#how she will always be considered an immigrant

[minimooberry]

thinking about seth and shivaani do much rn,, me and seth are beefing bc shivaanis life is literally so sad and its his fault!! men dont deserve shit yall😒😒

[jesncin]

I hope Superman fandom as a whole will one day understand that if you truly want to commit to the immigrant allegory, scenes like Lois shooting Clark with a gun or her jumping off a building to prove he's Superman pair really badly with that allegory.

I know some fans like to say "Superman was always an immigrant allegory" and while I get the sentiment of retroactively looking at how the lives of his creators inform the character they made, we also have to acknowledge that the allegory was never consistent to begin with. The original Superman comics were fun gags and shenanigans. Superman Smashes the Klan wouldn't stand out so much if his immigrant identity was consistently integral to his character.

And if you're going to commit to Superman being an immigrant, then you've got to be open to changes on staple Superman lore. So much of this fandom is dedicated to nostalgia, references, canon events, "but Lois does that in the comics! It's not Lois Lane if she doesn't do crazy things to prove who Superman is!" without considering how that is contextualized in the allegory.

I still get so many comments on my Clois comics but especially the Private Interview comic saying "I've never seen Superman this way before" from even longtime fans of the character. Honestly, I never saw him that way until I read Smashes the Klan. Since then I want people to have that recognition of themselves in him too. But that means being brave with changes! Maybe it's okay for this version of Lois to respect Superman's boundaries. Maybe an Asian Lois can be more than an aesthetic shallow retread of white Lois.

These characters are more than callbacks and references. The reason they persist throughout many versions is because they hold themes. Lois isn't just "stunt girl reporter obsessed with Superman and THE TRUTH", she's also a jaded reporter hardened by life who finds hope again in Superman. Superman isn't just "save cats from trees" guy. He's an alien immigrant, and you can make a ton of new stories from that lens alone.

[mewtwo24]

MAWS - An Allegory for Autism, too?

God like…there have been so many amazing posts about maws right now, and I don’t want to detract from any of them because I absolutely agree with how powerful an allegory the show is in regards to being an immigrant/alien.

But at the same time I just. I have been literally losing my mind at how autistic Clark feels. And at this point I can’t tell if I’m seeing things that aren’t there or he really is just so god damn ‘tism it makes his experiences of being othered two- and triplefold.

Like. Okay. He keeps acting on what he thinks is just or morally right in the moment, but sometimes struggles to see the social signals (or bigger picture) that might indicate somebody is deceiving him. If he does realize he’s being deceived, he does the right thing anyway even if it’s to his detriment--because he can’t accept looking away from a problem he might have resolved. Helping someone, no matter how difficult or unreasonable.

Okay.

When he’s trying to protect himself from Lois. He tells the truth in the most evasive way humanly possible, and because he thinks she’ll find him dashing from saving people he comes off as dissembling. He is convinced that he has charmed her to no end with his alter ego since he’s Such A Super Cool Strong Normal Guy as Superman, and that she couldn’t possibly be suspicious any longer because he told the truth. Lois wants to throttle him for lying. He has no idea as to why that is--and is openly surprised that she’s upset.

This is not even touching the fact that he lived for YEARS with Jimmy and literally destroyed stuff in front of him by accident, and never once thought Jimmy knew some shit was going on with him. Jimmy, being subtle and considerate, didn’t snitch because he was a homie. Clark does not notice in the slightest. ‘IT COULD HAVE BEEN THE SCREWS’ ASS.

This also not touching on the “How did you know you were bulletproof?” “I didn’t. I just knew you weren’t.” Despite pervasive signs that his powers weren’t operating as they should in that area. Despite knowing Lois was still upset with him and may not forgive him, could hurt him with what she knew.

Okay.

I'm going to put the rest under a cut because I never go on short tangents:

In a lot of New Age illegitimate medicine and psychological constructs, autistics are often conceptualized as people with ‘special powers’ or religious enlightenment in accordance with some manifestations of their disability. Clark’s superspeed and strength and heat vision can EASILY be seen as an extension of that. However, what I really want to talk about is the latest episode’s super hearing. 

Most autistics have sensory issues, both with textures but also with hearing. A very common surprise for undiagnosed individuals, for example, is that they use music and headphones to stim in a more socially acceptable way. Particularly loud noises or constant loud chatter can cause distress otherwise, and having constant meltdowns/catatonia reactions isn’t feasible for survival. 

Of all his powers that might be a weakness I think it is a fascinating--and honestly, deliberate--choice that speaks volumes (please pardon the pun). Because that’s the horrible thing about having sensory overload with your hearing; you don’t always have a choice as to what you’re subjected to. Ear-piercing alarms can flare at any moment, people can play what they consider harmless pranks, or day to day fighting to focus can make every sound feel like nails on a chalkboard from the overstimulation. 

While Clark is able to distinguish voices if he knows what to look for, lack of sleep and rest tremendously weaken his ability to focus. I noticed that as the episode wore on, there was a distinct and exponential progression. At first, when he overdid it and didn’t sleep for a day or so, he still managed to operate without hurting himself or risking others. But as he kept pushing himself without rest to answer every cry for help, he grew progressively and sharply overwhelmed. He quickly became overstimulated by the mounting flurry of oncoming stimuli (e.g. the truck about to hit someone, dodging people around him, the relentless super hearing flooding in) and began to react in ways that were careless and random. 

Though his powers appear supernatural and inexhaustible, we are forced to face the fact that he still possesses hard limits. Even if autistics seem more capable than NTs at points, there is a reason “high-functioning” became an obsolete terminology with which to differentiate people on the spectrum ‘who seemed to be above average’. Because just as we see Clark forcing himself to exert his superpowers until his body collapses to prove he is good, autistics also push themselves to be useful/helpful/amenable/inobtrusive in order to be accepted as something not other/monstrous.

(Please note, by the way, towards the end of the newest episode--his power comes out in a flash of blue, overpowering light as the last of his strength begins to wane. A surefire sign that he was truly at the end of his endurance before he’s knocked unconscious.)

The fact that Clark starts to learn how to listen in for people so fast, but also doesn’t think to tune them out (if he can) adds even more to the first point too. Because he can’t turn it off in full, it means he has no way to ignore people who are hurting no matter how small--and for him that places the cognitive burden of making a choice. And he can’t choose not to help people.

Okay.

Clark’s incipient refusal to discover more about himself, the sheer overwhelmed look he had as a child--but also as an adult--at the prospect of having to rewrite and re-evaluate everything he thought he knew about himself. There is no excitement, no positive anticipation. When he chooses to face it, it’s because he perceives a kind of responsibility to better understand/control his powers to help more people. And it’s because his friends support him that he ever finds the will to do it. He has no desire to acknowledge or define his otherness head-on. (Once again, he can only act with courage on behalf of others and/or to ultimately win their acceptance.) 

GOD. AND. AND how he tells Lois how much she made him “come out of his shell” and forced him to face the world, to stop living in his formerly simple bubble. How autistics instinctively hate breaks in routine and the unknown and the horrible ordeal of change, especially if they have trauma linked to it. But he was trying because yeah, as people we need new and varying stimuli to be happy and healthy. To be alive is to change, whether one likes it or not. 

How part of the reason Lois is so dear to him is because she makes him feel capable and safe when he has to face the truth of his difference and change. (THIS IN THE CONTEXT OF THE LATEST EPISODE. “CLARK, JUST TRY TO BE NORMAL”. I’M EATING MY SHIRT. THE ENDLESS OSCILLATION BETWEEN HIS DESPERATION TO BE NORMAL BUT ALSO STRIVE FOR MORE, AND HOW LOIS ANSWERS BOTH THOSE WARRING CALLS WITHIN HIM JUST BY BEING HERSELF.)

SCREAMS.

Okay.

The most recent episode being a direct result of Lois and Jimmy’s acceptance of his alter ego Superman. Because of course Superman is the preferred variation of himself. Everyone loves Superman. Everyone finds him cool and heroic and dazzling. Jimmy gets social media acclaim that he enjoys from it. Lois has a Cool Guy Boyfriend, and she told him outright she thinks he’s amazing in the last episode when he complained about being weird.

Why go back to being Clark? Under the unending burden of his new super hearing, he seems to be so drowned in voices that he forgets a very important one: Lois. She loved him as Clark long before Superman existed, the lumbering gentle giant who always treated people with dignity and respect was more than enough for her to fall in love. And that’s why it’s so poignant, but also so unbelievably devastating when she asks him to be normal in the newest episode.

Because what she was trying to say was “Please stop overexerting yourself, you’re hurting yourself. This is only going to end badly if you don’t rest and think about how you want to move forward. You’re enough as you are. You’re enough as Clark Kent.” She was trying to tell him that Superman isn’t all that matters, that Superman is a person with feelings and needs and vulnerabilities, just like anyone else. 

What makes this miscommunication so powerful to me is that it’s clear Clark’s ability to differentiate has become confused ever since Lois and Jimmy accepted him. How much of him is Clark, how much of him is Superman? Before, when he had decided Superman was too much for him to handle and something that needed to stay hidden, he knew how to behave day to day. But now that the aforementioned operating precept has been dismantled by their acceptance, what is his blueprint now? To be freed of his chains, but to be too afraid to leave the cage--he becomes so openly and rapidly lost. It was easier when he didn’t have to choose or think about it.

Okay.

Like. I can see how it could be construed as a result of his inexperience, right? He’s never met intergalactic beings, so how would he know? He only just unlocked his powers as Superman, so of course he’s clumsy about it. He wasn’t a born fighter or a trained one, so of course he’s going to be a little green when he’s in combat.

But that’s the thing for me. It’s not that he doesn’t always have the time to re-evaluate, or strategize, or notice he’s being deceived. He just has such an unwavering sensibility, this one-track sense of “I am strong. So I must protect. And to do that I need to act.” And a lot of times this is as far as his thinking goes. And if that isn’t the most autistic shit imaginable, I’m really not sure what is. 

The overshot clumsiness of his movements and occasional awkwardness, how he’s learned to smooth that over by being helpful to people or meek to be accepted. Like. I swear to god this show is going to kill me. 

So much of the reason he tanked so badly in this episode was because he was using a broken coping mechanism to its absolute extreme. And instead of listening to his bodily and mental signals that he could no longer sustain helping every single person in the world, he just forces himself to push through. He’s so desperate to prove he’s a good person and belong, he doesn’t notice that it’s literally destroying him from the inside. 

The mask that is Superman, and the unmasking that is the mindful and imperfect Clark Kent. That everyone adores Superman and wants him to fulfill their every need, no matter what it costs him to be that person. The fact that the moment they learn he’s an alien or see the raw extent of his power (pushed to unsustainable limits in desperation) he becomes a horrible, inhuman threat and a monster. The fact that it’s his friends and his family who see him unmasked as Clark and love him just as he is, that they care little for what Superman can give them because Clark is already enough. That they love Clark precisely BECAUSE he is somebody with weaknesses and flaws and imperfections, that adore his quirks and endearing fumbling.

The horrific reality that the more he leans into his masking out of desperation to be accepted, the more he estranges and incites violent rejection in the people around him. Even if he wants to do the right thing, he is so staunchly and too openly opposed to the malice of others that they hold grudges from the stark, exposing contrast. How choosing to be Superman can endanger and estrange the people who love Clark, isolating him even further. And yet when he is unmasked and acts like himself, he is hardly ever taken seriously or people take advantage of his meekness/willingness to help. 

The first episode. When he just keeps chanting ‘be normal be normal be normal’ and the more pressure he puts on himself, the more he hyperfixates and the less his actions align with his intentions. The way he can never do both and can only manage to sustain one at a time. The core conflict that’s ever present; the desire to be ordinary under the reality that you are extraordinary, with the agonizing knowledge that you never had the choice to live under so much difference and scrutiny.

The never-ending autistic battle of being socially acceptable to the detriment of your greatest virtues: your passion and your honesty. To be left feeling empty and drained despite your success, no closer to self-satisfaction or feelings of human camaraderie. The reality of being always forced to choose between one bad option and a worse one, that the only choice you have is what you’re willing to sacrifice. That people will toy with your vulnerabilities no matter how desperately you try to conceal them, how your weaknesses will be a game or a spectacle to the rest of the world.

How one has to wonder to what degree the Superman witnessed in Lois’ memory capsule was pushed to the very brink. Or the pointed lack of context: what brought him to such extremes, what could inspire so much indifference to the pain of others? How, while it is frightening, he is a person just like anyone else--who possesses the potential for raw good and raw bad. Why is it that everyone so easily believes that his potential will be negative? Why is it so difficult to have faith in someone who is trying so hard to be good?

The irony of Clark’s predicament, that the sincere fulfillment he feels upon helping others is precisely what inspires fear in those who insist on their comparative self-serving normality.

“What’s your angle!? What’s in it for you?” “Trust me, kids. Nobody puts on that big a show of being good. Unless they’re hiding something…All he wants is to pull cats out of trees? Yeah, I’m not buying it.” “He’s not normal like you and me….If he really wanted to hurt us, what could we do about it?...Just him having a bad day could spell the end for us…Well, not all of us share your faith.” “You want to be number one? You don’t get there by writing fluff. You go for blood. That’s something Perry never understood. Do you?”

