#i even used to speak/understand a little latin

[handsomegentlebutch]

My 3 little cousins were baptized today. "Triggered" is kind of a strong word but being in a catholic church again... I'm a little fragile rn ngl.

#butch speaks #it was hard not to shake as i held J over the basin to have the water poured on his head #when he was cleansed of sin. as if a little kid could ever knowly or intentionally offend a so-called loving god #the words came naturally to me #but they meant nothing #i remember when they used to mean something. when i begged gods forgiveness for my sin (being a lesbian) and tried to pray the gay away #i remember how much i wanted to die bc i could never truly embrace the sacred #i STILL deal with the complex of catholic guilt. its a very real thing. its hard to shake #i cant help but wonder if the catholicism ingrained in my brain is why i have a hard time with casual dating n sex #fun fact: there was a point when i was a teen that i got REALLY catholic #i prayed everyday. i talked to my patrin saint (st agnes) every day. i wantsd to become a nun #the thought of marrying a man mad me more sad than feeling like an alien did. so id marry the church as a nun. #not the way to hide being a dyke when ur fam is catholic btw LMAO #the first priest i knew was father joe. i loved that guy. he was so kind. friendly. briming with love. #he was one of my biggest references for what a good person was like #he talked about gods love a lot. how its for everyone. no one is exluded. ever. #he used to look right at me when he said stuff like that. a few other kids too. all of whom grew up to be queer #then father joe passed away. our church merged with another church. father jeff was the priest there. #he was kind but not as kind. he talked about hell and sin more. he looked at the same kids father joe did. #but the kindness in his eyes wasnt there. #that wasnt for us. #my family wasnt even THAT catholic #i went to church every sunday i did vacation bible school and catechism classes and youth group #i was an altar servant and in the choir #i even used to speak/understand a little latin #imagine how much worse id have been if my mom could have afforded catholic school lmao #grateful to have grown up poor in that regard #hm. actually... reading my own tags. mayne we were pretty catholic actually. #fucking hell. #i need to have lesbian sex in a church before god and everyone. mayeb that would fix me.

[pearl-tarotist]

ꕥღ What fanfic trope do your fs and you resemble?ღꕥ

As the first PAC of my collection "cliche moments with your fs", this tarot reading tries to tag the dynamic of your relationship with your fs in a fanfic trope.

P1-P2-P3:

PILE 1: "Sometimes I lay in bed at night just saying your name"

Insecure love interest x Successful lover

The dynamic between your fs and you feels protective and encouraging. But it seems that one of you, even if you are successful and productive, does not feel good enough to be in a relationship with the love interest. I see cute and beautiful interactions at the beginning of your relationship, where the insecure part blushes and hugs themselves in a protective way, while the other part is just happy to be able to interact with them, their eyes shining and body leaning towards the other in interest. The more secure person is truly successful with the magician's energy. This connection really makes sense if it is interpreted in an "office scenario" where the more extroverted part is doing a good job in a more visible department while the other is busy with the internal operations of the company. The extroverted part is always smiling for the other, but it seems that their romantic signals and flirting goes unnoticed by the insecure one, nevertheless, they just keep trying and scheming to interact with the "insecure" person in a way that seems unplanned, even when they are really planning it so the interactions seem natural and do not scare the other. Once the outgoing person understands that their romantic interest likes them but is keeping their distance to avoid damaging their reputation, they will increase their efforts to win them over. They will compliment and affectionate touch them for a time. Building up their love interest's self-esteem appears to be the initial step towards a stable relationship, so they will strive to accomplish this.

(5 of Gems - Ten of Shells - The Magician - Ace of Roses - Five of Shells)

Channeled messages:

Katniss Everden and Peeta Mellark: "You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him, you know"

Edward x Bella in Twilight.

Bridget Jones!!

"Bridget: I read that you should never go out with someone if you can think of three reasons why you shouldn't. Mark: And can you think of three? Bridget: Yes. Mark: Which are? Bridget: First off, I embarrass you. I can't ski, I can't ride, I can't speak Latin, my legs only come up to here, and yes, I will always be just a little bit fat."

PILE 2: "pieces of me exist in every person i've ever loved"

"Work team trope"

The start of this relationship has a purpose. Maybe it's because of your job. It seems you both spend time together to achieve an objective. It may be due to work, a college project, a competition or debate... Both of you would be interested in achieving a common goal. It appears that for this aim, the both of you ought to work together and express your ideas, visions, and intentions for the project. This love is honest and gradual. It will occur without any of you noticing. For instance, one day you may go to work and notice that they appear more attractive than usual or that their smile is lovely. You will get used to each other's presence without even realizing it. And when that person is no longer around, you will notice their absence greatly! You will miss each other so much that it will drive you both crazy. You'll wonder why you feel this way. It's a strange but warm feeling in your chest. When you collaborate with them, you'll start to stutter, blush, and get nervous in their presence mid-collaboration! I can also imagine some of you working in a laboratory or hospital - somewhere bright and very clean. This project will be a triumph that warrants some revelry! You will realize that you are a great team and are likely to continue working together on other topics.

(King of Shells - Ace of Wings - 3 of Shells - 7 of Shells)

Channelled messages:

(500) Days of summer

The office (Pam and Jim)

The fault in our starts: “As he read, I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.”

PILE 3: "you are such a soft and messy thing"

"Love at first sight x long-distance relationship"

In a trip, in a foreign land, you meet someone so beautiful in your eyes that you are convencied that they are your soulmate. You start to develop these unlogical feelings of posesiveness every time you see them with another person and you try to keep the same behaviour even if your feelings are not. You wait for a sign as the days go by, while you need to return to your country. You are unsure whether you should express your feelings towards someone you have recently met. You have and want the "perfect life" and this just feels like an obstacle to achieve it. Regardless, on the day before departing, you express your emotions to the other individual and initiate a relationship with them, even if it requires sacrificing some aspects of your life. The other person shares your feelings, but they did not want to stop your development in other aspects of your life such as work or college, that's why they did not declare. You both form a relationship, sometime, long-distance or in-person, and take the time to get to know each other and the cultures you each belong to.

Channelled messages:

Romeo and Juliet

Mamma Mia

#pearl #tarot #pick a pile #pac #tarot reading #love tarot #pick a card #astrology #feedback #free tarot #future spouse tarot #future spouse #future spouse reading

[buttdumplin]

The sweet, lovely poly 141 boys and their Spanish-speaking latine partner.

This was meant to be a quick little thing, but boy did this get away from me lmao. This is the fluffiest shit I've ever indulged in and I love it. Big thank you to @mikichko for inspiring and helping with this!!!

