#e-conversion

[mayor-david-prentiss]

i think it's kinda insane that warhorse lets you observe henry seeing the deepest moment of intimacy in the game between ištvan and erik. and that at the possibly most impactful and emotional moment for henry, high in that tower where hes supposed to kill the man hes been dreaming of killing for weeks, he can still stop to ask if what he saw was love.

[blessedarethebinarybreakers]

This post used to hold a poem inspired by the Rev. Munther Isaac's declaration that "God is under the rubble in Gaza."

After a few anons and a conversation with a Jewish friend, I've decided to take the poem down because, regardless of my own intentions with it, it risks feeding the long and extremely harmful history of blood libel, because I included imagery of the infant Jesus and his parents being killed by an Israeli soldier, as many Palestinians are being killed now.

Before talking with that friend, I wrote in this response to an anon about my intentions with the poem — but while I do believe that intentions do matter, they don't matter nearly as much as impact does.

My friend helped me come to the conclusion that while the poem I wrote could be interpreted as I intended by people who already have all the context I wrote it in (see below), it could also all too easily be interpreted much more harmfully by those who lack that context — or worse, who are looking for more fuel for their antisemitism. The poem is not worth that risk, not at all.

___

Ultimately, I hold two things I believe to be true in tension:

that Christians throughout the ages have found deep comfort and encouragement in understanding Jesus as suffering in and with them. I support all Christian Palestinians who, like Rev. Isaac, experience God-with-them in this way — in this horrific time, they deserve any ounce of comfort they can derive. And them personally seeking and finding the Divine presence with them is not antisemitic.

that for Christians like myself in the USA, who live in the beating heart of Empire and Christian Supremacy, it is vital to take care in how we talk about this theology in this current situation, where the oppressors are Jewish. Providing more fuel for Christian antisemitism is inexcusable, and I deeply apologize for writing and sharing a piece that can be used in that way.

Because modern-day Israel is a Jewish state, exploring that Divine solidarity in this context comes with a great risk of perpetuating the long, harmful history of antisemitic blood libel and accusations of deicide. How do we affirm God’s presence with those suffering in Palestine without (implicitly or explicitly) adding to the poisonous lie that “the Jews killed Jesus”?

In wrestling with this complexity, I tried to write this poem to uplift both Jesus’s Jewishness and his solidarity with Palestinians. Jesus was born into a Jewish family, his entire worldview was shaped by his Jewishness, and he shared in his people’s suffering under the Roman Empire. His solidarity with Palestinians of various faiths suffering today does not erase that Jewishness. Nor does it mean that Jewish persons don’t “belong” in the region — only that modern Israel’s occupation of Palestine is in no way necessary for Jews to live and thrive there, or anywhere else in the world.

I also aimed to point out that Israel is by no means acting alone in this attack on Gaza or their decades-long occupation of Palestine. There is a much larger Empire at work, with my own country, the United States, at the helm. Israel is entangled in that imperial mess, and directly backed and funded by those forces — not because of what politicians claim, that we have to back Israel or else we’re antisemitic, but because Israel is our strategic foothold in the so-called Middle East. How do we name our complicity as our tax dollars are funneled into violence across the world, and act to end that violence?

___

I'm sorry this post isn't as articulate as I want it to be. All of this to say: I deeply apologize for any hurt my poem caused. I understand how horrific Christianity's history of — and ongoing present — antisemitism is, and how it poisons and warps so much that could have been beautiful. I'll keep educating myself; I'll keep having hard conversations; I'll keep working to uproot antisemitism in myself and my communities.

___

I'll close with a list of resources for learning about Palestine's history and getting involved.

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Isobel Thorm, icon, godsend, hero, absolute titan, determined to carry the hurt/comfort genre on her STR 12 shoulders. I adore her.

Of course, the catch is that she herself has also Been Through The Horrors but chooses not to acknowledge this in favour of adamantly insisting on being the caretaker (which she is obviously very good at, like... professionally, as a cleric and healer).

