#tv standards and practices

[theinfinitedivides]

aight ok now that i've watched ep 7 i see some folks are review bombing KTL on MDL bc of the Arab prince storyline,,,,,, what are our thoughts

[phagodyke]

omg.... my new nearest audiology department actually has an EMAIL TO CONTACT!!!!!!! we're so fucking back baby

[chikoyama]

Sorcerers weren’t particularly known for being brittle in nature. They were survivors, saviours, self-reliant. Sacrificial. All gallant values that they seemed to wear all too proudly on their chests like medals of honour. Values that they seemed to chant with almost a religious conviction. Carved into them like branding scars. All achieved over the span of several generations — several lifetimes. Through careful but consistent persuasion... until it seemed to become nothing but the root of their very existence.

These were values that seemed to not only echo amongst a selected crowd of sorcerers, but the rest of the population too. Right from their early days of training until they'd fulfilled their duty upon death. At the thought, a sardonic smile stretched past his lips. How very gallant, Ziggy noted to himself. Or reckless.

These were the beliefs and principles that sorcerers were conditioned to live by. Became their very reasons to too — principles so deeply ingrained within their personalities, it was almost tragic, Ziggy thought. Soldiers... no, machines programmed to unquestioningly abide by orders given. Programmed to give up their lives… for what exactly?

Because, weren’t curses humans too? Human-made at least. So were babies. Both species were warring against each other for a spot in this world. A place to belong. Aah, all beautiful thoughts — typical of anyone who claimed to be human, really. Unfortunately, thoughts that’d ironically lead them to their own demise... perhaps. Events of destruction and travesty were inevitable at least. They’d never learn, would they? It’d be just another repetition of history. Nothing the dimension hopper hadn’t seen before. It was the same across every Universe he’d visited.

Lightly pondering, the purple-haired creature leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, foot bouncing in anticipation for what was going to happen next. It was all too wicked, wasn't it? Languidly stretching his arms over his head, his mind briefly wandered to the bunny. Eeeh, so what would she do this time with the new life he’d granted her?

[uwudonoodle]

This is so funny. I love Alex Hirsch.

alex hirsch going rogue… king shit

[sohannabarberaesque]

One likely answer: Network "standards and practices" policies as applied to Saturday-morning and children's programming generally, especially so from the mid-1970's on.

[a-b-riddle]

Can’t stop thinking about poly141 who get so wrapped up in their own bullshit they begin to neglect reader. So you leave 🤷🏼‍♀️

It wasn’t a big deal at first. You understood that their jobs were intense to say the least. You own a bookshop, which in itself was exhausting, but you understood how they could get carried away with work.

You had excused the many delayed returned texts or missed FaceTime dates when they were deployed. When they came home, they almost always made it up to you. Showering you with attention and quality time.

But the past two returns home have been… different.

Usually at least one of them made a beeline to your shop or your loft if it was too late in the evening. You always held your breath when it was just one of them.

“They’re okay.” Was the usual answer. “Everyone made it back okay.” It was only then that you could melt into whoever’s hands you were in.

After one of their recent returns home you had voice to Price that you didn’t appreciate several days passing after they came back and no one had bothered to tell you. He had snapped. Arguing that a mission doesn’t finish just because they land back on soil. There was paperwork and debriefing to be done. If and when they wanted to see you they would.

He didn’t apologize until later. Crawling into your bed, using one of the keys you had given them. Blaming the stress. How they had almost lost Johnny for the reason of his outburst. What else could you do but forgive him?

So you had given them space after that one. Not holding it against them to decompress before seeing you.

The next time was the final straw. Solidifying how little they cared about you and how much power you had given them.

Johnny had come in around 7 one evening. He was dressed nicely, for civilian standards. You were reading a book on the couch when he had let himself in. You were wearing on of Simon’s sweatshirts and panties. He took you in for a moment before scooping you up.

He fucked you absolutely stupid. Adamant on having you cum on his tongue, his fingers and his cock. You were only able to bask in the afterglow of him filling you up before he started pulling his pants back on.

“What are you doing?” There were times that you would practically need a crow bar to get Johnny detached from you just long enough to relieve yourself. You had gotten many a UTI courtesy of Mr. John MacTavish.

“Dinner with my family tonight.” He explained by the time he was already buttoning his shirt. “The youngest just graduated and ma’ feels the need to go all out.” Now came the tie. Johnny was actually wearing a tie. To go to dinner. “A fancy dinner in London.” He huffed. “Meanwhile I’m out scufflin’ with bloody fuckin’ terrorists and I get a pat on the back.” He gave you a peck on the cheek before heading out the door. Promising to call you later.

You just sat in your bed. Still naked. Almost in shocked. He had fucked you and just… left. You were close to a panic attack as you called Simon.

Simon wasn’t the one to cuddle and coddle. But there was something so soothing at the sound of his voice or even how his heavy body felt perfect laying on top of you. Yes. Simon wasn’t the time to lift you up with words, but he was your own security blanket. Just having him close helped.

“Can you come over?” It wasn't unusal for Simon to be the one to come later in the evening. Insomnia was a bitch to deal with and you could sleep through the sounds of whatever he played on the tv. Most of the times you were content laying your head on his lap as he ran his hand along your head as if he were petting you. It was a bit cringe, but it knocked you out every time.

“What’s wrong?” He asked. The low timber of his voice already calming you.

“Johnny came over.” You sniffled. “He just fucked me and left.”

“Not surprised.” He scoffed. You could almost see him rolling those deep brown eyes of his. “If you wanted to cum, I’m happy to come over and help.”

For whatever reason, that only seemed to make you more upset. “You’re not listening.” You said, trying to spell it out for him. “He left. Like didn’t even stay and cuddle just left. Fucked me and left.”

“That’s why you’re calling me crying about?” He almost seemed… annoyed.

“Yes!” You said, nearly snapping. All of the tension from the last several months coming to the surface. “I’m not just a warm body to keep a bed cozy until you assholes decide you need to get one off.” Assholes. You called them assholes. “This isn’t what we agreed to.”

“Johnny is Johnny.” Simon tried to defend, not really caring to continue the conversation now knowing that you weren't in any sort of physical harm. “He wanted his dick wet and from the sound of it, that’s what he did. Don’t hold it against him because he had other things to do.”

“It’s not just Johnny leaving.” Your throat felt like it was tightening. A telltale sign you were close to crying. Whether from sadness or anger you weren't entirely sure. “The only time any of you want anything to do with me anymore is to fuck.” You missed date nights and lunches. You missed texting any and all of them about your day, about theirs. About new books. You had been trying for months to tell them over dinner one of your books got picked up. Yours was being traditionally published.

None of them had bothered to even try penciling you in.

“You got yours.” You heard the popping of a can top. Simon was settling in for the night. Once he popped a top at home there was no getting him out. He wasn't coming for you. “I don’t understand what you’re bitchin’ to me about. Yeah, in the beginning we indulged ya a bit? Dressed you up, took you out. But you should have known spreadin’ them legs of yours wouldn’t end with one of us puttin’ a ring on your finger.”

You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? These were the men that pursued you. Initially, individually, but when tensions became to much they offered a solution. All of them. Four times the attention, of the affection.

Four times the love.

But also four time the neglect. Four times the amount of heartbreak and disappointment. Loving all of them meant putting yourself in a position to let each of them hurt you in their own way and they had.

John's constant state of snapping at you as if you were one of his men.

Johnny swinging by as if you were just a fuck buddy. Not even bothering to give a peck before leaving.

Kyle essentially ignoring you for weeks now. Ghosting you for hours or having to cancel on date nights last minute or claiming that he really did forget that the two of you had planned to meet for lunch.

And now there was Simon. Telling you that all you meant to them was what was between your thighs.

Spreadin' them legs of yours wouldn't end with one of us puttin' a ring on your finger.

None of them ever intended on making this into something more. That much was clear now.

You didn't know what to say to Simon. You couldn't think of a witty retort. You couldn't find the proper insult to whirl his way. You couldn't convey just how much his words had hurt.

So you did the only thing you could.

You hung up.

[friskalicousbiscuits]

Neglected The Mask!reader x platonic Yan!Batfam

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5

I’d also like to say this Reader is Gender Neutral or at least you can pick your gender. Most of the pronouns are “you” and when they are referred to by other people, its “they” so… Yeah! Have fun reading and tell me if there are any spelling mistakes or things that don’t make sense.

Chapter One

The night you’d found the mask, had been a cold one. A bitter one. It was just an all around crappy-feelings-fest of a night.

You’d left home. The pressure in that house was too suffocating for you to stay in it any longer. The walls were too high, your room felt too isolated, the floors were too clean, the windows were being pelted by rain, and the sound of said rain felt like jackhammers in your skull. But worst of all? Damian was hogging the TV so you couldn’t watch the adult swim old cartoon reruns.

So you left.

It wasn’t like it was hard. No one was really home besides you, Alfred, and Damian so no one stopped you. Well, besides Ace. The dog padded over to you as you were about to leave. You gave him a few pats and told him you’d be back in a couple hours.

That was how you were here now. On Gotham’s Harbor, sat at the end of one of its shabby wooden piers, listening to the calming sound of harsh waves slamming into boats. You didn’t really mean to come here. You’d just picked a direction that seemed to draw you in and soon, you were leading (or were you being led?) yourself to the harbor. It was still raining. You were soaked head to toe and were sure to have a fever by tomorrow.

You found yourself not minding that fact.

Your eyes drifted to the few boats docked at the other piers. Barnacle-bottomed with chipped paint was the standard look for most of them. They looked worn, and if boats could have feelings, you’d guess they were probably tired.

You were tired too.

You were always tired. Since you were about fifteen, you’ve been in a bunch of clubs and stuff. It was exhausting, but you also didn’t want to go back to the manor, a place you don’t feel welcomed, immediately after school. Damian being there, while still scary, is something you could deal with.

But Jason?

