead of the bludgeoning damage normal for an unarmed strike.

Pack Tactics

Once per turn, you have advantage on an attack roll against a creature if at least one of your allies is within 5 feet of the creature and the ally isn’t incapacitated. You can use this feature a number of times equal to your Proficiency Bonus, and you regain all expended uses when you finish a Long Rest.

Suggested Backgrounds

Farmer (5E 2024), but re-flavored as Hunter-Gatherer: This background is perfect for a Gnoll whose primary role was as a provider for the clan's next meal.

Guard (5E 2024): You might have been assigned as one of your clan's protectors, whether that was from the wild beasts your clan would routinely encounter OR from marauding bandits who looked at your clan as obstacles to supplies.

Guide (5E 2024): With Gnoll clans being nomadic, you might have been tasked with leading your pack through the wilderness, finding places of shelter for rest and short-term habitation.

Folk Hero (5E 2014): You might have undertaken a great trial to protect your clan, such as single-handedly fending off the attack of a great lion.

Outlander (5E 2014): In many ways, this background is similar to the 2024 Guide, but adding extra emphasis to your knowledge of how to survive in the wilds.

Survivalist (Homebrew): As the name suggest, your upbringing taught you all about using your wits, skills, and tenacity while surviving in the wilds.

A little bit extra: Survivalist Background

* 5E 2014 Version *

Skill Proficiencies: Perception, Survival

Tool Proficiencies: Leatherworker’s Tools and one other Artisan’s Tool of your choice.

Language Proficiencies: Druidic

Feature: Scavenger Crafting

As part of a short rest, you can use materials harvested from a slain beast, construct, dragon, monstrosity, or plant creature of size Small or larger to create one of the following items: a shield, a club, a dagger, a spear, handaxe, or 1d4 darts and/or pieces of ammunition. While doing so, you roll 1d20. On a roll of 15 or higher, the crafted item is well-made, and is considered to be a +1 non-magical item. To use this trait, you need to have a set of the appropriate artisan's tools. Add your proficiency to the roll if you are proficient with the tools.

Equipment: A stone dagger, a hunting trap, an assortment of animal parts (such as claws, furs and teeth), a set of traveler’s clothes, a belt pouch containing 10 gp

* 5E 2024 Version *

Ability Score Increase: Strength, Dexterity Wisdom

Suggested Feat: Scavenger Artisan

Skill Proficiencies: Perception, Survival

Tool Proficiencies: Leatherworker’s Tools

Language Proficiencies: Druidic

Equipment: A stone dagger, a hunting trap, an assortment of animal claws and teeth, a set of traveler’s clothes, a belt pouch containing 10 gp

[vhvrs]

needed a more accurate ref sheet for these two so u r looking at that!!!! simplified some details to be less overly complex n tightened up the palettes in the process

additionally comments including previous info i dont wanna link to and way too much world info:

as b4, rick is a normal human. morticia is a half-witch - jerry is the witch bloodline in question (agony to rick bc he was hoping this was a verse beth DIDNT marry jerry when he found out). witches live in a kindve attached dimension to earth. magic shit. he likes collecting witch literature bc theyre so fucking weird n usually infused w weird magic.

rick is v nice by rick standards n also a major creep lol. the medical shit does weird most ricks out n also they think hes a pussy for caring so much abt kerping morticia safe n sane (except for x-143 on both 😘)

ricks science tends to focus on biology n hes REALLY excited by medical procedures n discovering how different soecies function. he does regular rick shit on occasion but hes kindve too lazy n comfortable to do shit morticia isnt up for too. hashtag most normal rick. used to be more dickish but he got humbled fast by the world lol. they do bicker like regular rick n mortys though. still very much has the capacity to be a normal rick if provoked.

these two are in an oc verse i have too much lore for so i could really go on all day abt the specifics but to be vague witches are a subrace of things called shadows. considered humans while humans are considered mortals. lifespans are expanded. harder to kill. witches even half witches typically have grey skin too but i needed morticia to be visibly herself. witches are the only shadows who can do magic from birth, while other shadows (its pretty much just witches, fae folk, and deathwalkers/normie supernaturals) have to learn it n usually HAVE to use channeling devices like wands while witches use their hands. magic users typically have an element they naturally are good at n can learn others - these other elements are usually what wands are for.

public displays of magical scars is considered like. uncouth. even the hand ones, thus gloves are a societal default and otherwise ur supposed to cover up or charm evidence away. rick obviously does not give a shit n it makes him stand out a LOT more than he should. bc of this, morticia is a lot more comfy around him n more confident as a result. ricks also the only person whos seen her hands ungloved bc of needing to patch her up after backfired adventures. highly personal thing in witch culture etc.

as the last scarring is also considered improper to show off bc 'only non-witches fuck up magic enough to get scarred' witches are v high-society pretentious types, usually high in the government etc. other shadows dont give a shit lol.

scars in question are all from morticias electricity magic kindve exploding on them during a really high stress situation. yewouch!

uh oh morticia goes to a mage academy. public educations kinda meh among shadows but witches have fancy magic schools. full-time magic users are called mages (pc term bc witches used to just claim it b4 other ppl started doing magic too) bc everythings complicated w shadows.

[artificial-transmutations]

Rick's Reality

Richard Thompson, or "Rick" as he was known to everyone in his small Midwestern town, had always been a figure of certainty. A solid, unchanging monument amidst a world that was too often in flux. His voice, amplified by the local radio, was a constant stream of opinions and advice that echoed through the homes and cars of his listeners each weekday morning.

Rick was an imposing man, in both stature and belief. Standing tall at six feet two inches, with broad shoulders and a deep, resonant voice, he was the picture of traditional, rural masculinity. His dark hair was always neatly combed, his clothes crisp and clean, and his boots spotless despite the dust and mud of the local landscape.

His radio show, "Rick's Reality," was a beacon for conservative values and traditional perspectives. It was a platform from which he would confidently espouse his views, his deep baritone voice resonating with a fervor that drew in even the most reluctant listener. Rick had a particular disdain for the LGBTQ+ community, seeing them as a challenge to his idea of 'normal.'

"There's a certain way of life, a right and a wrong," Rick would assert, his voice crackling over the airwaves. "Men are men, women are women. That's how God intended it."

Rick had been born and bred in this town, his life as firmly rooted as the old oak tree in the town square. A divorced father of one, his life was a well-trodden path of work, hunting, fishing, and beer with his buddies at Joe's Bar.

That Monday, Rick sat behind the microphone in his small studio, a cup of black coffee steaming beside him. He had a familiar fire in his belly, the one that fueled his daily tirades. Today, his ire was directed towards immigrants and the LGBTQ+ community.

"Folks," he began, his voice stern and unwavering, "our great nation is being undermined. We've got immigrants coming in, not respecting our culture, our way of life. And then we got these... these... folks who can't decide if they're men or women or want to marry their own kind. It's a disgrace, I tell ya."

The phone lines were lighting up, as they always did during his heated monologues. He gestured to his assistant, who patched through a caller.

"You're on 'Rick's Reality', what's your reality today?" Rick asked, a smug grin on his face.

"Hello, Rick," the caller began, their voice calm, measured, and anonymous. "I've been listening to your show for a while. I've heard your views on immigrants and the LGBTQ+ community. I wonder, have you ever challenged your beliefs? Have you ever tried to see life from their perspective?"

Rick was taken aback. He was used to angry rebuttals and passionate agreements, but this? This was new. He stuttered, before finding his footing. "Well, I... I know what's right. And it's my job to stand up for what's right."

"But what if 'right' is subjective, Rick?" the caller continued. "What if the 'right' you know is not the only 'right'? Have you ever considered that?"

Rick was angry. Angry enough to hang up. But something stopped him. He knew he needed more information about this mysterious caller. So, he stayed on the line, listening intently as the caller continued.

"I'm just curious, Rick," the caller said, "what would happen if you met someone who thought differently than you do? Wouldn't that be interesting? What if they didn't think like you did?"

"I'd punch them out," Rick replied. "I don't need no faggot or immigrant around me thinking he's better than me."

"Interesting," the caller mused. "So, you wouldn't try to understand them? You wouldn't try to learn from them?"

"Nope," Rick said. "I'd punch them out." He had enough of the caller and cut the line. This was ridiculous, why did people with these deviant opinions even bother calling into his show? He had to get back to ranting about the evils of immigration and the perils of same-sex marriage.

He returned to his monologue, but his mind wandered. He couldn't shake the strange feeling he had when talking to that caller. Their words had struck a chord within him, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. It was like a small voice in the back of his mind that was so very different from himself, that was curious about what that guy had said, curious about the very idea of being different. It was only miniscule though, and Rick quickly dismissed it, continuing his show.

The rest of the callers were good, normal people calling. People agreeing with him and encouraging him. The day went by smoothly until the end of his shift. He was heading home in the bright noon sun, when he felt like he could do something different today. The route he usually took when walking home was down the main street, passing Joe's bar and into the residential area with the neatly trimmed lawns where he lived. There was, however, another route, a quicker one that went through the bad parts of the town. The parts where those Latino gardeners and pool boys lived, where there were shady clubs and even the dreaded local 'rainbow' scene. Normally, Rick wouldn't even think about entering those parts of town, but the comment from earlier was still gnawing at his mind. Perhaps he should take that way today, just to see how much better life was when you were normal. There was nothing going to happen, after all. If he met anyone who bothered him, he'd just punch them.