And even more than that, caretaker to a person who is a big nigh-unkillable (but very significantly not, as Isobel herself points out, unharmable!) radiant wall of muscle and holy fury so used to being a champion and protector herself, extremely keen to dismiss her own issues as a bit of "paladin's fatigue" and "flights of fancy" and who is on so many levels, some very fundamental to her being, tied into being A Sword.

I guess my point is... fic writer comrades-in-arms, this is what we call a goldmine.

[simsinlowspace]

Mt. Komorebi - 4t2 Conversion of Kiwisim4's Paintings

I'm almost done with that large conversion set I've been working on, but in the meantime I wanted to share this lovely artwork with y'all!

I stumbled onto these paintings yesterday and knew I had to have them, so I did a quick conversion while I drank my coffee this morning. I tried to add subsets to the mesh but the texture would have required remapping and that's just not in my skillset yet.

Anyway, the original artwork is by @e-aplouf​ and was made into TS4 art by @kiwisim4. There are twelve paintings total, just one frame color (I don't use dark frames nearly as often as light ones and it didn't seem worth the duplicate textures):

A numbered swatch is included so you can easily keep just what you like.

DOWNLOAD (SFS) Paintings are ~2MB

Lots of love, Spacey

@4t2ccdatabase

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 273

You know what? We need more Good parents Fentons. 

And you know what else? Technically, Jack helped Danny defeat Pariah via the use of the Ecto-Skeleton. And like, that’s his son, his baby boy. Sure Danny is and has always been a mommy’s boy, but it doesn’t change that fact. They’re both already feeling horrible about the fact they could have hurt him, they could have hurt their son- they have hurt their son, killed him with their inaction and never again. 

So when these oversized jello-eyeballs try to insist that their baby, their precious baby boy, take a crown? Become a king when he’s not even out of highschool, when he doesn’t want it? No. Hell no! That is his Danny-o, his baby boy who was terrified of his own parents! 

Which is how Jack, despite technically still being alive even if so-very ecto-contaminated, became the Ghost King. 

And for some reason there’s several ghosts rather happy about this- oh, these are his Danny-O’s ghost-parents? Not-ghost parents seeing as some of them have never been anything but a realm denizen? That’s really fascinating- y’know what, want some fudge and we can exchange childcare- Maddie dear come over and meet our co-parents apparently!  

Now it’s not all easy, but they’re trying their best, and that’s all that can be asked. 

…

Which is perhaps why it’s so exasperating- or as Maddie would put it, downright infuriating- that it is now, almost an entire year and a half later that the Heroes finally arrive to investigate. Well, at least he has plenty of fudge since it’s almost time for the council meeting. 

[lunarcrossingart]

There is this bomb ticking away in me, placed by someone else. One I must diffuse all my life and rebuke the pain given to me.

Shadow the Hedgehog would be a great allegory for breaking the cycle of abuse.

Cause, like, do you ever realize he didn't have combat training on the ark? That there's a section of his life where Gerald forced him to become a weapon?? Like, Shadow has the heart of Maria and Gerald still did that to him.

I mean, Black Doom is awful but like this lil section where Gerald reconditions Shadow takes the cake me thinks.

[embracedfire]

Realm Aimsey and Sneeg watchers what's up in got a new headcanon for ya

When they whisper to each other over in-game messaging, it's them communicating through little warden/skulk clicks through their antennae :)

[whoreiorcats]

Gemma was the only one who really appreciated Ricken’s style of humor. She was his best friend, he was her very good friend.

[takohebi]

unearthed this years-old sketch

[holy-puckslibrary]

— 𝐯𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐬.

pairing(s) — dilf!ERIK JOHNSON x ex-nanny!wife!reader (established); REESE JOHNSON (oc) x ex-nanny!stepmom!reader (platonic / familial)

wc — 4.7k synopsis — family weekend forces reese’s worlds to collide. results are… mixed note — i just really love reese. that's it :) and how dilfy does mr johnson look in that gif good lord

the nanny (series masterlist) | main masterlist

content warnings under the cut.

cw — age gap relationship (erik and the reader, established), vulgar college boys with no respect, busy-bodies who cannot mind their own beeswax, possessive!erik, pregnant!reader (not discussed in detail), sweet bby reese in peril :(

REESE JOHNSON has a problem.