CW: poly 141, gn!reader, latine reader, mexican slang, hint of d/s dynamics in Johnny's

Price, god love the man, is the one who seems to stumble the most. It's almost comical, considering the fact that Spanish and Arabic are so similar due to their histories. But there's a big difference between the Spanish he's learned to recognize and what you throw at him on the daily. He truly thinks it's because of his age, window of acquisition and all that. John does not expect to be able to speak fluently with you, but he does at least want to understand you. What he really wants, though, is to make you feel more fully at home with him, and he is forever grateful that you feel comfortable and safe enough with them to embrace all parts of your identity.

"Hola, amor mío. How was your day?" you greet him from the couch, eyeing him from tip to toe and almost whistling at seeing him in uniform. "Sigues rechulo, mi güerito, so I assume all went well?"

John swings down to kiss you, gripping the back of your neck to prolongue the kiss, trying to soak in as much of the affection as he can while also disguising the fact that he still doesn't fully recognize what came after.

"Yours was good too, I trust?"

"Yeah, but my brother called. El güey still con sus pinches mamadas and asking for my help. Aguas, in case he shows up this week."

"I... will keep an eye out, dove."

"Call me si les arma pedo and I'm not around."

He just nods sagely and squishes up against you on the couch, letting your warmth seep into his tired bones.

Later that evening, he rounds up the boys while you're in the shower and pulls out a small notebook where he's written things out phonetically. John may not have all the knowledge he needs, but he sure as hell is good at getting it.

"'Güey,' that's the brother's nickname?"

"No, that's like 'man/guy.' But it's also an insult. But not always," Johnny supplies.

"Fuck me, okay. 'Rechulo' is... I got nothing for that one."

"The 're' is for heavy emphasis, 'chulo' is 'cute/handsome/pretty.' 'Re' can go on practically any adjective," Simon steps in.

"'Aguas' and 'pedo' CANNOT be what they are, right?"

Kyle takes his hand and chuckles, "No, sweetheart. The first is like a warning, the second a fight or scene or scandal. In this context."

John's shoulders finally relax and he lets out a heavy sigh, putting the final touches on his notes of the day.

"Thank you, boys, for your patience and your kindness. And your secrecy," John huffs a little laughter and gives them his sweetest smile, the one where you can see the dimples poking out through the beard.

They all reach over to gently caress him, taking turns kissing the parts of him they can reach.

"Thank you, John, for trying so hard."

~

Beautiful, wonderful Kyle, the delight of a man that he is, is the one giving it as good as he gets. He's the one crooning in your ear, showering you with the most decadent terms of endearment, knowing full well they make your knees much weaker in Spanish. He'll use the advantage every single chance he has, don't doubt that for a second. But truly, it's the soft seclusion of those moments that he cherishes most, when you're looking up at him with big bright eyes, knowing you fully trust him to take care of you.

You're grumbling away as you wash dishes after dinner when Kyle comes up behind you, arms making the way slowly around your waist, chin dropping onto your shoulder.

"Oh, tesoro mío, look at you working away, working so hard for us."

You refuse to look at him and give a fussy pout. He knows it's your least favorite of the house duties. So much so that you're always willing to do almost anything as long as you don't have to touch wet food.

"It looks like you've done enough, cariño. Come join us in bed."

"No. None of you wanted to trade with me so se aguantan," you try to wiggle and bump his head away from yours.

"Come on, cosa hermosa, we need you with us to settle for the night," he pulls your hands from the water, drying them and turning you towards him.

You immediately bury your face into his chest. Can't look him in the eye, he'll win you over the moment you do.

"So they send in the smooth talker, huh?"

Kyle laughs, clear and bright, and he wraps you back up in his arms, gently cradling your head until you give in and look up at him.

"Or," he says, making you both rock gently, "I'm trying to sneak in a little solo time."

Your body melts against his as the words sink in, big eyes blinking softly up at him, "Besito?"

"As many as you want, mi vida. Until you grow bored of me," and you're letting out a sweet sigh as those soft lips meet yours.

His hands move to bring your body closer to his, to milk this quiet moment for as much contact as possible, to sear it all into his memory.

"You two are awfully quiet out there," Simon calls from the bedroom and it makes you break apart with a little jump.

You hear frantic rustling that has to be Johnny, "Hold on, what happened to doing the dishes!"

A chuckle escapes the two of you, sparkling eyes meeting in the low light from the stove hood. The sound of John huffing to get comfortable floats in from the bedroom.

"Just a minute more, hermosura," he mutters against your hair. "Wanna stay here a bit longer."

"Really liking all those pet names, aren't you?"

Kyle laughs again and gives you a squeeze, "Mean every single one of them."

And you happily linger, not pointing out that you've noticed an endearing pattern of Kyle wrapping up nights in the kitchen with you in his arms and a faint love song echoing down the hall for you two to sway to.

~

Beloved, darling Simon, he hides his own understanding of the language. He understands it nearly perfectly, with just the tiniest margin of error, nothing too big to bring attention to it. Overall, he's able to catch almost everything you mumble. It's not to be sneaky or anything like that, Simon would never do anything to compromise your privacy. It's more that he doesn't quite see the need to verbalize it. To him it's nothing special, no need to make a spectacle. Instead, he lets it seep into his actions, ever the acts of service lover that he is.

You're spread out on the couch, on the phone with your mother, complaining, "Como chingan los del trabajo. Me pidieron un reporte para el viernes y ahora me reclaman que todavía no se los he dado y apenas es miércoles."

There was a tension in your shoulders when you came home from work, he didn't miss that. Caught you jolting to a stop mid-stretch. And as the call goes on longer, Simon picks up on more.

"No he tenido chance de lavar ropa, ni una putisima pijama... Traigo un pinche antojo de mole, pero es un chingo de trabajo y ahorita no le puedo dedicar el tiempo..."

He quietly moves to gather the boys as you continue ranting and pace around the room. You're too caught up in your call to see them forming a massive huddle and their nodding at Simon right as the break and throw their joined hands in the air.

By the time you're off the phone, it's dark out and you notice the house is quieter than usual. You move to look for the boys (they can't have left without telling you, right?) when Simon pops out from the hall, crooked smile you love so much adorning his face, and he simply takes your hand to pull you into the bathroom. A hot bath greets you, some honeyed bath bomb already dissolving in the water and your laptop set up on a bucket besides the bath, your comfort show already pulled up and ready to play. Simon then points to your softest pajamas washed and set out on the counter for you.

"And you'll help me with my lotion too?"

He kisses your forehead, "When do I not?"

"The boys?"

"Setting up dinner. Kyle and I are making your favorite."

You whip around to face him, eyes wide and excited, "With fresh tortillas?"

With a low, affirmative hum Simon pulls you in closer and just holds you. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't need to. But he lends you his strength, which is all he can really hope for. The steady beat of his heart and the warmth of his arms around you help release the tightness in your body. Letting out your own little hum, you give him a squeeze and he squeezes back harder, crushing you in the way he knows you find comforting. There's a soft devotion in his tenderness with you, an unshakable support in every single thing you do.