So, Rick turned off the main road, making his way towards the seedy part of town. As he walked past the bars and strip joints, he saw men and women going about their businesses or sitting around, taking a break and smoking a cigarette. So far, nothing out of the ordinary except the slightly darker skin color of most people here. He passed a few men playing socker in an alleyway between buildings. A man sat on a bench outside a corner store, drinking a beer and watching some kids play basketball nearby. He made eye contact with a woman wearing a tight red dress as she exited a convenience store carrying bags full of groceries. She was probably wondering why he came here - a question he asked himself.

He kept walking, trying to ignore the looks he was getting as he got closer to the gay district. Well, district was a bit much. There was a bar and a club with rainbow flags in the windows, nothing more.

The bar was closed, as it was just noon. However, the club was apparently open, which was surprising considering the time of day. Rick stopped. Maybe he should go inside. There would probably no patrons in there and he was kind of curious what that godless place looked from the inside.

He pushed open the door to the club and stepped inside. The place was empty, as he thought, apart from a bartender cleaning up. The guy was a fairly muscular and about the same age as Rick and greeted him with a friendly smile.

"Oh hi! Welcome to Club Rage!" he said. "What can I get you?"

"I don't want anything", Rick said with a reserved tone. He didn't even want to speak to that guy, but now that he was in here, that seemed to be less and less of an option.

"Ah, then you're here for the job opening!" the other man beamed. "Name's Miguel by the way."

Of course, an immigrant, Rick grimaced. "Richard." he said noncommittally.

"Good! I didn't expect someone like you to apply, but sure, let's see what you've got! Follow me!"

Why didn't Rick just say he wasn't interested in the job, whatever it was?

Miguel led him to the big dance floor of the place and pointed to an elevated cage with a pole in it. "This would be your workplace."

Rick looked at him dumbfounded. "What did you say was that job again?", he asked cautiously.

"You'll be dancing," Miguel replied. "It's not a difficult job, trust me. You won't have any trouble keeping up with the crowd. Come on, show me some moves, Richard!". He patted the cage floor with his hand.

Rick wanted to say a lot of things, shout at the guy or storm out of here, but another part of his brain saw this as an opportunity. There was no one here but Miguel to see him and he would never, ever do something like that again, so he might as well try it once.

Rick nodded slowly and hoisted himself up into the cage with some effort. Miguel was looking up to him expectantly and Rick tried some careful, stiff dance steps.

It must have looked ridiculous, but Miguel was nodding. "Yeah... you need some beat, man. Hold on."

Miguel disappeared for a moment and shortly after, a driving, thumbing rhythm filled the room, way too loud for the empty room.

When Miguel reappeared, he gave Rick thumbs up: "Okay, Rick! Try it with this!"

The rhythm actually helped a bit, and Rick found it easier to get into it. His dance moves became more sweeping and quickly, Rick was sweating from the unfamiliar workout.

Apparently, Miguel had also noticed and shouted from below: "Come on! Show me that body a bit, don't be shy!"

Rick gritted his teeth and moved his hips faster, feeling the sweat running down his face. He could hear the music pounding in his ears, drowning out everything else. He felt good about himself, better than he'd done in years. While dancing, he unbuttoned his shirt and quickly disposed of it. His torso was looking different from what he was used to: It was smoothly shaven and more toned - not trained or muscular but toned and lean. His skin had a darker complexion than he was used to, and the glistening sweat gave his moves a smooth and fluid quality.

Down below, Miguel was cheering. "Yeah, come on, Rico boy! Use the pole!"

Rick, no, Rico shook his head and smiled. While he grabbed the pole with his right hand, his left hand unbuttoned his pants, in a well-practiced movement. As he twirled around the pole, he used an upward movement to strip the pants completely from his legs, revealing his very tight purple hotpants that accentuated his bulge nicely. Rico noticed that Miguel was clapping to the beat now and decided to give him a special show, turning around and shaking his ass to the rhythm right above Miguel’s face. Rico smiled. He had no doubt that he would get the job - he was just so damn good at it. Every man loved him, and he knew how to hone and groom his body to just tease them the right way. He was a living wet dream, with both an impressive ass and an ample bulge in the front of his pants that he knew just how to shake in a way that made the patrons drool. A boner factory, an ex-boyfriend of his had called him, and there was something very true about it.

Finally, Rico finished his gig and slid down the pole without even panting much, planting an impish kiss on Miguel’s mouth. He couldn't resist to cup the other man's groin with his hand meanwhile... yep, he was going to get that job.

Ricardo Torres was happy - this would be perfect for him, a chance to put his body to good use and get familiar with this new town quickly. Besides, that Miguel guy was really cute, perhaps it was time for a new boyfriend in this new town!

[atinylittlepain]

Apothecary - Chapter Five

joel miller x witchy!reader

series masterlist

she and joel try to figure out their new normal. will her upside-down world be too much for him to handle?

warnings | 18+ smut-adjacent, significant angst, mentions of pregnancy (not what you think), feelings

word count (since someone asked lmao): 5.8K

a/n | we are entering turbulent waters, my darlings. but remember, i promised you a happy ending, and a happy ending you shall get. just, not yet. as always, i love to hear from you about what you think of the chapter, drop me a message and let's chat <3

.........................................

“Dead man walking at three o’clock, boys.” “Watch out, whatever she’s got working on Miller might rub off on you if you get too close to him.” 

“Just a matter of time now, don’t you think?” “Better him than me. I like coming home alive, thank you very much. Miller can have her.” 

The folks talking at the stables are lucky that Joel couldn’t give less of a fuck about what they have to say. He’s got better things to focus on. As the summer has slipped into those long languid days before the first snaps of fall, it’s become common knowledge around town that Joel Miller is the witch’s man. And he couldn’t be more pleased about it. 

The men place wagers on when he’ll wind up dead, and the women, well, they’ve got a different look in their eyes when he comes around now that he’s so clearly caught the attention of the resident witch. But it’s all just noise to Joel, who is completely and unequivocally wrapped up in his woman.  

Tommy has cut down his patrol shifts, and Joel knows it’s because of his brother’s own little superstitious streak, though he’d never admit it to him. But Joel doesn’t mind spending more time working the stables, not when she comes around at midday in between her rounds, sharing her lunch with him, and a little sweetness, before bounding off to wherever she’s needed next. 

He’s learning more about her everyday. What’s true, and what’s baseless rumor. Just the other day, he had witnessed for himself her strange communication with animals when she had calmed a bolting horse with a light palm and a few murmured words, the mare tilting its head at her like it was listening to what she had to say. When she had turned back around to Joel after leading the horse into the stables, she offered him a smile and a shrug. Another truth.

They’ve made a little routine around each other, something he didn’t think he’d ever get again in this world, and he fucking adores it. Today is no different, when the sun starts to drip low in the sky and he’s finally finished shoeing a particularly skittish horse, he heads off from the stables toward her shop to pick up his girls. That’s the other thing, she looks out for Ellie, and Ellie thinks she’s “the fucking coolest.” Joel can’t help but feel like he won the damn lottery every time he steps into her shop and finds them laughing and talking easily in the back.

“Wait, wait, I’ve got a good one for you today.”

“Alright, let’s hear it.”

“What do you call witches who live together?”

“I don’t know, tell me.”

“Broom-mates!” 

“Kid, that one is bad, even for you.” Both she and Ellie whip around from where they had been chatting in the backroom of her shop when they hear his grumbled words. Ellie scoffs.

“What? It’s topical.” She snorts at Ellie’s response, nudging her as she wipes her hands off on a rag.

“It was ok. A little culturally insensitive though. That whole riding around on brooms thing is a total myth.” Ellie’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead at that, and she laughs at the girl’s expression, stepping around her to pad over to Joel.

“Hey there, handsome. Quitting time?” It still catches him off guard sometimes, how easily she slips her arms over his shoulders, leaning in for a quick kiss, calling him handsome, though he can still hear Ellie making gagging noises over the ringing in his ears. 

“Mmhmm, yep, yes ma’am. You ready to go?” She smiles, getting ready to answer him and being abruptly cut off by a sharp mroowww. He’s already expecting it, little paws clawing up his pants leg, a less welcomed development that has recently emerged as Stevie seems to take every chance she gets to make Joel her human scratching post. With a laugh, she scoops the mewling cat up in her arms, holding her out to Joel, though he swerves away slightly.

“Oh c’mon, Joel. Just give her a little pet. She’s trying to show you that she likes you.” He begrudgingly gives Stevie two curt pats on her head to which she lets out an indignant mrrp in response, yellow eyes squinting at him. No matter how many times she’s tried to convince him that Stevie likes him, Joel is still not sure what the cat thinks of him, or more importantly, what he thinks of her. There’s been a few times now when he has stumbled down stairs in the middle of the night to get a glass of water, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes, and he’s found the cat, frozen midstep, going god knows where out the backdoor. How Stevie got the door open in the first place is beyond him…

Ellie huffs from behind them, shuffling over and taking Stevie out of her arms, the feline immediately nuzzling up to her and purring like the most content engine ever. 