It’s the sort of anxiety-trodden predicament that could’ve been soothed into nothingness had he spoken up sooner. He didn’t because he couldn’t. That was part of the problem. 

And now it’s too late—for solutions or comfort.

The teen, now a second-semester freshman at the University of Denver, had long since adjusted to the heightened scrutiny of his family in the early days of your relationship with his father. Everyone online had to throw in their two cents on the “illicit affair.” Even people who didn’t give a shit about hockey (evidenced by their inability to name a single team) felt they had a right to weasel their way in. While irritating and uncomfortable, the harsh reads didn’t bother him for too long because Reese knew the truth.

He also knew how unnecessarily ruthless people could be when they had a screen to hide behind. The son of a prominent figure in professional sports, Reese knew people stared at him through a very particular lens. It veered toward a rosy sheen every so often, but mostly it was smudged glass. Like a fish tank whose walls were muddy with the greasy impressions spectators left behind. Strangers offering commentary on his father’s life, and by extension his too, was part of the gig.

Frankly, the aftermath wasn’t much different than before. Only the subject matter changed. If it wasn’t thinly veiled insults about Erik’s waning career or his prior inability to keep a girlfriend, it was overly critical evaluations of Reese’s prowess or lack thereof and, unsurprisingly, comparisons between father and son. Without fail, the verbiage and tone implied competition, hinting that their healthy bond was only a bit of showmanship to hide the rocky resentment beneath.

This weekend is different. Sure, his teammates and friends had already gotten ample face-time with both of his parents, as well as his kid sister, but never all at once. Though they all did their best to coordinate, busy schedules rendered a revolving cheering section for Reese Johnson. 

This weekend—family weekend—will change that. By some stroke of luck (or a cruel twist of fate, the jury's still out on that one), everyone would be here… together. And that’s not to say he isn’t grateful for their effort or that he isn’t excited because he is. Reese is thrilled to share this new slice of life with his loved ones. It’s just that…

Reese knows how it looks when they venture out into the world.

Not that his dad is exactly old or even old-looking. In the same way you aren’t questionably young. Still, the age difference is noticeable. Before you were more than a nanny to the Johnsons (if you were ever just a nanny to begin with), it was easier for on-lookers to assess the dynamic, and still, albeit seldomly, they would drum up gossip. Things got remarkably more awkward, though, after his father finally plucked up the courage to propose, and increased tenfold once Erik had a gold band to match. It was as if the wedding ushered in the open season on Johnsons.

More times than he cared to count, Reese found himself cupping Josie’s ears to keep his little sister from hearing jeering crowds calling their dad an old pervert and you a shameless gold-digger. No one’s had to explain what a “sugar daddy” is (or why it's the first thing that auto-populates when you plug ‘Erik Johnson’ into Google), but the burden would’ve fallen on Reese if he hadn’t left her in the car while he ran in to grab a takeout order last summer.

But Erik’s eldest isn’t just worried about his family existing outside the warmth and safety of their insulated bubble. His sleepless nights are filled with fear. Fear of the pain and sadness he’ll undoubtedly feel about it all now that he sees you less as his friend and more as a maternal figure.

Reese’s always been protective; it's led to many a fight with his own father and, sometimes, his own sister. He’s the first to rush to your aid and the strongest force in your defense. The habit, however,  strengthened when his perspective shifted as swiftly as flipping a switch. 

Suddenly, you weren’t just his dad’s girlfriend or the person who made him pancakes in the morning. Or the savior who dropped off his English paper because he was in such a hurry he left it on the printer. You were a confidant, someone he called for when he was in a bad spot or when he wanted to see the latest mind-numbingly bad action flick. When he asked his date to prom, it was you he wanted help from. When Reese was sick, your home remedies worked better than anything store-bought or concocted by his dad. When practice ran over, he could count on you to wait up with his dinner hot and ready, the rest of the house already fast asleep. 

For the first time since he could remember, the Dad-shaped gap wasn’t devastating. It hurt like a bitch, but it was bearable because he had another adult—another parent—he could rely on. In every sense of the word, you were his mom.