"So you gonna undress me too, or...?"

A peal of laughter escapes you as he playfully swats at your butt, "Undress yourself. I've got cooking to do."

A day without hearing your laughter is a day poorly spent to Simon.

He's almost to the door when you pull him back into you, hands tugging on his shirt to bring him down to your height. His own laughter rumbles in his chest as you cover his face in loud kisses, and he stays locked in place. He will for as long as you need him to, never mind his back. If it's gonna go out eventually, he'd rather it go out from his time spent like this.

~

Johnny, bless the boy, is desperate to hear it, to have you address him directly. You speak plenty around the house, on phone calls with friends, talking back at the tv (some shows have been put on temporary bans, or at the very least you're not supposed to watch them alone), at the lovely crooked cat yall adopted. You shower them with pet names with every breath you take. And he loves it all! Loves that you so willingly share so much of yourself with them. But Johnny boy is dying for something specific- "Love, why don't you call me papi?"

When he voices it, it's a complete surprise. Simon and Kyle both laugh so hard so suddenly that they find themselves choking on their own spit. Price himself is caught so off-guard that he fully looks up from the dinner he's prepping in the kitchen, raw chicken slipping out of his hands and plopping back into the flour bowl. You at first laugh it off lightly, thinking it was one of his cutesy jokes he makes to get a giggle out of everyone. That would have made the most sense, honestly. But when he looks away, big blue eyes shining with the softest hint of embarrassment, it sinks in.

You shift in your seat a fraction, "Johnny, I don't even call any of you that in English. You know it's not exactly the same thing, right?"

"I know but the little old lady from the corner shop calls me "papi" and so does the older man who brings the water and other people too and it's always so affectionate and so I thought..."

He spares a glance at you, hoping he hasn't completely overstepped.

"Where did this come from?"

"Ale let it slip last time we grabbed coffee and the joy on Rudy's face was so blinding that I thought maybe we should try it."

"Honey--"

"Please, just once."

"But I--"

"It doesn't have to be a title! It can be soft and casual, no expectations."

"You don't--"

"I promise I'll be good for it."

Oh.

Your gaze meets the other boys' and you all take a good look at your Johnny. At some point during his pleading he brought himself down to kneel in front of you. His broad shoulders are slumped forward in submission, his hands clenched together so tightly his fingertips are completely white. Price nods at you, the other two eagerly nodding along as well.

Leaning forward, you grab him by the jaw, gently bringing his head to rest against your thigh.

Running your fingers through his hair, you utter out a low, "Sweet little thing like you just wants to be good, don't you papi?"

Johnny's eyes glaze over slightly, a shy, dazed smile growing on his face. There's not an ounce of hesitation in him as he nuzzles his face into your thigh, just sweet elation. Pleased grumbles escape the others, making Johnny's smile grow bigger.

You make sure to add it into your regular circulation.

#poly 141 #poly 141 x reader #poly 141 x latine reader #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #johnny soap mactavish #captain john price #ghost x reader #gaz x reader #soap x reader #price x reader #i cannot emphasize the poly of this enough #this is truly some of the most self indulgent shit i've ever written and i've never been happier lmao #honestly this is just precious moments with each of them #i'm definitely going to be writing more 141 x latine reader #prepare to be fucking sick of me #frfr tho this is the first long thing i've written in years and ngl it feels good to be doing it again #also yeah i tend to sprinkle in commas like they're condiments

[prettyboypistol]

how do you think would mercs react to reader calling them pet names in his native language that is not english obviously 👀 might be sfw or nsfw, whatever you like more ❤️

TF2 Mercs Reacting To Native Language Pet Names!

Scout

Gets like, REALLY flustered initially. A "Uh, what did you call me?" then "O-oh. Nice! Nice!... Haha okaaaaay! Great!"

Man starts mimicking you and your accent subconsciously (ADHD echoing go brrr) and likes stimming by rolling his rs and doing the special sounds your language does that are different from English.

Soldier

"YOU MAGGOTS HEAR THAT! CUPCAKE HERE THINKS I'M A COWZONE!" "I SAID CORASON!" "MEDIC! HE'S HALLUCINATING! HE THINKS I'M FOOD!"

After you explain it, he gets all giddy and lovey dovey on you, he's got a thing for you talking in your first language.

Pyro

Deadass? I headcanon Pyro to be a polygot. They know what you're saying regardless of what language you speak.

When they hear the petname you shout as good luck, they turn around and make a heart with their fingers and shout something back. It sounded vaguely like your language..?

Demoman

Will hit you with a scottish one right back, it becomes a war of the pet names until you both end up cuddled tightly in each other's arms and on the brink of sleep as you murmur out little sweet nothings.

Has no idea what you're saying but can understand it's affectionate because of the context.

Engie

"What's that, darling? Didn't quite catch that." You say it in English. "Oh! Well ain't you sweet! C'mere hun."

Not as flusterable on the outside, but internally freaking the fuck out because that was SO CUTE!!!

Heavy

Maaaaan. RIP you. This dude's barely got a grasp on English, that could be your only language and this would still work.

If you explain it to him, then he gets all smiley with you and kisses your cheek.

Medic

"Ah, danke liebe." "No problem, cher." "Oh! You speak another language? Amazing! I know that one- wait, do I? Let's see... German, Latin, English..."

Finds it absolutely adorable. If he doesn't know the language he asks you to teach him so you two can gossip together behind people's backs.

Spy

THE RESIDENT POLYGOT. LIKE, HEADCANONED TO BE HIRED ON TO BRIDGE THE LANGUAGE BARRIER LEVELS OF LANGUAGE KNOWLEDGE.

Imma be real it doesn't even register that you spoke in something other than English, but he instinctually switched to your language mid conversation more out of habit than anything.

Sniper

"Awe, using that first-language charm on me, eh? Well that's not gonna let you use me rifle. Sorry chickadee."

Sees it as more of a teasing to try (and failing) to fluster him or get what you want.

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #fanfiction #tf2 x reader #tf2 sniper #tf2 medic #tf2 spy #tf2 engineer #tf2 demoman #tf2 heavy #tf2 scout #tf2 pyro #tf2 soldier #tf2 scout x reader #tf2 soldier x reader #tf2 pyro x reader #tf2 demoman x reader #tf2 engineer x reader #tf2 heavy x reader #tf2 sniper x reader #tf2 spy x reader #tf2 medic x reader #tf2 headcannons #tf2 headcanons #prettyboypistol

[literaryavenger]

Meet The Guardians Of The Galaxy

Summary: The Avengers meet the Guardians of the Galaxy for the first time.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Female Reader

Warnings: Minimal use of Y/N. Language. A lot of fluff. My poor attempts at being funny.