The unbearable but inevitable fact that being autistic is a perpetual experience of loss. If you are not selfish or egocentric like the rest of the world, you are naive and weak. If you exhibit an ounce of self-centered desire or emotion, you are something that must be eradicated for the greater good. No amount of good that you accomplish can ever balance the scales of what has been lost or spent to sustain you, because at the end of the day your life is considered one without value. It is irrelevant that entire military regimes have collectively decimated and endangered thousands for their so-called “results”, because you as a sole actor are so much easier to blame and trample. 

The enduring fact, especially in a culture so absorbed in easy answers and harsh binaries, that the human mind does not care for the struggle of truth. 

Anyway if you need me I’ll be clawing at the walls thanks

[iwanty0uu]

Hey guys change of plans. my mom just pissed me off and i wanna run away in my backyard and hide in my dad’s car trunk so imma take it out on yall rn.

Growing Pains

I loudly slammed the door, gasping as I came to my senses.. “shit..” I should know better than to slam a door in my Jamaican mother’s household.

Before she could even start cursing, you opened it wide and yelled, “MOMMY I APOLOGIZE I NEVER DID MEAN TO MAKE THE DOOR SLAM LIKE THAT”,

I mentally sanded my eardrums, preparing for the hurricane of curses and insults that would flood from her mouth, “OH SO YOU MOVE TO FOREIGN AND THINK YOU’RE ONE OF THEM AMERICANS HUH? I WILL SEND YOU BACK TO YOUR GRANNY, GIRL.”

Being the daughter of two immigrants was hard enough, and considering you were one yourself made it even more irritating. Your mom decided it would be a great idea to ship you off to the land of the free, alone at fifteen, and send you to live with your aunt in a literal plantation in the city..New York.

The amount of paper colored faces that crossed your path at the airport was enough to send you into a frenzy, so after begging for 3 years (mostly because you would go to the Columbia University this school year and she wanted to brag about you on whatsapp) mommy dearest decided to pack up, take your dad and little brother to New York until you finished college, and explore.

Your brother was only a year younger than you, and always complained about how you got to do more than him, even though the fact that his girlfriend could sleep over anytime he wanted (with the door closed) was enough to prove how subconsciously sexist your parents could be, but whatever, you’re eighteen, homesick, and doing your baby bro who you dearly missed a favor.

But times like these, when your words wouldn’t even go through one of your mom’s ears much less the both of them always made you regret begging. Your words probably deflated and fell to the floor like some cartoon animation the second they came out of your mouth.

But that was how useless they were, and you always felt angry about it.. but you were a big girl and you should be trusted more. You didn’t smoke in the house or barley at all, you hated alcohol, and was still a virgin..mostly! But she still argued, and as usual, it made the tears well in your eyes, and your father attempting to mediate the dispute, and your brother trying his hardest to comfort you, even though he knows that he will never fully understand.

But little did she know..those tears watered the seed of rebellion that grew roots in your stomach and around your torso, sucking and squeezing until there was nothing left but long, smooth dips. The roots twisted and wrapped around your pelvis, making them grow full and round like the mounds on your chest and the one behind you.

Your hair full and thick, sunlight hardly passing through the thick leaf-like coils, and the beauty on your face, as beautiful as a forbidden fruit, the forbidden fruit. The fruit that led to the destruction of mankind.

Her words played in my mind like a record on repeat, I could never hate her, but if she didn’t want to understand me, then why bother be everything she couldn’t be?….

᪥᪥᪥

I loved writing this maybe ill make a pt 2! tell me if ya want it fr this was not planned negl I was on the bus making this but I’ll see yall again tmr!! (yes this is gonna be an aot fic🙄)

~𝓁ℯ𝓁ℯ！

[jalluzas-ferney]

Soooo….I made some nationality headcannons! At first I was a liiittle bit unsure if to do so cuz then again.. they live in ninjago…. And im pretty sure countries like argentina or Morocco don’t quite exist in the ninjago universe LMAO. Butttttt. Already seen others make headcannons, so hell, why not? I uses they apply to some irl au or what if they lived in our world uk? And what different countries would I see them coming from and etc.

I can imagine that the EM might have travelled all over the world, either to go into hiding, or missions, or escape conflict, etc. Or maybe simply that’s where they came from! So yeah that’s my little explanation that is mostly for myself cuz im a little bit too literal sometimes lol.

When thinking about nationality I always think a lot about where they grew up and what nationality they grew up with and would later on identify with the most. It’s a complicated concept when your parents are from a different nationality and theyre immigrants in a different country- so you grow up in this country, surrounded by this culture and people, but your. Also. Raised by your parents who also have your family living in this completely different country- where you also find home and relate to the people considering how you look, the language you speak with your parents- or the specific culture and environment your parents grew up wiooith, impacting your home life and the way your raised. Perhaps you lived in both places, or travel a lot to your parents homeland. Perhaps you live in one of your parents countries but the other. Not. but you still identify with one of your parents nationality because of the rest of your family from that side and the culture your take in from them. So it’s always very personal! So for Kai and Nya, I imagined that ray was Argentinian and Maya Filipino. And perhaps - because I want to project onto my faves- they were born and grew up in Argentina. But have always also identified a lot with their mothers homeland, since not only does their race impact the way they might feel more different and set apart from kids there, maya loves talking about her childhood in the Philippines and is always talking over the phone with their aunts and cousins, meaning Kai and Nya def were taught some Tagalog, tho theyre not incredibly fluid with it. In their early teens they probably travelled to the Philippines, (took ray and maya some time to settle down and get enough money to travel, as well as find time) and met their whole family, and the place they reside in, habit that would turn quite common as they would continue to travel other times the following years.

For Lloyd, I really wanted to make him Asian -Brazilian. It just felt right. So imagined that my queen (don’t you judge her >:() Misako would be Brazilian, meanwhile Garmadon,Japanese. i imagine that Misako adores traveling, so she met Garmadon on her trip to Japan, and decided to stay there for a WHILE because of the brothers. During her time there, she had Lloyd. Since her family heard of her new baby, she travelled back to Brazil with a two y/o Lloyd to have her family meet the him and catch up overall. but as the serpentine wars rose In japan (ill hc it happened in japan let me know what u think of that) Misako was told to wait in Brazil. Misako didn’t really like that though, and while she dreaded having to leave her son, she was sure shed come back soon after helping out the Brothers in the battle against the serpentine. So Lloyd was left to live with his aunties and grandparents in Brazil. Of course, after Misako found out about the whole Green Ninja thing and all that crap, she pulled the same stunt as in the series and ✨ vanished ✨. But then Garmadon came and fucking took him like divorced parents sometimes do uk? So then he spent some other of his childhood years growing up in, ya guessed it, Japan. This is how Lloyd identifies both with being a Brazilian and Japanese. As for the rest, I just envision that they lived in their respective countries their whole lives till they were recruited!

[clairifys]

Prolonged love - Joseph Liebgott x Fem!Reader

Summary: Sometimes the best things in life take a long time, and sometimes life throws you for a loop. It sure threw (Y/n) for a loop when grabbing German POWs in Hagenau turns into her having to babysit a young Dutch girl.

Tw: Swearing, death, reader being trilingual, mentions of war, mentions of concentration camps, mentions of abuse, killing, slightly dirty? not full on smut, reader is female, slight misogyny due to the time period, she/her pronouns

Word count: 6.5k

I do not own Band of Brothers, nor do I own any of the characters. I am not intending to be disrespectful towards any of the people on this show

The Dutch name is pronounced like (Tina-ka) Tineke, and the nickname Tine is pronounced as (Teeny)

I was born in Chicago. My mother was born in Groningen, Netherlands, and my father in Antwerp, Belgium. I was the oldest child, and after me, my parents had five others. Despite having six kids, we were all taught Dutch and German from a young age. The sole reason I was accepted into the military was because of me being trilingual, I’ll forever be grateful to my parents for teaching me their languages. 

February 9, 1945 

Easy Company was on its way to France. We were stationed in Haguenau, which had been taken by the Allies in December. Honestly speaking, I didn’t really know what to expect when we got there. I was sitting in the back of a truck, squished between Babe and Liebgott. Joe had become a close friend way back in Toccoa when he’d fallen running up Currahee, and I stopped and helped him up. We both had our 48-hour weekend passes revoked, but we made the most of it that weekend together. After that, we’d spend our weekend passes together and hang out.

I was leaning against Joe as I’d been almost the whole ride, his arm slung around my shoulders as I read a book that I had found when we invaded Foy. It seemed the Krauts enjoyed good literature as I was reading For Whom the Bell Tolls in German. I was a translator for Easy Company, being able to speak English, German and Dutch, I was a heavy asset to the team. It was a beautifully told story about the Civil War that had some romance aspects while also being brutal. I finished the book twice, and now I was reading it a third time.

“Jesus doll, I think I’ve seen you read that damn book about forty times now. How good can it be?” Joe said when he noticed my attention had strayed.

“Oh it’s a beautifully told story, Joe. Although, I don’t think you could read anything that didn’t have pictures.” I replied jokingly to him, looking up at him from where I was leaning against him. I could hear Babe and Malarkey laughing, and a young soldier, Jackson watching intently. 

“How can you read that, (L/n)?” A quiet voice asked in front of me. It’d been from Jackson. He lied on his documents so that made him 20 right now while I, at 23, was considered young. 

“I can speak and read German. Although my mother is a Dutch immigrant, my father was a Belgium immigrant.” I spoke honestly. Picking up languages was a bit of a gift for me. I’d always been good at remembering and learning languages, probably since I was taught three languages at once from a young age.

“(Y/n)! I’ve read that book! It’s so beautifully written.” A new voice spoke from the opening in the back of the truck, I quickly jolted from Joe’s shoulder, as he groaned from lack of contact, to see who the familiar voice belonged to.

“David Webster? Where the hell have you been?” I interrogated, while simultaneously giving him a toothy smile. He blushed slightly while asking Jackson for a hand to get up on the truck and suddenly Joe spoke up sharply, 

“The hospital. Must’ve liked that hospital Webster, cause uh, we left Holland four months ago.” After saying that he gave Web a dismissive look while tightening his hold on my shoulders. Suddenly, I felt very awkward, and slightly bad for Web - the war was tough and it was understandable to be afraid, it just wasn’t fair that some men snuck out only to get killed or injured more severely than the first time. They started going back and forth, jabbing at Webster passively, although it didn’t seem to be because they didn’t like him, they were just tired and upset. I gave Web a smile before getting off the truck, following Joe close behind.

“Y’know, you didn’t have to be so mean to Web.” I said calmly, making sure to not seem mad at Joe as to not have him get defensive.

“I guess, but it’s bullshit that we had men come back just to get killed.” He said quickly. When he said that, I saw Lieutenant Lipton sluggishly walking towards a building. The poor man had a bad case of Pneumonia, so I ran over and put his arm under my shoulders to help him. As I did that, explosions rang over our head and fell a little farther than we were. He gave me a smile and I helped him into the building he was walking towards. It was pretty on the inside, Luz and Captain Speirs were in the room along with Webster walking in. 

“Hey look who it is. Nice digs, huh, Lip? (Y/n)?” Luz said to me and Lipton as I helped Lipton situate himself on the couch.

“Yeah.” Lipton called back, unenthusiastically and coughed slightly after.

George came over with a blanket and put it on Lipton. He had a lit cigarette in his mouth, so I took it out and took a long drag from it.

“Hey what gives (Y/n). Just ‘cause you’re a pretty dame with a nice rack doesn’t mean you can steal my cigs.” He said while laughing, only partly joking. I gave him a look and replied,

“You’re just mad, this is all you get to see of my ‘nice’ rack.” 

He laughed and replied with a ‘you bet’. As he said that, a new voice spoke up, mock confident.

“Ahem. Is this the company CP for Easy?” He asked, looking at me and Luz weirdly before I went to get Lip a cup of hot coffee. 

From the kitchen, I could vaguely hear that he called himself Lieutenant Jones and that he was asking for Captain Speirs. I came out with a coffee for Lipton as Speirs was drilling him about going to the back to sack out and rest. I noticed Jones had stood up when Speirs walked in.

“Christ Captain, give him a break. He’s got Pneumonia!” I told Speirs as I handed Lipton his coffee and gave him a squeeze on his shoulder. Lipton thanked me with a small smile as the new guy looked at me with an expression I couldn’t decipher.

“Hello to you Ms. (L/n). If he doesn’t rest up though, that Pneumonia won’t go away.” He said pointedly at Lipton.

“I’m sorry, are you a field nurse? I didn’t think they let field nurses come this close to action.” Jones asked me, even though he wasn’t asking with any malicious intent, and it was all curiosity, I still got upset.

“Why d’ya think I’m a field nurse? I’m literally in uniform.” I deadpanned at him while giving him a little attitude for automatically assuming I’d be a field nurse just because I was a woman.

“Oh. I’m sorry, truly I was just curious. I didn't mean any offense, I just didn’t know they let women become paratroopers.” He said quickly, face turning slightly red.

“They don’t. (Y/n) here has some insane stamina, and she’s a helluva shot!” Webster spoke up for me, and I threw him a smile.