The man pops in unannounced and randomly. Just the thought of him potentially being there makes you stay away from the manor extra late. You don’t ever want to be near him again. Not after that night. Not after he almost killed you. And speaking of the man, he was there. He’d been forced into staying for a family dinner. Something you wanted no part as long as he was there.

You pulled out your phone to check the time. The light nearly blinded you. You hunched over it so the harsh rain wouldn’t pelt it too.

9:37pm

Said family dinner should be in progress right about now. And would you look at that? Not a single call or text massage. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. It almost made you want to chuck your phone into the water, but… well, it’s your phone and it has all your doggy pictures of Ace in cute outfits. You couldn’t bear to part with it.

Instead, you turned it off, shoved it back into your pocket, and went back to staring at the waves.

Y’know, if you ignored the hammering rain and the fact these waves could topple a grown man, this was almost peaceful!

Your eyes drifted down to now watching the murky water as it swooshed and splashed back and forth. You were praying no bigger waves came. Gotham’s water was practically radioactive. You don’t want aids from getting Gotham water on you. Maybe you should’ve brought a jacket after all.

You brought your knees closer to your chest and hugged them tighter. You definitely should’ve. You’re not only soaked but extremely cold from all the wind sweeping around. Any gust felt like getting freezer burn, and you weren’t a long forgotten package of peas at the bottom of a freezer.

You should probably go home n—

What is that?

You squinted at the murky water. It’s dirtiness, plus all the motion from the waves was making it hard to tell but… was something glowing underneath the water?

James Gordon - Police Commissioner POV

Jim was not having a good night. The Joker had broken out of Arkham again. And was wreaking havoc again. Currently, Jim and other officers were crouched behind their vehicles and using them as cover to shoot at the bastards. Not only that, but it was raining cats and dogs all of a sudden. The storm had come out of nowhere in the middle of the shootout!

And to think the day had started off well too. Barbara had come to visit and even brought Jim those donuts he liked. Not only had he had to leave his donut at the precinct, which would probably be stolen by that food thief who thinks he’s slick, but now he was in a shootout!

To recap the situation, Joker had gathered his goons in Old Gotham to rob and steal like the no good crooks they are. As for any civilians caught outside and nearby? Well, not only were they robbed, but they were also held down and forcibly injected with a new strand of Joker Venom.

And… while all that was horrible, it also didn’t make sense. Joker doesn’t really do daylight robberies like this. If he’d needed money, he’d simply kidnap a class of school children and sell them off. So why would he do all of this?

Jim got his answer in the form of the formerly spasming victims of Joker Venom suddenly getting up to join the chaos. As usual, hair was tinged green, skin was bleached, and smiles were stretched from one ear to the other. But this was different. The Joker would point to a shop and they’d all follow. To a person and they’d run to tackle. To anything and they’d respond with tearing at it like piranhas and running to their leader to give him their spoils.

Are you fucking kidding him right now?

The Joker has finally gotten around to using mind control?

You might as well fuck Jim in the ass.

The commissioner paused his shooting at goons and henchmen and grabbed the walkie-talkie attached to his coat. He needed to radio the precinct and have them turn it on.

He needed the Bat-Signal.

It was dark out, so it should reflect on the sky, but the bats normally came out after eleven. He’d just have to hope one of them would see.

You continued staring at the water. The rain started falling harder unbeknownst to you. Your shoulders and back were both numb from the constant harshness of the rain and cold. The rain falling harder made the water rougher and stronger, waves slamming into the docks and piers with more force.

The glowing was getting brighter and brighter. So much so that you felt it start to illuminate your face. A flash of something green tore through your mind as a bolt of lighting could be heard nearby. A shadow slowly rose over you.

You slowly looked up.

Uh oh.

A gigantic wave was looming over you. Your eyes widened.

You really couldn’t catch a break, could you?

It slammed into you with what was probably the force of a bull. It shattered the shabby wooden pier you’d been sitting on. And when it started to recede, it dragged you under the water.

Oh God! AIDS water!

You struggled desperately as the water tugged and shoved you around like a ragdoll. Everytime you would just barely break the surface and get the tiniest gulp of air, another wave would come and slam you back down.

Was it your imagination, or were the waves getting stronger and stronger?

Another wave slammed into you and shoved your head back under the water. You felt your brain rattle from the force as it sent you deeper in the water. You had neither the chance to close your eyes nor mouth. You tried not to think about the fact you’d swallowed a little bit of it.

It burned your throat on the way down.

You didn’t think you’d be able to see anything underwater. Like you’d said multiple times, it was murky. Yet, below you could see the glowing object from before. It was still a blob due to the fact you were underwater but you couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out to it. Something was compelling you to.

Another harsh wave wracked the surface above, pushing you forward slightly towards the object. Then, it pulled you back when it receded. For some reason, you needed to see this object. You needed it. You needed to touch it. Hold it.

Put it on.

What? Put on what? The blob?

Your hand closed around a part of the blob. It seemed that despite your blurry vision, the blob, wasn’t in fact a blob. It felt wooden and thin. You hands turned it around as you moved it closer to face so you could just get a better look. Thats all.

If you tried really hard, you could ignore the—

Put it on.

Put it on.

Put it on.

—that keeps repeating in your head.

You brought it closer and closer. The shimmer that you once thought was green was now purplish on the side you’d turned the blob over to see. When it got close enough, you felt your skin start to pull itself towards the blob— the mask, now that you could see the eye and mouth holes better. At the sensation of the pulling, you tried to pull away but it was too strong.

It stuck itself to your face as you clawed at it, thrashing and struggling. Water left your lungs in a panic. You could feel it closing around your head, sinking into your skin, merging with your face. You began to spin, underneath the water, still desperately clawing.

From there, you blacked out.

James Gordon - Police Commissioner POV

Jim and the other officers were still in a shootout. Now though, the Joker had taken out a couple cars, and by extension people, with some rocket launchers he’d gotten when more of his goons came to help.

A shot whizzed past Jim’s head and took out one of his rearview mirrors. He peaked around his car once more and fired his gun a couple more times until he ran out of ammo before ducking behind his cover once more.

Shit, where are the bats?

He peaked around the car again, but ducked again when he heard a… “what in the world?” …from a female officer next to him. He looked to her and saw that she was looking up. When he also looked up, he saw a spinning something soaring through the sky.

What in the world indeed.

From what Jim could make out, it was green and white and had hints of either pink or red from what he could see. He and the officer next to him watched as it continued to spin through the air. It was about to land in the middle of the shootout. Just what was it? Something from the bats? No, they don’t use color, it must’ve been something from the Joker.

“Shit.” Jim cursed under his breath.

It eventually landed with a loud crash, body sticking up out of the ground, stiff as a board. Its head was buried into the road as its arms stood stiff at its side, seemingly unaffected by gravity. It showed no signs of struggle.

Was it knocked out? Dead? If it was from the Joker, Jim prayed it was dead.

The two sides ceased their shooting to stare at the person(?) sticking out of the ground still. Now that it wasn’t spinning nor high up in the air, Jim got a better look at it. It was wearing a white, three piece suit with a red polkadot pattern consistent on every single scrap of fabric the…

Gentleman? Gentlewoman? Gentleperson?

…it was hard to tell, wore. Though, Jim could just barely make out that their tie was black.

It suddenly fell over. It didn’t move for a minute longer until it suddenly shot up straight to it feet. It had a wide grin similar to the Joker’s as it adjusted its lapels. “It’s good to be back!” They exclaimed as it whirled around taking in the sights. When Jim blinked they were in a full tourist outfit. Flamingo printed shirt, khaki shorts, and a camera around its neck, taking pictures of everything. They even snapped a couple of the Joker, who it’d conveniently landed next to, saying, “Glad to know jesters are still around!”

Jim blinked again and they were back in the polkadots. They were also shaking hands with the Joker. Holy Cow, that person is tall! They were good head over the Joker and even then the Joker pretty tall himself. “Pleased to meet you, good sir. Could you direct me to the nearest bank? I’m running a little low on cash.”

Their grins were uncannily similar.

“Sorry to say, but I’ve already plundered all the nearby banks, my colorful friend.” The Joker’s eyes narrowed despite the grin. Judging by the man’s tone, he was annoyed by something.

But what is the question?

“Oh, that’s a shame.” The green-masked person sighed, hunching in on themself. They then grabbed the Joker and started dancing with him. Full blown tango. The unexpectedness seemed to make the Joker laugh and the man joined in. They danced around, Joker going back to shooting any of Jim’s colleagues that had let their guard down and stood up to watch the scene fully. Any bullets aimed back at them were swiftly tango-ed away from or crushed against the green-faced one. It seemed they were bulletproof.

The shoot out picked up from there. Soon, goons and officers were taken out one by one until only few were remaining. By then, the dancing slowed to a stop.

The Joker held a hand up, signaling for his boys to stop. The officers also stopped their fire too, taking the chance to go back to crouching behind their vehicles.

“Y’know, I must say, it’s been a very long time since I’ve run into a kindred spirit.” The Joker said, though his tone came off rather snarky.

The polka-dotted person actually laughed in the Joker’s face. “I hardly think we’re kindred.” They sounded smug, then again, from the very moment they started talking they’d sound smug.

“You don’t? Then there’s only room for one person with a twisted grin!” The clown said as he pulled out his revolver and aligned it with the polka-dotted individual’s mouth. “Besides, I should really knock your teeth in for stealing my gimmick!”

“Oh, how I agree!” The green-faced person’s jovial tone turned harsher and rougher. It had the same speech habit as the Joker. That same silliness until taking a darker tone.

Don’t tell Jim this is another Joker.

The Joker fired and the shot rang true, shooting them in the teeth. Everyone watched how instead of blood starting to spurt from both their mouth and the back of their neck, instead a perfectly shaped hole lied in the center of their pearly whites. The green-faced person then threw their head back and loud gulp followed, along with their neck having an oddly bullet shaped thing go down.