Word Count: 1.4K

A/N: I'm not sure what this is, but I was just thinking how it might go if the Avengers met the Guardians of the Galaxy. It started with the reader cooing at Groot and Bucky being jealous and this is what came out, lol, hope you like it! Needless to say, this doesn't follow the MCU timeline, like basically all of my other stories. Don't ask me how Thor knows the Guardians, the bitch just do. I also just needed Bucky fluff, like always, and I'm really happy how it turned out! Like always I appreciate asks and messages and am always up for it if you have any ideas.

Masterlist

By this point you’re very aware that there’s life on other planets, that the universe is a place much bigger than you ever imagined. Working with the Avengers allows you to see so many things that you never thought could possibly even exist.

Super soldiers, superheroes, enhanced individuals, even Thor himself is a demi-god from literally a different planet.

This particular demi-god is the reason why today you and the rest of the team find yourselves in the common room of the Avengers Compound, a spaceship casually parked in your yard.

They call themselves the Guardians of the Galaxy: Peter Quill, Gamora, Rocket, Nebula, Drax and Mantis, literal aliens currently bickering amongst themselves because they came to earth to visit Thor the wrong day, resulting in Thor not being home for their arrival.

"Is that a plushie?" you ask, a little confused, pointing at a little teddy bear-like thing on Quill’s shoulder and effectively ending their search for who is at fault for their mistake.

He looks even more confused than you and asks "What the hell is a plushie? This is Groot, he’s a Flora Colossi."

You decide, for my own peace of mind, to ignore the latin and instead focus on the cute little thing on his shoulder who is now moving and looking at you weirdly.

"I am Groot." he says in the cutest voice ever.

"Oh my god, you're just adorable!" You say, reaching your finger out for him to hold, freaking out at his cuteness.

"I remember when you used to talk to me like that…" you hear Bucky mumble behind you, which makes you laugh and, with your attention still completely on Groot, you tell him "God, you really are a needy bitch, Barnes." at which everybody laughs.

"Yeah? And you’re just a bi-"

"Hey!" you basically yell, interrupting him and startling Groot.

"I’m kidding!" he quickly says, putting up his hands in defeat. With one last glare at Bucky, your attention turns back to Groot.

"I am Groot!" he says again.

"I know honey, you said that." you tell him.

"I am Groot." he says, yet again, at which Sam answers "Yeah, you’re Groot, got it."

Groot says "I am Groot." again and, before Sam can say something that you're sure is gonna be very rude, you turn to the Guardians and ask "Why does he keep saying that?"

Rocket is the one to answer "Well, he don't know talking good like me and you. So his vocabulistics is limited to I and am and Groot. Exclusively in that order."

His answer leaves you all a little dumbfounded but again, for your own sanity, you all seem to decide to let it go.

Instead Bruce asks "So how do you understand him?"

"We speak Groot." Nebula says like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"How can you speak ‘Groot’ if he says literally the same three words, in the exact same order, in the same way every time?" Tony asks, starting to get a little frustrated, probably because the genius can’t do something that seems to come really easy to a bunch of space idiots.

"We manage." Quill simply says.

At this point Groot reaches his little hands towards you, signaling that he wants to be picked up, so, before Tony can make any sarcastic comment, you look at Quill and ask, excitement clear on your face "Can I?" while pointing at an awaiting Groot.

"Sure." He says, and you very carefully pick him up and put him on your shoulder.

"Be careful not to move too fast, he’ll hold onto your hair for dear life." Gamora warns you.

"Noted." you say giggling a little when Groot sticks his tongue out to Gamora, then she does the same to him, making everyone else laugh too.

"Buck, look how cute he is." you coo at Groot who's playing with your finger.

"’s not that cute…" he says quietly but you hear him, and apparently so does Groot because he says "I am Groot." in a very annoyed tone that prompts a chorus of whoas and protests from the guardians.

"The acorns on you, kid!" Quill says, and everybody just knows he said some really bad words to Bucky.

"Who even taught you that word?!" Rocket sounds like an exasperated parent.

"I am Groot."

"What do you mean, Drax taught you?! WHY WOULD YOU TEACH HIM THAT?" 

"The small tree asked." Drax says unbothered.

"Just because he asks doesn't mean you have to teach him dirty words!"

"How was I supposed to know that?"

"It's really common sense, Drax." Gamora interjects, calmer than Rocket.

"I am Groot."

"See, even Groot knows you don’t have common sense, Drax, that’s why he asked you." Quill says.

"I am Groot."

"I am not stupid, tree!" Drax glares at Groot.

"See, he’s not cute. He’s a disrespectful little shit!" Bucky says, also glaring at poor Groot.

"I am Groot." the guardians snicker, leaving the rest of you confused.

"What? What did he say?" you're too curious not to ask as Groot is now glaring back at Bucky.

"He said he doesn’t understand how a sweet person like you is with someone like him." Nebula translates, earning some gasps and snickers from everyone else too.

You look at Bucky trying hard not to laugh and he looks like he's about 5 seconds away from murdering Groot.

He takes a step towards you but Groot, still on your shoulder, makes the cutest little growl and starts flinging one of his arms around in Bucky’s direction, the other one holding to your hair so as to not fall.

"Oh, he’s ready to fight a bitch." you say unable to hold in your laughter any longer and the others follow you.

"What?" you turn around and Drax is giving you a confused look.

"What?" you say, calming down from your laughter.

"I do not understand. He does not resemble a female dog." he looks at Bucky and then back at you.

"He- I don- What?" you’re as confused as you’ve ever been, everybody else’s faces mirroring your own.

"His people are completely literal, he doesn’t understand metaphors." Rocket explains.

"Oh… fun." Tony says, still a little confused.

"Is it though?" you hear Gamora mumble, before Mantis starts giggling.

"It is!" she says with the joy of a kid on christmas morning.

"It’s really not." Nebula says casually, and from that the Guardians start bickering amongst each other.

You look at Groot who’s still on the warpath with Bucky and then at Rocket, the only one not saying anything.

He meets your eyes and simply says. "This is what I gotta live with."

"Oh, poor little racoon." you coo at him while laughing and that seems to stop the bickering.

"Hey, I am no racoon!" Rocket tells you defensively.

"I am Groot." Rocket groans and Quill snickers.

"Groot’s right, he’s a trash panda." he says knowing the people of earth will know why that’s funny.

Some of the Avengers laugh, but you gasp trying to hide your amusement for Rocket’s sake.

"You know, you might be right, Buck. He’s not that cute and innocent after all." you turn to your boyfriend, who gives you a slight pout.

"I’m cuter than him, right"- he asks you with those puppy eyes he knows make you melt.

"Aww, of course you are, baby." you give him a kiss on the cheek, almost forgetting about Groot on your shoulder until he talks again.