“Oh gee, Shifty’s got a better shot than I’d ever dream of having.” I replied, giving credit to Shifty, as he did have a better shot and he was just the sweetest man alive. At that, Winters walked in and told us he’d need fifteen of us on a patrol tonight to capture prisoners. When he said he’d need a translator, I instantly knew it’d be me or Joe as we were the only two in Second Platoon who could speak German. Webster could as well, but we didn’t know which Platoon he’d be in. 

After Nixon and Winters left, Speirs began talking to Lipton about who should lead, and who he could take for the patrol. During this, Jones asked to be on the patrol, which Speirs answered quickly and easily with a no, that he hadn’t any experience. 

“Lipton, how many prisoners do you think there’ll be?” Speirs asked the man in question.

“Honestly, sir, I’m not quite sure, anywhere between three to forty it seems.” He said in reply.

“(L/n).” Speirs called for me as I was sitting in a chair reading.

“Ya want me to be a translator, that it?” I asked, knowing that’s what he was about to ask me.

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Alright.”

When Webster and Lieutenant Jones left for OP two, I decided to get going as well. I knew Liebgott would be there so that was a good enough reason for me.

“Web, I’m comin’ with. Joe’s probably there right now.” I said to David, although slightly talking to Jones as well, to let him know I’d be going to.

“Yeah, no problem. Say when you’re finished with that book, d’ya mind if I reread it?” He asked me as all three of us walked down the street.

“Awh hell Web, I’ve read this thing three times now, you can go ahead and read it now.” I said while throwing him the book, silently noting how quiet Lieutenant Jones was behind us. The two men were running around crouching behind a little garden wall as I stood up, not seeing why they were doing that. When I heard the door open, Sergeant Kiehn came out, greeting me and Web and telling us where OP two was at. Before anymore words could get exchanged, bombs and mortars started raining down on us and we started running and ducking to take cover. We sat against the wall of a building before a man shouted out that it was all clear. After that, we quickly got to the building where OP two was located. Once inside, I immediately went upstairs and sat down on Joe’s bunk and plopped my stuff down.

“Hey doll, where’d you run off to?” Joe asked while wrapping his arms around me as a way to annoy me.

“Went to help Lip, where’d you go?” I asked while laughing at him.

“Came here.” He replied while digging his face into my stomach and faking sleep. Web and Lieutenant Jones came up not too long after I had, and when Jones saw me and Liebgott he immediately stiffened and gave me and Joe a weird look.

“This spot taken?” Webster asked.

“Nah it’s all yours.” Joe said to him while turning his face away from my stomach, my hands went down to card through his hair and he took notice of Jones’ look.

“Fuck are you staring at?” Joe asked him while sitting up and giving him his own glare.

“I’m sorry?” The Lieutenant asked, offended.

“You got a starin’ problem? Why you lookin’ at me and (Y/n) like that?” He challenged him.

“Alright, alright. Quit fighting, we’ve got news.” Webster said, breaking up the fight.

“Dummer, zimperlicher Junge, der dich so ansieht. (Stupid, prissy boy, lookin at you like that)” Joe mumbled to me in German, only loud enough for only me to hear.

“Er ist einfach sauer, weil du mich berührst und nicht er. (He's just mad because you're touching me and not him)” I said back laughing.

Me and Joe got up to go talk to a bunch of men in the corner laughing and smoking, while Webster and Jones went to talk to Malark. When Joe heard them talk about the patrol he pulled Web aside and I went and sat next to Babe to listen to what he was going to say.

“What do you know about this patrol thing?” Joe asked Web quietly.

“Uh, nothing.” Web said while nodding his head.

“Oh, come on, Web. You gotta know something.” Ramirez interrogated.

“I don’t” He replied adamantly 

` “Bullshit.” 

Web and everyone went back and forth and soon more people sat down to listen. I knew Web wouldn’t give anything up, so I decided to. My head was starting to hurt and I wanted to lay down before the patrol knowing I’d be on it at 0100.

“Speirs is picking fifteen men, Jonesy boy wants to be one of ‘em.” I said while yawning. Joe looked down at me and said,

“I say let the kid go, he could use the experience.” He smiled then Ramirez perked up,

“And I bet they could find fourteen other replacements to help him out.” while smirking.

“Nope.” I said, popping the p. “Babe, McClung, Ramirez and I are going out there.” I said dismissively.

“(Y/n)!” Web hissed at me.

“What?” I asked, confused. Then proceeded with,

“Pssh, I’ll just say it was you who said it, Joe and Babe’ll back me up, won’t you boys.” I asked, smiling up at Joe then at Babe.

“Course we will, doll.” Joe replied and Babe grunted. Webster deadpanned me and sat down when Malarkey started telling us about the patrol. 

When the phone rang, and the PX supplies came in, I was ecstatic. New shoes and a shower? Felt like late Christmas. On our way out, the Krauts started to bomb us. We ran down the stairs and I threw myself under a table with Joe. When we had made it outside, we heard there was a casualty, Bill Kiehn. He was a Toccoa man. It was upsetting and it was unfair that he’d gotten through Bastogne only to die like this. I hadn’t known him too well, but the fact that I’d been talking to him 30 minutes prior made me feel like throwing up. Instead of staying to watch, me and the rest of the second platoon went over to the showers to pick up our new ODs. 

Arriving at the showers, we went to go pick up our new ODs, and anything else they’d dropped for us. Nixon was standing by the depot and was holding a box with my name on it. Being the only woman paratrooper here meant I’d need a different size uniform and boots. I thanked Nixon and grabbed the box, opening it. Inside there was a uniform my size, boots, and women’s sanitary needs, a new bra set, and a few new pairs of panties.

“Well ain’t you a lucky gal, getting new undergarments while we’re stuck with the same briefs.” A voice came from behind me. Getting ready to yell at whoever was looking over my shoulder, I turned and realized it was Joe.

“Aww, poor baby has to wear the same briefs.” I replied, feigning upset and then laughing when I saw his disgruntled expression.

 Before I could run off to take a much needed shower, Malarkey called for us to let us know who’d be going on the patrol.

Heffron, McClung, Ramirez, me, Liebgott, Grant, Wynn, Jackson, Shifty and Webster. When we heard how many second platoon men were going, you could practically feel the rage flowing from us. 

We’d all been pissed, wanting to complain but knowing it’d do us no good. Malarkey went off towards the showers and told us to as well. There were men standing at the entrance, undressing and some coming out wet. I didn’t want to undress, even if it was only down to my bra and panties. I’d been behind Joe when I took my first few layers of my tops off. Down to my black bra and army-issued pants was when Webster came up to talk to Joe, effectively, scaring the shit out of me.

“Jesus, Web, you came outta nowhere.” I said, holding my hand to my chest to calm down.

“Oops, sorry (Y/n).” He said while rubbing the back of his neck nervously. I’d noticed his face had turned a bright shade of red, but I thought it was because he was embarrassed that he’d scared me. A hand shot out to grab my arm and turn me around when I noticed it was Joe. 

“What’s the matter?” I asked curiously.

“Do you not see everyone lookin’ at you like they’re starving men looking at their last meal?” He asked bewildered. Suddenly, I became hyper aware of most of the men's eyes on me, waiting for me to finish undressing. Before I could respond Joe spoke up again.

“Nevermind that, just finish and we can go in together.” Quickly I went to undo my belt, and I realized Joe was already down to his briefs, waiting on me. I felt bad to make him wait, but he didn’t have to if he didn’t want to. I took this time to really look at Joe. Sure he was cute, and I’d definitely thought about him like this before, but would he really want me? I tried not to let my hopes get up, and as I slipped my pants down my legs, I forced myself to look away from his bare chest.

Having a hot shower was probably the best thing I’d had in a long time. Quickly scrubbing my body and hair down and then rinsing off, I stepped outside in a towel and grabbed my new uniform, and new undergarments.

Joe had finished showering, so I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to a random building to change, and do my hair. When we got in, there was nobody there, probably all in the showers, so I took Joe to the first mirror I found in a bedroom and made him sit down. He had no obligations and I told him I’d be back after changing. Once I finished, I brought out my old undergarments and towel and hung them out to dry.

There was a vanity on the opposite side of a bed, with a little cushion seat, and some old, dusty hair products. I quickly got to work using them and braiding up my hair.

“Why’d you pull me away doll? Want me that bad huh?” He questioned while smirking at me and drawing a cigarette from his front pocket.

“Yeah, you wish. I wanted someone to talk to.” I joked back before replying honestly and looking at him through the mirror. I finished doing my last braid as Joe was telling me about one of his comics he found that he enjoyed. Standing up, I walked over to stand in front of him, looking down on him as he was sitting on the bed. He stopped talking and we made eye contact. He looked as handsome as ever sitting in his new ODs, with a fresh shower.

“Well don’t you look handsome in your new uniform with your hair combed.” I said to him in a sweet voice running my hands through his wet hair. His eyes darkened as his hands went to hold onto my hips.

“Jesus, (Y/n). We’ve been through hell and back and you’re still the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen.” He said confidently. I could feel my face getting hot, he’d said things like this before, but this time, it felt different. Stronger almost. 

“Oh, Joe. You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever met.” I whispered to him, and he looked up at my lips, silently asking me. I slowly closed my eyes and let my hands fall from his hair down to his face, I slowly leaned down as he looked up and closed my eyes. As our lips were less than a centimeter apart, someone awkwardly coughed.

We sprung away from each other, embarrassed that we got caught. Looking at who it was, some random replacement apologized and said he left something in here and it was his room.

When he left, I started laughing and grabbed Joe by the arm to pull him up.

“Come on, I bet everyone is wondering where we went.”

“Goddammit Johnny, you’re breaking my heart.” Luz said.

“Come on, George, just give me, I don’t know, ten, fifteen bars?” Martin pressured him

“Juicy fruit, happy?”

Johnny and Cobb had been pestering George to give them Hershey bars. I knew there wasn’t enough, and that it wasn’t fair so I just stayed quiet the whole time. Cobb began badgering George again and when George went to defend himself, a whole group of men walked in.

“Whoa, Hershey bars!” Joe exclaimed, coming up behind me to rest his hands on my shoulders from where I was sitting in front of the table of candy and treats.

“Jesus Christ.” Poor George just couldn’t catch a break.

“Wait your turn, Liebgott.” Cobb said, pissing me off. I never really liked Cobb and he didn’t like me.

“Yeah, who they for?” Liebgott asked George.

“Not you, Lieb.”

“Oh come on George, one bar!” Joe pestered, wanting to get that bar.

“Y’know who they’re for? People who don’t interrogate me. Here, (Y/n), have a bar!” George replied while looking Joe in the eye.

“Oh George! Thank you!” I exclaimed excitedly. I hadn’t known the last time I’d gotten chocolate.

“Christ, you’re only giving it to her because she’s a woman and you wanna get on her good side in case the opportunity arises to fuck her!” Cobb said angrily as I turned around, glaring, ready to hit him.

“That sounds more like something you’d do, knowing you couldn’t get a woman to sleep with you willingly if your life depended on it!” I yelled back at him which caused him to call me a slur of colorful words. After that, Joe yelled at him and I ignored him.

“Hey big mouth! Give Lieb a Hershey bar, huh?” Perconte asked.

When I heard his voice, I jumped up, running up to him to give him a hug.

“Perco! Your back!” I exclaimed as he hugged me back.

“You gotta be shittin’ me! Look who it is!” George laughed and said.

“How ya feeling?” Joe then asked him, smiling.

“As long as you keep your hands off my ass, I’ll be fine.” Perconte replied, laughing.

“Have a Hershey’s!” Luz threw one at Perconte.

“Hey he gets a fuckin Hershey bar?” Joe asked, offended as I came to sit down next to him, opening up my Hershey’s.

“Ask ya girlfriend to french ya when she’s done eating it.” George joked as I took a bite into my bar and broke it in half.

“I’ll do you one better, Joe.” I said after I swallowed and handed him the half I didn’t bite into. He took it with thanks.

“That’s not one better, he’d rather you kiss him (L/n)!” Luz said while laughing right after. Joe pushed him backwards while also laughing

At 1700, there was a briefing about the house we’d be going into. I was next to Shifty, talking with him. Every now and again me and Joe would make eye contact, until the other looked away. Winters, and Martin walked in which caused Joe to look away first. Winters explained Johnny would be going in Malarkey's place, and that made everyone slightly more comfortable. I was on Johnny’s team, along with Webster. I walked out and Liebgott was waiting for me, he left with me and as we passed Speirs, he told Joe he didn’t have to go on the patrol.

We’d been all stationed in the basement for now before the patrol. Having to eat slop and we couldn’t have our helmets. I sat with Shifty as I ate.

“Youse gonna be out there with a gun?” Shifty asked me in a sweet voice, I knew what he was talking about. He was asking if I’d be helping shoot.

“Nah, well obviously I’ll have a gun, but I’m mainly a translator.” I smiled at him and he smiled back.

“I don’ understand why they never let you shoot with me. You’re a helluva sniper.” Shifty told me, making me giggle at him.

“Oh Shift, you know how to make a woman feel good about herself.” I replied, happy that I got to talk to him before the patrol. He always knew how to make someone happy, even during nerve-wracking times.

At 0100, we were getting into those rubber boats, and setting sail on a short trip across the river. Before the fourth boat could even get far, it flipped and we were down three men. I wasn’t too nervous, knowing that I’d been through worse. When we got to the other side, Martin had someone cut the fence and me and Web, being translators, meant that we had to be up front in case we found any Germans. 