“You can’t just bop her on the head like that, old man. Stevie likes a gentle touch.” She giggles at Ellie’s admonishment, her hand that had been resting on his chest coming up to scratch lightly at his scruff as he grumbles. 

“Jesus christ, are y’all ready to go or not?” 

They certainly make an odd little team walking down the main drag of Jackson, his arm slung over her shoulders, Ellie walking a bit ahead of them carrying Stevie like a baby. There are stares, of course, there always are, and even a loose whisper here and there as they make their way home. Or, he supposes, to his and Ellie’s home, though she spends most nights with him these days. 

Pieces of her life have become permanent fixtures at the Miller residence, her “sensitive plants,” as she had called them, lining the windowsills downstairs, a few thick books of hers stacked on his nightstand, her overalls hanging off the corner of his bathroom door. He’d never admit it to anyone, but it actually makes him quite sentimental, these tangible reminders that he gets to call her his. Though there are always a few nights a week that she slips off by herself, going back to the shop or her own place after dinner. He tries not to think too hard about those times, and what she might be up to. After all, there are still a whole lot of things about her that he can’t quite believe, his mind playing catch-up with the strangeness of it all. But he reckons it’s worth it to get to have her like he does right now, an easy hand on her hip as they get dinner ready, Ellie rambling at the kitchen table about something Dina said earlier at school.

And while it feels so good, this routine they’ve slipped into, there’s always a twinge of guilt laced through when his mind wanders to the world just outside of Jackson’s gates, to his past, and the harsh dissonance between this present sweetness and that old pain. He had once asked Tommy about it, how he lives in this strange sliver of normal after the life they’ve known, and his brother had just shrugged and said that maybe it was exactly because of their past that they deserve whatever respite they can find now. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Her voice snaps him out of his mind, eyes focusing back on her sitting across from him at the table, dinner long finished and Ellie off wreaking havoc with the other Jackson teens.  Don’t tell anyone, but Joel Miller has traded in his usual nightcap at the Tipsy Bison for a warm cup of whatever she steeps in a kettle on the stove. He doesn’t mind the taste, and it saves him a headache in the morning, and right now, the warmth from his mug anchors him just enough to ask her what’s been on his mind.

“Y’know, you never did tell me how you knew– about Sarah.” Her eyes soften around the edges, smile drooping just slightly.

“Well, I told you that I see the world in threads. The thread between you and Sarah– your daughter– it’s a particularly strong one.” 

“Even though– even though she’s gone?”

“She isn’t gone, Joel, not really. I can feel her all around you.” His head spins with her words, tightness settling in his chest, and he doesn’t realize he had been clenching his fist until she reaches out for him, unfurling his fingers in her hand.

“Can you– could you– could you talk to her?” Her brows pinch, lips pressing into a thin frown at his question.

“I’m sorry, baby, I can’t. People– like me– we all have different talents. I had an aunt who’d have long conversations with her husband who had passed on– but that’s never been something I’m able to do.” He swallows hard, nodding, feeling a bit foolish for asking the question in the first place.

“But you said you can– feel her?” That brightens back her smile, and she squeezes his hand in hers.

“We’re all just energy. Even when we die, that can never be destroyed. So yes, I can feel her with you, and how much she loved– loves you.” It becomes too much for him all at once, the hot prick of tears behind his eyes spurring him to tug his hand out of hers. She says his name like a question, but he’s already stumbling out of his chair and toward the front door. 

“Wait, Joel– just– where are you going?” It breaks his heart, the concern laced through her words, and when he turns to give her a response, his hand still on the doorknob, he can barely look at her.

“I’m sorry– I can’t– it’s just– I can’t– it’s too much– it’s all too much.” Perfect silence, she offers no reply to his words, and he doesn’t wait around to hear one, slipping out the front door and stumbling into the quickening night.

…

She fucked up, it becoming clear to her with the slam of his front door behind him. All she wanted was for him to have the truth, hoping that it could be a comfort to him. But obviously she had been mistaken in thinking that. He said that it was too much, but the implication of those words was apparent, that she’s too much. She knows better than to follow him, having figured enough out about Joel Miller to understand that any prodding will be unwelcomed, so she stands, feeling a bit helpless, in the middle of his living room. But then she starts looking around, seeing her plants everywhere, a few of her bracelets on the coffee table along with one of her books, knowing there’s more where that came from up in his bedroom, and she starts to think that she had come on too strong, that she was too much. 

He was spooked by what she said, there were no two ways about it. She’d recognize that look in his eyes anywhere. She just hated that it had been in his eyes. Suddenly, she wants, needs, to get out of his house, and away from the deafening silence of being alone. She grabs her satchel, hastily shoving whatever odds and ends of herself strewn around his house that she can into her bag. She’s with it enough to lock the front door and slip out the back, figuring that wherever he went, he won’t be back for a while. The hot slip of tears comes before she can stop it, hurrying away from Joel’s house and toward her shop, intent on doing the one thing she knows will calm her mind.

…

He fucked up. He knew it the second he stepped out on his porch, and had even thought about turning back around right then, going back inside, trying to talk it out with her. But there was nothing to talk out, she’d done nothing wrong, he knew that. It had been such a jarring conversation for him, straddling the line between disbelief and something that touched a little too close to bone for his taste, and unable to stay up on the tightrope with her, he bolted. 

The Tipsy Bison is quieter tonight, it being the middle of the week, but that’s a blessing to him, not wanting to run into anyone he knows while he tries to fuzz out his thoughts with booze. It plays over and over again in his mind.

I can feel her all around you.

Joel reckons that more than anything else, the feeling that had propelled him out of his house and away from her had been anger, that she can feel something he would give anything to feel himself. Very early on, he’d talk to Sarah, every night, asking her for signs. It had been in a fit of frustration when no signs ever came that he had pointed a gun at his temple and missed. So for her to so easily say that, to bridge that gap he had been clawing at for twenty years, it had set loose a dark mix of emotions he had been trying to stifle for a long time. And he believes her too, no matter how fantastical it seems. He knows that whatever she does choose to tell him, it’s always the truth, which only makes it sting worse. 

He feels sick to his stomach after his first tumbler of whiskey, a gnawing pain he can’t shake, his mind replaying the glance he got of her face before he left, a crumpled look, something bordering on fear. And he suddenly has no interest in staying at the bar any longer, pushing away his glass and walking out onto the empty streets of Jackson, having stayed in there long enough for night to lay down heavy and cool over the town. 

A pause, trying to get his bearings, to get out of his head, his eyes wander over the storefronts outside the Tipsy Bison, though it’s a figure emerging from between the shops that catches his attention.

“What’re you doing out here, trouble?”

meooowww

He shuffles across the street over to Stevie, meeting her in the alleyway she just sauntered out of. Bending at the waist, he offers out his palm, Stevie rubbing her cheek up against his fingers with a satisfied purr.

“Think I messed up a little.” Stevie lets out a mrow at that, and if she hadn’t been nuzzling at his palm, he would’ve sworn that she nodded her head at his words. Joel sighs, standing back upright, Stevie’s yellow eyes looking up at him, unblinking.

“Better go talk to her, huh?” This time, there’s no other explanation for the little bob of the cat’s head, and Joel has to let out a laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. Whatever this new normal is, ain’t nothing normal about it.

“Alright, trouble, you coming?” He gets no response, because, hello, it’s a cat. But when he starts walking, Stevie falls into step next to him. 

The whole walk home, he’s so preoccupied with what he wants to say to her that he’s completely caught off guard when he goes to open the front door and finds it locked. Not a light is on inside, either, and he can’t help the frustration rising in his chest, Stevie starting to claw at his pants not helping one bit. She stops just as soon as she started, giving him an expectant look before turning around and padding down his porch steps. At his wit’s end, all Joel can think to do is follow the cat.

…

This is when she feels closest to her mother. Sweat pricking along her hairline, the sleeves of an old work shirt hiked up to her armpits, the backdoor to the shop cracked open to air out the fumes, and a bandana tied over the bridge of her nose, covering the lower half of her face as she works. 

She’s had to make changes to the process in this new world. Where they used to buy lye from the local craft store, she now has to make it herself, leaching wood ash in barrels in the alley outside the shop. Where they used to use exotic oils like neem and jojoba, she now makes due with beeswax and sunflower seed oil. But she still stirs honey, mint, and lavender into the mix, the scent a pure dose of home for her. 

Her eyes burn as she stirs, the sharp sting of vapors from the lye a welcome distraction from all the thoughts still winding around her mind. She’s done this a thousand times, moving with measured precision, the mixture swirling thick and black as she carefully ladles it into the wooden mold. They used to make huge batches every spring, rectangular molds the size of garden beds, and once the soap was set and cured, they’d slice it up into small blocks, enough for the year and then some. Now she only makes a little at a time, when she wishes more than anything she still had her mother with her, telling her what the next right step is. 

She wipes away the cool drip of sweat on her forehead with the back of her hand, turning the stove off with a jerk of her chin. Some things never get old. But before she can take the now empty stock pot over to the sink, Stevie comes slinking in, nuzzling up against her ankles. She tugs her bandana down from her nose, letting it hang around her neck as she looks down at her girl.

“What’d you get into tonight, little miss?” 