And no one wants to hear disgusting lies about their mom.

However, Reese hasn’t called you that yet. At least, not to your face. In passing to his childhood friends or when referring to you with Josie, sure, and once or twice over the phone with Erik, but when he calls for you, he uses your first name like he's still your “nanny-kid.” But it's not for a lack of trying. It’s just that every time he thinks he’s worked up the nerve, the three letters catch in his throat like molasses, and he doesn’t know how to make it stop. 

Moments like those are the rare few he wishes he were Josie instead of himself. His jovial spitfire of a sister never missed a chance. During her lunch block with classmates, on the phone with their extended family, to strangers at Avs games, or on the sidewalk, the moniker slipped off Josie Johnson’s tongue like water down a slide. Their dad liked to poke fun, warning her to be careful so as not to wear it out from overuse.

Maybe it was the sister snuggled in your stomach that tightened his throat. The baby that could and would call you “Mom” with little effort beyond mastering the string of sound. The baby that would grow up not knowing you as anything besides her mother. It was a shade of ownership Reese felt hesitant to touch. No matter how desperately he yearned to.

The closest he’s come is penning in the title beneath your name on the lanyard that’ll hang from your neck for upcoming festivities. It was a small gesture. Still, it felt like too much and not enough all at once.

Reese is caught between wanting to honor the bond and all you’ve done with the accurate label and the fear of explicitly acknowledging it stirs in his chest. At least in this limbo of sorts, as cumbersome as it's become, Reese can have what he’s always wanted and keep you in his life without risking capsizing the boat with an awkward declaration. It’s an uneasy compromise, but it's the devil he knows. At least he knows what and when to feed it.

Reese hates that he’s letting his worries dictate his life. It's just… hard. No one tells kids how to navigate gaining a new parent or any of the baggage that unique situation carries. No one tells kids how to trust the position’s new occupant not to follow in their predecessor’s footsteps. In his heart, Reese knows you won’t run. But knowing that doesn’t shut down the nagging voice in the back of his mind. The one that drones on like a broken record, telling him that the burden of the word, knotted with his expectations, will be his family’s unraveling.

He couldn’t do that to Josie. To his dad. Or to you and the little sister you’re carrying. 

So, he’ll stomach it. For how long, Reese isn’t sure. But, for now, he’ll stand on the outskirts of the minefield, bidding time.

"Johnson! Your whole family's coming, right?" Kody, a junior defenseman from Fort Collins, yanks Reese from his downward spiral.

The last place he wants to be right now is out in the world. The last thing he needs is to cannonball himself back into the fishbowl. Even if the phantom audience never spoke to him, sometimes their heavy attention pushing into his back was enough to send Reese reeling.

But he made a promise to make more of an effort. To be more social, to have more fun—to take life a little less seriously. 

In his mind, if he was at school to learn and play hockey, there was little room to wiggle. Sure, Reese has had his fair share of adolescent recklessness and could lean toward boyish immaturity at times, but at his core, he was a rule-follower. A responsibility fiend with a penchant for playing the white knight. A stickler for structure. When given the choice between a teenage dream and a full-grown reality, the freshman chose the latter nine times out of ten. 

Reese Johnson’s moral compass weighs down his back pocket; he feels most at peace when things fit neatly into their proper boxes. Good and bad, black and white. One or the other, never both.

Stress and anxiety exacerbate his mental rigidity. And he’s been so fucking far from zen lately.

Reese would’ve broken the stupid promise if it’d been made to anyone besides you. So, when a few of the upperclassmen on the team appeared at his dorm with an invitation to get pizza, he begrudgingly accepted.

It isn’t so bad. Far from awful this far. Definitely not the worst way to spend an evening. His teammates were alright enough guys, and their girlfriends weren’t as callous as he’d expected. Reese just found it hard to connect with them, a situation that couldn’t be more different than his previous team experience. 

With his childhood friends, it all clicked. Fell into place without much real effort from any of them. There was an awkward period, but it ended within the first month and, honestly, had more to do with prepubescent cringe than anything.