“Now then! Back to our dance!” They didn’t go back to that strange tango from before, instead everyone watched as they spun the Joker. And kept spinning him. Again. And again. And again.

Until the Joker caught on fire.

The green masked individual then let the clown go and keep spinning on his own, still flaming. “Somebody stop me!”

Was that provocation?!

Everyone watched as it— because it had long shown that it wasn’t a they— it couldn’t be human— pulled a massive mallet out of its pocket. “Batter up, boys!” A pocket that was way too small mind you.

Also, batter up?

It seemed to grow annoyed when no one moved. “I said, BATTER UP!” Every officer and henchman watched in awe as its head enlarged so it could yell at them before it shrunk back to normal size and got to waving its mallet around like a bat.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim watched the officer next to him as she did a double take at something she saw and starting running towards it. Jim followed her sight and… about a couple meters away was a police van with many, many signs around it, mostly arrows lit up by fluorescent lights and connected to no visible power source. The officer Jim saw rush over, and another officer, wrenched open the van doors.

When Jim whipped his head back to the green faced feller, The Joker was still spinning and it had reared back the hammer and swung. The clown went flying, the speed suffocating the flames, straight into the van. The two officers quickly shut it just before the sound of a sickening slam from the Joker smacking into van’s wall could be heard.

“Scoreeeeee!” It drew out the word. Jim blinked and it was suddenly in full sports fan regalia with a jersey, styrofoam hand, and beer hat, jumping around like it was at a national game. When Jim caught the back of its jersey it read: Mask.

Could it be associated with Black Mask then?

Jim blinked again and it was back in its original suit and it was walking towards Jim.

“Ah! Jim, good to meet the extended family!” It shook Jim’s hand from where the commissioner was still squatted down, literally lifting Jim off the ground as it happened.

“Excuse me? Family? What are yo—” Jim was cut off by it giving him a “ta-ta!” It then dropped him and literally spun off. It reminded Jim of the Tasmanian devil from Loony Toons.

Who— no. What in the world was that?

A new rogue?

Timothy Drake - Red Robin POV

When Tim woke up that next morning, he was exhausted to say the least. He didn’t get to finish dinner before the bat signal went off. Then, when they finally got to the scene of the crime, the Joker had already been detained, but now there was a new rogue of all things on the loose!

Tim and his family had spent the entirety of the night chasing after this person! They’d barely caught a glimpse of them too! The family was always either one step behind or too slow, and by the time they blinked, they were gone. Then, the family would be running across the city to the next sighting of the villain.

So, when he got up that morning, all he wanted was his morning coffee, but guess what? The mug usually placed on the coaster next to him on the desk he fell asleep at wasn’t there.

(You weren’t there to make it.)

His weighted blanket wasn’t draped over his shoulders either. He’d noticed when he tried to pull it around him when he felt the chill of Alfred opening his door to check on him.

(You weren’t there to drape it over him.)

Also, speaking of Alfred, he was the one who woke him up today instead of you. Alfred also made sure Tim actually got up instead of your leaving him alone immediately after, because you knew he would get up after another five minutes.

All in all, it was a shitty night and a shitty morning.

When Tim went down for breakfast later, the coffee wasn’t in the pot either. Actually, there wasn’t even a pot. When he asked Alfred, he told him that you swept through the kitchen looking like a zombie, made yourself the coffee and took the entire pot with you.

He is so making you pay him back!

[vi0lentquiche]

Bryan Fuller on The D-Con Chamber podcast

Some actual revelations here, I gotta say!

We went to a lot of actors and they all said no, and Mads said he wanted to do it. And I was like, here's a person who wants to do it, who is amazing, and they're like, he's sort of weird? He just seems very Euro-weird, shouldn't he be sexier? And I'm like, he's sexy as fuck! There's nary a sexier!

The casting process is so degrading for everybody, but I reached out to Mads and said, "Would you audition? I hate to ask you this, but I just can't get them there." And he said of course, came in and auditioned, was amazing, and they went, nah, he's sort of creepy. ??HE'S EATING PEOPLE. And finally the last person had said no and I called Jen Salke who was running it and said, "Jen, I have to write this, I have to craft this show and believe in it. I believe in him, that he can do this, I see him in the role, it's hard for me to see anybody else." And she said, "I trust you, I trust your vision, let's do it." So that was her response. Her boss's response was, "Well, you got what you wanted, you're on your own." And they halved our marketing budget. It was a little spiteful.

Jen was amazing, she kept us on the air although we didn't have great ratings, but Jen, who is now running Amazon, thought the show was great. They were paying nothing for it, the licensing fee was the smallest that they had. And the show was very cheap, our budget was 2.25 million in the first season (we turned everything dark so you couldn't see how cheap everything looked), second season was 2.5, third season was 3.2, so it was a very economic show, and our scripts were like 33 pages long. Because all that atmosphere, and also Gillian Anderson made the most fantastic unnerving choice to speak very deliberately, so you could give Gillian a page of dialogue and it was 6 minutes of screentime, and you don't want to cut away, because she grabs you and doesn't let go.

So it was economic for lots of reasons. But Jen said, "I'll keep you on the air, it doesn't cost us anything, do whatever you want. Do the show that you want to do." And NBC didn't give us a ton of notes! The Standards and Practices was one of the best relationships that I had. Joanna was our S&P executive, and I would say, "Hey, Joanna ☺️, we have to have a guy cut off his face and feed it to dogs ☺️ howwww do we do that?" and she'd say, "Just make the blood black and turn down the lights." The only thing she didn't know how we could do was, Eddie Izzard had hooked someone's intestines up to a ceiling fan while they were still alive, so when somebody came into the room and turned on the lights the ceiling would disembowel them. And she said, "I just don't know how you're gonna do this!" and production said, "We can't afford it, you get one shot and if you don't get it there's no way for us to do a reset." So she was willing to let us try the ceiling fan disembowelment, she was the coolest lady. My assistant at the time made a book of all the S&P emails, like "When you're doing this please keep in mind that the blood needs to be black," because the redder the blood the less likely that you can put it on TV. So if you darken the blood, even if it's a dark burgundy, you can get away with it. The food that looks like blood is fine, because you're gonna eat it and it looks like meat, and Jose Andres is helping you out.

Hannibal was creatively a great experience because the stakes were so low that Jen was like, "How great for me to be able to tell you to do whatever you want!" We should have been cancelled after the first season, because our ratings were so low. I think we had 3 million, and that was at a time when 3 million wasn't enough. No, we started with 5 or 6 and it got down to 3 by the end of the run. But it was great that she gave us the opportunity, and was a great executive who supported the show when her bosses didn't because we didn't cast who they wanted.

Pushing Daisies was actually more of a struggle creatively with the network, they would say it was too weird and to make it more mainstream. And they were probably right, we would probably have had more numbers, but it wouldn’t be my show. I really don't mean to be difficult with a lot of executives, but when I resist those notes it's becase I don't know how to do them, like my brain doesn't compute. I've gotten better the older I've gotten. I've also gotten more like, it's perhaps not a hill to die on? Whereas before I'd go, noo, the art must speak for itself! It's that singular understanding for something, where it comes out and you accept it for how it is. And it's probably a little bit about being raised in a Catholic environment where you're told how to be, it’s the rebellion, and it's the intrinsic queerness of choosing something that's different, or relating to something that's different and that being a guiding principle more than an edict.

[bahrtofane]

husband Jude headcannons

jude just really really enjoys married life

Word count - 2.3K+

Watch it - i got carried away sorry guys, proposal lore?? insanely sappy, even by my standards

—--

He's not a fan of you being known as his, rather he's your husband. Always correcting people during interviews and giving you the spotlight. Even when you shy away, not knowing where to look or what to say. He's always there, a gentle hand on your knee rubbing circles as he nods for you to continue. 

Every red carpet he wants to match, doesn’t care how big or small the event is. Gotta be a way you two look look a pair 

His fav is when you wear exactly the same thing so there’s no way to confuse anything for what it really is hehe 

Bouncing around while you get ready together, helping you get your shoes on while he tries his best to stand still while you fix his tie 

“Look okay?” he asks, head tilted 

You rub his arm, “you look great.” 

And he smiles wide, giving you pecks all over while you giggle, trying to shoo him away from you and closer to the door. your ride is waiting, but he doesn’t care. pouting for just one more kiss. please ? 

All his socials turn into your personal fan page, a big fat married in every bio, ring and all 

He has more posts about you then his actual job 

His teammates poke fun at it, “when are you gonna post us huh?”

He just rolls his eyes,”when I marry you i’ll think about it”

And that’s that

You're the first he runs to post a match, greeting you with the silly hand shake you perfected years ago. You think you could do it in your sleep at this rate. You came up with it ages ago when you kissed him after practice, playing with his fingers till he came up with the idea, and you with the actual hand shake. 

You're his biggest supporter, and him likewise. In every and anything you do, give him pompoms and he'd be your personal cheerleader at this point.

He just likes to have you at games. Waving obnoxiously while you tell him to pose. And he does, every time, sending hearts your way. He dedicates his goals your way. The kisses he would send the crowd in his youth now only go your way where you catch them like a teenager.

You see complications of it everywhere, he thinks it's endearing. He makes you watch them together on the living room tv while you grimace

“My face looks so weird there, oh my god.”

He flicks your arm, “you look great shush. Ha that was during el clasico, ah good times.” 

You roll your eyes but snuggle up against him anyway.

One of your favorite past times btw, nothing he loves better than a lazy morning in with you in his arms while he hits snooze on every alarm.

He tries to cook, with his stupid kiss the chef apron he got just for you. but he will need help, which you gladly give. You end up eating on the couch, covered in pillows watching cheesy shows. You've watched keeping up with the kardashians too many times to count and he still laughs out loud every time.

Jude is soft and sweet when he's not forced into a picture perfect smile and self 24/7. He's a silly guy, always trying to make you laugh. Teasing is his love language by the way.