“She talked some sense into me.” Her head whips up at the sound of his voice, seeing Joel leaning against the backdoor frame. She can’t help but feel a bit exposed in her ratty attire, and she wonders how much he had seen. She’s never had anyone around when she’s done this before, and it feels like a vulnerability she wasn’t ready to extend to him.

She sniffs, squaring her shoulders and trying to seem unphased by his presence, willing her voice to come out steady.

“Oh?” She feels like she needs to swallow around something thick in her throat, words getting stuck somewhere in her chest. 

“I’m sorry– that I just bolted. I wasn’t expecting that– what you said– and I reacted without much thought.” Her fingers itch with want, to reach for him, to thumb away the crease between his brows. But she resists it, staying where she is, her hands bunching into the fabric of her loose shirt instead.

“You don’t have to apologize, Joel. I’m the one who should be saying I’m sorry. You were right– it was too much, and I should have been able to see that. I’m sorry that I pressed too hard.” He kicks up off the doorframe, stepping into the shop, and immediately lets out a few harsh coughs, thumping his fist against his chest as he squints at her.

“Is there– a reason– my throat feels like– it’s on fire?” She curses low, quickly guiding him by the shoulders back out of the shop and into the alley.

“Fuck! I’m sorry! It’s the fumes from the lye. I guess I’m just used to it by now.” She rubs quick circles across his back as he continues to let out wheezy coughs, looking at her with wide eyes when he finally catches his breath.

“What the hell are you doing with lye, woman?” The harsh tone of his words makes her jerk back from him, stepping just out of reach as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“It’s for soap. That’s what I’m doing, making fucking soap. Not whatever all those people you talked to put into your head.” His face blanches in the moonlight, jaw slack at her words.

“That’s not– I didn’t mean it like that.” She scoffs, anger suddenly feeling like a really good idea as she takes another step back when he goes to reach for her.

“Oh really? Are you sure about that, Joel? Are you sure that this isn’t too much for you? That I’m not too much for you?” She regrets the words the instant they leave her mouth, her mounting insecurity a thick sludge in her throat as silence settles between them. 

“This ain’t about the soap, is it?” She has to laugh at his timid question, throwing her hands out in frustration.

“Yes– no– fuck, I don’t know. I just– the way you looked at me? When I told you about Sarah? I’ve seen that look before, and I know it well– it usually means that it’s time for me to go.” 

“Go? What do you mean go? I don’t want you to go anywhere, goddamnit!” The sharp raise of his voice catches her by surprise, his frustration clear in the long drag of his palm down his face, the sigh he lets out as he squints at her in the dim light.

“Then I need you to tell me right now if what I do, what I am, is going to be a problem for you. Because if it is, I can’t– can’t do this.” She can’t fight it down anymore, the hiccup in her voice, the warble that threatens tears, and Joel’s features soften at the little sniff she lets out.

“You know it’s not a problem for me, you know that. But– I ain’t gonna lie to you, this ain’t easy, darlin. All these things I sure as shit didn’t believe in until I met you. Sometimes I feel like my world’s been turned upside down trying to wrap my head around it all.” She doesn’t step away this time, when he gets closer to her, tentative hand reaching out and circling around her wrist before sliding down to tangle his fingers with hers.

“It’s a lot. But it’s not too much. I promise you.” Words she’s never heard before, and now she really can’t stop the tears muddling up her vision and slipping down her cheeks. He takes another step closer, his other hand coming up to brush away stray salt with the backs of his knuckles. And it finally clicks for her in that moment just how much she wants him to mean it, how much she wants him to stay, and it terrifies her. 

“I really am sorry, Joel– about what I said earlier. I should’ve been more careful.” He holds his palm steady against her cheek, dark eyes swimming in shadows.

“I was the one that asked, darlin. I just– I’m gonna need a little more time with– with that.” She sighs, having already reached a conclusion that she doesn’t like one bit, though she knows it’s for the best. She isn’t going to let this be like any of the times before.

“I think that maybe we should take things– slower.” She can tell that Joel doesn’t like that, his brow scrunching up, thumb stilling where it had been stroking along the arc of her cheek.

“S-slower?” She nods, squeezing his hand that’s still tangled up in hers.

“We rushed into this, didn’t we? I mean– it’s only been a few weeks since we really started seeing each other, and I’m already practically living with you.” His face really falls at that, a deep frown settling around his lips.

“You don’t wanna live with me, is that it?” She’d laugh if he wasn’t looking so pitiful about it, instead offering him her best smile as she brings her other hand up to brush his hair out of his face.

“That isn’t what this is about, Joel. I just think it might be good for us– for you– if you’re not in my– upside-down world– all the time, at least at first. Like getting acclimated to a new altitude, you gotta take it slow.” She knows it’s a weak explanation the minute the words leave her mouth, but she also knows she’s right. Joel, on the other hand, still has a displeased scrunch to his face, like someone just told him a tasteless joke. 

“Uh, well, ok– if that’s what you want then– I mean, I guess we can– we can do that– we can take things– slow.” He keeps clearing his throat between words, stop-starting himself like he’s trying to convince himself he means it as he’s saying it. And when he finally gets it all out, with a firm little nod of his head, she can’t help but reward him with a quick kiss.

“Thank you, baby. I really think this is important– I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t.” He nods again, his hand that had been cupping her cheek trailing down her shoulder, her arm, until he’s holding both her hands in his.

“So, what does this look like– us taking it slow?” 

“We can figure it out as we go. But for right now, I think we can say goodnight, and I’ll go back to my place, and you’ll go back to yours.” 

“Can I walk you home?” Her heart tugs at that, his question so earnestly asked, only making it harder for her to respond with a sigh.

“I kinda have to clean up the shop still. I can’t really leave that stuff out overnight, y’know? A-and I obviously don’t want you messing with it, so–”

“No, I-I get it, that’s alright. Um, so I guess, goodnight then.” She’s never seen him so flustered, having to stifle a giggle when he realizes he’s still holding her hands and lets go with a huff. He seems to think on it for a beat, quickly ducking in and pressing the most precious kiss to her cheek, muttering a quiet “goodnight, darlin” as he turns to head home, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and taking a few jerky looks over his shoulder at her before he rounds the corner of the alley. 

She turns back to the shop with a sigh, Stevie sitting in the back doorway, head tilted at her.

“What? It’s for the best, you’ll see.”

…

For the record, Joel doesn’t like this taking it slow business, at all. He’s not even sure how she got him to agree to it, he had been so turned around that night, and she had been giving him those eyes… But no, he doesn’t like it, not one bit. 

To start with, he doesn’t like that she no longer comes around to the stables at mid-day, no quick kisses, no easy smiles. Nothing. And he doesn’t like that she no longer comes over for dinner every night, and not just because she’s a better cook than him. He doesn’t like that his walk home from the stables no longer includes a regular stop by her shop. And he doesn’t like that he has to hear from Ellie what his woman was up to that day. He hates that they go on dates now, like normal fucking people, scheduling time to be together instead of just throwing out the clock and moving like magnets. But perhaps more than any of his other qualms, the thing he hates the most is that he doesn’t get her in his bed every night.

When he agreed to take things slow, he didn’t know it meant this slow. He didn’t know it meant goodnight kisses and holding hands but that’s it slow. Afterall, he’s only a man, and after getting to have her the way that he did, it feels damn near impossible not to crave that like a drug.

He’ll admit that she was right, taking it down a notch has made it easier to wrap his head around the things that she shares with him. But it’s been three weeks of this, and he’d turn himself upside-down, inside-out, and every which way around if it meant speeding things back the fuck up.

Laying in bed, his mind swirls with images of her. Is it gross that he hasn’t washed his sheets since the last time she stayed over? He doesn’t really care, not when there’s still a faint trace of incense and lavender on the pillow she slept on. 

His mind wanders to the last time he had her here. It was early in the morning, before either of them had to go to work, and she had lazily slung a bare thigh over his waist, perfect in the hazy morning light as she straddled him. It had been slow and sweet, taking time that they didn’t really have. She was so warm and soft for him, all gentle sighs, the mesmerizing curve of her hips and the sway of her breasts, an image that works him up now in the cool darkness of his empty bed. 

It’s not the same, of course it’s not the same. But it’ll have to do for now. He holds her steady in his mind, a dream, an idol, a fucking goddess, and he palms himself through his boxers, a damp spot already forming from just thinking about her. He kicks his sheets off, shrugging his boxers down just enough to let his cock spring out, pre-come smearing over his stomach where it now rests. Part of him can see how pathetic this looks, rubbing one out every night to the dream of his woman, but he wouldn’t have to if they weren’t taking things so goddamn slow. Now, a normal person would think that maybe he should just talk to her about picking up the pace. But he’s too stubborn for that, and he knows it, and it drives him crazy that he equates having that conversation with defeat. Joel tells himself that he can do this, he can give her what she wants, respect her boundaries, no matter how stupid he thinks they are. 

He doesn’t take his time with himself. This is purely about release for him, and he knows exactly how to get himself there, spitting harshly into his hand and wrapping his palm around the base of his cock, scrunching his eyes shut as he starts to work himself over. 

She’s all he thinks about in these moments, how her hands are so much different than his, still calloused from the work she does, but softer, and smaller. He thinks about the plush of her lips, and how they fall open when she comes, the little crease between her brow her other tell. He thinks about the way her spine curves and curls, and how his palms would run circuits around the arc as he took her from behind. His mind flashes with images of her, and it isn’t long before he’s coming with a low groan of her name, his spend smearing over his knuckles. 