"I am Groot." the Guardians “aww” and coo at him but before you can ask, Mantis explains. "He says he understands now why you’re together."

"He says he can see how much you two love each other." Gamora finishes.

You smile at Groot and he smiles back before making the cutest yawn, looking at Bucky and doing grabby hands at him.

Bucky looks at you and you take his hand and guide it towards where Groot is, he’s uncertain but when Groot climbs on his hand Bucky looks almost like a little kid seeing a butterfly up close for the first time.

He brings Groot against his chest and the little tree gets comfortable and falls asleep almost immediately, while everyone else in the room coos at the two.

"This might be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen." you whisper, not wanting to wake up Groot, and Bucky looks up at you and flashes a smile bright enough to light up the whole of New York.

"I guess he is kind of cute." he says looking back down at Groot’s sleeping form, leaving everyone else snickering as quietly as they can, while he imagines how it would be to be like this one day with a baby that’s his and yours, and you can’t help but think the same thing.

Part 2

#bucky barnes #avengers x reader #bucky barnes x you #sam wilson #steve rogers #clint barton #tony stark #peter parker #natasha romanoff #avengers x platonic!reader #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes oneshot #guardians of the galaxy x reader #marvel fanfiction #bruce banner #guardians of the galaxy #drax the destroyer #peter quill #gamora #rocket raccoon #baby groot #mantis #nebula

[emilio-the-dumb-wrestler]

Right now I'm a junior in college, but I'm tired of going to class. My dad calls me a deadbeat because all I do is play videogames. The only time I'm motivated to leave the house is if i find some hot chick to screw, but my dad won't stop riding my ass about my grades!

Can you just turn me into a hardworking laborer. I don't care what trade; you can do whatever you want to me. Just give me some bluecollar job and make me good at it, so I can quit school and finally move out.

You said you don’t care what trade. How about race? I’m thinking we need a hard working Latin man on the books at the local construction yard. Sure you won’t have a family here to speak to but you can call them. Your body begins to changes quickly as this curse takes over. Hair growing in places that you never thought of before. Your feet. All over your legs. Chest. And a thick black beard grows on your face. You were 6’ before but not any longer. As you change race you being a day laborer you’re going to lose height. Down to 5’4”. Your stomach pulls in making you skinny as your arms beef up with a little muscle. Your skin becomes the perfect caramel color of your new heritage. And what’s even more is your language. No longer able to speak English or even understand it. Everything you say is thickly accented that even some of the Mexican men you work with aren’t able to understand a damn thing that comes out of that bearded face. You sweat a lot working outside all the time now and it help keep you thin. But one thing you didn’t count on was your new employer being your old father. And he’s a tough boss. Always criticizing you. Always putting the work you do down. But you can’t rebut anything. You can’t even understand what he’s saying because of the language barrier now. But you lll get used to it.

And because you’re such a poor man now just like you wished. Living on your own is going to come with expenses and you’re going to need to keep you only fans active for a long time. It’s a good thing people love to watch a hairy dumb day laborer work all day and sweat up a storm.

[crash-and-cure]

Would it be a Sin? (Yandere! Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Gif credit to @troubleinapinksuit​

Summary: Your Husband will forever keep you safe, no matter the cost.

A/N: Full disclosure, I am a Latina, specifically my family is from Mexico. When I first got this request from @ilovehobi101​ I worried as to how I could frame the conflict that some members felt comfortable bullying reader (y’know aside from casual 60’s misogyny) but also why reader wouldn’t really speak up about it. And then I saw my profile picture and was reminded of the serious lack of Latin!reader fics in this fandom, and voila. Also I understand the utter swaglessness of having a latin!reader that starts off as a maid, but trust me the occupation has relevance to the plot. Reader does speak spanish and I will acknowledge that some of the spanish spoken is very specific to the Mexican dialect. Also I love how I was asked for soft!yandere and my thoughts immeadiately went to murder. I got in right under the wire to was able to post this on Elvis’ birthday.

Warnings: Smut, though more towards the end, and not while reader is pregnant (but does include depictions of Hand kink, cockwarming, vaginal fingering. Pregnant!reader. Implied murder, hiding and burying of a body featured. Period-typical xenophobia, racism, and microagressions galore toward a poc!reader as well as the use of some racial slurs. Sexual harassment depicted, though not from Elvis. Yandere!Elvis themes of obsessive, manipulative, and gaslighting behavior, as well as some controlling and isolating tendencies as well, though, softer and not as overt as I have written before. Traumatic birth is described and as well as descriptions of a pre-mature baby. ANGST galore here. Blood and Injuries from a fall depicted. Symptoms of PTSD.

Word Count: 14.5k

My Masterlist

You love Elvis Presley. And you were lucky enough to be the woman that he loves back.

There was no doubt in your mind. 

It almost plays out like a fairy tale. The King that fell for the maid. 

When you were just a maid that cleaned up after him and his friends in Beverly Hills, you didn’t expect this house to be much different from the other houses you’d worked at. You’d been working working as a maid for a few years now, so you knew the deal. Rich people liked their big houses to be clean, but didn’t want to actually think about it being clean, so you were to be seen not heard. They rarely ever spoke to you, mostly they handed a list to one of the girls, and left the house for the day, and you would leave before they returned. When you did on occasion actually see them it would mostly be them calling for you, usually by the wrong name, and pointing to a mess, before leaving the room, truly thinking you were stupid and could only take the simplest of commands (you would on occasion meet these people again after you and Elvis became official, and they never remembered you).

Elvis at the very beginning proved to be no different. You were in his house constantly and yet you didn’t even see him in person until maybe a month or two after you started. As you understood it he was a busy man, especially as he was trying to make a movie career happen, after being gone for so long. 

You wouldn’t exactly call the first time you met him magical, or even anything really special for you. You and a few other girls had entered the house and immediately you saw evidence of a party from last night and you could also hear some pretty explicit sounds coming from where you knew the master bedroom to be, one voice pretty distinct even if you had never heard it in person, the other a mystery to you. You and some of the girls got a little giggly, while the others seemed pretty annoyed by this whole thing.

Your tía was on the annoyed side of this situation, which grew even more when one of the tasks was cleaning the stairs and polishing the railing. You're the one that ends up volunteering to do it seeing everyone else was too embarrassed to even try to get near there. 

“Suena como si estuviera puliendo la baranda también,” your friend Linda would snicker.

You smacked her arm, and said “pinche puta,” between laughs. Though you can’t say you were any better because you couldn’t help but be very curious as to whether or not the girl upstairs is someone famous or not. Not because you plan on sharing that information with the others, you’re just very curious by nature and always have been. It’s gotten you in trouble in a few places, but you’ve been able to pull the “no hablo ingles” card and it’s usually enough. 