An entire semester came and went, and Reese still felt like an outsider. When he looked out onto the ice, he saw a sea of strangers. They had different interests, different priorities. Inside jokes he wasn’t in on. Ones he wasn’t sure he wanted to be in on. Even their sense of decorum was foreign. He was well-acquainted with profanity and vulgar jibes, but Reese’s neck still occasionally heats at their… colorful chirps.

But maybe this will be a good step, Reese thinks to himself as he clears the nerves from his throat, making room for an answer to Kody’s question.

“Uh, yeah. My parents and my little sister,” he nods. The blip of quiet that follows coaxes out further details. “They’re going to skip the mixer-campout thing tomorrow night because of the baby, but they’ll be at the student fair and our scrimmage the next day.”

It feels odd to talk about his family. The words, somehow both intensely personal and casual at the same time, taste funny on his tongue. Reese’s stomach clenches, suddenly too aware that he’s never really had to do this before, the small talk. Back home, everyone knows everyone. There’s little to talk about by way of mundane facts because there’s no need; it would be incredibly redundant. His friends from home wouldn’t think to ask if his family was coming, nor would they nudge him to share their schedule. They’d just know.

Reese is aware that this is a silly thing to get worked up over, or even care about at all. He knows it’s part of the process. Part of making new friends is letting them know you. Telling them about yourself and your life, and all the people in your life. Especially the ones you love. Offering up bits of yourself in exchange for bits of them. Still, it's unsettling. Like he’s inviting a group of strangers to pass judgment on his unconventional family. 

No one’s said anything, but Reese already feels defensive. 

And rightly so, he’d soon find.

"That was quick."

Lane, a senior forward from some beach town in California, draws first blood. The quip seems innocuous, but the shit-eating grin undermines any plausible deniability. Even without his smug expression, they probably would’ve understood the implication lurking below the surface anyway. 

It isn’t the isolated comment that burns the tips of Reese’s ears. It’s the fact that he’s never spoken about the circumstances or the timeline of your relationship with his father. Reese hasn’t tried to hide anything, but he certainly hasn’t been forthcoming either. For all they knew, you could’ve been Josie’s biological mother. A long shot, but feasible enough if you didn't know any better. 

But somehow, this kid from out of state knew. Knew that, by “traditional” standards, it was a little soon for his parents to be welcoming a new life.

"Can you blame him? Hot young thing at your beck and call?” Kent, a sophomore from outside of Toronto, cuts in before Reese can. 

The lecherous glint in the winger’s tone makes his skin crawl. He doesn’t need to look up from his half-eaten slice of Hawaiian to know his mouth matches Lane’s.

“Fuck, dude. I would've knocked her up before she dragged me down the aisle. But, I've heard Viagra massacres your swimmers, so maybe that wasn’t in the cards for Ol’ Johnson.”

The group, crowded around a hodgepodge of tables, descends into a fit of snickers and profanity.

Reese contemplates leaving until a manicured hand gently squeezes his arm. Callahan Graham blinks up at him, a sweet smile tight on her rosy mouth. Callahan “Callie” Graham, Lane’s on-again-off-again girlfriend of three years. They’re “off” right now, if he’s remembering correctly. Not that it matters. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. Reese’s chin dips in gratitude.

From across the table, Callie’s roommate, Greer, pipes up over the commotion. “I hope I'm as cute as she is when I'm pregnant."

"Me too," Bree, one of the other girlfriends, sighs dreamily into her Diet Coke. "I couldn't believe how pretty she looked the last time she brought Josie to watch you play, Reese. If I was pregnant and holding down a two-kid fort by all by myself for most of the year, I know I'd look it. But I guess that’s just another perk of true love, isn’t it? Beauty in spite of it all.”

Kent snorts. “True love…right.”

Reese’s molars pinch together. Beneath the table, he picks at his nails. It hurts, but it's the distraction he needs right now.

"It's not like being a trophy wife is a real job anyway, so I'm sure that helps. Just lie back and spread those pretty—"

Reese’s fist finishes Lane’s sentence. As badly as he wants to put it through the douchebag’s face, he (thankfully) had the foresight to direct his anger downward. It was the succinct thwack! of his hand against the table that cut the lewd thought off prematurely. 