But he's still sweet, leaving notes around your house for you to find when he has to leave for away games. Hearts and smiley faces littering every inch of the paper. Some frowny faces when he knows he'll miss you extra. 

He likes bringing you to family events and bragging about how cool you are, but everyone already loves you as is, he just likes to brag. Look at how cool the love of my life is everyone, I am sooo lucky you guys look look. 

Jobe has rolled his eyes far too many times, but he's happy to see his brother so happy. Plus you guys threw a fantastic wedding. A win is a win.

When you can't be there he facetimes you every second he possibly can. Blowing kisses when he has to go. 

“Judes been complaining all day I hope you know,” Aurélien pops his head into the screen. 

You snort, “ hello to you too Aurélien.”

He gives you a wave before ruffling the top of Judes hair as he pouts, fixing it just how he likes again, “they just don't get it,” he sighs dramatically.

You laugh, “sure baby, sure.”

You make sure to keep up with the match the best you can, texting him live reactions, even if you know he won't see them till later. He likes them all the same.

Your name on his phone is a simple "mine" with a bunch of heart emojis, the contact pic is one of the two of you together on vacation, smiling with your faces squished together while laying in the sand

It makes him smile every time. he thinks you’re the cutest

He's a big fan of nicknames, weather its a version of your first name, or just a good ole fashion baby. He rarely uses your actual name. He called you something so insane like pooki bear in public once and you have yet to let him live it down.

"in a restaurant was crazy," you squint at him.

He only giggles, "but it was soo funny baby come on."

Speaking of restaurants, this guy loves a good date night 

Gigdy as he comes down the hall in his pjs, grinning while showing you the new reservations, it’s your fav place ! 

Every anniversary he somehow finds a way to outdo himself, don't ask, because in truth he doesn't even know how he pulls it off, but anything for you. Anything. 

Even if it means hunting down the stuffed animal you had as a kid and couldn't find after you lost it in your couch cushions. He finds it, after months and months of searching, making Jobe help him look, it comes in the mail and he has to get creative to get you out of the house and away from the mail the day it's supposed to come.

It gets neatly wrapped and placed on your shared bed the morning of, surrounded by a collection of other gifts, your favorite flowers, and a cheesy note that you always end up crying at. 

The look on your face makes it all worth it, when you tackle him in a bone crushing hug, tumbling into the covers in a tangle of legs while you laugh in between sniffles, he loves you. Oh how he loves you 

It's been a tradition to end the night with the very place he proposed, his home, now yours. 

He doesnt think he could forget it even if he tried. It was a whirlwind of a day. Picture this: 

He's lost all his black socks, his (and your) favorite body wash just spilled all over the shower, his hair looks awful ( he got a haircut that morning), his cologne isn't where he left it, and the private chef he hired isnt replying. All while you're not even awake yet. 

He calls his mom because what else are you supposed to do when you're set to propose and everything is going wrong. 

She only chuckles softly over the phone, “calm down jude, just breathe. You'll find your things, just take a breather and come back to things with a clear head okay?”

So he does. Sitting on his bed, towel still on, frowning. He chooses to instead pat himself dry, get dressed, and give himself a pep talk in the floor length mirror at the corner of his room. 

Turns out his mom was right, things fix themself for the most part, his socks are stuck at the bottom of the dryer, his hair isn't as bad as he thought, he finds a better cologne in his collection, and a perfect body cream. It's gonna be a good day. 

He finishes the last of the day of prep, getting fancy candles, a lighter, and greeting the decorator. Yes he hired a decorator. 

It's nothing over the top, just little changes to make his home look a little softer, changing out the curtains, placing lace table cloth with details in your favorite color. The main event is his second living room that gets covered in an arch of your favorite flowers, gentle curling to just kiss the top of the new antique chandelier that will be holding the fancy candles too. He hopes you like it. He really really hopes you like it.

He's had this planned for ages, since the moment he first met you he thinks. 

When you greet him with a silly good morning text he only grows oh so fond of you, excited to see you. He told you it was a fancy dinner at his place. A change of pace from the resurates. Both of you prefer a much more intimate night in then cameras shoved into your face while a hundred people all yell a hundred things while you're trying to chew your food. 

So you get ready, dress up and make it for dinner. When you see the familiar face of the chef, Karlos, you give him a wave and get seated. Noticing the new table cloth but you don't say anything. You don't want to be wrong so early into the night. 

Jude comes in, nervous as a school boy as he takes your hand for a quick peek, running around like a maniac back and forth. He looks nice, in a signature all black suit, and smelling amazing per usual. 

Dinner is amazing, full of your favorite courses and Jude is jittery in his seat. 

“You okay?”

He nods, a little too fast, “oh yeah. I am. Don't worry.”

You raise a brow but dont push, thanking Karlos for the amazing meal as he cleans up and heads out for the night. 

Jude gets up, telling you to stay put while he'll be righttt back. Don't worry, remember! 

He comes back, unable to meet your eyes while he gives you his hand. You take it, sliding out of your seat and following him down the hall. There's flower petals on the floor now, you look at him, but he looks anywhere but at you, chewing his cheek.

He leads you to the second living room, where the furniture has been cleared out. Replaced by a walkway of flowers and candles, leading up to where an arch of your favorite flowers hugs the curtain, new ones.

Gently pulled back to reveal the floor to ceiling windows that give way to his yard. And the most gorgeous sunset you have ever seen. A chandelier hangs above you, decorated with more flowers, and the most ornate candles and bulbs you have ever seen.

Your eyes begin to water before he even gets down on one knee, his lip wobbles, holding your hand the whole time as he confesses every little moment and reason for his love.

He loves you, he adores you. You're- youre everything. Truly and fully. You're the sunlight that kisses his skin, the stars he wishes to touch, to know, he yearns for you. Years to know you in your entirety, till he knows nothing else but you. For your name to only fully know his lips, for only he will fully know you. He sees no other, he knows no other. He wants- no needs, to give himself as he is. 

You see him, see him as more than just Jude Belingham. You see what others can not, will not. You see him, you know him. You know him better than he knows himself most days. You've seen all there is to see, all that makes him who he is. You know his stupid sandwich order at the place you hate but keep going to because you know how much he loves it.

You sit in freezing weather for the full game just to make sure you don't miss a second of him. The first to congratulate him, the first to mourn with him, the first to sooth his aches and pains. You're the face he looks for in a crowd, you're the first person he calls when anything happens. 

 And you love him with such ferocity it amazes him. 

You're full crying at this point, fat tears rolling down your cheeks till you can barely see him, and he finally gets down on one knee, fishing out a small velvet box from his inner pocket, opening it with shaky hands.

And he whispers, “will you marry me?”

You fall next to him, sobbing into his shoulder while you repeat yes over and over. He cries with you, till you're both laughing from pure joy. 

Who better to spend the rest of your life with then the man who loves you so?

Telling his family is the best part. You have them over for what was supposed to be a quick lunch, turned dinner, and you break the news at dessert, showing off your ring while they all gasp. 

They pile you into the biggest hug, smiles so wide they hurt and you laugh, you're going to get married! You think they just might be more excited than you are.

Wedding planning comes and goes both so fast and so slow. Youre so excited you can't wait, and yet every step of the way seems like it takes excruciatingly long.

Your wedding planner tries her best, bless her soul, but you want it to be completely and utterly perfect. Down to the types of chairs at the venue.

Jude lets you have your way for the most part, chiming in now and again, he trusts you fully. Knowing you're going to make it the best regardless. 

Leading up to the big day you think you just might pass out from stress and never be seen again, but the almost year of planning pays off, and you're married! 

The honeymoon is spent traveling all over while jude is wide-eyed, unable to believe he's married to you of all people. 

The press catches on soon after, even if your wedding was small and intimate. News comes out one way or another.

Jude only responds with a picture of you two slow dancing among your family and friends, captioned, “all you need to know.” and he pins it to every social media page. 

What a man huh?

[raekensluver]

Could you maybe write where y/n and Arthur (tv) go on the fellas podcast together and chip and cal are asking them a bunch of awkward and kinda inappropriate questions and they both get all blushy and embarrassed

masterlist | main masterlist

contains: suggestive content, established relationship

arthur frederick x fem!reader

it starts off fine.

really, it does. you and arthur show up early, mugs of tea in hand, both of you laughing as cal and chip greet you like old friends. the studio’s warm, the cameras are rolling, and the intro’s smooth-standard fellas chaos.

but then.

then cal leans forward with a grin so mischievous it should probably be criminal. “right. time to get into it. you two-how long until you shagged?”

arthur chokes on his tea.

you blink. “what?”

“first date? second?” chip adds innocently. “or was it one of those- ‘we’re just friends, oops my clothes fell off’ kinda vibes?”

arthur’s face turns scarlet instantly. “mate-”

“you don’t have to answer that!” you laugh, pulling your sleeve over your face. “but like. no comment.”

“ohhh that means it was quick,” cal teases.

arthur groans, dragging a hand down his face. “i hate it here.”

but the chaos is only just beginning.

chip points directly at you. “what’s the most awkward thing that’s happened during sex?”

arthur practically chokes. “jesus-”

“straight in!” chip cackles.

you slap a hand over your mouth. “can we not start with that?”

“nope,” cal says cheerfully, completely unfazed. “we’re in it now.”

arthur glances sideways at you, then at the boys. “i mean-I don’t think we’re awkward, really.”

“cap,” chip says immediately.

you roll your eyes. “okay, one time, we were in the middle of it, and he knocked over a lamp trying to take his sock off-”

“you knocked it over!” arthur protests, already bright red.

“it was your sock!”

“it was a joint effort,” he mutters, covering his face with both hands.

“was it still sexy after the crash?” cal grins.

“it was,” arthur says dramatically, “until she started laughing.”

you shrug. “to be fair, it was a dramatic fall.”

chip is losing it.

cal’s already reaching for the next card. “okay, okay. who’s the more dominant one in bed?”

dead silence.

arthur stares straight ahead like he’s buffering. you raise a brow at him, biting your lip to hold in a smile.