And that’s how you met your future husband, crouched down to get to a hard to reach place on the bannister pretending you’re not interested in what’s going on in the other room, as he walked out of his bedroom in only his boxers, hair a mess, scratching his ass while yawning. It throws you a little how handsome you still think he is in person, even in this less than glamorous situation you find yourself in.

“Hola señor,” you said, trying to hide your embarrassment as you got right back to work to get a particularly stubborn spot. You’re also praying he’s not so uptight as to have you fired for seeing him like this, and your hope is that if you act like nothing's wrong he’ll barely even notice you.

“Um… uh… I-I,” you hear him stutter out. You turn around, prepared to either be given a task or be fired on the spot, but to your surprise you find one of the most desired men in the world stuttering over his words while his ears turn a bright red. That color transfers almost entirely to his whole face when you both hear a feminine yawn coming from his room. That manages to shake him out of his stupor as he scrambles back toward his bedroom and closes the door.

Well… I’m fired, which you’re actually sad about, because of all the houses you work he definitely gives the best tips. You know that girls have been let go at other houses for less than this, so you quietly make your way closer to the door, still near the bannister, hoping at the least your curiosity won’t be in vain and you’ll be able to see if it's someone famous.

“...you said I could stay awhile longer,” the girl says. Her voice isn’t so breathy, so you doubt it’s Marilyn or Jayne, but not so posh sounding that you think it’s a Debbie or Audrey. 

“I-I know darlin’, but somethin’ came up,” you hear him say. He sounds guilty, as though he was just caught doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing. 

“Are we still going to that place you were telling me about later?”

“Mmm…” is all you hear from him in response. English may have been your second language, but even you recognize a non-answer when you hear one. You can’t help but cringe at that and for her sake, you hope, for her sake, she drove herself here. 

Down below you hear Linda calling and asking you to bring down the duster, but as you grab it intending to make a quick exit from the situation, you realize you neglected to finish the job you were sent to do and you lose your balance at the very top of the stairs when your grip fails you from all of the polish. 

There isn’t really anytime for your life to flash before your eyes as someone snatches your wrist and brings you upright again. “You alright there darlin’?” Elvis would ask as he guides you away from the stairs sounding genuinely worried for you while you try to catch your breath. Your heart skips a beat when you see how blue his eyes are, and you quickly try to gather yourself.

“Thank you,” you say. You notice he’s wearing a robe now and also how he’s gazing at you, not saying anything. “You want me to clean in there?” you say to break the tension a bit, which works as you see his cheeks redden a bit as he looks back at his bedroom.

“No, no, I-I uh…” he stutters, before clearing his throat. “If you don’t mind, my uh gir-lady… friend, needs to leave and she uhh…” 

“You want me to distract the others while she leaves?” 

“Y-you don’t mind?” 

“Well you just saved my life so I think I owe you.” you say to him as you lean over the bannister and confirm that they were all in the living room. You go to grab the railing, but quickly snatch your hand back. “Not falling for that one again.” you say looking back at him, and you see that gets a half smile out of him.

“Wait,” he says as you’re halfway down the stairs. “What’s your name sweetheart?”

It’s rare that you’re ever asked that on the job, so for perhaps the first time on the job, your smile is genuine as you tell him.

“Y/N” he repeats, apparently liking the way it rolls off his tongue. And surprisingly enough so do you.

So you make your way down to the room you know they’re cleaning and let them know that the boss wants all of you to clean the kitchen right now. They’re annoyed but nonetheless comply and once you make sure they’re all out you look back up the stairs and give him the thumbs up. He gives you a dopey smile as he gives one back.

Rather than being fired over the incident, he surprises you by actually giving you and the others even more hours. And the hours you worked for him, he so happens to be home. Your tía warns you to be on your best behavior, because typically this means that they think that one of you stole something so they’re keeping an eye on you. With the way one of his friends kept looking at you when you were in the same room as him you figured she was right. But the way Elvis was acting around you, was what threw away this notion.

He was always going out of his way to talk to you, always finding excuses to be in the same room as you, even offering little gifts in the form of sweets. Mix in the fact that you also became the only one who was allowed within places that not even his friends could go into like his bedroom, this all told you that he liked you, but you didn’t want to jump to conclusions as to what way.

After he finished shooting his movie he would ask you to house sit for him while he was back in Memphis, stating he felt he could trust you to keep the house clean and to be responsible with it unlike his other friends. Even after you saw what he was willing to pay you for essentially living alone in his mansion for a month, you hesitated because who just offers that to someone they just met and your tía’s warnings about men like him didn’t help either. You eventually caved when he promised to consider you for a full-time/live-in maid if you did a good job. 

Then two days after he left, you got a late night call from him. You were honestly happy for it, because the house felt too big and too empty with just you there. It didn’t help that the room he left for you was far too nice, and you missed sharing your bed with your little sisters. Suffice to say, being all alone was unsettling for you

“Sorry if I woke ya’ Y/N, I-I just…” he said, nervousness clear in his voice. “I-I just been lookin’ for somethin’ and I think I forgot to pack it.”

“You want me to look for it?”

“If you could be a doll,” he says, relieved. “Ju-just take a look in my room, and see if you can find it there. It’s a black cowboy hat, and I think it was in a white box in the closet.”

You set the phone aside and made your way up there. When you do find it you let him know as much, but decide to have a little fun with it now that you’re up. “I found it Mr. Presley. But there is a problem.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It looks better on me,” you say as you look at yourself wearing it in the mirror. 

“I bet it does,'' he says between laughs. This does create a bit of a pause between you two as you recognize that you’re essentially flirting with your boss, and to your horror he’s flirting right back. 

“So is this for a movie or are you just going to run away to become a cowboy?” You say in an effort to change the subject. 

You hear the smile in his voice as he says, “Much as I wish it was the last one, it’s for my next movie. Dolores del Rio’s gon’ be in it.” 

You’re floored at that. “¡No manches! She’s my favorite actress. I thought she wasn’t ever coming back to Hollywood.”

That gets the two of you talking about movies for hours. It was easy to forget that you’re talking to one of the most sought after stars in Hollywood right now as he gushes about his favorite actors the same way you do. What surprises you most is when he asks you who you’ve met while working in LA. 

“I’ll never tell,” you tease. 

“What, you hate ‘em that much Darlin”?” he laughs.

“Yes,” you jokingly agree, ignoring the way your heart skipped at that nickname.

“I ain’t surprised though,” he says. “There’s some crazies livin’ out there. Ones that’ll ya’ call in the middle of the night ‘bout a cowboy hat, and have you on the phone ‘til… wow 3 in the morning.”

“And some maids are crazy enough to lay in their bed and let them,” you counter, only to clamp up and realize how bad that sounded from the strangled noise he makes on the other side of the phone. You quickly try to backtrack and promise you didn’t mean it that way. 