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s been nearly a month now, or maybe he’s just more tired than usual, but Joel feels a particular pang of despair as he cleans himself up, and it’s enough to crack whatever resolve he had left. 

He sleeps better that night, having decided that first thing the next morning he’s going to stop by the apothecary and he’s going to tell her that he’s done taking it slow. 

That plan falls apart the moment he enters her shop. The first thing he notices is her bag, strewn out on the floor, a few jars and bottles spilling out of it, and his heart sinks. Next to Stevie, that bag is her baby, and Joel immediately knows that something isn’t right for it to be crumpled on the floor. 

He calls out her name, but gets no response, though Stevie comes skittering out of the back room, making a beeline for his legs, frantically mewling as she rubs up against his pants leg, insistent and loud, and that isn’t quite right to him either. 

Trying not to step on Stevie as she stays glued to his ankles, he shuffles into the back room, his brow scrunching up when he doesn’t see her, at least not right away.

“Joel?” That’s a voice he’s never heard from her before, barely there, hoarse, like she could only just get the word out. He steps further into the room, peering around the butcher’s block, and that’s when he finally sees her. 

She’s curled in on herself, knees up to her chin, sitting in the back corner of the room. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swimming, tears streaking down her cheeks, the sight all but taking his breath away. He moves fast, his mind screaming at him that he needs to fix it, to make it better, whatever it is. 

He’s quick to get down to her level, palms steadying her jaw as another resounding round of sobs rolls through her chest. 

“Hey, hey– it’s ok, I’m here, huh? I’m right here. What– what happened? What is it?” His questions only seem to make her cry harder, shaking her head in his hands. She brings her hands to clasp his wrists, and it’s then that he notices dried blood lining her fingernails.

“You’re scaring me here, darlin. I need you to tell me what happened, please.” 

“I lo-lost her– I lost her, I lost her, I can’t believe I lost her–” She breaks herself off with another sob, and Joel shifts to sit down next to her, wrapping his arms around her shuddering shoulders to coax her into his chest. 

“Who– who’d you lose, darlin?” She evens out her shuddering breaths with a hard sigh, her answer coming on a few disjointed exhales.

“Maura went into labor last night– and I– and I– it was a girl– she was a girl– and she wasn’t breathing– she wasn’t breathing, Joel. And I didn’t know what to do.” She dissolves into another sob, and Joel doesn’t know what to do besides hold her a little closer, shock and sadness simmering in his veins. He remembers her telling him about Maura, one of her regular house visits to check on the progress of her pregnancy. She always told him how excited the woman seemed to get to become a mother. 

“Is– is Maura ok?” He’s surprised by the bitter huff she lets out at that.

“I don’t kn-know. She kicked me out– told me it was my fault– she’s right– it’s all my– all my fault.” He’s quick to bring his palm to her jaw, coaxing her eyes up to meet his, gentle but firm pressure holding her there.

“Listen to me, it is not your fault. Not anyone’s fault, and it’s especially not yours. Whatever happened, I promise you, it is not your fault, do you understand?” She gives him no answer, just lets out another shaky sigh before burying her face back in his chest.

And all he can do is hold her as close as he can, and will some of her pain to seep into his skin, to make it even a little more bearable, to carry that for her. He reckons that he’d take it all away from her if he could.

................................

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[bliss-is-in-blood]

Why I believe Bog is part Fae and what does it say about the Fairy Land and Dark Forest societies

One of the most noticeable things about Bog when we compare him to other Dark Forest Folks is that he has wings.

No one else in his Kingdom is seen with wing outside of firefly mount. and the only other species to have wings are fairies in the Fairy Land kingdom.

But you're going to tell me it's a bit of a weak theory and in itself yes if I didn't have any other proof. Griselda wear clothes.

and why is it important ? Because no one is the Dark Forest wear clothe, Bog technically doesn't wear clothes either and he is King (he as a bit of armor at best). But who else wear clothes ? The Fairy Land folks. You don't see any of Bog army wear clothes nor pretty much anyone in the Kingdom except :

One of the potential bride Griselda want to present to her son. Griselda was Queen (technically still is). Bog is King so the lady he decide to mary would become Queen so those ladies must be high society.

We never really get an explanation about why the Dark Forest and Fairy Land kingdom are at odd. But the language proximity (because I'm gonna take that as a real intention) show the two populations to have been close if not one for a long time and only recently parted.

One of the reason might have been the drastically different ecosystem of the meadow and forest which lead to branching evolution and different flora and fauna.

There might have been a conflict birthing when one part of the fairies melded with goblin and elves (DF) and another part rejected the idea (FL) it broke the society in two. In Fairy Land royalty stayed "pure" fairies and elves are clearly below them in society has there is no elves in the Fairy Land Kingdom party (Sunny being at odd here and won't be staying as a guest) :

In the Dark Forest, there is not really that separation. I believe as the fairies melded and had children with goblins and stayed in the Dark Forest, their appearence changed and culture too. No one in the DF look like the fairies in the FL, but Bog is tall and slend just like FL Fairies, that ant-like lady is tall and slend too. Griselda and that other lady wear clothes and even if it seem to be a rare thing its present and it call back to the FL society and habit.

Which prompt me to ask why would the DF fairies stop wearing clothes ? because as they blended with the goblin, their bodies stopped showing sexual attribute (read breast and genital) the one that wear clothes might do so because they still show those attribute.

They also lost their wings and I believe it's mostly because of the environnement. Bog is the only one to have wings in his kingdom, they are thin and damaged. and I believe that's because the fairies that stayed in the DF kept damaging their wings, this attribute started to become rarer and rarer. the FL is a meadow, there is more wind and less obstacles, flying would also be a faster, whiles in the forest you can go easier on foot because there is always roots and branches and plants to ease your way on feet and find shortcut and flying is harder/less free.

You can also look at ears, as some goblin do have fairy like ears

So, the DF society became what is was thanks to tolerance of interspecies relationship and acceptance of less conventionnal beauty standard countrary to what we see in FL. Bog thinking he is too ugly to be loved might be because out of every DF folks we see he looks the most like a fairy.

The FL society kept a distance between species, the King reaction (fainting) to Dawn and Sunny is very telling that normally elves and fairies relationship is a "no no". The FL fairies almost all look the same, their appearence is very even and it pushes for a certain specific beauty standard.

We can hope Dawn and Sunny relationship to prompt the same tolerance that made the DF folks what they are.

[wheelie-sick]

[ID: a page with text on the top saying "When your brain is the one breaking down, the idea of mental illness seems excruciatingly real" on the right is a line drawing of a person talking to a therapist. to the left is a block of text "When you start to ask the authorities questions like What are Mental Illnesses? you tend to get answers like:" a block of text with an image of a brain answers the question with "In general they're disorders of the brain, your body's most important organ. A mental illness is:

a health condition, much like heart disease or diabetes

no one's fault-- not the person's, nor the family's"

To the left the text continues "These answers reassure a lot of people. They make it clear mental illness isn't a result of weakness. They take away a lot of the shame. And they offer a hope that mental illness can be treated with drugs and standard medical procedure, like any other disease."

"But it's not that simple. There's no blood test for mental illness. Diagnosis relies entirely on the subjective opinion of the psychiatrist. And the American Psychiatric Association has recently added new "disorders" like Compulsive Shopping Disorder and Oppositional Defiant Disorder to its list of illnesses. Are these really chemical conditions like diabetes that should be treated with drugs, or are they outgrowth of a sick culture seeking quick fixes for unhappy housewives and easy ways to control kids who question authority?"

"When you ask some people What are Mental illnesses? you get answers like "Mental illness" is a convenient label for behavior that disrupts social order." to the right is a line drawing of a person performing chemistry.

A text box with small print takes up the bottom of the page.

"You get answers like: people who notice how screwed up our world is, or who perceive reality in radically different ways than "normal" folks, and then display "extreme" reactions, get labeled with a disease. Which could render dumpster diving and Christian fundamentalism a form of pathology, depending on who's making the diagnosis. Consider: a kid can't sit still in class and wants to talk when he has an idea, instead of when he gets called on. Is the kid out of control and in need of Ritalin, or is it possible that school is actually incredibly regimented, unimaginative, and mind-numbing to the point that a child with an active, inquisitive brain might find it very difficult to pay attention? According to the DSM-IV, the official diagnostic manual of the American Psychiatric Association, a behavior "clinically significant" enough to be labeled a disorder must not be an "expectable and culturally sanctioned response to a particular event." So if an average American responds to any given atrocity-- like the fact that people are starving in cultures all over the world where farmers are being forced to grow coffee for America instead of food for their people--with an expectable and culturally sanctioned response, like turning on the television to avoid thinking about it, they are healthy. Whereas if I sob hysterically and talk to strangers about it and stay up all night trying to think of ways to change it, I might be the one who gets labeled with a disorder."]

-Navigating The Space Between Brilliance And Madness: A Reader & Roadmap Of Bipolar Worlds

[ckret2]

hey ^^ I love your bill goldilocks cipher, and I was wondering why he possesses a female-presenting body. I am a huge fan of your art btw so don’t take this the wrong way, I just would love to know how you designed him!