Reese is a striking juxtaposition; hardened jaw, sharp eyes, pinched mouth—silent. Only his chest moves. Shallowly, the accent on the exhalations.

For a moment, everything is still. It’s nice. While it lasts.

Kody is the one to crack the ill-fated stalemate. Trepidation peeking through the tiny cracks in his smooth confidence, he approaches like a hunter would an agitated deer, “Loosen up, Reese. We're just having fun. And, if anything, it's a compliment."

Reese openly glares, unconvinced.

Kody persists, deadset on being the one to subdue the beast. “Come on, even you have to admit your dad's locked down a fuckin’ tenner. A real win for Team Geriatric, I’d say. You should be proud of him, kid.”

This isn’t the first time someone’s prodded Reese about your physical appearance. He wasn’t blind. He knew you were attractive, but you’d never entered that part of his brain before. Ever. It's as if his subconscious preemptively locked you away in the same box as his dad and kid sister, or any other family member. But they weren’t asking if he thought you were pretty, not really.

The omnipresent “They” wanted to know if he thought you were attractive the way he thought Pedro Pascal or Olivia Rodrigo was attractive. They wanted to know if he felt the way his dad felt about you. They’re probing for a twisted scandal, a sick taboo love triangle. As if they weren’t already gorging themselves on the age difference or the boss/employee origin story. 

They wanted more. They always wanted more. They wanted to take one of the best parts about Reese’s life and fuck it up.

His teammates are proving themselves no different than the losers populating Twitter.

“She ever read to you a story before bed?” Lane again.

Then Kent, in quick succession. “Tuck you in nice and tight, and come running when you had a nightmare?”

There’s barely enough time between the two to squeeze in a meager answer. Though Reese surmises that’s by design. 

Innuendos are funnier when they have a single target in the audience to fly over. At least, to people with cheap senses of humor. Easy laughs are no accomplishment when they weaponize the feelings of an innocent bystander. Even in his anger, Reese wouldn’t have humored them with a doe-eyed reply of feigned ignorance. It wasn't earned. 

“If I got to spend all of high school being coddled by a rocket, I'd still be milking that shit. Maybe if you had, she would've fucked you instead of your dad."

Reese’s brow shrinks to a contemptuous pinch. It wouldn’t take much for him to be reacquainted with his dinner; it’s already halfway there. 

As he looks over at Kody, he loses what little hope he had that he’d find a place in this friend group. He hasn’t found his people yet, on the team or in general, but Reese is certain they’re not sitting around him tonight.

"How far along's your mom?" Callie seizes the conversation knowingly.

Briefly, her pale eyes slice pointedly in the direction of her… whatever Lane is to her, and then back to Reese, warmth restored.

"Uh, almost seven months? But Josie and I were both late, so Dad thinks we'll have to wait until the end of summer until she's here. Maybe they’ll share a birthday.”

"She?" one of the freshman girls squeals, clutching her companion’s forearm in excitement.

"Yeah," Reese says bashfully, head dipping to conceal the grin tugging the corners of his mouth. The meat of his cheeks ache with joy. “Two sisters."

"I give Johnson Sr. six months before he puts the moves on Nanny 2.0,” Lane’s whisper pierces the lukewarm calm that settled the table at his… Callie’s hand. 

She kicks his shin. Hard.

"You really think the old timer's game is that reliable?" Kent picks up the slack between open-mouth chews.

And Kody is not far behind, “He's decently famous and moderately rich. That was enough the first time, so why wouldn't it work for the second? Or, Junior, maybe this next one can be yours—if you pull your head out of your ass in time, that is."

Reese is done. Has met—no, exceeded his limit. He doesn’t have to sit here and take this. Yeah, it would be better for the locker-room culture if he stuck around, but a boost in morale wasn’t worth the decimation of his pride.

His goodbye is simple but effective. The deafening screeeeech! of his chair sliding back on the linoleum.

The sidewalk is blurry beneath his feet as he trudges back to safety. Whether it's the tears’ fault or how quickly he’s running, Reese can’t be sure. All he knows is that he needs to be as far away from them as possible.