So far, we’d gotten up to the steps of the house we’d need to get prisoners from. Johnny had shot into the window, and Jackson went up to throw his grenade, except, instead of waiting for it to finish detonating, Jackson didn’t stop and immediately went into the house, getting hit straight in the face with his grenade. As we ran in, me and Web were yelling at the men in German. We started to split the three men up when I heard a small cry in the corner of the room. I stopped to turn to go towards the sound.

“(L/n)! What are you doing?” Johnny yelled at me.

“Sir! There’s a child!” I shouted, confused. When I got down eye level with the little girl, I noticed she was only in a thin, white nightgown, with no shoes. She looked malnourished, hurt and mostly scared. 

“Alsjeblieft! Alsjeblieft! (Please! Please!)” The little girl cried in Dutch, shrinking away from me when I went to get her.

“Het is goed schat! Rustig maar, ik ben hier om te helpen! (Its okay dear! Relax, I'm here to help!)” I replied to her in Dutch. What had a little Dutch girl been doing here? I didn’t have time to continue to calm the little girl before Johnny started yelling about getting on the boats and leaving.

“Klein meisje, ik ga je ophalen. (Little girl, I'm going to pick you up.)” I warned her before grabbing her bridal style and running with her out of the house and covering her eyes to make sure she didn’t see what was happening around her with Jackson. Pushing everyone into the boats, the girl I was holding onto kept crying and crying. The poor little girl couldn’t have been more than four years old. 

“Het is goed schat. Het is goed schat. (It’s alright baby. It’s alright baby.)” I kept repeating to the small frightened girl. When Webster jumped into the boat behind me, we started going back to our side. He had his head ducked, as the Krauts kept shooting at the back boat. He had his arms around me when he realized I was shielding a child.

“(Y/n)! What the hell? Why do you have a child?” He yelled out over the gun fire.

“I don’t know! She was in the corner, she’s Dutch!” I replied, still confused as to how she got here and why she wasn’t in the Netherlands. We all ran downstairs, I was still holding onto the little girl, she had come from the Germans territory so I had to stay with her by the other prisoners. Nobody had come up to me about the girl yet so I took this as a time to try to get information so she wasn’t bombarded when adrenaline wore off.

“Wat is je naam? (What’s your name?)” I asked her calmly. She looked up at me with teary dark blue eyes. “Tineke.” She responded in a quiet voice. I was sitting on the floor and I held her so she was only facing me. I could feel someone watching me, but for now I didn’t care.

“Mooie naam! De mijne is (Y/n)! (Beautiful name! Mine is (Y/n)!)” I replied while smiling at her and gently carding my hand through her dark brown strands. Her skin was deathly pale and it was obvious she hadn’t drank or eaten anything in a long time. I gave her my canteen and she took it wearily. She wouldn’t drink it because she was scared of what could be in it. I took it back and took a small sip and gave it back. When she noticed I was okay, she started drinking out of it rapidly. 

When she finished drinking, I asked her more questions. 

“Spreek je Engels? (Can you speak English?)” I asked her. “Little bit.” She replied hesitantly.

“Very good, mijn liefje! (My love!)” She seemed to smile a little at the name I’d given her.

“Where is your mommy?” I asked slowly. She started to get upset at the mention of her mother but she replied anyway.

“She die. The Duits kill her. I am Joods. They take her and kill my mammie in de camps for Jodens. Then they keep me. (The Germans kill her. I am Jewish. My mommy. Camps for Jews.)” She told me in a somber tone. When she couldn’t think of the right word, she’d just say it in Dutch. I thought about bringing her to Joe later knowing he was Jewish, she might feel comfortable with him. 

“You’re safe now, liefje.” I told her while bringing her close to my chest. She ended up falling asleep not even ten minutes later. It gave me time to think about what she had said. She never mentioned a last name which made me believe she didn’t know it. The camp she was talking about was also weird. What did she mean by a camp for Jewish people?

Jackson had died. That boy who’d just turned twenty, had died. He had his whole life ahead and he died in a stupid war. I hadn’t even known him too well, but he just died in front of me, in front of everyone. I was thankful Tineke was asleep as she’d already seen enough. 

A day had passed since the patrol. The Germans were taken away and Tineke wouldn’t talk to anyone except me, and occasionally Joe. When Winters had found out about her, he had to ask her questions. I had come with because she couldn’t speak English very well and she refused to go anywhere if I wasn’t with her. The poor girl had been traumatized and it seemed like she’d been like that for a while.

While asking her questions, we found out her family was Jewish, and when the Germans found out, they took her and her family out of their homes to be sent to a camp. She didn’t know much, just that her mother and her got away and when they were found by the two Germans, her mother tried to fight against them resulting in her getting shot. Tineke was then taken as a hostage. 

Doc Roe came in to see how she was and it turned out she had been malnourished, and if I hadn’t found her when I did she would’ve been dead. Later that day I took her to the building where the second platoon was located to introduce her. 

I walked in and held onto Tine and went upstairs.

“Guys, this is Tineke. She was found in the house with the other POWs and she’s Dutch. She can speak some English, but don’t bombard her.” I spoke when I went upstairs and saw everyone. They all looked at us, and one by one I walked around with her and had her say hi to everyone. When I got to the last person, Joe, I sat down on the bunk with him and had her greet him.

“Tine, why don’t you tell Joe what you are.” I reminded her. I had told her to tell him she was Jewish before we went upstairs.

“Jewish.” Was all she said, nervous and not knowing too much English, she turned her face away into my chest. I rubbed my hand down her knotted, dirty hair realizing she needed a bath.

“Ain’t that cool! I’m Jewish too!” Joe responded in a sweet voice, smiling down at her when she slightly turned her head towards him. Before any more words could get exchanged, Webster came in to break the news that we were to go on another patrol that night and there would be another meeting at 1800. It was currently 1530 so I decided to bring Tineke down to the kitchen sink where I could give her a makeshift bath. I remembered how my mom would do that for me and my siblings when we were little and there were no baths in any of the houses.

I grabbed some soap and put it in her hair while I’d tell her stories to pass the time. 

“A long time ago, there were two moons. It was said one of them, named houden got too close to the sun, and out came thousands of dragons.” I told her a story my mother used to tell me all the time.

“Houden? To hold?” She asked as I began rinsing out her hair.

“That’s right. That’s how dragons were born.” I told her. As I finished saying that, another voice piped up from behind me.

“I didn’t know dragons were born from the moon.” Joe came up behind me and waved at Tineke, who brought her hand up slightly.

“That’s because I never told you that.” I said while smiling up at him. He moved to have his arms around my waist and laid his head on my shoulder. I finished rinsing Tine off then I grabbed a towel and wrapped her in it. Nixon had got clothes small enough to fit her from one of his sources. It was a small, black dress with a dark brown fluffy shawl. She also had stockings and tiny boots. When I finished dressing her, I braided up her hair and put on a hat.

At 1800 we all went down to the basement to await Winter’s meeting he called.

“Whatcha lookin’ at Webster.” A drunk Cobb said. I put one of my hands on Web’s shoulder, holding Tineke to my chest as she slept on me, and he turned to give me a smile.

“That’s what I thought, college boy.” Cobb said while swaying lightly on his feet. I gave Cobb a glare and squeezed the hand I had on Web’s shoulder.

“Are you drunk, trooper?” Lieutenant Jones asked him, angrily.

“Leave me alone.” Cobb replied, looking away.

“Answer the question.” Jones said firmly.

“Yes, sir, I am drunk, sir.” Cobb said sassily before adding, “Drunk, and sick and tired of fucking patrols. Taking orders-”

“Hey Cobb, shut up. It’s boring, okay.” Martin cut him off before he could finish what he was saying.

“Taking his side, Johnny?” “Yeah, I am.”

After that shit show I went and sat by Joe, wanting to make sure I wouldn’t be in Cobb’s line of fire in case he decided to throw something.

Winters came in to not only tell us that we didn’t have to go on that patrol, but that we’d also be off the line tomorrow. After he left, everyone started talking, which woke up Tine, who had no idea what was going on, but was happy because everyone else was. 

When I went upstairs, Winters was waiting for me.

“Hey, (Y/n).” He said, a bittersweet tone to his voice.

“Hello, sir. Anything I can help you with?” I asked, slightly nervous that he had waited for me.

“It turns out, we found one of Tineke’s family members. Her aunt and uncle. They’re set to come tonight.” He said quietly.

“Oh. Well that’s great!” I smiled slightly, feeling my heart get heavy at the fact that the young girl would be leaving.

“Tine, you hear that? Your aunt and uncle are coming to pick you up.” I told her, looking down at her. She perked up, looking between me and Winters and then she smiled. She smiled bigger than I’d ever seen her smile.

When her aunt and uncle arrived at 2100, Tineke ran up to them and they picked her up. They repeatedly thanked me and Winters and before they left, I gave Tineke a hug and kiss and turned around to walk away. As I did that, I noticed Joe was standing there waiting for me, smiling sweetly at me. We walked away, arm in arm to go back to the house together. The next day, we’d all been sent to the trucks to move to our new location. I was sitting next to Joe, my head on his shoulder as I slept. 

We had made it to Germany. The Krauts surrendered and Hitler shot himself. We were finally able to stay in an actual house, with actual baths and actual beds. To us, life couldn’t get any better. 

Me and Joe had been sharing a house with Perco and Luz. Frank and George went out to get eggs from a farmhouse a few blocks down so right now it was just me and Joe.

“You excited, doll?” He asked me from the table. I put down one of the wet dishes I was washing, and replied,

“For what Lieb?” “We got through the hard part!” Oh. I hadn’t really thought about that yet.

“Well, yeah, I guess. I’m just scared that I’ll have to go to the Pacific if this war finishes soon.” I replied genuinely.

“Oh don’t worry about that right now.” He said while standing up and coming behind me. I put down the last dish and pulled off the wet, yellow gloves I had on to wash the dishes in.

“Y’know, Perco and Luz just left.” 

“I know Liebgott, I’ve got eyes.” I replied, smiling up at him while turning around to face him. He put his hands on the sink behind me and smiled down on me.

“Well if your eyes are any good, then you’ll be able to see how much of a hold ya got on me.” He spoke before closing the distance between us and closing the gap.

I immediately closed my eyes and kissed him back. We slowly pulled apart, and without another word he slammed his mouth into mine. This time, he was much more passionate. His hands wandered down to my waist, and mine went up to his neck and hair. I gasped as he bit my bottom lip, and he snuck his tongue into my mouth. I kissed him back with as much fervor as I could, slightly pulling on his hair without realizing. He moaned into my mouth and the vibrations caused heat to pool in my stomach.

His hands started to roam down my body, causing me to moan as well. He pulled me flush against him and then pulled me up the stairs into one of the rooms I was occupying. I gently sat down on the bed and his fingers went to my uniform top, unbuttoning my shirt. 

Perconte and Luz were walking down the trail to the house they were sharing with (Y/n) and Joe, they had eggs to cook up for everyone. When they got inside, they expected to see (Y/n) and Joe downstairs, waiting for them like they had been before.

“Hey, where’d they go-”

“D’you hear that?” George cut Frank off when he heard what sounded like muffled banging from upstairs. The two men immediately smirked at each other, and Luz ran upstairs.

They stopped outside of the door getting ready to knock, when they heard moaning from the other side.

Before Frank could hold George back, he knocked on the door yelling, 

“You two better hurry up before me and Perco eat all the eggs!” It was quiet for a moment before Joe shouted out towards the two men,

“Go ahead! I’m eating something way better!”

IM SO SORRY THIS IS SO LONG! If I missed any TWs lmk and I'll add them!

[call-me-strega]

Ghost Selkie AU Tidbit: Abuela Soliña

I’m still playing with my Ghost Selkie Au, tossing it around like a cat toy trying to decide if and how to write it and one figure that I’ve kinda developed a backstory for is Abuela Soliña. Now said backstory may never see the light of day in the the main story so I thought this’d be a fun tidbit to throw out while I’m still considering the main story overall.

Okay so my inspo for Abuela Soliña, or Señora Mariana Soliña, actually came from a couple of different sources. I took some of the general headcanon from the DCU; Crime Alley has a large population of people of color, specifically Hispanic in the area Jason lived; that Jason has Hispanic heritage; that some of the older women in the alley occasionally feed street kids; and took them to create a person that would be a maternal figure for Jason bc I’m all for giving him Good Adult Influences.

She functions a bit as a plot device taking up the role of Jason’s magical mentor and helps move the story along. However, I wanted to give her more depth so I based her off an actual figure in Spanish history. Once I had decided a witch was the best magical figure to live in Gotham and guide Jason I actually did a bit of research on famous Brujas in folklore and came across María Soliña/Soliño a famous witch from Galicia who inspired the women of her village to fend off Ottoman raiders and survived the Spanish Inquisition without being burned at the stake. She was the main inspiration and namesake of Abuela Mariana Soliña. She did have children, though not much is known about them, so I wanted it to be implied that Mariana was a descendant of María. I wanna say I’m placing her around age 50 when she first met Jason and 65-ish(?) when he returned to Gotham.