The short answer: because he's canonically referred to with he/him pronouns.

The long answer: if you meet somebody who, at a first glance, appears to be anatomically female, and everyone refers to this person with he/him pronouns, you don't immediately know what's going on.

Maybe he's a trans man who's comfortable with his body the way it is as long as everyone around him still treats him as a man. Maybe she's a trans woman with really transphobic acquaintances. Maybe he's nonbinary, maybe he's genderfluid, maybe he's a drag queen who's dressed up for an event but not currently in character, maybe he's a he/him lesbian—you don't know, and it likely isn't your business.

There's only one thing you do know: whatever's going on here, it probably ain't cishet. This person has something going on that does not fit the gender binary. All you can say about him is that he's queer.

Bill's gender is triangle. This simply does not fit within humanity's popular ideas about the male-female binary. Whatever his sexual orientation is, it is not restricted to "only females/only males (as humanity defines femaleness/maleness)"—and so he can't possibly be heterosexual in a manner readily recognizable to human beings. Amongst Bill's own species, maybe he was the most cishet guy you've ever met, I haven't decided; but if you stick Bill amongst humans, regardless of how he sees himself, he'll look queer to us.

On top of that: stick Bill in a human body, and there's a disconnect between his self-identity and the shape he's wearing. Strangers will see him as something he's not: human. He feels trapped in a wrong-shaped form amongst people who think this is normal and what he feels he should be is strange—and if he ever explains that psychological weight of feeling wrong-shaped, the humans most likely to go "I think I get it" are the trans folks who know what dysphoria feels like.

I don't think Bill cares what pronouns humans give him; I think he's called "he/him" either because his human victims decided he sounds male-ish, or else because he consciously decided to take advantage of sexism by presenting himself as male to seem more authoritative. And I don't think Bill cares about the anatomy of the human body he's in; he could have been given any variety of genitalia, secondary sex characteristics, hormone balances, body fat distributions, etc., and he would have been equally uncomfortable in any because they're not a triangle. It makes no difference to him.

But it does something to you (you, The Readers In General): it makes you wonder about his relationship with his body.

Because we're speaking English on the Internet in the 21st century, you and I are participating in a culture that sees having both a vagina and he/him pronouns as Not The Default. It makes Bill look genderqueer-in-a-human-way, and that makes it easier to slide readers over to seeing him as genderqueer-in-a-nonhuman-way. It makes you think about queerness, about dysphoria, about nonbinary folks who defy the expected correlations between pronouns and anatomy without changing their bodies to make them "match."

This is the second or third time somebody's asked me why I put Bill in a female-presenting body. If I'd done the opposite, nobody would have ever asked me why I put Bill in a male-presenting body. Because that's "normal." And I want you to ask questions! I want you to think about Bill's self-image, his internal landscape, the gulf between who he is mentally and what he is physically.

Before I ever directly draw attention to queer topics, I can get folks primed to think about them and to understand that his body doesn't accurately represent his identity just by slapping a pair of boobs on him.

So I slapped a pair of boobs on him.

[myeagleexpert]

Saudade

Contents: Yuu returns home, but the story isn't over.

Saudade is (in Portuguese folk culture) a deep emotional state of melancholic longing for a person or thing that is absent, but you can only miss something real…right?

So why does Yuu wake up in the middle of the night afraid the ceiling might collapse at any moment? Sometimes she can't go back to sleep peacefully, which is why she sits on the porch and watches a black cat go by, jumping from window to window after anyone who will give him his can of tuna.

It's so weird for Yuu to “return” to normal when she knows she hasn't gone out or traveled for a long time but she feels something is off. She swears that her colleague Carter has always been a redhead, when the blonde actually wanted to dye it black. She was going to order some sweets from Trey Baker's bakery, a taste of delicious homemade food fills her mouth with saliva as she goes to the address, but when she stops in front of her destination her mouth, previously salivating, is stunned to discover that there never was a bakery like this , the neighbors have no idea who the Clover family is.

Her school friends never question her ability or knowledge.

"Why did you miss this potion? Can't you do it yourself?" “How do you not know something so simple? This is taught in primary schools” “Aaah, did you do your homework today? Let me copy"

She didn't listen to discriminatory words or conversations that she should think twice before answering, on the contrary…

“Your hair looks beautiful today, what did you do?” “Yuu, can you help me with this lesson? You are the best in this field” “Yuu dear, let me help you with these boxes” “You draw very well”

She would go to the zoo with her family and stare at the lazy lion hoping its eyes were venomous green and the hyena's laugh sounded different. Did I already mention the white wolf? He refuses to be buddy-buddy with anyone but as soon as you take your eyes off he's wagging his tail at them.

In restaurants she refused to eat the sea foods she always liked, for some reason the eels, octopus and shrimp made her want to vomit.

It's a strange feeling… have you ever felt it?

As if you haven't seen your family for years, when in fact it's only been a week?

As if she hugged someone, and in their warm, comforting arms she suddenly felt the chill of missing them?

Like you're experiencing new feelings in old things… or you feel a different excitement when trying the same route every day.

As if you live in a warm environment where you feel protected and loved for the first time.

By day, it's easy to dance between similar faces or conversations you've had before, it's easy to play a “game” you already know the rules. Yuu ignores these feelings during the day, when the sunlight keeps her warm and the youthful wind carries her carefree laughter.

But at nightfall, in her warm bed, the sheets trap her in terrible dreams where figures that are probably dear to her, “people of her heart” Yuu calls them, are people who live in her heart and, even if she has forgotten who they are, their presence is constant in her mind. Like false memories, or strange déjà vu, Yuu wonders what was real and what wasn't and keeps these turbulent thoughts to herself.

Dreams seem to know the answer. The heart people that Yuu feels she loves and values so much, weren't always heart people. The crimson tyrant carries a feeling of anxiety and cuts deep in the throat, the ambitious king stalks her like prey relishing her fear as claws dig into her arm, the merchant of the depths has a charming smile and calculated words, it would be the same as play a board game with the certainty that you would lose, after all, octopus arms control your every move. The throat tightens filling with sand when challenging the desert sorcerer, the shards of glass were the only thing that was warm as the blood spurted in a dark cold in the desert.

The beautiful queen made her eat poisoned apples and a sadistic smile appeared on her face as the deadly poison made her fragile body lose color and dark spots rotted her body. The divinity of the underworld preferred to burn the protagonist and leave her to suffer in a dark cloud, causing the torture to be prolonged. The dark king brings a sense of betrayal from a dear friend as thorns pierce his body.

Yuu falls out of bed, ironically…her fall saves her from a sad end.

A paralyzing fear invades Yuu, every shadow in her room seems to want to attack, the voices seem to get louder and louder screaming insults at her, a cloud of eyes and witnesses look for her weak points, a hurricane of emotions devours her piece by piece…

knock knock knock

“Honey, are you okay? I heard a noise”- her sweet mother's voice cuts off Yuu's panic as she opens the door

"I fell here, but I'm fine mommy"

It was just a dream.

“Would you like a glass of milk or some tea?”

It was just a dream.

"No need, I'm going back to sleep."- she tries to reassure her mother, who puts her hand on her shoulder

“If you say, good night.”- the mother despite being worried leaves the room, she is also very sleepy

The girl goes to the bathroom in the middle of the night, clearing her thoughts before bed.

Is not real.

If it's not real, what are those scars on her arm and neck? Where do these octopus sucks come from? When did this happen? Where did these black spots come from, it seems that the color does not return to normal there.

Is not real.

As she checks out her legs, she sees aged scars from burns on her right leg and on her left leg you don't see the marks where the thorns tortured her skin, but when you run your hand over it, if you get close enough, you feel it's always been there. .

It was just a nightmare.

That's what Yuu tells herself before going to sleep, a peaceful night will help her forget about these problems. The sight of green fireflies dances to a familiar rhythm, which in their hums works like lullaby music. Where did these fireflies come from?

Gentle rays of sunlight wake her from her sleep, as she goes downstairs she is sure that eggs would be a great idea to start the day and go training, a strong and healthy body is synonymous with a strong and healthy mind! An apple, she eats suspiciously due to the events of the previous night, her mother appears reminding her to eat healthy meals, to apply sunscreen and moisturize the skin, a person's love.

His father, “bonjour belle famille” shouts kissing each one on the forehead, he started to learn French and lives practicing with his dear family.

The calm after the storm. The feeling. The emotion. The reason. Calm is real. The storm is real. But, what about the rain? The thunder? The wind that stun? Let's analyze.

A feeling of calm after the storm. But where does this calm come from if there was no storm in the first place?

Why do you worry so much about things that didn't happen… or did they happen?

Where does the lack of belonging come from if you've never been?

saudade is,in Portuguese folk culture, a deep emotional state of melancholic longing for a person or thing that is absent, but you can only miss something real…right?

[livseses]

Spiritual Systems and DID

We always find it annoying at best, and downright dismissive or invalidating at worse, when we see folks talking about spiritual systems as being "completely different from" CDD systems.

They can be sure. Absolutely a CDD system can view themselves entirely as psychological, and spiritual systems can be wholly unrelated to disorder.

But they don't have to.