“it’s not a trap,” you say sweetly. “you can say it.”

“look,” arthur says cautiously, “i feel like it’s more of a team dynamic.”

“sure,” chip says. “but if one of you says ‘sit,’ who’s sitting?”

arthur exhales, long and hard. “i plead the fifth.”

“that’s not how british law works, mate,” cal replies, smirking.

“fine,” you say casually, “he’s got a bit of a praise kink. loves being told he’s doing good.”

arthur groans directly into the mic. “this is abuse.”

“you do!” you insist, grinning. “you go all melty and sweet every time i call you my good boy.”

chip’s slapping the table now, howling with laughter.

“listen-” arthur says, voice nearly cracking, “-it’s not my fault she knows how to get what she wants.”

cal points between the two of you. “so you’re the flustered one?”

“only when she’s being evil,” he mutters, glaring over at you. “which is always.”

you just smile innocently. “he’s cute when he’s obedient.”

arthur’s eyes flick to yours, and that’s it. he’s gone. absolutely ruined. silent, flushed, and completely whipped.

“okay, one last question for this segment,” chip manages, wiping tears from his eyes. “what’s your biggest ick about each other?”

arthur doesn’t even hesitate. “she has a folder of screenshots of me mid-blink, mid-chew, mid-existence. all my worst angles. for fun.”

you’re already giggling. “it’s art. i’m curating a collection.”

chip leans in. “and what’s the goal here?”

“to humble him,” you reply. “also, they’re hilarious. there’s one where he looks like an angry victorian ghost.”

arthur sighs dramatically. “it’s character assassination.”

“it’s love,” you say sweetly.

cal turns toward you. “alright, your turn. what’s his ick?”

you pause for a second, pretending to think. “when he gets dramatic about tiny injuries. like, he stubs his toe and suddenly it’s like a wwl reenactment.”

arthur gasps. “it hurts! you don’t understand what i go through!”

“you whined for three hours over a paper cut,” you deadpan.

“it was deep!”

chip is halfway out of his seat laughing.

“alright, alright,” cal says, “that’s enough icks before they break up mid-episode.”

arthur leans over and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, shaking his head with a smile. “nah. stuck with me.”

you smirk. “unfortunately.”

[timbitshockey]

in terms of “good boy” — as we’re all always thinking about and reflecting on and considering deeply — i would have to say our three top contenders are mitch marner, sidney crosby, and connor mcdavid. but you have to delve below the surface to understand the intricacies of the genre.

mitch wants to be called good boy like your standard dog wants to be called good boy. !!!! ME it’s ME i’m the GOOD BOY because I’M getting attention right now !!!! he understands no behavioural connection to the phrase and just gets excited to hear it because it means treats are coming. he lives in a perpetual state of waiting for someone to ask who’s a good boy because he intrinsically knows the answer even if he doesn’t actually know what the words “good boy” mean. it’s him. innnately. he is.

sid however wants to be acknowledged for his hard work and good deeds. he learned every trick. he practiced them on his own. he’s the kind of dog that reacts to people on tv saying the word “sit.” he is proactively doing good boy things like getting you the paper and your slippers and learning how to open the fridge to get a beer for you but NOT because he wants to be CALLED a good boy. because he IS one. he has dedicated his life to the calling. he just wants a little recognition but he would do it even if he never got it. king among men etc. he’s the kind of dog they make a weirdly emotional tv movie about 30 years after he dies about his superhuman bond with some old man played by harrison ford.

now connor’s different. connor’s vibe is like if a dog had catholic guilt. “good boy” is a temporary salve to the guilt of knowing he is intrinsically dark and evil and he knows it’s a lie when you say it but god does he want to hear it more than anything else in the world. which is of course something else to feel guilty about. connor mcdavid is a dog with sad, sad human eyes who believes he’s committed the original sin.

anyway good morning

[inbabylontheywept]

holy hell are people just crueler in arizona????

how would the idea to drag a 2nd grader around on gravel until his back is destroyed even occur to a person????

glad you have your sister to back you up. as a certified big sister (the certificate being the shirt i got saying "awesome big sister" after the birth of my second baby sister), this is what must be done for siblings. you can't fuck with them, that's our job. if there were a nobel prize for big-sistering, i think she should win, but alas, there isn't.

my dad grew up in phoenix/scottsdale and was also bullied in school. once when he was a teen he was walking home and some random boys sprayed mace in his face for no reason and drove off (they were later busted for illegal possession of a weapon, as there was a gun in their backseat). is there something in the water there?

Ehhhhhhh. I've talked to some people about events like this in my childhood, and gotten a lot of responses along the lines of "What Bastard Ass Corner of Hell Did You Crawl Out Of," so here's my multitheory of Arizona Weirdness.

The Summers: Arizona doesn't do daylight savings because it has no desire to save any daylight. Whenever people aren't looking, it tries to discreetly pick pieces of sunlight off its plate to feed to the dog. There was a humiliating incident a few years ago where it thought nobody was looking and tried to throw a large piece of sunlight out an open window into the backyard, but the window was not open, it was merely very clean, so it SMACKED into the glass and slid down and fell on the kitchen floor while everyone watched. This incident is still spoken of in hushed winters in PNW dinner parties. The summers of Arizona make everyone a little manic. Fortunately, God realized this was going to be a huge problem, so He had for the foresight to limit summers to only approximately 6 months of the year. Adding fuel to the fire is that the mania is accompanied by an outside temperature above 110 F (43 C) so you either stay inside and get this very intense kind of cabin fever (like watching TV static on Adderall) or you go outside where you are both energetic and in extreme physical discomfort. Most of the people that are outside have actually tried their best to stay inside, it's just that the Cabin Fever finally succeeded in overriding their pain receptors, so they are basically the equivalent of mindless rage zombies unless they are actually inside of a pool at that very moment. This is why everyone in Arizona owns pools.

The Mormons: The Mormons are extremely resistant to cultural changes. This is because they pick their prophets from a group of 13 old men who are literally competing to see who lives the longest. The oldest gets to be in charge. If this sounds like a bad plan consider that any time one of them dies, everyone goes, ah, well, he probably wouldn't have made a good prophet then. You know. Because God killed him and all. I have always considered this hilarious in how brutal it is. Anyway, the Mormons consistently linger ~20 years behind the standard culture. So growing up in 1980's Mormonworld was, socially, very similar to growing up in 1960's Americana. Except I was in elementary school in the early 2000's, which meant that my social environment was probably most comparable to the 1980s, which television has led me to believe was the era that bullies were required to take mandatory Kung-Fu Dirtbiking courses.

The Water: If there was something in the water, we would still have to drink it.

The Water II: Maybe there's something in everyones water, but it only starts making you into an asshole when you drink a gallon and a half of it a day. Worth considering.

Dumbass Cowboys: Arizona reaaaaaally like its Wild West Heritage. Which in practice means that they are, culturally, very pro-violence. They're an open carry, stand your ground, castle law state, and they have been my entire life. This actually added quite a bit to my elementary school bitterness. It is extremely bizarre to be told, as a child, that you aren't even allowed to swear at people for hitting you while your parents would be allowed to keep shooting until they ran out of bullets. At which point they could call their complimentary NRA lawyer. I have a vague memory of my 3rd grade teacher saying that kids would be much nicer to each other if they were allowed to come to school armed, but alas, Columbine ruined that for everyone. She was actually a very nice lady when she wasn't arguing that children should be allowed to, occasionally, shoot each other. I think she was in her 60's then. Might still be alive.

[quickestgold]

For angsty requests: marriage on the rocks with jack abbot, contemplating divorce?

Say Something: Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Synopsis: A decade of falling in and out of love has turned you and Jack from lovers to strangers. But when a difficult case hits too close to home, you might finally be calling time of death on your marriage.

Warnings: Reader and Jack are both vets/doctors; Canon-typical graphic depictions of trauma/injuries; mentions of missing limbs, blood, war, ptsd, GSWs, patient death, divorce, rooftops;

Word count: 4k+

A/n: Slowly working through my requests, sorry for the long wait! But thanks so much for sending this in! Can't wait to hear your thoughts! Ngl kind of broke my heart with this one ♡

I will hold your hand. I will grow with you. I will change with you. Every day, in love and in life.

Ten years.

In and out of love. Always by each other's side. Two sides of the same coin. Combat medics. Doctors. Lovers. Friends. In that order.

But lately, a new reality has settled between you.

Strangers.

You share a bed and a space. A home. You've grown through laughter and pain. Know the other's darkness and heartache intrinsically.

Jack is the person you would survive any war with. He's your person. And you're his. Your passion runs deep, intellectually and emotionally.

You've been through hell together, but you always made it back. You used to laugh a lot, coping through humor. Most alive in high-stakes, emotionally demanding work.

You spent most of your careers overseas. Never shying away from the hard places. Always trying to help.

You can be unpredictable, the ends forever justifying the means. Walking the thin line between control and recklessness. Even for Jack's standards and he isn't exactly a man of protocol.

But sometimes you scare him. Your complete disregard for your own safety, always putting him first. The irony of course being, that he does the same for you. But before you, he never experienced a partnership like it. No one ever made him feel that whole. Completed him in a way, he can't ever find the words for.

So he made you a promise. To hold you. To grow with you. And to change with you.

Every day.

And you said yes...

But over the years, the line between your personal and your professional life has almost completely blurred.

You barely see each other outside of work. Everything feels mechanical. There's only faint traces of intimacy. Of tenderness. Just two people who've known each other for a long time. Who are slowly growing apart. Changing without the other. Not realizing they're going in separate directions.

In your heart you know it's no ones fault. No infidelity. No drama.

Just... silence.

Your shift wasn't exactly quiet before this case. But this injury, this patient, throws you off your game.

You never crack. The new interns thought Dr. Abbot was the stoic, quietly observant, fuck-standard-of-care, ED-cowboy.