Anyways, like I said I didn’t want her to remain a plot device and actually have depth so I kinda started building a backstory for her. Her grandparents or parents were likely immigrants who moved to Gotham from Galicia, Spain back when the city was younger. Back then the different magical communities were a bit more segregated. Vampires stayed clans with vamp doctors and leaders, gargoyles in their own community, fae in their courts, etc., but she did let that stop her. She was always deeply involved in the inter-magical community and was a central figure due to her interest in learning other supernatural cultures of the city.

She eventually grew up to be a full-fledged bruja who sold her magical remedies, charms, potions, etc to any supernatural being willing to pay her. This actually helped her amass a large amount of wealth quickly, especially when her charms, totems, and remedies caught the eyes of superstitious crime bosses across the city. She always insisted to cover her face with a shawl to protect her anonymity and had several mob bosses sign magical contracts agreeing to protect her and her rights to do business thus making her virtually untouchable in the Alley.

I wanted her to be a very strong influence on Jason. She is very strong, sassy, confident, clever, and street smart and taught Jason some of those traits. She actually meets Jason through Catherine. Mariana had many close friends with children though she herself never married. Catherine was actually the daughter of one of her close friends and Mariana was like an aunt to her. When her friend died and Catherine was left on the streets Mariana did what she could but her fear and unreadiness for motherhood held her back.

Catherine was taken in by her uncle’s family and the two were estranged for a time. In that time she falls into addiction due to her uncles on involvement in drug running as well as bad peer influences. She reunites with her Tía Mariana when she marries Willis and reaches out to invite her to the wedding. Even though they are no longer very close, after Catherine becomes pregnant Mariana offers to help out when she can. She lives in a different (read: magical) part of the Alley so she only sees Jason occasionally but makes a point to feed him, and when he discovers her secret, to teach him some basics of the supernatural world to help him get by.

After Catherine’s death Abuela Soliña is distraught. She offers Jason a hot meal and some money she had set aside (Catherine’s old college fund she never got a chance to use) but hesitated to offer a place in her home so soon after the loss. Jason sees her grief and hesitation, mistakenly assuming it’s unwillingness to deal with him full time and runs off. She tries to invite him back a couple of times but he mistakes it as one off events and remains a street kid until Bruce adopts him.

He still occasionally goes back to the Alley to visit her after that, usually as Robin. The first time he went to let her know he was okay she immediately clocked him as Jason but wished him well with Bruce. When he visits she still feeds him and gives him luck and protection charms to help with crime fighting. (Side Note: on one of his visits Jason finds out the Alfred and Mariana know each other and Have Met Before™️. Neither explains how or why)

When Jason dies Mariana grieves him deeply. When he comes back as a revenant she is both relieved and guilty. She’s happy to have the boy back but a revenant’s existence is not a peaceful one. When he searches her up and comes to see her he looks like he’s survived hell and back and he probably has. He seek out her guidance and help and this time Abuela Soliña is more than willing to pass on her vast wealth of knowledge of the supernatural community and its cultures to Jason.

One of the biggest two regrets Mariana holds with her is not adopting Catherine or Jason when they were at their lowest and she had the chance. That’s why as Jason’s rage cools and he begins looking to return to a (semi-)normal life she offers to adopt him as her grandson for real this time. She has a friend who owes her a favor and can fabricate the paper work to turn Jason Peter Todd into Jason “Pedro” Solina (and his mother posthumously Catherine Soliña-Todd). She offers to officially make him her little witchling and he emotionally accepts.

Mariana is still an active and well-known figure in Gotham’s underworld and supernatural community so having her backing gives Red Hood a lot of pull and credibility. Plus his revenant titles increase his claim to fame in the magical community. Red Hood is well loved and “Pedro” is well accepted with in the community. He’s kind of a public figure, bordering minor celebrity due to his connection to famous Bruja and witch doctor, Mariana Soliña. Not that he is aware of that fact.

Lastly I’m gonna tack on some nicknames Jason receives pertaining to his connection with Señora Soliña:

Soliña’s boy (el chico de Soliña)

Little witchling

Pequeño niño brujo or pequeño brujo (little witch boy)

Young brujo

El neito guapo (the handsome grandson)

Alborotador (troublemaker)

Heredero (heir/inheritor, referring to Mariana’s kowledge, wealth, and position in the community)

(P.S I tried my hand at drawing what I think Abuela Soliña would look like but I’m not super confident in it. I think I’m a better writer than drawer, but if you guys actually wanna see the drawing anyway let me know and I’ll make another post with it)

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Do you have any Ida Brady headcanons for pre-integrated AU? 👀

Oooh yes I do, thanks for asking!

It has occurred to me how we’ve met her when she’s legit at her lowest and coldest. So while she might be impressive AF right now, she’s not exactly the warm hearted sister Johnny could tell you of, the insane dark-horse risk taker Egan will bet on any day, the tireless and compassionate advocate of her girls, or the incredibly conflicted woman Rosie Rosenthal has the audacity to make laugh before Victory rolls round.

Ok, full disclosure, there’s plenty about this AU I’ve not even bothered figuring out as it would drive me mad and stifle the creativity, so plenty of the aspects and rules of integration, etc, have been left nebulous even in my own brain.

The short of this concept, however, is that the Bloody 100th became the first (and likely only? maybe another by the end of the war) bomber group to intergrate. It added to their reputation as a crazy and undisciplined force, an experiment of sorts. Full of mad hatters and women who deserved to get shot out of the sky for attempting to engage in something as masculine aerial combat -it made the men both defensive of their group’s capabilities and that of their female fellows. Sink or swim together, and by god, they flew instead.

This also meant Ida Brady became the highest ranking woman of her sex in the air force at the time, although she was predictably never given close to a full squadron as was her “due” as a Lt. Colonel.

It was a bit of a surprise then when she pushed for full integration of the group, that she should not be over women only, and not all women should answer strictly to her. This was adopted by the time of Harding’s command and the girls’ broader deployment.

Old habits die hard however, and “Ida’s Banshees” were still toasted at the Silver Wings club, although technically many fellas were counted amongst them by then.

How’d she get into aviation? well my dears -it starts with a stock market crash

The Brady family did alright for much of the 1930’s, jobs in rural New York were hard to come by yet the soil was good for food and the community close, the desperate poverty of the big cities wasn’t as starkly obvious or quick to ruin out there. But just because the country takes a turn up doesn’t always mean a single family will, too. There’s always unforeseen twists and turns.

Her two brothers could add to the family with what work they could get, or apprentice as Johnny did. But Ida? Those should have been her courting years, according to mama. Mrs. Brady was a good woman, a product of her times and upbringing and an immigrant child herself. It wasn’t cruel to the Irish, it was custom, to send a child away to better serve their futures.

And so 1937 found Ida seated on a train headed down to an Aunt’s house in Miami, Florida, to help with Uncle’s Travel Agency and earn a wage and hopefully meet some young fellas

There may have been young fellas in Miami but Ida didn’t have an eye for them, she wanted money and security and and to be back with her tight knit family in New York.

Uncle’s little venture was a sprawling enterprise growing free and wild since the mid 20’s in Florida’s sticky air. Sure it was a travel agency but it also coordinated areal mail runs that also accommodated a growing number of passengers, and on the side was Uncle’s true passion: the aviation school of Embry and Riddle.

Named after himself (Riddle) and his business partner Embry, her uncle had been battling the government’s pesky fingers in his training programs since the 20’s and by the late 30’s —when Ida arrived— he had reopened three different times.

Such tenacity and unreserved frustration shown by someone she so admired in regards to authoritarian overreach cemented in Ida’s mind a very clear impression that the persecution she later faced was not due fully to her sex. Instead she chose to consider it persecution of the old American trait of not giving a damn about the pesky ball and chain of higher power. Yes she appreciated her rules in the army, but in civilian enterprises? She has definite opinions about leaving well enough alone

Becoming a pilot for Ida was something that happened out of necessity and opportunity than an immediate passion. If anything it terrified her a bit, but then again, so had canoeing down the rapids in Maine with Johnny. And Ida never backed down from what scared her, only what she felt was wrong. And as far as she could see, God hadn’t said nothin’ against either man or woman flying around. So, having decided to become a pilot and help her uncle in his dreams, she became an excellent one

By 1940 Uncle Riddle had yoked with the U.S. Army Air Corps Training Program, his private school had produced 250 students and certified them as pilots the previous year and he was much in demand.

Ida Brady had been one of his chief instructors and wasn’t that a trip?

When war broke out she was recruited by and immediately joined the WASPS, training women students to transport bombers this time.

You think being a dmv test trainer is scary? Try strapping wings to those kids. It’s hell to be excellent at a thing and sit on your hands while someone nearly kills you both with their inexperience. Yet that was her day job for almost a year, and she had a temperament oddly suited to it, calm, decently patient and lethally critical when needed, she was respected and her students became not only respected but fully equipped to keep themselves and their cargo safe by the end.

When the Air Force pitched its experimental Integrated Squadron, Ida already knew the majority of the girls joining would prove to have been her students.

I am not sure she jumped at a combat position immediately, between her traditional upbringing, crucial training role and suspicion of the army screwing over the whole endeavor, I think she would be wary.

There’s speculations about who talked her into it, some say her brother had reported the dreadful discipline and treatment of the 100th’s nearly disbanded female force to her, and driven by stubborn pride in her protégés, Ida Brady had shown up and demanded they at least be nixed with dignity.

Instead she found herself training both men and women to stay the fuck in the air…the whole point of their particular branch

They didn’t get nixed. And Ida was suddenly a squadron commander without an actual squadron

By England I imagine she is still fighting for inclusions in the crews, there’s lots of finicky dealings regarding who gets sent up. She is technically Cleven and Egan’s superior but even she has the sense to know that blending in is her best bet, so she does her utmost and is respected accordingly. An odd third wheel that somehow adds a subtle but significant amount of gravitas and dignity to the whole gang, a rules and regulations gal but on because her own conduct is examined under a microscope by those higher ups who’d like the can they whole production

Under Harding’s command, as the crews become scarce, there is no discrimination left.

Those Who Can, fly.

Ida Brady goes out each time, if her girls are out so is she, even if the integration she fought for is entirely complete.

When she’s downed two days after the disastrous Munster mission that claimed her brother and Egan, it’s just in time, she’s needed on the ground by her girls who’d been lost earlier

Going ahead and tagging in case anyone is interested in this wack list of headcanons ha

MOTA taglist, I only have one so ignore if this is not the universe you signed up for:

@stylespresleyhearted

@ab4eva

@earth-to-lottie

@suraemoon

@blurredcolour

@steph-speaks

@crazymadpassionatelove

@rubyfruitjungle

@taestrwbrry

@storysimp

@javden

@sexualparkour

@jointherebellion215

@sunny747

@ask-you-what-sir

@xxanaduwrites

@pretty4u

@yorkshirekiwi

@waitedforlove743

@elvismylove04

@blikebarbie92

@luminouslywriting

@euryno-j47

@justheretoreadthhx

@bookotter01

@mads-weasley

@ka-ski

@darkestbeforethedawn16

@slowsweetlove

@richardslady121

@barbeygirl

@prfctplcsreads

@vaf24

@harrys-housewife

@claireelizabeth85

@pearlparty

[stuckinapril]

both your parents are iraqi immigrants and arent religious? what was that like? my parents are immigrants from a muslim majority country too and i dont know a single person with the same background who didnt grow up in at least a somewhat religious family 😅

My mom just never forced me to do anything 🤷‍♀️ She’s just not the type to micromanage me like that. She’s religious yes, but also educated, classy, and open-minded (these things can coexist). She never made me pray growing up, she never made me wear certain clothes growing up (if anything she’d always support me exploring my style & even buy me things the average Muslim parent might consider inappropriate), she never made me do anything religious against my will. The most I did was fast during Ramadan w my sister, but it’s more just bc we were kids who thought it was a fun concept (and we’d almost always never make it the whole day). I was too young to rly understand what religion even was, and by the time I was like a preteen I had branded myself an atheist (cringe atheist phase). Now I’d say I’m agnostic, but not religious by any stretch of the imagination.

My mom’s overprotective of me in other ways, but they’re not directly linked to religion so much as she just wants me to be safe and has high expectations for me. She probably doesn’t love that I’m 100% non-religious, but it’s not a topic she brings up at all. She just knows I’ll do what I wanna do and she can’t change my mind basically, she raised me to be that way haha. I genuinely think she’s just happy knowing I’m studying hard, taking care of myself, and have good morals—anything any parent would want of their child.

A big part of it is probably that my mom’s side is pretty liberal/lax w how they practice religion, but I also just think that she loves me to the moon and back & wouldn’t want to make me do anything that causes me to be unhappy. I think it really is that simple

Make no mistake tho, I’m veryyyy much protective of Islam. It’s my family’s faith, it’s integral to Arab culture, and it’s sickening watching the way it’s been defaced by people who don’t know nearly enough to comment on it. Just bc I’m not religious doesn’t mean I wouldn’t go in on someone who badmouths it in blind hate and ignorance.