He reassures you that he takes no offense from that, but he does sound like he’s breathing heavier now, and you worry that you accidentally took the harmless flirting with him too far. You quickly give an excuse to leave, “I have a busy day of sitting on your house tomorrow.” You're glad he laughs at that but it does sound a little stiffer than the other one he’s so freely given. After you hang up you tidy up what you can, and make your way back to your room, hoping to pray some dangerous thoughts away.

The next day you try to act like nothing happened, but that’s all thrown out the window that night as Elvis calls again with a similar request to find a pair of his boots that he couldn’t find, and it proceeds much like the previous call. Eventually after the second week of nightly calls he drops the act entirely and calls just so he can talk to you. And you welcome them, because it made the house feel less empty when he did.

When he got back to LA you didn’t know what to expect from him anymore as the late night calls turned into late night talks in the kitchen. That turned into daylight jokes and conversations between the two of you. And honestly even more open flirting between the two of you, but it all came to a head one day as the two of you were walking down the stairs. 

“So wait? Your character hears a song on the radio that you, Elvis, sang, and he doesn’t talk about the fact that you look exactly like him.” 

“It ain’t Shakespeare, but it’s gettin’ me back out there,” he says sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. 

“That’s too bad,” you say as you reach the bottom of the stairs. “I think you would make a great Romeo.”

“Oh…” he says, his voice going low for a moment, as in the next moment you find yourself trapped between him and the railing. “Tell me Satnin, what ‘bout me reminds you a Romeo.” 

Your heart is pounding in your chest and your breathing is a little heavier than it was before. The smirk on his stupidly plush lips tell you he no doubt wanted this reaction, so you decide to show him what it was that reminded you of Romeo, and kiss him fully on the mouth. It was a quick peck on the lips but you could still see the faint traces of your lipstick on him. “Those are what remind me of Romeo.” 

He’s stunned at your boldness but no less welcoming as he brings a hand to your face to bring you back, but you use that opportunity to step on to the bottom step and away from him. You leave him on that staircase, your face warm at what you just did, biting your lip to keep from fully laughing at Elvis’ frozen state on the steps. 

Later that same day, he would tell you how his upcoming movie was going to be shot in Hawaii, and how coincidentally, he felt that you were in desperate need of a vacation. The rest was history for the two of you. 

You love Elvis Presley.

You love everything about Elvis Presley, save for one thing. 

His friends.

You will admit you like a few of them. Most of the others are fine, but indifferent towards you. Some of them get on your nerves but otherwise you can live with them, like when they tease you over your accent or snicker under their breath when you forget words. You don’t like it, but you put up with it. 

One of them you absolutely hated, with all of your being: Eric. 

He’s the one that has been around the longest with Elvis. He went on tour with him in the early days, went to Germany with him, and now he’s here in Hollywood with him. He even brags he was the one to give Elvis the final push he needed to get on stage. Yes he was more partial to the party lifestyle than the others, and had a tendency to speak without much thought, but Elvis reassured you that he was deep down a good guy.

You find that hard to believe, because you don’t know what it is about you that Eric finds so offensive, but whatever it is, it’s apparently unforgivable in his mind. 

Even though you spoke it just as well as Spanish, most people assumed you didn’t speak English at all. You let this slide mostly because you’re nosy and people are a lot freer with their words around you when they think you can’t understand them. You begin to regret that decision when Eric got comfortable enough to tell you how badly he wanted to fuck you and what he would do when he did. Usually your go to tactic was to start speaking rapid Spanish, which like most white people, made him confused and very uncomfortable, pick up a cleaning tool and walk into a different room, usually one where you knew Elvis was.

“You’re a lil’ fuckin’ whore you know that?” he would seethe while you cleaned the kitchen the night you were all set to leave for Hawaii. “Just like the rest of ‘em. He’s only taking you because he wants to fuck you.” The foul smell coming from him tells you that he’s been drinking, so you’re on edge right now. Everything about this is setting you off right now, and you know you have to get out of here right now. 

…But not before you got the last word in.

You look him right in the eyes, and as he sees the understanding in your eyes, you can also see him realize before you speak your first word to him, that you knew this whole time what he had been saying to you.

“Probably,” you say, and then you turn right around and make you way to Elvis that night.

You don’t if it’s embarrassment for what you heard him say to you, shame that you heard what he said or fear that you could and would tell Elvis at any moment what he’s like to you when no one was around. Whatever the case may be he would spend the next few years making comments under his breath about you, passive aggressively handing you plates to and glasses to clean, so on and so forth.

As did a lot of his friends, as they didn’t take you seriously at first, thinking you were going to eventually be replaced, that was until the argument that had his former manager walk away. When the press had learned about you, they had called you Elvis’ “Hot Tamale,” which you didn’t love, but what you loved even less was the threat that this story posed to his career.

But that’s also when you know you fell for him completely. Even you had fully expected him to drop you the moment the press got wind of you, because celebrities as big as him simply don’t end up with the maid, let alone a maid that looks and sounds like you. But he didn’t. He didn’t flinch at any of the things they threw at him: Not when his manager walked, not when the studio threatened to pull his contract, not even when a veritable mob stood outside the gates of his home demanding he be arrested for “indecency.” He took all of it, all so that you two could be together. 

Colonel Tom Parker wanted you gone, and forgotten. The last time you ever saw him he was saying shit like how he didn’t want Elvis to be so “controversial,” and how he would ruin his image as a “good American boy,” over quote “some little wetback.” You got the pleasure of seeing his face turn from angry to murderous as those words left that man's vile mouth, and the way every other face in that room drained of color as he went off on him had you breathing a little heavier by the end of it.

Though it all worked out for the better in the end as Elvis had ten new offers from people who worked with Brando and Dean before he was even out of the gate (all asking for a lot less than what he was paying the Colonel). None of them were afraid to take such a “scandalous” client, and were even able to work it in his favor to get more serious roles he had always been after.

Eventually most people seemed to get over it, and you became the new “it” girl, as magazines went from criticizing you for every little thing that was “unamerican” about you to praising how “exotic” and “spicy” you were. It doesn’t matter what they think, so long as you were with Elvis, you were untouchable, you believed. 

That is why you put up with his friends, it felt like after all that he does for you, the least you could do was fight your own battles. 

You had woken up today well-rested and your baby moving beneath your heart. You would have labeled it a perfect morning if it weren’t for the fact that your husband was absent, as he was currently doing reshoots for his movie half a world away right now. 

He had been furious at the studio for this, and tried everything he could to delay shooting because he wanted to be with you as much as he could right now. He had made it no secret how he wanted a big family, and having grown up in one you couldn’t help but agree eagerly. You were engaged for about a month in total, he was so impatient to start trying for a baby, but you were no better in all honesty.