We're a spiritual system. We're supposedly "completely different from" people with DID. Apparently when one of our headmates takes over our body, that's something totally separate and distinct from a switch. When we hear our headmates talking to us, that's nothing like internal communication. When one of us has a lot of emotions about something that bleeds over to front, that's a phenomenon wholly unrelated to passive influence. And when one of us feels like something happened to another person piloting our body, well that's completely different from dissociation/emotional amnesia.

I bet you're going to tell us that when we forget things beyond the norm, that's nothing like amnesia too.

But here's the catch: we're diagnosed with DID.

So what? Are we wrong about our spiritual explanation? Well then that means all of those other spiritual systems could be just as wrong about their experiences. Which seems to kinda fly in the face of the hard line exclusion between the two. Is someone out here going to prove the existence of spirits to add to the diagnostic toolkit? Are there no such things and there's a psychological explanation that may or may not have some similarities to CDDs?

So are we wrong about the diagnosis? Idk what else really fits the cluster of symptoms involving distress and dysfunction around having multiple personality states and amnesia. Its definitely not a normal part of accepted cultural practice. Trauma fucked that right up. The DID therapy we're in seems to be tackling our trauma much better than any therapy we were in before the diagnosis. And at the end of the day, I trust our diagnostician much more than anyone on the internet about this. Again, that hard line doesn't really make a whole lot of sense. If we can't have a CDD because we believe many of our headmates are souls from another world, well shit did we find a cure for DID? Present them with the belief that got ghosts in their butt?

(Low key, that has been a helpful for our recovery, but that's more to do with acceptance and letting go.)

We're a system that's made up of spirits and traumatized girlies. And the lines between those two categories are blurry (heh) at best. Telling us that our experiences are completely separate from our experiences is silly.

Instead of saying that this category is completely separate from and has no overlap with this other category, can we all just allow for those blurry places to exist? I'm not saying to call every instance of spiritual plurality some form of CDD. I'm not saying that CDD spaces need to be flooded with spiritual plurals that have no disorder. Im not even saying that they're always or even often the same thing. CDD spaces should be talking about CDD stuff. But sometimes CDD stuff includes the experiences of spiritual systems.

I'm asking that we leave room for overlap. Sometimes the broad category of "is a bunch of people" will have crossovers with the different subcategories.

[lunchtimebedamned1997]

Warmups #1 (Plus Charlastor!)

Turns out warmups really DO help in art (fuck me, right?) and these are all from yesterday and today, hope you enjoy it!

SCROLL TO END FOR TIMELAPSE <3

Pretty much just Hazbin and some OCs of mine! (That's basically all I've been drawing the last month or two lol) I've also been reading way too much (not really, fight me) Charlastor/RadioBelle fics and consuming ALL the artwork. I might just be obsessed with Al in general though - *sigh* - before my Charlastor fixation it was RadioStatic/Silence. Anything with the Strawberry Pimp or Vox tbh. Fuck I'm just rambling about Hazbin, huh? uhhhh where was I? RIGHT here's the one and only reference I actively used besides glancing at some official Hazbin art:

I saw it, and then immediately fell into a fit of laughter at the idea of drawing Charlie and Al like this. The whole drawing process made my cheeks hurt bc I was giggling over getting to make those two idiots be, well, adorable fucking idiots! XD

Anyways, here's the speedpaint!

Anatomy is so harrrrrd but I'm actually really proud of myself for how I did with this one, I'm still terrified of drawing the lower body but heyyyy, problem for another day!

OH I almost forgot to talk about my own characters a little?! Hyperfixation, what have you done to me?!!! We've got four of my babies here, all from the same project called Ashland Bites, which will hopefully, someday, be an animated series! I've been writing it for years and years (slow but steady, I'm a team of exactly one person lmao) and I've been trying to get my art skills honed so I can do as much of the (probably very distant, but hopefully someday) future pre-production work myself! I started learning more about animating recently, and the openness that Vivienne Medrano allows her cast and crew to have has been a godsend for learning more about the different steps of the process (all while feeding my ravenous little neurodivergent brain with that good good fixation content lmao)

Can't share too much about my own project at the mo, but let me just say it's got Vampires, the fair folk, godesses, ancient fantasy cultures, modern humans running around thinkin' the world is our definition of 'normal', and SO much more (I wish I could tell u all the things oh my GODDD)

Thanks for taking a look at my work *smooches ya*

[cosmic-metanoia]

The Abhorrent Mother

***Major Spoilers for Final Fantasy XVI***

Calling Anabella the "devil" or a "bitch" sounds like a term of endearment rather than an insult. There are no words that accurately embody this woman. In my book, she wins the award for the most evil villainess which shows just how well-written she was! But it did get me thinking...in addition to the countless atrocities she committed, could it also be because she shatters the stereotype of the sacrificing and caring mother? Do we perceive her as more evil because of that?

In many cultures and religions, mothers are depicted as being soft, feminine, caring, unconditionally loving, and sacrificing for the betterment of their children and families. The character archetype of an "evil father" exists but that typically is more well-received.

When it comes to Anabella, it's as if she is the ultimate sacrilege of the pregnant mother who carries, gives birth, and loves her children dearly. Normally, with her attitude, we expect the classic "evil stepmother" archetype in full blossom. Clearly that is not the case here. I recall how some folks in the FFXVI discussion forums were waiting for the big reveal that she was indeed NOT Clive and/or Joshua's mother - because how could someone so evil give birth to two righteous sons? Turns out nope - she was, indeed, their biological mother through the bitter end!

If she was just an evil stepmother, that would have been incredibly commonplace and trite - making her their actual mother made her all the more impactful. Afterall, evil comes in all forms.

I also read that a few people had hoped she would get a redemption arc. I'm glad she didn't. And I'm glad that her and Clive never reconciled. She was too far gone and the years of verbal and emotional abuse could not be forgiven by Clive, Jill, and others. She betrayed her family, her nation, her people and started a chain reaction that altered history all to obtain more power, more riches, and an "upgrade" to her future royal bloodline.

When Bahamut/Dion killed the Emperor, sacked Twinside, and killed Olivier, all that she had built was ripped from her within minutes. (Also, notice how she did not even think to herself 'Hmm....why is there no blood or body?' after Olivier dissolved away into thin air upon being stabbed through. )

At her end, she had nothing left but to face the consequences of her actions. And I could only imagine that seeing her beloved Joshua whom she thought was dead drove the fear of some divine retribution right into her.

Personally that scene really hurt to watch - how Joshua was the last person to offer her his hand when no one else would. But that speaks more to who he is as a person. To be fair, the last time he saw his mother was when he was 10 years old and he was the one person she showed a shred of decency albeit because he was the Phoenix. Otherwise, she would have tossed him aside like she did Clive.

When she frantically swiped her blade at him and cut him in her madness, I thought, "Yep...time for her to go! How dare she hurt our beloved birb?!"I also thought it fitting that in the moment of escaping accountability, she died by her own hand. It was heartbreaking to see Joshua witness yet another parent's death right before his eyes. Clive and Jill looked away in pity for her.

She could have been the mother of not one but two Dominants and be remembered in history for that. But she threw away her family happily with both hands.

The lesson here - "some of the most poisonous people to walk the earth come in the form of family." Sure, people do deserve forgiveness depending on what their actions were but there are rare times when a so-called redemption arc is not earned and not deserved.

One final lesson is that as a child, you have the power to be different from a horrible parent and that fact is glorious.

[switch-witch-erin]

I’ve been thinking about everything that happened for a long time. Especially about the main reason for the indignation and controversy — whether minors should communicate with adults in the community. In general, I can understand where it all came from, and I can agree with it. Don't get me wrong, I still think that ticklethentopple and his copycat suckup are twin clowns, but I read the posts of other people in the community who calmly expressed their position instead of picking on people, and they partially changed my mind.

First of all, I want to say that I am not just a person who speaks a different language, I am also a member of a completely different culture, which differs greatly from the American one. And our (aka yours and mine) vision of the situation can be trivially different not only because we are two individuals, but also because we were raised in different environments.

Firstly, for some reason “SFW” was made a loose concept as something like "well, you can post stuff if the content is only vaguely kinky and no privates are exposed." These people can go fuck themselves. The perversion of the “SFW” concept is a problem in itself, and as another user (I won't post their username just in case) pointed out, it's much better to describe what I mean as platonic tickling. I'm not trying to "disguise my kink (spoiler: tickling is neither a kink nor a fetish for me) as something innocent". I like tickling in a harmless, gentle form. Tickling does NOT arouse me. It has nothing to do with sex for me or anything like that. I'm not going to describe why platonic love for tickling is ok, a wise and patient person has already done it for me, for which I thank them very much - https://www.tumblr.com/asters-galaxy/768682527839928320/about-the-sfw-vs-nsfw-situation-thats-going-on

Most likely, the fact that I like tickling is related to my diagnosis of ADHD, a psychiatrist told me about it. But I didn't ask her how it all works. In any case, that’s not the main conversation topic.

Secondly — I don't communicate with minors whom I don't know personally. I'm not interested in it, since due to the big age difference we have nothing to talk about. The only minors I communicate with are my former students who send me their certificates and boast about their successes in their studies. That's all. However, there is a small clarification — in Russia, as in many other countries that were once part of the Soviet Union (Belarus, Estonia, Ukraine, etc.), the interaction of minors with adults is viewed completely differently. You can ask other Russians in the community, it is normal for us to be friends with minors if there are common interests like a hobby. For example, my friend's grandmother, who is 60-something, loves BTS, and she talks about this band with other fans, who are minors. This does not mean that she’s going to groom them all. It is just the norm for us. I am not saying that everyone should take off and start communicating with minors, I am saying that we perceive it differently.