He needs… he needs…

Reese’s fingers tremble defiantly while he fishes for his phone. He continues to fight with them, shoving his key into the door and pushing it open with the other as he scrolls through the call log. He slams the world out and hits the green icon.

“Reese? Are you okay?” your groggy, but no less sweet voice flits through his phone. 

Only two rings. 

Reese’s shoulders melt, comforted by the familiar warmth of what home sounds like. But his mouth remains frozen, stuck. 

You allow a few beats of silence to lapse, giving him ample space to answer if he is able and wants to before speaking again. “Do we need to come up tonight?”

He blinks, attempting to wash away the salty film over his eyes to read the clock above his desk. 1:37 AM, the angry red letters read. 

Guilt seeps into the mix of nasty emotions monopolizing his body. The acidic cocktail begins its ascent of his tender throat.

You shouldn’t be up right now. Not this late, not when his sister’s made you an insomniac for so much of your pregnancy. Not because someone was mean to him.

Reese feels like an asshole. An inconsiderate asshole bothering you with his problems in the middle of the night, knowing you’re already sacrificing your weekend for him.

“Fuck, I’m sorry for waking you and the baby, and probably Dad, too. I—It's nothing, really. It can wait. We can talk about it when it's not, y’know, the middle of the night.”

“Reese, no one sets off the alarm on my Bullshit Radar faster than you do. You wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t urgent. Talk to me, Reeses Pieces. You know I won’t be able to go back to sleep knowing you’re not alright.”

Reeses Pieces. The nickname, said with such casual affection, is like a magic wand.

“Uh— I-I, um… I had a, um, a r-really bad night… and I— and I just really needed to hear y-your voice, Mom.”

It slips out. Slips free. It just… slips into the mix with all the other words like it belongs there, too. And it does. It feels right. Reese feels a twinge of satisfaction. Regardless of the circumstances (and the night he’s had), it happened.

It finally happened.

The floor crumbles a little and gentle flames lick at Reese’s cheeks. His phone feels as though it's floating up and away from his clammy palm. He’s telling his fingers to tighten their grip, to hold on. They hesitate, and when they finally decide to obey, it only makes matters worse. He fumbles, nearly dropping his phone to the floor. The elephant easing down onto his chest is making it hard to focus, to think, to listen. 

“Reese? Did I lose you, bub?”

He blinks himself out of the daze. “Hmm? No, I—I, sorry. I’m here.”

“Oh, Reesey. I was just saying I was glad you called then. I mean, I always love it when you call. Even when it’s to tell me you sent your Airpods through the washing machine. Again.”

Reese barks out a phlegmy laugh.

Note to self: the rice hack only works the first time you let your electronics go for a swim.

Second note to self: this reaction—this non-reaction is better than any teary blubbering or callous rejection. Normalcy doesn’t require a reaction.

“You can always, always call me. Especially when you’re having a rough time. Even when it's the middle of the night. My main priority in life is making sure you’re safe and happy, you and JoJo. And the peanut sitting on my bladder. And the 6’4 blanket-hog snoring like a hacksaw beside me.”

“Maybe we should get Dad a sleep study coupon for his birthday,” Reese teases.

He feels better now. You, and finally being courageous enough to be vulnerable, was the medicine. Reese feels lighter than he has since you dropped him off in September.

You snort. “I’ll gladly pay to see your dad covered in wires. But, as much as I love laughing at his expense when he’s none-the-wiser, that's not why you called. Spill it.”

He does. The spiel tumbles out like an overdue avalanche, and Reese hardly realizes how quickly he’d been talking until he finishes with burning lungs. You listened patiently, letting him get it all out without interruption. You were good about that, knowing when someone needed room to rant more than they needed interjections with guidance or commentary. Reese usually fell in the first category, tonight being no exception.

“…I just don’t get why they found it so funny. Or why they even thought to say it in the first place. It's so...gross.”

He listens to you sigh and knows you’re doing it through your teeth. You’re probably massaging the waves of frustration between your eyebrows, nose scrunched. Josie calls it your ‘Dragon Face’ because of the way frustration contorts your features, but Reese adopted the term into his own lexicon because it almost always appeared when someone threatened the safety of your family. Like him, you’re generous with your protection. Fierce without delay. 