Before they met you.

Unafraid to contest decisions from the higher-ups, demonstrating fearlessness in times of crisis, fudging paperwork for the sake of the patient. Always treating the person, not the protocol.

Dr. Walsh, Emery, your best friend and twisted sister in arms, always challenges you.

Your "other" person. The Cristina to your Meredith.

On occasion, she kicks Jack out of his own bed, when you need to reflect on a particularly bad case, or sometimes just to wind down with shitty reality TV. Jack would curse under his breath, but ultimately make room for the two of you. Always respecting your strong bond.

You went through residency together. Watched others drop out under the pressure. But you were never in competition, except maybe the odd healthy one.

Where she practices medicine by the book, you often improvise. But your dynamic works.

She knows you. Truly.

So when she steps into the trauma room, her words slice through the air like a sharp scalpel. The tension has built up slowly over the last two hours you've spent working on a man, who got his leg blown off handling faulty fireworks.

You're pressing into his chest, trying to force life back into his body, one beat at a time.

"Fuck no." Emery approaches the table, ready to shove you aside. "You should not be running this."

"This is not the time for you to tell me what to do, Dr. Walsh." You counter, your movements focused.

Jack is beside you, watching every step closely. His eyes flicker to Walsh's, you pretend you don't see them exchanging a look.

Your priority is the patient on your table.

Assess. Stabilize. Move upstairs.

"Third unit's in." Jesse states.

"Okay, pulse check." You order, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.

Emery presses her fingers against the patient's pulse points. "No femoral. No carotid." The words make your heart drop and for a second it feels like it's you hooked up to the monitor, the flatline mirroring your failure.

You resume compressions. "We had a pulse after three packed cells", exhaling deeply with each push. "We need to get him up asap, Em." Em. Not Emery. Not Dr. Walsh. Your professional exterior clearly cracked wide open, ribs spread apart.

"We need a pulse to go to the OR. You know this." Emery hovers next to you now. You can feel her breath against your damp skin.

Jack doesn't say anything, but you get the feeling he's with Emery. His arms are crossed, his weight shifting from one leg to the other, worry written across his features. His own trauma pulling at the seams. But he doesn't let it in. He's focused on you, watching you touch your belly in a nervous tic.

The realization that this is a battle you're going to lose, dizzies you. You take a step back, hands slightly trembling, as Javadi takes over compressions. A million techniques and procedures flash through your mind.

A lifetime worth of training. Of knowledge. But nothing makes sense. Your brain starts to short-circuit.

Focus on the medicine.

"I could try a REBOA?" Santos suggests, stressing the word with dangerous confidence.

"Would that work?" Javadi cuts in, panting.

You don't look, but you feel Jack shaking his head softly, with a resigned sadness.

"Dr. Abbot, step back." Emery grabs your elbow, forceful.

You shove her with the same attitude, turning your attention back to the patient. "He's right on the edge..."

"Dr. Abbot." Emery moves to the other Abbot, willing him to say something.

Jack nods, silently reaching for your hand. The cold sensation on your clammy skin startles you. You pull your hand away, sharply. Nearly throwing him off balance.

You stare at them incredulous, their betrayal like a sharp stabbing pain in your back.

When did they team up? Against you, nonetheless.

"It's not Jack!" Emery yells without thinking, but she fears it's the only thing that can pull you back to the surface.

The flatline echoes in the distance, but you don't wait for them to call time of death.

Your mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. Gloves are ripped off with a snap, before you flee the scene. Not ready to face the consequences of your defeat.

After finishing the rest of his shift, Jack enters the home you've built together. The curtains are drawn. The lights dim. No familiar smell coming from the kitchen.

He paces through the empty hallway before he finds you in the ensuite bathroom, still washing today's trauma off. Scrubbing. Until your hands are sore. Then scrubbing some more.

"I’m not trying to fight with you." His voice is low and soft.

"Then don’t." You scoff. "Don’t take her side. She wasn’t there."

"No." Jack shakes his head in acknowledgement. "But she means well." He surprises himself by siding with his supposed mortal enemy.

"She always does this. Acting like she needs to fix me."

"Surgeons." Jack offers playfully, but you don't bite.

"I'm not her fucking patient."

Jack reaches for your hand, attempting to pull you out of your spiral.

"Fuck off." You snap. Too harshly.

"Hey." His eyes sharpen. "I can't talk to you like this."

"Yeah? That's kind of the point."

"Last I checked, this means something." He grabs your hand, bringing the delicate ring on your finger into vision. You snatch your hand away.

"The piece of metal that binds you to me? Without it you'd have run for the hills ages ago." This conversation is starting to feel more and more like a losing battle in itself. It's like you're right back in that trauma room. Fighting for someone’s future. Though this isn't quite as tangible.

Why didn't med school prepare you for this?

Jack huffs a humorless laugh. "Every day. In love and in life." He breaks eye contact. "Even when you resent me."

"No. Don't do this. You don't get to tell me, I resent you for choosing you. For years, I let you act like I'm doing this selflessly. A noble sacrifice in the name of love. Like it was your fault-"

"We both know it was." Jack's words rip through the air like a bullet. Tearing straight through your heart. Leaving you breathless, unable to speak. The air constricting, like there's a tube down your throat.

"Don't pretend it wasn't. I was sent home. You could've stayed. But you didn't and you've hated me since." There's a brutally honest edge to his confession that feels like someone's sliced you open, vultures waiting to feast on your organs.

You process for a few beats, before rediscovering your voice. Shock slowly replaced by anger.

"Don't ever say that to me again." You cross your arms, hiding your trembling hands in the safety of your embrace, the hurt palpable. "I did that for you." You say quietly, painfully aware of the throbbing ache in your chest.

"Yeah? I never fucking asked you to."

This isn't Jack. But something within him's snapped. He fears if he doesn't lay it all out on the table now, there's no chance of recovery.

Soon you'll be the one calling time of death on your marriage.

You stare at him, suddenly realizing you've exhausted all options. There's nothing more you can do. You gave it your best.

You really fucking tried.

"I wanted this. I wanted you. But I'm... tired." You hesitate. "Maybe it's time we stop trying."

Jack is silent, already anticipating where you're going, knowing you saying the words out loud will break him.

You search his eyes, only to find your own grief reflected back at you.

"People get divorced, Jack. All the time."

The weight of your words crushes him, compressing his lungs. The force on his body leaving him momentarily paralyzed.

He just blinks at you, his expression illegible.

Your eyes are locked on his, willing him to say something.

Back in control of his muscles, Jack moves to his side of the bed, silently grabbing his pillow and heading towards the door.

You furrow your brows. "What are you doing?"

"What's it look like I'm doing?" Jack answers, an unexpected resignation in his voice.

You groan. "I'll sleep on the couch. You stay."

Jack says your name like he's breaking the news of someone's passing to their loved ones. Crushed by a new reality, even if they're in denial.

"Are you serious?" You ask, blocking the doorway with an unwavering confidence that is usually reserved for emergencies.

Maybe this is one.

"Yeah, I'm serious. Move." His words are composed and determined, like he's not speaking as your husband, but your attending.

"You know you'll get no sleep on that thing. You'll be fucked tomorrow-" You try to reason.

"I don't need you to protect me!" He yells, too loud. The shrill tone taking you aback, making your heart race like someone's calling a code. "Stop treating me like I'm broken."

You grimace, your hand instinctively finds your belly again, your nails digging tightly into your battleworn skin.

Jack immediately retreats. "I- I'm sorry-"

Shouting is the one thing you don't do. You fight. You argue. You walk away. But you don't let anger boil over to the point of raising your voices at the other. Your therapist finds it healthy. But you both know it's from a combination of your PTSD triggers and shared trauma.

"Do me a fucking favor and sleep in our bed." You hiss, ripping the pillow from his hands and throwing it back onto the bed.

Before the next wave of pain hits you, you disappear into the bathroom to splash water on your flushed face.

Jack stands still for a moment, instant regret shooting through him. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his palms.

He calls out for you again, softer.

"I'm leaving! Fuck." You stumble back into the room, face wet, eyes burning. You find him looking up at you with a sadness you've only seen once before. Your heart palpitates with sorrow. Each skipped beat a reminder of all the loss and heartbreak.

"Please." He gestures at the duvet, gently touching the empty space next to him. "Stay."

In a moment of vulnerability, you truly see your husband in front of you. Your person.

With familiar effortlessness you kneel down in front of him, your hands resting gently on his tensed thighs.

A glimpse of what was. Intimate and tender.

Your hands find his prosthetic, sliding it off with practiced ease, slowly working it out of the socket.

"You're not broken."

Your words wrap around his heart, loving and earnest, like your hands massaging his leg.

You linger in his space, staring directly into his soul. Your eyes expressing more than every language in the world.

"You're whole."

Jack’s thumb instinctively caresses your cheek. The kind of closeness you both crave deeply, but haven't found in each other in far too long.

You both slide onto the bed, silently staring up at the ceiling.

Jack turns to look at you, before softly placing his palm on your abdomen.

"Is that really what you want?" He whispers into the darkness, afraid to hear your answer.

The silence hangs heavy with the words unsaid.

You notice the awful ringing in your ears first.

It's so fucking loud.

At the same time, you can't hear anything at all. Your brain is too slow to catch up.

Jack, the other medic in your unit, - and secret fling - just handed you a cheap beer. You were eating burnt food. As usual, when you were in charge of dinner.

Why are you on the ground?

Sharp objects pierce your sunburnt skin. A cocktail of sand and ash forces its way inside your mouth and nostrils, making you gag. You gasp for air, willing the dust around you to disperse.

But a cloud of darkness blinds you. Fiery sparks and flashes shooting through the air without direction.

Then it hits you, like a second wave of explosives.

Your unit was ambushed.

Where's Jack?

You stumble to your feet, desperately looking for something to hold onto. To steady you. Rough hands suddenly grab at you, pulling you behind metal walls for cover.