Now I shall clarify it again — I perceive tickling in a purely platonic form, like the hobby example I just gave you, that is why the accusations of grooming caused such a reaction from me. In general, the dissonance began with Ticklethentopple publishing that cringeworthy post where they indirectly called everyone who likes tickling a potential groomer. Naturally, I responded to it, because what the fuck?

It seems to me that the main problem is precisely that the concept of SFW is distorted.

As a solution, I am thinking of introducing the tags "platonic tickling" so that there are definitely no problems with the perception of the word, and I will also add a note that minors can read my posts, look at my art, but they cannot dm me. In any case, I am not that interested in communicating with them (no offense, minors, you aren’t bad folks or anything, I’m just more interested in communicating with my peers), let them interact with each other.

There was also an argument related to the very experience of loving tickling, about the feeling of shame for it, the feeling of being somehow abnormal, and this really haunts many. Not only minors. I'd like to do a separate post on this later, because it might help a lot of people feel less... I'm not sure what the right word is. Embarrassed? Insecure? I think you get the idea.

[lemonlyman-dotcom]

Okay, I will send it again with my name attached. You're right, if I want to stand up for what I believe in and people I care about, I shouldn't hide behind an anonymous message for the sake of not causing drama.

I think you are missing the very important point that tweet is making about racism by hyper-focusing on the use of the word 'normal'. Yes, you're right, there is no such thing as 'normal English' and yes the person who tweeted it should have used a different phrase. I agree with that. But the tweet is not saying that Spanglish doesn't exist. It is critiquing a larger problem of English speakers fetishizing the Spanish language and Latinx characters.

The second part of that tweet clearly has this fanfic character speaking a version of Spanish that is supposed to not make sense for comedic effect to demonstrate how ridiculous it can sound for someone to just use Google translate with no effort put into understanding a language. For many years and in many fandoms, monolingual people have been rightly criticized for writing multilingual characters in a way that just throws in random words with no understanding of how multilingual people actually speak, and it's especially a problem when white writers are doing it to characters of color. That is the criticism that the tweet is addressing. Focusing on the use of the word 'normal' instead is missing the incredibly important point about racism that's being made. And that matters to me.

The use of the phrase “normal English” is highly offensive to me, and many others, and I think it’s fair to call that out. Pidgin English is normal. Spanglish is normal. Speaking with an accent is normal. I do think there is a point to be made about just pulling something from Google translate and calling it Spanish, which I believe was the intention of that tweet. But, unfortunately, the tweeter lost me with their offensive, whitewashed phrasing. And, again, as you say it is important to stand up for what we believe in. Otherising people based on if they speak with an accent is something I strongly stand against.

It’s true that Latino folks are fetishized in our culture, I’ve seen it plenty. I, personally, did not read that tweet as speaking about sexual fetishization but regardless I do agree.

There’s more nuance to it, and saying there’s a normal and a not normal English is not the way to go about it.

Now, I also do agree that if people don’t feel comfortable writing Spanish speakers speaking Spanish, because they don’t speak the language and don’t have anyone to help them, that is more than fine. I can always tell when someone has just plugged an English phrase into Google translate and copy+pasted lmao. Please, friends, do not do this!

I do think it would be lovely if more writers felt comfortable to reach out to someone who does speak Spanish, so that they can give Carlos, Mateo, Tommy, the Reyes family etc a more authentic characterization, since we have seen them speak Spanish and Spanglish on screen repeatedly.

One final point I would like to make is this, I think a lot of people don’t realize that Spanish isn’t a monolith, and it’s gonna vary from region to region and country to country. So just because someone from, say, Guadalajara wouldn’t say something doesn’t mean a Tejano person wouldn’t. That nuance in the dialect is very important, and we should be thinking about that as we’re thinking about how these characters would speak.

[thefiresontheheight]

1. The Roud Folk Song Index lists it as the 39th Child Ballad. Comparisons to be made to Type 425 in the Aarne-Thompson-Uther Index, under the entry “The Search for the Lost Husband.” TvTropes.com has more to say on the page titled “Shapeshifting Lover.” A story iterated upon in many forms. A young woman, almost always a woman, sometimes virginal, is wedded, or falls in love with, or is taken away by a man under some sort of curse. He is horse. Or a lindworm. Or a wolf. Sometimes only at night. Sometimes only when the fairies who cursed him make him so. He is a Beast, she must undo whatever evil makes him so, normally through a kiss, true love, wedding him, or, in some of the less sanitized versions, simply sex. 1. The first time they hooked up he cried afterwords, which she didn’t understand at the time. They were sophomores in college. It wasn’t her first time. It should have been casual. It was up until he cried in the morning. She felt so bad that she suggested they get breakfast together, when she had simply meant to leave. At breakfast he calmed, he talked about his life. Quiet, nerdy, hiding in his hoodie. There was something vulnerable there, and she liked it. She gave him her number after. 2. Later thinkers and writers have revisited this trope. Sometimes it is played straight, depicted on the screen by Disney. Sometimes this is (falsely I would argue) called Stockholm Syndrome. Sometimes this is, it must be said, simply used for purposes of sex and titillation. I think, however, that the continued persistence of this motif in media, it’s emotional resonance, demands further explication of its longevity. What about this appeals to us in the modern day, when we (ideally) can no longer ascribe to it a moral of young women being forced to accept arranged marriages? 2. They’re a few months into their time dating, after long arguments about that label, when the crying returns. This time no longer after sex, but she feels the emotion is the same. You should leave me, he says. Break up. You should do it now before I hurt you, he says. And she, not wanting to point out that she is bigger and stronger than he is, gently asks why he says something like that? In there time together he has been nothing if not careful. Thoughtful. Kind. One of the most soft and charming people she knows. He cannot explain it in any satisfying way. He simply insists that there is something dark inside him. Something he has sought to deny far too long, and will not be able to deny forever. That if she stays she will be hurt, simply as a function of loving him. He will one day lose the fight against himself. She does not know what to do but hold him. 3. I think some of the appeal of this trope can be found in reference to another motif of our pop cultural mythos. That of the werewolf. We are used to seeing werewolves depicted from the viewpoint of the hunted. But there is perpetually the question of what such a transformation looks like from the viewpoint of the animal itself. A human transforming into a beast demands of a human audience that we consider what it must be like to monster. To be capable of hurting those we love. And yet, I at least wonder, if we are capable of hurting those loved ones, do we not still hope that they will love us as we transform? As we become different, monstrous in shape and utterly unknown even to them? 3. They graduate. Together. Move into an apartment above a Taiwanese restaurant. She gets a shitty job that has health insurance for them both. He does commission from home. It’s not perfect. There is some part of him he never shares and she does her best to make peace with that. To accept that wherever his mind goes when he is watching her put on a dress, do her make up, whatever he ponders while watching the women passing by the street outside, or after they have sex, that is something he has chosen not to share. But instead they share popcorn. And bills. And shitty inside jokes. And that time they got accidentally drunk at his mothers remarriage to Craig (fucking Craig amiright?) and got found by the staff of the hotel whose ballroom she had rented, having passed out near the punch bowl. It’s a life. It’s their life. She tries to give him space within it. 4. Consider again the Ballad of Tam Lin. The idea of Janet in the woods, holding onto her lover as wicked fairies transform him. To something ice cold. To something burning hot. To a horrible slimed thing writhing in her embrace. To a snarling wolf-monster, a beast of wicked claws and gnashing teeth. Who has, at one time or another, when circumstances reveal that which we keep hidden, felt like that? 4. She gets home unexpectedly early one spring afternoon in her late twenties. Janet from accounting somehow set fire to a microwave, which set off the sprinklers, and no one could get anything done that day. A small treat, and it validates her admittedly flash-judgment of Janet. And as she unlocks the door, flowers in hand, she finds him in front of the closet they share, and understands the secret that has been kept from her for almost a decade. 5. And then of course, the tales and legends end. Normally in the curse being lifted, the lover being returned to normal. Beast is a beast no more, the Lindworm is again a prince, Tam Lin may leave the woods a man. A simple ending to a simple story. But for us living in reality? Outside of the tidy constraints of fiction? Perhaps there is no ending. Perhaps we remain a beast, remain a wolf, remain cursed, and monstrous and strange. Perhaps we endlessly transform into new, and more twisted shapes, and have only hope that our loves will hold us nonetheless. That even if we become something that may hurt them, something they may not understand, they will still love us. 5. It is hard. It would be nice to say there are not challenges. She always thought she was bi, but the label of straight was easy, and she never had to examine it when she was with him. She keeps on stealing her dresses. There are good times too. Times where she looks at this woman still becoming, someone she had loved for a decade and still barely knows, and sees how brightly she smiles, and feels so proud. But it is above all else hard. The crying does not go away. Estrogen works wonders, but cannot stop dysphoria, and hurt, and pain. It is hard to love her. But she is trying. And when the fights over labels and new boundaries and shifting emotions break out, or the dread comes, or the weeping, she does what she can. She holds her partner, no matter the form she takes.