[olderthannetfic]

https://olderthannetfic.tumblr.com/post/741872748055396352/as-someone-who-loves-to-cook-very-international-a#notes

One thing I completely forgot to mention. For anyone who eats meat: A GOOD BUTCHER! Too many people really need to find a good butcher, because more than half the "bland" meat based dishes will remedy themselves if you find a good butcher. Especially if you manage to build a line of communication to get cuts of meat as fresh as possible, you'll get fresh and well tasting meat. There's a world of difference between a good butcher's cut piece of meat, and most of what you might find in a supermarket. You know how chicken is considered some of the driest and least flavourful meat? If you get a good butcher who knows some chicken farmers, you might actually be able to get some actual fat and flavourful chicken that gets to eat grass and whatever it can find outside, instead of the mass production farm chicken that get feed with pellets. So much can impact the flavour of meat. You'll also feel much more satisfied eating meat only a few times a week if those cuts actually taste good and filling, which can cut down on your meat consumption, obviously also paired with fresh and flavourful veggies and other sides. And so we don't forget it, same goes for a seafood market. Especially seafood honestly. Some seafood really only tastes good "out of the water, into the pan, onto your plate." If it takes too long, you'll end up with less than stellar tasting meat. You also get fish and seafood that way that hasn't been processed with chemicals and other additives to keep it fresh longer. Flash frozen is also a valid form to get fresh unprocessed fish, so don't be afraid if you hear the fish you're buying was flash frozen. And for vegetables and fruit: A good farmer's market, or at least a list of in-season veggies and fruits. Veggies and fruit will always taste best within their harvesting season. A farmer's market will often have more focus on flavour and actual aroma, rather than how supermarkets some times mostly focus on the looks of the produce. Some vegetables and fruits that you get at the supermarket might be watery and bland, or even dry/woody and stringy, while the farmer's market, mainly/especially for local produce will be a lot more flavourful and aromatic. Having the option to use veggies that actually taste like something really does a world of difference for your diet!

--

There's a place in the Bay Area where you can go select your chicken or duck and wait for them to slaughter it. Depressing, maybe, to have to look your dinner in the face before it's killed, but one meets an interesting cross-section of Chinese immigrants, people who want halal food, etc. Last time I was there, a little old lady told me I needed to make chicken soup immediately on returning home and not refrigerate the chicken, wait, or try to do dishes like roast chicken that require more fat because these particular chickens are too lean.

She said most people have never tasted a proper dish made from freshly killed chicken, at least around here.

[ronearoundblindly]

The Root of All Ransom (4)

Welp. Here we are. Another part that isn't the finale. So, here you go, 👜 anon, I turned a few sentences into 5.2k.

Ransom Drysdale x rich!Reader (see previous or series)

Summary: Ransom tries his hand at something completely new: being a boyfriend.

Warnings for a shocking amount of foul language, Ransom absolutely not understanding his own feelings, so ya know, idiot!Ran, and referenced smut (non-explicit, or at least not super detailed, don't hate me). MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY. There is plenty else for you to read on my Light Masterlist.

He’s shocked it’s first class and not a private plane. Ransom shouldn’t be shocked. It’s you, so why not be one more sensible thing you don’t have to do and do anyway? He kinda hates your practicality, but you insist—when the stay overseas is this long and there’s no hard start to your arrival, you fly commercial.

He already regrets coming along. Why did he think this was a good idea again?

Ran entertains himself for the majority of the first leg since you are actually on a call in mid-air about…whatever the fuck he interrupted you discussing yesterday…and now he’s distracted by that damn memory again.

He adjusts himself in his spacious seat, folding his hands over his lap and focusing out the window past you. Except he’s not. He’s not eyeing the cloud formations or the colors of quickening sunrise and set. He’s just watching you handle your business. He sees you put on fake—but well-executed fake—smiles and offer niceties to people beneath you, people nowhere near as smart as you, people nowhere near as pretty.

Shit.

He watches a movie instead, waking up as the pilot announces your descent, and he turns to find you resting against his shoulder.

He hadn’t even noticed. He didn’t notice falling asleep. He didn’t notice someone touching him in his sleep. He didn’t care, and that’s weird for Ransom.

He doesn’t want to know what it took for you to put him beside you on such short notice—except he really, really wants to know—but he vows this will be the only time you pay for his ticket. It’s better if he pays his own way. Less mess. Boundaries. Not much harm in you napping on him though because, hey, you’ve been naked together in bed…and now he’s thinking again. Shit.

Ransom has ‘friends’ all over the world, so his passport is current and ready for a barrage of stamps. The noise of the immigration officer’s plunging metal and ink gong (or may as well be) tells Ran he needs some painkillers for a headache. Good thing he wore dark sunglasses.

Coffee during the mercifully short layover does not prevent him from passing out on your shoulder during the second leg of the trip, but you are happy puttering away on your tablet when he falls asleep and when he wakes up. You play some stupid game the whole time. He had no idea you did that.

With how excruciating the journey is to Beijing, Ransom’s considering always tacking on a visit to someone between you and home. He’s never going to do just this back and forth again, but it’s not so daunting if padded with a second locale.

He can make one call and be raucously accepted in Dubai, Monte Carlo, Sydney, and Naples, and those are just the people he’s seen recently States-side. Trust fund children live their best lives, do the best drugs, and drink the best booze. They do that shit endlessly. They are Ran’s people. Ran is one of them. He’s rolled that fact over and over in his head too much by the time you two step out to find your car in Beijing.

You have a local assistant and translator, whose name he doesn’t give a fuck about when he’s this tired, and she rides in the back of the SUV with you. He just shuts his eyes behind his sunglasses and prays to stop moving soon. His ass is vibrating and not in a pleasant way.

There is no pomp at the hotel. In fact, Ran notices that absolutely no staff so much as glance at your party as you make your way to the private elevator.

One button. It’s not labeled. It’s just a little gold round, and the assistant pushes it.

Then Ransom sees a few smaller black buttons below the otherwise empty panel that all have distinguishing characters, but guests need not know nor care what those mean. Only the gold matters. You should arrive at the penthouse, nowhere else, and the elevator just does the rest.

It’s a nice touch, he allows, properly exclusive.

You head to sleep instantly, only taking the time to wash up before crawling under the generic white but high thread count sheets, and lightly snoring. Ran thoroughly cleans up, too, unable to lay down just yet. He smirks when he sets his bag of travel-sized skincare down by yours. It’s odd that feels right.

He explores the four rooms of your suite with due reverence. This is the shit he thought you avoided. This is the top of Beijing—possibly all of China—and they know you here.

Whilst you remain dead to the world, room service arrives at exactly six pm local time. That is not something you told the assistant to do within the last day; that’s a routine, a standing order, and Ran has no clue what to do.

Does he wake you? Does he help himself? What the fuck? What would you want? What does he want? He’s way out of his depth. He munches on the proffered food while contemplating how stupid it was to make this long-ass trip without truly getting what it would mean.

What does it mean anyway?

Optionless but to ask you, he slinks into the bedroom and gently sweeps your hair behind your ear.

You mumble but don’t wake. He doesn’t get an answer if you are hungry, but he leaves the door ajar so you can smell dinner if it strikes your fancy.

Ransom crashes pretty quickly once his belly is full and the sun sinks beyond the smoggy horizon of metal spires.

His choice for bed is to curl around you. That’s what he wants. That’s what puts him right out. Ransom Drysdale always does exactly what he wants. That’s the beauty of his life.

Within a few days is another formal event, and Ransom is pre-partying with a glass full of two tiny bottles worth of whisky when the elevator dings.

He thinks it’s room service again but isn’t sure why they wouldn’t know to skip a dinner delivery tonight.

Before he gets a word out, however, a tall, bulky gentleman in an all-black suit stares back at him with the same questioning look.

“Who the fuck are you?” Ran blurts.

The man looks around and asks for you instead of responding, and you pop out of the bedroom.

“Cole?”

Is that even remotely this fucker’s real name? He’s a very, very good-looking Asian man named fucking ‘Cole?’

No. Ran fumes instantly.

“Shit,” you exclaim rushing to place an earring and ignoring the wide-open back of your dress. “This is my fault. I blanked. I won’t need you tonight, dear.”

Dear???

“But you’ve got your—“ you hold your hand out toward the newcomer (or not-new), miming giving him something, but Cole sweeps away your concern with a wave.

Ran steps closer to you, forcibly zipping your gown with eyes fixed on the other man.

“Yes, ma’am. It’s no trouble.” Cole looks Ransom up and down, flashing an approving grin. “You two have fun.”

The hell if he needs Cole’s fucking approval, but you play it all off so well that Ransom forgets all about him by the time you take his arm and walk into that evening’s venue.

He has enough to drink that Ran gets pretty handsy in the car on the way back to the hotel. His groping gets you very hot and bothered in turn, and eventually, he bends you over the suite’s expensive grey couch with the view of the city below, gripping your hair and hip tighter than intended. He fucks you so hard that you squirt, and it drips down the inside of his legs, wetting his dress socks which are still on. 

It’s not the soggy socks that annoy him the most though.

You make him help you clean the mess with towels, and the kicker is that Ransom didn’t get to come yet. What the shit? From now on, hard fucks are only for over hardwood floors, and fuck if he’s letting you come first, selfish whore. Ran isn’t the help. He’s not fucking cleaning.

His reward—because he always forgets that there is always a reward with you—is that you let him come wherever he wants, so then he’s deliberate and torturously slow sliding into your soaked pussy and marking his selfish, rewarding, dick-sucking, cum-painted whore. No condom. Damn it, it’s perfect.

He’s a filthy asshole and you fucking love it. He knows because you let him. He knows because of those noises and that fucking giggle. He knows because you both sleep like fucking rocks after your dirtiest sex ever.

Yes, the arrangement is working well, despite being in each other’s company five times more than ever before. He gets breaks while you work or he roams around shopping sometimes. Still, two days after the first event, Ran flies to see that buddy in Monte Carlo and then home.

Just in case.

He doesn’t want to get bored.

 It works. The whole arrangement works, and no one is more surprised than Ransom. He isn’t getting bored with you or the sex. He visits in short intervals, ready with any number of jaunts to other countries should he need to run, and you keep running your own fucking business. He’s simultaneously cautious and completely unhinged in enjoyment. Best of both worlds—or no worlds, kinda—because there are no labels and no pressure. He’s in complete control. He comes when he wants. Yup. That means exactly what he thinks.

He would have guessed the distance would get on his nerves or get old, but Ran discovered phone sex. There was no reason before to do digitally what he could do personally. Why have a phone book of willing ass if not to use it? He may have been wrong on that front. The phone itself is a goddamn revelation. He gets to finish and there is no one—no one—to kick out afterward. He can hear everything, see everything if he wants, and then he definitely doesn’t have to clean your filthy cunt up. He’s never gone long enough to forget what you taste like, so that’s fine. Where has this been all his life?

Good news is that you like enough variety (and make all those fucking noises) that he is anything but bored. He’s steadily built a vivid spank bank from his in-person visits and a few choice screencaps on his ever-more-beloved phone.

He enjoys one event gown with a slit so high up your thigh that he can finger you secretly. He only has to lean over enough to look like he’s listening to you whisper in his ear—and you do whisper harsh, filthy things that make him wish his clothing left such easy access to his dick. Also, Ransom Drysdale is now a member of the Mile High Club, and yes, he is very smug about that fact.

You do that. You answer his texts, and you call more. Ran looks forward to midday as well as midnight buzzes from his pocket.

He enjoys it even more when he gets to pick up your call in the middle of brunch with his mother, holding a finger up to Linda’s face mid-sentence to say he has to take this.

He’s deliberate to call you ‘sweetheart’ right away, openly gloating which, ok, yes, you were right about him doing, but he doesn’t pity Linda. That bitch deserves all this and more.

“Yeah, it’s a good time to talk. Just at brunch,” he says with all the niceness of people he’s seen being obnoxious in ‘relationships.’

“She says ‘hi,’” he tosses to his mother as he excuses himself from the table. The look on her thin, cigarette-puckered face is priceless. He’ll have to make sure you call during brunch every week he’s not traveling.

His grandfather is harder to flaunt you in front of. The astute old man always asks about you, not your business, and promptly waxes poetic about his late wife. Ran has never heard Harlan talk about Grandma Thrombey so much while playing ‘Go.’ He thinks maybe Grandpa is getting senile or hoping to freshen up the old stories for a new audience, namely his nurse, Marta.

Compared to his deceased ancestor, Ran’s giving it the old college try. Comfortable living in a nondescript limbo of getting laid with total freedom. You are never the sole reason he leaves the country. That would be dependent. Ransom is not dependent.

He’s careful because if he upsets you then he makes this very awkward for himself—temporary as that may be until he simply flies away.

He plays the role of a boyfriend. He imitates things he’s seen. It’s easier to fake than he thought it would be.

Ransom has never seen you this stressed. 

You make less eye contact with him and the other guests at the swanky Hong Kong plaza—a little travel amongst his travels—but the party is too crowded for him to ask what’s wrong.

 Of course, because you’re such a big name right now, lots of young entrepreneurs and CEOs want to talk to you. That’s too many people too close for even Ran’s socialite moods. He bristles at the puppy dogs wagging their tongues and tails in your face.

You don’t handle the attention well.

You jump headlong into the variables of earnings, spending, overhead, gross revenue, and capital while Ran watches the men and women surrounding you start to zone out. They humor your rant, but it’s not what they all want to hear.