“Because you aren’t them, Reese. You’ve always had a strong sense of right and wrong, respectful and not. And you’re rarely swept up by group-think, if ever. Those things may feel like a curse right now, but I promise they’ll be superpowers one day.”

“I wish I could fast-forward to that day. This sucks,” he groans, tossing himself backward onto his twin bed.

“It does suck. Majorly. Still, even if you had time travel in your vast arsenal of powers, I’d tell you to stay put, Reese. Part of college is learning how to deal with immature people, building up a tolerance for their bullshit as you grow stronger and more confident in yourself.”

“But I’m not strong. I ran away crying like a little baby,” Reese croaks into his pillow. A warm saltiness tickles his eyelashes.

“You removed yourself from a bad situation, and you let yourself feel your feelings in the present tense. Those are both huge wins in my book,” you counter.

Your voice is louder now, stronger. Like coaxing Reese—coaxing your son out of a pit of self-pity breathed all the energy you lacked for the better part of a year back into you. The subtle shift whittles away some of his earlier guilt.

“It takes guts to do that, Reese. Most people spend years trying to learn what you did instinctively. Some people never learn to do it at all. And don’t tell anyone, but I’d put money on Kody, Lane, and Kent being some people.”

Reese snorts. “I know you’re right, but I think what’s actually bugging me is that you guys’ll be subjected to that shit this weekend. It’s one thing for them to say it to me, but it’s another to say it to you or in front of JoJo. I hate that people care so much about us and our business that they can’t keep their mouths shut. If you don’t feel comfortable coming now, I would totally understand. Fuck, if I were you, I’d never visit again. Maybe I could come home this weekend instead?”

“Reese, as sweet as that is, the only thing that’ll stop me from coming this weekend is early labor, not chauvinist pigs.”

“You shouldn’t even have to hear it, though. And besides, won’t smiting college kids stress the baby out?” Reese asks, worry tearing through his voice despite the lighter tone.

“Do you honestly think your dad will let them get more than a couple words out?” you ask through an airy chuckle.

For the second time tonight, someone else speaks before Reese can.

Erik’s voice is muffled and gravelly, but the protective bite—the very same one that took hold of Reese at dinner and you just moments ago—is loud, “They’ll keep their mouths shut if they want to keep whatever teeth they have left.”

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[fantastickfigurememes]

[khloodsadek]

And a healing conversation 🤍.

[aliensfuckmeup]

Another page from the Loop Being Emo In The Woods WIP! The aftermath of the little episode from the previous page I posted. This one’s finished, and I need to think long and hard abt whether this level of detail is like, sustainable for something 15 pages long 😅

This comic originated from wanting to see more straight up sifloop romance, with pining and sad eyes and angsty internal monologues and tropey romcom bits and a healthy mix of drama/comedy. I plotted out a couple funny little one page comics, then got into thinking about character motivations and emotional beats, and now we’re like, maybe 15 comics/scenes/chaoters plotted and storyboarded in this universe? But because I hate keeping things simple, every one of those fucking comics is between 6-15 pages long and dialogue heavy, and I’m getting mired in the characterization of it all (not even counting getting mired in the visual storytelling and the plot progression of it all! And not even getting started on the “still very new to digital art, how does one use procreate” of it all!) Soooo haha I’m in danger :3

If anyone wants to talk in dms or on discord abt this comic and the greater sifloop shipping trash story it’s part of, hit me up! Especially if you know your way around plotting out a story a lil bit. I don’t know how to start conversations online 🙈 but I like to think I bring a lot to the table talking meta, trading wips and other art that I can’t post here, making lil comics from discord bits, and exchanging help with plotting/storyboarding/dialogue/character interpretations.

[etirabys]

CS Lewis's beautifully written, moving chapter on philia in The Four Loves marred terribly for me by his diving into the question: can men and women be friends

[izzyzalezbian]

[jimplekins]

w.i.p butt jesus christ have i spent multple hours colour theoringyung this shit help😭

also a out of context convo doodle comic i never got around to posting