Your sergeant. Shouting at you like there's no tomorrow, but you can't make out what.

He's violently shaking your shoulders, then just as quickly, he's somewhere else. You drop back against the wall with a harsh thud.

It takes all of your energy to let your head fall to one side. When you spot him. Just out of the corner of your eye.

Jack.

On the ground.

Gasping, breathing erratically, staring up at the sky, like he's waiting to become a part of it.

For a second you let your eyes dart to where he's looking.

A beautiful, peaceful sight. The world above you, blissfully unaware of the atrocities going on below.

Something brings you back. A distorted sound.

A low, agonizing cry. You don't know where it's coming from, until your eyes shoot back to Jack.

Still on the ground.

Fuck. You're trained for this.

Why is he not moving? Why aren't you?

Your eyes scan his body, your medical instincts taking over like muscle memory. Assessing.

Your gaze lands on his torso. There's no obvious trauma, your eyes move lower, towards his hips, his pelvis, down to his legs.

Then you see it. The massive gash below his right knee.

You don't think. You just react.

Don't even register your seargent shouting at you again. Your legs carrying you to Jack's side, dropping to your knees beside him.

Not as his partner, not his girlfriend.

There's barely a trace of the woman he's grown to love, only the professional, hardened combat medic.

With one goal.

Assess, stabilize, evacuate.

Your hands move on autopilot, tightening a tourniquet just below his knee. Desperate to stop the-

To stop the love of your life from bleeding out!!

Your professional demeanor cracks, your eyes suddenly dart to Jack's. His are already on you. Holding onto you like you're the anchor tying him to this life.

The tourniquet holds. Your hands find his face. Desperate to comfort him in any way you can.

You can't speak. Neither does Jack.

And you still cannot hear a thing.

Not even when muffled thuds go off. You don't acknowledge your team readying their guns. Your only focus is Jack.

Then you feel it. Not the impact, but the warm liquid instantly soaking your uniform.

Your eyes flicker to your abdomen. It doesn't register immediately.

Though when it does, the world suddenly regains volume. The sound almost deafening.

Fuck.

No Man's Land.

But it doesn't matter. Only one thing does.

Protect Jack.

You throw your body over his, shielding him from whatever's coming.

You can feel his ragged breaths against your neck, your blood leaking into his uniform. Flooding him with your warmth, while your skin grows cold.

If this is goodbye, there’s no one you’d rather be with.

Minutes pass.

The dust settles. The sounds slow. But unfortunately, so does your breathing.

It takes all of your energy to lift your head just enough to find Jack's eyes underneath you. Looking up at you with a sadness you hope to God you'll never see again.

He's scared to death. Though not for himself.

You give him a brave smile to reassure him, before dropping onto your back.

There's too much blood.

Jack's. Yours. It's all one.

If you go, he’ll follow. And vice versa.

Without wasting a second, one of Jack's arms pulls you closer, throwing his hand over your wound. Gathering all of his remaining strength to apply pressure.

To protect you.

The world around you starts to fade. Your team moves around you frantically.

But you and Jack, just lie there, still, holding each other.

Until darkness takes you.

You wake to an empty bed, made perfectly, like it wasn't slept in. You stumble into the kitchen to find your coffee and go-bag ready on the counter, the habitual gesture making you smile, before the sadness rushes back in.

Is that really what you want?

Then you notice the stick-it note attached to the fridge.

We should talk to someone.

Vague as ever.

A therapist? A lawyer? God?

A jarring ding pulls you out of your head.

You open the door swiftly, being greeted with an iced oat latte and your favorite pastries from the coffee shop across the street. A cheap attempt at a peace offering.

"Have we calmed down or are we still pouting?" Walsh's sarcastic tone echoes through the hallway.

You attempt to slam the door shut, but she beats you to it, quickly wedging her foot into the frame. You roll your eyes, hard, before making your way back into your living room. Satisfied, she accepts the invitation and follows you in.

"It wasn't your place to get involved." You state, serious, crossing your arms and sinking into your corner of the couch.

Walsh sets the coffee down next to you before placing the pastries on the bottom shelf of your fridge. Her movements are familiar, like she's done this a thousand times.

With a groan she sits down on the other end of the couch, your eyes tracking her.

"Someone had to say it." She states nonchalantly, sipping her own latte.

Sure no one else would've dared. But…

"It was still fucked up."

She sighs deeply, leaning forward to shove the cup closer to you, like the ice can melt away the betrayal. "I'm sorry."

You nod, reluctantly taking a sip of your coffee.

"I suggested a divorce." You blurt out.

Emery almost chokes on her drink, eyes wide. "You what?"

God. Her reaction somehow makes it worse.

"I just don't see a way of moving forward, Em. Something needs to change."

Emery nods.

"We were happier once, weren't we?" You ask, like a child seeking reassurance from a parent.

"I don't know." Walsh answers truthfully. "But you were sadder before him."

"Do you think I smother him?"

Emery leans in, taking your hand. "You saved each other. In more ways than one." She gives you a squeeze. "Maybe you forgot that being married is more than sharing a home."

Though you usually work night shifts now, you've agreed to take a day one, your and Jack's shifts only slightly overlapping.

Preparing for the madness to come, you find yourself on the roof of PTMC to watch the world come alive before your eyes. The first rays of sunshine spreading warmth across your skin against the cold of the night.

This is where Jack comes to process particularly bad cases. It means something to him. So it does to you too.

It didn't surprise you that Jack proposed on a roof. Not this one. He's not that morbid. It was your first apartment. But without any grand gesture. No fairy lights, cozy blankets or candlelight dinner.

It was simple.

Just two people, in love.

To be fair there was a blanket. One. And he wrapped you both in it, while you were watching the stars above. Or at least you were. Jack was gazing at something far more mesmerizing. His future flashing before his eyes, like a shooting star.

Everything that's truly ever mattered, leaning into him. Seeking comfort in the darkness, finding it in his warmth. And he in yours.

“Marry me.” He whispered it with a confidence like he already knew what you were going to say.

You only just notice you stepped under the railing, a little too close to the edge. But somehow, you get the appeal. Of how being this close to certain death makes you feel weirdly alive.

The door creaks open, you don't have to turn around to know who it is. You can hear it in his footsteps.

"I'm in your spot." You state, beating Jack to it.

"I hate it when you do this." He mutters under his breath, approaching slowly.

"Ditto." You counter with a smirk, turning your head slightly to shoot him a glance.

"If you lose balance, you go over... that’s it."

"Don’t be so dramatic." You sigh theatrically.

He shifts his weight and groans, arms clinging onto the railing. Your eyes flicker to him, as he rests his head.

Your brows furrow. "You okay?"

He lifts his head just enough to look at you. "Are you?"

You can't help but smile. He returns it with a grin, announcing his dry humor is about to make a guest appearance. "Aim for the bay, otherwise you’ll hit the roof and end up on my table."

You laugh, like you haven't in years. A reminder of before.

He huffs. "But I hope you know, if you jump, I’ll hate you forever."

"I thought you already did." You say it as a joke, but it hits a nerve. Jack's face grows serious.

You turn to fully face him. "I know it wasn't you. Yesterday. With Em."

"Yeah." He mouths, understanding. "But it took you back." A statement, not a question.

"I felt it." Your eyes begin to sting with a familiar burn. "The pain, the fear... the thought of losing you-"

"I swear we were friends." Jack interrupts, unable to shake his thoughts. You tilt your head in confusion. "Before all this. Before the pitt, the tours, coming back."

You listen, even though it really fucking hurts. Because it's true.

"Before we were lovers. Before we became strangers." He sighs deeply. “I don’t recognize us. We never run away from the hard stuff.”

A realization suddenly hits you. "I think I changed. And so did you. But we didn't.”

Your inhales deepen, both of you now breathing in perfect harmony.

Jack leans closer, tilting his head to make sure his words reach your soul. "I want this. This life. With you. I'll never stop wanting it. Even if you choose to walk away."

"I don't..." Jack's face drops, you quickly elaborate. "I don't want to leave you, Jack. My worst fear is a life without you."

Jack exhales like he wasn't breathing until now, sadness, grief and heartbreak visibly leaving his body.

You lean in too. "What if we find new ways to share it?"

Years of unresolved sadness finally come to light. Beautifully mirrored by the rising sun. Another chapter.

A new beginning.

Jack reaches for your hand. Only this time you don't pull away. You stay. And let Jack hold you. Like he promised. Like you both did.

Every day.

© quickestgold, 2025.

Taglist: @mayabbot @sus-styles @clarasmoon @ezraphalitis @ncsls0515 @melancholyy-hill lmk if you want to be added! ☼

[botchedsundoll]

Teehee hi! if ur taking requests can I request for re guys and how they would propose to their partner?

L. KENNEDY, C. REDFIELD, C. OLIVEIRA X READER (SEPARATE)

ೃ⁀➷ sypnosis; proposing to you

ೃ⁀➷ warnings; slightly suggestive in leon’s (ig?)

ೃ⁀➷ author’s note; this was so cute but i kept them relatively short bc orherwise i would’ve made full fleshed fics…., hope u all r doing ok!!!, no proofread lol standard me, anon… am so sorrt this took so long

C. OLIVEIRA

he’s a romantic at heart

for him, the most ideal proposal would be something extremely cliché - a fancy meal at a restaurant, a peaceful walk along the beach before he gets down on one knee, sunset in the background casting a warm glow to-

you get the point. though funnily enough, he brings it up one night when the two of you are laying in bed. he’s laying flat on his back, hand supporting the back of his head with his other arm wrapped around you - currently clinging onto his side.

you’re half conscious, half lidded eyes slowly closing as you’re lulled to sleep by the soft drumming of his heart..

‘will you marry me?’

eyes snap open almost immediately, despite his voice being barely above a whisper. he doesn’t even bother reiterating his words and instead lifts his head up, arm reaching out for the side table and pulling the drawer open

a ring.