These are people who talk out of their asses. They talk a big game with tiny, manicured hands that grasp at buzzwords and soundbites. They are ‘eco-friendly,’ ‘streamlined,’ ‘culturally inclusive’ little fucks, all of them, and Ransom speaks their language.

He touches your elbow lightly.

“Shall we get you a fresh drink, sweetheart?” he says a touch loud to cut you off.

All you notice is that you can see the bottom of your glass. “Oh, sure.”

“I’ll bring her right back,” Ran promises the circle of listeners, guiding you away to a far table.

He’s not telling you how to do your job, but he knows those folk. That’s not how you keep young money’s attention.

They don’t do well with practical details upfront. They’re dreamers. Paint a picture. Give them the moral and idealized speech of how you’re making the world a better place. The bullshittier the better. Then hit them with the figures if they ask.

As he says his piece, you sigh and straighten. You know he’s right.

“You really are cold and calculated.”

“What the fuck else am I supposed to be?”

You look him over before a small ‘okay,’ announcing you’re ready to tackle the rest of the night.

Ran smiles back before taking you the long way around to grab those fresh drinks he promised. He’s been helpful. He feels like your equal, and it feels good.

You certainly don’t need him, but his confidence is boosted after coming to your rescue.

On his next trip out, there’s a problem. Thank god you lay out your clothing the morning of so that he caught it, too, because the dress—this goddamn rag sack piece of shit—has to go.

It’s hideous. Trendy in the worst way. Ransom isn’t letting you fucking leave like that. He isn’t going to be seen with you like that, more accurately. He simply refuses.

You’ll have to be fashionably late. They’ll fucking wait for you.

He doesn’t care if it’s a local designer. He doesn’t care if your assistant has to be on the phone through her lunch break. He arranges for you to have a proper gown.

Something decent. Something flattering. Something you.

And it really does make you light up.

You hang on his arm with gratitude the whole night, sweetly touching your hand to his thigh when something in the dinner conversation reminds you of him (or if you’re sure you’ll commiserate about someone’s stupid comment later), and Ran feels appreciated for his expertise.

It’s another high note.

His planned trip on the way home is Ibiza. The friend he visits there was once loosely described as “the British Ransom,” which then led to the two being called ‘the Wank’ and ‘the Yank,’ a story for another time. However, Ran struggles to see the similarities this time.

The Wank still sleeps around with these model types. He still drinks too much and does a bunch of drugs. Ransom has no interest in any of the half-naked women throwing themselves at him. He tries—he really tries—to find them appealing, but he can’t help but notice they’re dumb. They have no original thoughts of their own, not a single one between them, and it’s fucking torture to listen to them. They are instantly boring.

He misses the challenge of you already.

Ran muddles through an exhaustive, unenjoyable weekend before coming up with a solution.

Instead of going back to the states, instead of being boring and predictable and expecting those imbeciles to develop opinions overnight, he surprises you (and himself) by returning to Beijing.

It makes sense because Ransom Drysdale does whatever he wants, always has. No, he doesn’t have to do anything, but that makes it all the more strange that he wants to see you again so soon.

It’s a mixed bag bordering on a mistake.

He’s seen you stressed but never this busy. Every other visit was planned, aligned with weekends or events so he has something to do with you instead of just near you, but he’s fucked that now.

You spend hours away at your temporary offices. You have meetings at your construction site morning and afternoon. Your contractor even comes up to the hotel suite after you come back from twelve hours out already.

Ransom is bored. He’s upset for you, and he doesn’t hide it well.

After fifteen minutes sitting across the living room from you two and your blueprints, bouncing his foot on a rug not thick enough to muffle the sound—but also no longer stained from your come, he notices,—you stride over with a set jaw.

Your hand lands on his knee in a biting pinch.

“Behave,” you hiss, “or go.”

Normally, he’d be furious. No one talks to Ran like that, but that’s just the problem: you do.

You talk to Ransom like that because you’re trying to work. You’re work is more important than he is. He’s returned, and you have shit to do. Why does that hit him so differently?

As a child, he started with a sky-high hope of pleasing his mother, but her constant belittling and dismissal wore that hope down to nothing.  The sudden desire for that approval from you is a bit like his presence: uninvited but not unwelcome.

Linda didn’t care what he did as long as he wasn’t around. You don’t care what he does—not really—as long as he is around. It’s only that you don’t like being annoyed, just like him, and he doesn’t want to annoy you.

He doesn’t want you to get bored with him.

So his immediate reaction is to sit still. He wants to behave. He wants to stay in the room with you. Why is that so odd? He should take a swing or yell. He should bolt to catch the next flight out. Why does staying in a place he belongs feel so foreign?

Wait. Why does he feel like he belongs here?

Because Ransom does whatever he wants, and if he wants to be in the room, then he belongs there. Obviously. Yeah. That’s gotta be why.

He stares, perfectly unmoving with your eyes locked on his, and your look softens after a long moment.

“Sorry,” you mouth. “Thank you for being patient.”

In yet another odd turn of events, Ran wants to argue with that. He’s never been patient his entire life. Certainly, no one has ever described him that way, but a confused weight pushes his ass further into the cushions, readying him for a long haul.

“Good boy,” you mutter, planting a kiss on his forehead.

Behaved? Patient? Good? Fuck, he’s gonna need time to think about what he’s done, why he’s doing it, and why the fuck you think he’s good because Ransom Drysdale isn’t good.

Right?

He’s good with strictly Old Money folks or young money folks, but Ransom has never been particularly adept with earned money folks. You are a mix of young and earned. It’s why he can’t figure you out all the way, not quickly, at least, not obviously.

He tags along to an intimate business dinner scheduled for the night. Since he wasn’t supposed to be in town, it’s either that or eating alone, so Ran guards himself for a spectacularly boring meal.

There are only seven people, and he’s the odd man out. You are neither the oldest nor the youngest two there. Among the table is another couple in their fifties—business and life partners—who have been together for years, probably decades. Ransom doesn’t listen very closely; he watches. They are both more playful and more serious than you and him. It makes Ran very aware of how useless he is to you at this moment. Because Ran can’t ramp up his industry knowledge in five seconds flat, he decides to touch you more.

Grazing the back of his finger down your arm. Swiping your hair off of your neck. Splaying his hand between your shoulder blades.

It’s not meant to be possessive; he just has nothing else to do. What else is he supposed to offer?

Apparently, that’s not…good?

He doesn’t understand much of what’s said (a hazard of not giving a flying fuck because he’s not there to understand your business) but he does notice your change in demeanor after a short chat with the woman seated to your right.

On the way back to the car, you lengthen your stride, rushing in front of him, fuming. Ran doesn’t understand. It’s not as if he fingered you under the fucking table or something, well, not again. You didn’t seem any weaker or submissive in front of the group. He demanded no attention in return. He’s not an idiot. He made sure.

The elevator ride to your floor is sweltering and not for good reasons.

You refuse his help with your zipper and beeline to the bathroom, starting a shower much later than you normally would. He knows these routines now.

He listens to the spraying water while quietly undressing, not sure what to do or say because he has no clue what he did or said in the first place. He wasn’t hanging all over you. He didn’t grab your ass or objectify you in any way. He’s always known how not to treat people like shit; he simply doesn’t care most of the time.

This isn’t one of those times.

He needs to know if he fucked up so he can leave. He can’t stand to hang around for arguments. He watched enough of those from Richard and Linda. He listens by the bathroom door until there’s one faint sniffle from the other side and immediately walks in.

You’re standing under the water, head hanging.

When he gets to the glass door, he asks, “what’s wrong?” Ransom doesn’t have a gentler way to word that.

You stare at the tiles. “I’m tired.” You don’t tell him to go away or leave you alone, so Ransom opens the door and steps in.

He’s seen you tired. He knows you tired. That’s not the whole truth.

Ran won’t get any goddamn sleep if you’re strung out and emotional beside him, so he lifts your chin in his grasp and asks you to pass him the body wash. He’ll get your back.

Your pupils are blown when he looks at you. Ran doesn’t know how to take that when you keep your arms tucked to your chest like a scared and quivering rabbit.

No fancy ideas form in his head while he slowly scrubs that beautiful expanse of skin he’s grown quite fond of. It’s a lot for him to even stay in the building much less the tiny space of this bathroom, luxurious as the shower may be. He has no experience going toward upset people. He is always running away from them.

With how quiet you are, all of Beijing will run out of hot water before you talk to him, so he motions to leave.

“Good? You ready?” he whispers once you’re rinsed.

You don’t look at him again. “I’ll meet you out there” is all you mumble.

Fine. He grabs a towel for himself and peels off his now sopping-wet boxer briefs. He wrings them out over the sink dramatically and flashes you a smile, but you’ve fully turned away, covered and drying with your head bent again.

He does not like this.

Ransom’s flight home leaves the next day, and this is not how he wants any of his visits to end. You can’t be sad. He can’t get any sleep beside a sad woman.

When you crawl into bed, damp hair and all, he mirrors how you lay beside him, but you don’t touch.

“So…” he tries again, leading you to a place he’s not even sure he wants to go.

After a heavy sigh, you explain that the woman at dinner thought he was an escort. She thought you were so lonely that you hired company for a dinner of friends. She thought you inappropriately considered that acceptable, as if you wouldn’t know for what functions you needed a fucking date.

Ransom fills the silence that follows. “Like…Kyle?”

You prop up your head to glare at him in the ambient city light. “You mean Cole?”

“His name isn’t fucking Cole, but sure, that guy.” Ransom shifts over to his back, spreading out casually over the bed while his chest tightens. “You…pay them for company.”

More silence.

“Paid, past tense, yes.”

“Did you fuck ‘em?”

You smack his chest with no real force. “Ransom!”

“What?! It’s just a question. It’s a fair question,” he retorts. You only call him ‘Ransom’ when mad. When he’s good you call him ‘Hugh,’ or when you’re messing with him, but either way, he prefers when you say ‘Hugh.’ You are the only person not employed by his family who he prefers that from.

You sit bolt upright in the bed, wearing pajamas, he notes. Boo.

“Ok, sure, Anal Daddy of the Northeast. You can talk.”

“Fine—” because that was savage “—are you embarrassed?” He mirrors you again and sits up. “Does it embarrass you that you hired them?”

“No.” You don’t sound convincing. “It didn’t then.”

Ran rests his head on his fist, tired. He’s tired but not bored. Weary. That’s a better word for it. He’s weary because that absolute cunt at dinner has no right to make you feel so small and wrong when you could wipe the fucking floor with her.

“Why would be embarrassing now?”

Good god, if Ransom Drysdale isn’t embarrassed that you walked in on him with one of the saddest fucks of his life than surely you’re overreacting.

You are busy all the time. It would make less sense for you not to use that type of service. It’s only because he has money that he can keep up with you and only because he has no job that he can see you on your schedule.

“Because…” You flop onto your back, so your eyes can’t meet his even in the dark. “Because she thought my first real boyfriend of this decade was a whore.”

Ran shrugs. “I am though.”

You snort, try to stop it, and end up burying your face in the comforter to giggle.

“Hugh—“ that’s better “—stop it. That’s not what I meant.”

He leans over you, his weight against a hand at your side. “I suppose the real question is ‘am I a better free fuck than your paid fucks?’”

Your fake ire is adorable as you try to ‘attack’ him in bed. You may as well have started a pillow fight, but it’s leagues away from crying on your own in the shower. Who knows? If he plays his cards right and puts you in a good enough mood, he might get a blowjob out it. That’ll sure as shit let him rest well tonight.

Finally, tumbled onto his back with you straddling him, he grabs your wrists lightly.

“Come on, sweetheart, I’m sorry that old hag is a bitter bitch.” He kisses the tip of your nose and lines his lips up to yours. “Now where’s my check?” he asks in a gravelly, thick voice.

“Cash,” you correct just before your mouths meet, and Ran snaps back in curiosity.

That’s how you wanna play it? He tries to get more out of you.

“No, no, no.” Your squeals as he manhandles you closer are delightful, the silky fabric of your shorts and top glide right over his heating skin.

“You know what I think,” he announces with you pinned to his chest, gasping for breath. “I think you need to come home. I think you’ve been here too long.”

“I can’t. Not yet.”

When you move to hide your face in his neck, Ran has to hold your cheek, forcing you to pay attention.

“Three days,” he says. “Give me one weekend. My grandfather’s birthday is a couple weeks away. You can see the leaves change and watch my mother shrivel into the Crypt Keeper before your very eyes.” He allows a pause for your poorly stifled laugh and watches you bite your bottom lip like he’s going to do for you in about two minutes, right after you say yes. “Pure entertainment. No translator required. How about it?”

It wouldn’t be you if you didn’t fight him a little more. It wouldn’t be you if the challenge didn’t make him that much harder.

That’s why. That’s why he does this. He wants the bit of work to get you in bed, the bit of struggle before you let him inside you. He wants to be home with you there. He wants to be in his own space again. He wants to show you off. He wants his fucking family to see he can do this. 

Selfishly.

All of these things he wants for himself. He wants you to stop crying for him. He wants you to destress for him. He wants you to have a vacation for him. These are all completely normal motivators from Ransom Drysdale.

He’s still in control. He’s still getting what he wants. He didn’t have to change a thing about himself to be perfectly happy. He was right all along.

A/N: Repeat after me: this is not a series. This is a mini-series. There will only be one more part. Again, only one more part...because ffs I do love Ransom, but it is impossible to write any other character while dipping into this asshole's mindset. Anyway, one. more. part. and we're done! Also hey, hey, @supraveng.

[Next Part]

[Main Masterlist]

[feverdreamsandlucidnightmares]

So I study communications and art. I’ve studied zines a lot. We basically never talk about disability zines in my classes unless I bring them up. We went to a museum as a class for their zine exhibition. The curator told us they were essentially uncensored. I didn’t find any disability zines in the show. I suppose they…forgot? I guess. We went to a zine library and the librarian had pulled a selection to look through as a starting point. Feminist zines, queer zines, zines about immigration, zines about being BIPOC. All really, genuinely great material, just nothing about disability. We were given permission to roam the stacks. I found a zine written by a disabled woman about her experiences with chronic illness. I read it. My professor asked us to share what we read during this field trip. I talk about this zine and a zine about grappling with a multicultural identity. My professor mentions how specific an experience it is, how the author must be writing for themself because there isn’t much of an audience. She doesn’t clarify which zine she’s referring to. Either way I disagree. You don’t have to be exactly like someone to resonate with their experiences.

I know disability zines exist. I’ve read some. But they never seem to be part of the archive that gets discussed. I think I’m the only disabled person in this class. I don’t want to talk to strangers about how it hurts to walk and how standing too long can make me faint. I don’t have a formal diagnosis and I always feel as if I’m overstepping. I don’t know how to be a spokesperson for the disabled community at large, I’m a singular university student. I’ve been called a cripple at school. By someone I considered a friend. I’ve had people get tired of how I’m just not getting better. I’m tired, too. And I’d like to at least see a little representation.

I don’t know why I’m always surprised that even countercultural spaces and discussions barely include disabled people.

[cult-of-the-eye]

inspired by @archivus' statements, i decided to give it a try myself

tw for depersonalisation, body image issues, body horror, slight gore

Out of Body Experience

Statement of Rebekah Fitch, regarding something that wasn’t her body. Original statement given 5th March 2018. Recording by [REDACTED], Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, Manchester. Committed to tape 26th March 2024. 

Statement begins. 

I never thought I would end up like this. I just-

I guess I should start from the start. 

Throughout my life, I’ve had a complicated relationship with my body. Not to get too, um, personal or anything, but let’s just say it's tough being the child of an immigrant mother, especially, well, my mother. She would make comments about my body, small ones, I’ll admit, but ones that certainly built up to…recent events. On top of all that, I spent a lot of my teen years dissociating. Tricking my brain into believing that I wasn’t real. That nothing was. It’s a bit difficult to solidify an image of your body when half of you is ashamed of it and the other half doesn’t even consider your ownership of one. Ownership. I guess that’s sort of where it all began. 

It was sometime in January when it all started to go wrong. I don’t exactly have a habit of staring at myself in the mirror, in fact, the only mirror I own in my cramped little flat is the bathroom one. It’s somehow always stained, a fact which I hesitate to admit helped me live with my…issues. The point is, the majority of the time, I didn’t know how I looked.

And then one day, I watched myself wake up. 

I remember exactly how it felt. You know how people sometimes slice oranges in half and then take the peel, dig their fingers into the sides and push, letting each segment split from the other, hungrily leaning up towards you? That’s how I felt. Inverted. Wrong. I saw myself in a way that I had never, ever seen before. Each and every part of me that bulged where it shouldn’t have, thinned and yellowed at the edges like a fruit in its off-season. Whatever was happening to my eyes didn’t hurt, exactly, but I could feel every single part of my body as if it had suddenly awoken from a deep unconsciousness. It disgusted me. The life of it all. I panicked, of course, I thought I was having a really, really bad dream and that all I needed to do was wake up. But, no matter how many times I attempted to shield myself from the view, no matter how many times I willed every single synapse in my brain to connect and let my goddamn eyes close, nothing happened. 

That nothing was the most excruciating nothing that I had ever experienced in my life. I was forced open, boneless and writhing. The me on the bed that I was watching slept soundly. 

I don’t remember when I snapped out of it. I don’t remember how long it had been. I sat up, drenched in sweat, determined to be rid of the one mirror I had left. Putting it in the bin didn’t feel as triumphant as I believed it would. I guess part of me knew that this was no one-off. 

Ok, I know what you’re thinking. It could just be a hallucination. I could be traumatised or mentally ill or on drugs. Well, I’m actually all of those things, which means that I have the unique ability to prove you wrong. I know what a hallucination feels like, I know what drug side effects feel like, and I know what my episodes feel like. And this? This was entirely separate. I don’t have to tell you that it happened again. I don’t have to tell you that I went from GP to GP, therapist to therapist to find out what was happening to me. But I will end this with proof. 

Statement Ends. 

Post-statement records include a medical report of one Rebekah Fitch. It outlines a series of scars of unidentified means on the underside of her eyelids, spelling out the phrase “I know that I exist.” Any attempts to follow up have led to dead ends. However, I’m afraid that I may be able to guess how this one ends.

[taylortruther]

(im sorry sometimes i just send you long asks about my opinions, but it’s because i feel like even if you disagree or think what im saying is dumb (for the lack of a better word), you would be nice and gentle about it haha. ignore me if you want!)

maybe the way i view celebs is “wrong” but i grew up in india, and i literally learned to never rely on them. they do and say the dumbest things, but no one bats an eye because it’s like “ofc this famous person said and did this.” in the same vein, i don’t rely on her to feel that im making a difference in society by calling her out. as for everyone always talking about expecting better from her, i literally don’t expect anything from her. i obviously recognize that her outreach is so very wide so of course i would love if she did say something and addressed certain things, but i have seen that she will not speak on issues pertaining to other countries and sticks to her lane with 3-5 major things in the US, so why would i expect her to speak about anything else? having followed her for so long, based on past, how could i and why would i? (this sounds unkind i think but i actually mean it in a kind way lmao). her speaking on things would just bring me personal peace that she did her part and that i support a good person, but beyond that, if i actually want change, why would i focus on her at alllll instead of focusing on an actual political figures? that’s time spent doing something that will result in nothing instead of something else (i realize this is extremely ironic because im typing this long ask and spending time on it 💀 i love being a hypocrite i guess)

instead of focusing any of my energy wanting her to do things she probably won’t do, i spend my time actually supporting things i believe in, and constantly having uncomfortable conversations with people around me. and the impact i have is actually very little compared to all that other people do, so instead i spend time feeling guilty about it and thinking what can i do? (that’s kinda a joke but also not a joke at all alkjgdgsj)

also, like im so in terms of how she and i are different. im a poc immigrant, and im extremely privileged in general, but compared to her it’s nothing. she is the biggest star in the world. no way our approach or thinking aligns. i feel like calling her out and constantly thinking about her “wrongs” just makes me feel conflicted about her. i don’t want to align myself with her politically and not because she is a conservative or something but because there are other people who are more sensible to align myself with. and it’s not that i don’t critically think about her, but that im being selfish and affording myself this luxury.

basically, all that word-jargon to say i love her music and i love her as a person and her traits very dearly, and the way she approaches political issues is something i used to be in gripes with but have accepted and come to terms with. and maybe i have cognitive dissonance and im actually blind to how evil she is because im a “cupcake” swiftie, but oh well. i guess i just have no morals then 😭

arshia i completely agree with you and imo this describes my own mentality about it really well. she does not represent me and frankly i do not really want her to try. of course, i wish she'd come out and say some shit like "MONEY FOR WAR BUT NOT FOR CITIZENS? CALL YOUR REPS AND SIT IN IN ALL THEIR OFFICES" fjdkasl but i'm not going to hold my breath. taylor's conscience is her own, i can't control it!

and if someone cannot stomach celebrities at all because of what they represent - FAIR! i turn off that part of my brain to be on here, because this is my fun lil hobby. and i think i am making more of an impact irl than i ever could on here. although, if anyone learns anything about their own politics through my blog, i consider that a win.

[deathsbestgirl]

I’ve read a few fics where someone either in the fbi or local/state law enforcement tries to recruit scully to their team. I like the idea (though I’d never want her to actually leave, ofc), and I think it’s realistic that it would happen - if you agree, how seriously do you think she entertains such offers, at various points in the show?

oh i love this question!! i think there are three times scully considered to his. the first time being squeeze, and colton helped make sure scully would dedicate herself to the victims & mulder. and mulder is really the one who solidified it because he's so considerate. he cares about people so much and what he does really is what she wants to do. she wants to make a difference.

the second time would be around never again, right before her cancer. like i think about paper hearts, and even el mundo gira. she couldn't really help mulder, she let skinner down. they didn't find the immigrants spreading the ... mold? they were "invisible." and obviously never again, where she was contemplating her work & her life & her choices. right after na, she needs the x files. and she needs mulder, he gives her strength and she would have had a much harder time without him. and even though he wasn't ready to say what she means to him, he needs her too and i do think she's aware how he values her. he's a very show over tell kind of person, and they both have a habit of talking around important things lol

the third time...would be the end of s5, the end & ftf era where she was really doubting herself and her importance to the x files & mulder. and more than that, how she's a deterrent to him. i think she became very aware in gethsemane & reduxes how they use her against him (and all the other times she was victimized). her abduction, her cancer. and then emily happened. the red and the black? she was believing and he wasn't. she willingly did a regression which she ran from when melissa asked her to do it...regarding her abduction. scully almost died again. and while that may not have been as targeted against her & mulder, it's all connected. diana just exacerbated the problem and made her question their partnership more. but he said what she needed to hear and she was roped back in.

more than anything, i don't think scully could abandon him and leave him alone. and the x files really are hers too, whether her name is on the door or not. she has just as much blood in this as mulder does. she wants answers too. scully will always be reeled back in. we see a hint of it in iwtb and plenty in the revival. mulder & william are who she fights for. and as mulder fights for everyone else, she'll be there with him every step of the way.

[stillfrownyclownlol]

I will also talk about Tyler because he's also not normal about stuff 🫠

Right from the start you get these signs he's protective to a detrimental level lol

(BTW Aidlyn scene cuz I'm not normal about them ❤️ The way he literally wraps his whole body in front of her sent me lmao. Mans got his leg around her and everything 🤡)

He's pretty much like this with Taylor in all their scenes. In the Sorrel House he puts his arm in front of her when they see the phantom (that he does not think is real, considering his reaction).

He also has a tendency to drag Taylor away from situations with out asking for her opinion on it 🫠 He just kinda assumes she will want to go with him. Like when he drags her out of the house after saying the phantom was just a prank.

Sir. PLEASE. Kinda possessive of you-

I don't think Red did this on purpose because like. She hasnt really brought up their culture/heritage or anything in the story so far lmao (I'm crying). But idk like just this behavior reminds me a lot of the guys in my family 🙃 I think Latino boys get kind of socialized to be more aggressive and protective of their families at their own expense. He definitely seems like the kind of brother to impose a curfew- He has control issues like. We all see it right? He's a control freak.

Obviously his dad dying has a lot to do with this. His mother took it extremely hard, so then Tyler "stepped up" to take care of both his mom AND his sister, he's been parentified since a very young age (he doesn't look older than 10 imo). I think he feels a need to "be the man of the house" so to speak. He genuinely does not seem to have any hard feelings towards his mom even tho she...you know, fucked up. if any of you know the "latino boys are mama boys" cliche, but.

yeah.

(I do think Taylor has more mom issues because she kinda resents how Tyler has been parentified and she's allowed herself to be angry at their mom for leaving them to fend for themselves)

Sidenote: It looks like his family is very isolated. Like, its strange that nobody came to help Marianna after Ethan died. This isn't always the case but usually Latinos have large families (my mom's family had to push together eight beds so all the cousins could sleep in one room lol) WHICH probably means Tyler's branch of the family is, so far, the first and only to have immigrated to the US. He's probably already a second or third generation tho, his mom has only one surname and he and his sister never seem to speak Spanish, so I don't think they learned it (probably some basics). I don't imagine they've ever been to Mexico except MAYBE when they were very young (its kinda rare to visit...since...it's so hard to get out of there in the first place...🫠 I dont think my parents have been to Venezuela in more than 20 years...but also Venezuela is in way worse condition, so...)

But yeah like. His protectiveness of Taylor is something that actively works against her and something she dislikes. She always looks upset when he drags her out of a situation or tells her what to do. She just wants to help :(

BABYYYYY 🥲

Ofc she never says anything because for most of her life Tyler has put himself in a position of authority and is her caretaker. It's hard to speak up to somebody when they constantly say "I'm doing this for your own good, for your own safety, for-" Whatever. Taylor always believes Tyler does everything for her own best interests, so... even when she doesn't feel good about something, she'll still listen to him. It's a veryyyyyy slippery slope that can quickly become toxic, if it isn't already. Because besides being her brother, he's put himself as her parent figure as well.

He does the thing. You know. Where parentified kids try to overcorrect so they kind of coddle their own children and don't let them do anything because they're scared to death something is gonna happen to them 💀

I don't really know what the point of this was I just wanted to talk about how possessive Tyler can be and how unhealthy his attachment style is 😭 If I write Tyler and Logan angst tho just know it's gonna involve Tyler being overprotective and Logan being Not Cool TM about it 🫠