‘marry me sweetheart.’

L. KENNEDY

with my whole heart i believe he would do it in the cheesiest, yet romantic, way possible, in a good way. simply out of love, he thinks you deserve the world.

it all starts out with a fancy dinner reservation at that restaurant you kept on going on about wanting to try. pulls out a matching set of earrings and a necklace whilst you’re waiting for your food, insisting on helping you put them on right that second

‘you shouldn’t have to do anything today. it’s my treat.’

it’s nice. sweet. the two of you end up back home with a bottle of some fancy red wine, settling it down on the table whilst he helps you take your heels off

and once you end up propped up by your elbows on the mattress, leon kneeled by the edge of the bed, trailing soft kisses along the expanse of your leg

he suddenly freezes after placing a kiss to your inner thigh, eyes meeting yours as he murmured against your skin, a whisper of your name fleeting past his lips

‘you’re all i want. will you marry me?’

C. REDFIELD

i see this going in two ways; either everything’s deliberate, sweet and meticulously planned out or a completely random spur of the moment type thing

if it was the latter, he’d probably just came back from a mission. most likely a relatively taxing one - don’t get me wrong, the job was successful. he’d just have liked it to have gone a bit smoother

one or two broken ribs, hues of purple and blue blooming across his back and lower torso. probably concussed.

and so when he finally returns back home and sees you lazing on the couch in a dressing gown - that shitty sitcom you like so much playing on the tv and a mug of freshly poured tea on the coffee table. a massive grin on your face once you catch sight of him, practically jumping up from your position in excitement

it hits him. if anything had happened, if he’d even slipped up the slightest bit on that mission - he could’ve lost this

drops his duffel bag immediately, practically sprinting over towards you and cradling your smaller face in his much bigger hands. a desperate kiss to your lips.

‘shit, marry me.’

goes out the next morning whilst you’re still asleep and comes back with an absolutely gorgeous ring - something that just screams you

[chadobi]

Hey! Someone sent me an ask about writing this, but I can’t seem to find it anymore 😭😭

Either way, thank you to whoever suggested it

I hope you like how it turned out!

Mirror Talk

Bayverse Michelangelo x fem!reader

You’d never been very good at falling asleep when he was around.

Not because he was loud, though to be fair, he absolutely was but because having Michelangelo in your apartment meant having the human (or rather, turtle) equivalent of a party popper beside you. Even in silence, even wrapped up in your blanket watching old cartoons on mute, he vibrated with energy. Big, messy, alive energy.

You weren’t sure how he managed to take up so much space without actually doing anything. But it wasn’t a complaint.

Right now, he was lying on your floor, feet up on the couch, hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows. The light from your TV flickered across his plastron. You were half-asleep on the couch cushions above him, head resting against a throw pillow that still smelled like laundry detergent and takeout.

“I’m bored,” he announced suddenly, kicking his feet up and down like a kid at a sleepover.

“You’re watching a movie,” you said, eyes closed. “You chose the movie.”

“Yeah, but now I’m watching you sleep instead and that’s not technically entertainment unless you start snoring.”

You cracked one eye open and gave him a look. “Do I snore?”

He grinned. “Nah. You make these little pfft noises with your nose like a sleepy baby hedgehog. It’s adorable.”

“Should I be flattered or mildly concerned that you know this?”

“Yes.”

You groaned, dragging a pillow over your face. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet.” He wiggled his fingers in the air. “You’re still dating me.”

“Remind me why?”

“Because I’m the total package, babe. Brains, beauty, biceps.” He flexed one arm, which promptly hit your coffee table with a thunk. “Also, I do great impressions.”

You peeked at him from under the pillow. “Impressions?”

He cleared his throat, sat up slightly, and in a high, nervous voice, said:

“Hi, uh, you probably don’t wanna go out with me, but if you maybe did, like, want to get pizza or something sometime… I mean, unless you hate pizza, then we could get, like, tofu. Or air. Or I could just cry into my pillow—”

You were laughing before he finished the sentence.

“What was that?”

“That,” he said dramatically, resting a hand over his chest, “was me. Two weeks ago. In the mirror. For like forty-five minutes.”

You blinked. “…You practiced asking me out in the mirror?”

“Bro, so much.” He flopped back down with a groan. “You have no idea. I stood in Donnie’s lab with a broom and a helmet on top and practiced every version of asking you out that a person could possibly imagine. Smooth guy Mikey. Sensitive poet Mikey. Straight-up ‘I wrote you a rap’ Mikey.”

“Please tell me you didn’t write a rap.”

“Oh, I did. I deleted it. But it rhymed ‘booyakasha’ with ‘your aura’s like matcha.’ I was proud.”

You buried your face in the blanket, laughing so hard your ribs hurt. “That’s terrible.”

“I know! That’s why I deleted it! But you were so cool and chill and smart and pretty and I was like “oh no, she has actual standards, I need to rehearse or I’ll ruin everything”.”

You turned toward him, still laughing, but softer now.

“You didn’t need to rehearse, Mikey. I liked you already.”

“Yeah, but like… you’re you,” he said, half-laughing, half-sincere, sitting up now, cross-legged and looking a little pink beneath the orange. “I didn’t wanna mess it up by being, y’know, me.”

You leaned down and kissed the top of his head, resting your forehead against his.

“You didn’t mess it up.”

“I didn’t?”

“Not even with the matcha rhyme.”

He grinned, wide and boyish. “Then I guess the mirror speech worked after all.”

“Oh my god.” You pushed his shoulder. “I’m dating a dork.”

“I’m your dork.” He tackled you back onto the couch, dramatically, like a Broadway fall, arms flailing. “And this dork wants cuddles, please and thank you.”

You squealed as he flopped half on top of you, a giant living weighted blanket in a hoodie, all warm muscle and ridiculous affection.

“You’re crushing me!”

“I contain multitudes,” he mumbled, face buried in your neck. “I contain love. And also dumpling farts. But mostly love.”

And somehow, despite the chaos, the noise, and the sheer amount of shell currently pressing into your ribs, you felt completely at peace.

Two weeks in, and already, you couldn’t imagine anything else.

[sag-dab-sar]

Hellenic Polytheist Reconstructionists

Am I a reconstructionist? No. And I do think there is a difference between Recon and Revival.

Here is my feeling of difference, some are absolutely going to disagree with this but its my perspective:

"Polytheist Reconstructionism & Revivalism is the worship of a pantheon of Gods heavily influenced by the original religion that worshipped them. It is not a claim of continuity with that religion, or a desire to reinstate the ancient culture & its morals/laws. Reconstructionism attempts to be as close as possible to actual ancient practice without forgoing modern morals. While Revivalism attempts to remain close to the meaning of the ancient practice— allowing for heavy modern adaptations while still fulfilling the ancient practice purpose."

My entire practice has to be modified for my disability, I had dreams of recon but the methods I can't preform.

My zero spoon praxis is all modern:

My method of low spoon / no spoon libations is entirely modern and not at all how the ancient people would do it. Purpose: Doing libations is better than not doing them.

The idea of just invoking them. Saying "Hygeia" before a shower. Saying Theoi's names before a sip or bite to make it an offering. Etc. Purpose: Again literally anything is better than nothing.

Watching TV "with" the Gods (no I don't believe they're sitting next to me or anything). Purpose: keep the Gods in my life and mind, as they were ever present for the ancient people.

Defining "purity" as being clean with the clear ability to focus on the Gods even if in PJs. Definitely not ancient standard. I'd worship if sick if I can get all the symptoms under control (like cough medicine for example), have clean clothes, wash hands and face, focus. I'd worship on a period so long as I was clean and could focus. Etc. Purpose: while it is not the ancient standard of purity, purity is important so I had to have some sort of bench mark (its even more important in Sumerian but thats outside scope of post)

New Festivals (I usually write low spoon versions). I'm trying out some ancient ones but I find them hard to connect to (or at least don't have energy yet to appreciate them), I make my own right now. Purpose: The ancient people really liked festivals

I could go on, point is adapting ancient practices to make an attempt to meet the purpose is my goal. I'm not focused necessarily on using the ancient methods (well not yet I take things as my disability allows)

But without reconstructionists (many of whom are classicists) I would not know:

Miasma vs lyma. And this is important because I had met people who head veiled specifically to protect themselves from miasma because they thought it was that common and bad

Different methods of purity: just washing hands face; barley throwing; fire extinguished in water; few others

How to structure ancient prayers if you want to write them in that way. And how it is interwoven with Kharis.

Literally any ancient Hellenic Festival outside the book by Labrys (and I suppose Kosmos but I don't trust the author)

Debunks of modern Hellenic Polytheist things people are claiming are ancient when they are modern

Anything that requires translation from ancient Greek to explain the concept because either no English language translation exists or more often the English translation leaves out significant valuable information for religious practice.

Explanations of ancient texts and their context

Epithet explanations

Explanations of various Theoi beyond the "God of ___" one finds in website info blurbs

Ancient Greek Calendars

Book resource recommendations and often free access.

Website resources recommendations.

Journal articles & authors recommendations

If I didn't know the ancient standards and methods I would not be able to adapt anything at all and meet the "purpose"

........ literally being able to ask questions from people who have actual knowledge of the ancient religion and are willing to take time out of their day to answer

Reconstructionists do so much damn leg work in Hellenic Polytheism. So much. And so many people seem to refuse to acknowledge that. We take it all but never appreciate their approach. And many reconstructionists have been run off this website for no good reason.

I have seen a grand total of one person claiming to be recon who disparaged non-reconstructionists, and he was a xenophobic douche regardless. Beyond that I haven't had any recon disparage revivalism [edit: as in disparage the fact that it exists or claim its not Hellenic Polytheism]. Correction on information =/= hate. Pointing out something is modern =/= hate. Having different opinions =/= hate.

So to all the Hellenic Polytheist Reconstructionists: Thank you.

-dyslexic not audio proof read-