It eventually took when you were with him in Hawaii for the original shoot of the movie. As appealing as being with him there right before your baby is due sounds, you can’t think of anything worse than a more than ten hour flight. You barely survived the flight back home when you were just barely into your pregnancy, you doubt you would be able to make it this late. Besides, you're saving your patience for flying for your upcoming stay in LA, as you had made plans to have your baby there. 

Graceland has become home to you, but Memphis has not. You’ve known since the moment that Elvis decided you were it, that the two of you would be toeing the line. Because being latin, the law here didn’t technically make it illegal for you two to be married, but certain people here made it very clear that they take your marriage as some cardinal sin. As a result, when you are here, you never leave Graceland without him. 

Usually you loved being here. When the house is filled with friends and family it actually does feel like a home, and even when it’s just the two of you, neither of you ever feel lonely. But without him, you now feel the way you did when you were just house sitting for him.

This is why, when you learned about the reshoots, you insisted on being in LA, so you at least wouldn’t be as cooped up there as you were in Graceland and you would have your family nearby. That was one of the biggest fights you’ve had in all the years you’ve been together, as you hated the idea of being in Graceland without him, and he hated the idea of you being in LA without him.

You didn’t relent until you found out why he was so reluctant to have you there. He didn’t want to scare you, but he had learned a while ago that someone had broken into the Hillcrest house. Nothing was taken, but it scared him nonetheless, and he wanted you to stay in Graceland just so he could have the peace of mind. And for all that it made you feel restrained, you can’t help but agree that Graceland is safe so long as you stay within. Red and Pat as Elvis didn’t want you without protection and Pat was pregnant too, so you didn’t have to feel so alone in the house. But Pat, unlike you, was free to leave at any time she pleased and you can’t begrudge her for doing so.

Of course Elvis has been trying to make your confinement easier by calling you every night. He missed you just as much as you did, and didn’t want to go a day without at least hearing your voice. Some calls are sweet, where he asks you to hold the phone to your belly so that he can talk to the baby, and funnily enough you notice that when he does the baby kicks like crazy. There are of course less than sweet calls, the ones that have you be as vocal as possible as you grind down onto his pillow.

Last night's call was different though, just from how much of a mood he had been in already. He had called to tell you that Eric and Joe were on their way back early, and with the venom dripping from his voice, you knew it had to be bad. He didn’t go into detail, but from what you understood is that Eric had been “fucking around” and now Elvis wants nothing to do with him. So much so that he was sent back to Memphis a week earlier than the rest of them, all so that he can get all of his things from Graceland before Elvis’ return. Joe’s only coming to keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. With Red already here you figure that the two of them should be able to take him, but you doubt he’ll try anything now of all times when Elvis is so mad at him already. 

Eric had been like a looming black cloud over this whole experience, making jabs that he now understood the rush to get married so quickly and how Elvis is now trapped. Elvis was able to deflect these comments by joking how if anything he trapped you. Though in the few times he’s gotten you alone, the comments turned into how Elvis should best make sure you’re having a baby, to how he better make sure it’s his baby. You didn’t like what he was implying but you also knew that he was just saying shit to see what stuck, and you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of a response.

Most of the other men had taken the hint when you and Elvis were gushing about how big of a family you wanted and had quietly moved their things out of their designated rooms, and into their own houses, while Eric seemed to dig himself in like a tick. You know Elvis is never about to ask someone to leave, and much as you would like to see this man off for the last time you decided it would be best not to counter him and to just stay upstairs for the time being.

The uppermost floor was your and Elvis’ own little world, where you two were just a young married couple awaiting the arrival of the first addition to your family. This is where the two of you could retreat away from everyone and just be. But with one of you gone it felt wrong, and you find yourself restlessly cleaning and organizing the floor above trying to make everything absolutely perfect for his return.

Though being roughly a little over seven months, you’re almost immediately exhausted and you find yourself resting your feet in what will become the baby’s room. It’s quickly become your favorite room in all of Graceland, with the little stuffed animals everywhere and the music notes painting the wall. You have no idea if the baby is going to be a boy or girl, but Elvis swears that he’s ready to pull the trigger on a theme the moment you figure it out. 

“¿Qué piensas?” you say to your bump, enjoying the breeze from the open balcony door. “Una patada para los vaqueros o dos para las princesas.” The baby kicks three times, and you laugh while rubbing your belly. Later on you would recognize this to truly be your last moment of peace. 

“How precious,” a vile voice sneers at you. 

Your smile instantly drops and rather than acknowledge him, you look out the window with your hand protectively over your baby. They're kicking up a storm, almost beat for beat matching your heart rate. “Elvis says, you’re not allowed to be up here,” you say curtly.

"He also says to keep the dogs outside, but I see a little bitch right in front a me." 

"I think big bitch would be more appropriate," you say, all the while rubbing your belly. He's always hated not being able to get a reaction out of you, or how you've never gone to Elvis about what he does as though he's not worth the air it would take to do so. Counter to what people believe about people like you, you’re very capable of keeping your cool and you save your passion for your love not your hatred. And you have no love for Eric.

“You must be so goddamn proud a yourself, being able to get your claws in him like you did,” he spits out. “Struttin’ around here with that little bastard in your belly like the cat that ate the canary.”

“Wait, I thought I was a dog?”

“...What?” 

“I’m confused because you said I was a dog and now you’re saying I’m a cat.” you say coyle while sarcastically throwing your hands in the air. “Tell me Eric, what am I?”

“You’re a little fuckin’ whore is what you are!” he shouts. “You know damn well that there wasn’t no break-in at Hillcrest. He just doesn’t want you in LA because he don’t want you fuckin’ around behind his back! I tried tellin’ him as much, but he didn’t want to hear none of it.”

You stand up and walk out of the room, not willing to hear anymore lies of a sad miserable man that has been digging his own grave for years. You weren’t even there, so he cannot seriously blame you for whatever he did to get himself fired. You know better than most how hot Elvis can run, but you also know how quick he is to forgive, so whatever he said or did to get Elvis this way, must have truly been something. 

You make your way to the office, hoping to lock yourself in there and that his outburst caused enough of a commotion to get the other men’s attention. He’s still spewing vile at you, but you’re simply blocking it out until you feel a hand yank your head back hard. 

Everything happens quick after that, as you feel the back of your being yanked away from your intended destination and being led to a different direction. You try your best to scratch at the hand that holds your hair, but his grip is too tight and suddenly you’re flying. 

And then you’re not.

You’re frozen at the landing, not wanting to believe what had just happened. Your heart is pounding in your ears, you feel your face get wet, and most horrifyingly, your baby is not moving. The carpet on the floor begins to be dotted with red but you don’t understand where it’s coming from until a little blood makes its way into your eye. As you hear the heavy footfalls coming down the stairs you start hyperventilating, trying to get a hold of the bannister and praying that he’ll stop. 

Getting to the railing you hear someone shouting what was that!?!? And someone else shouting where’d he go!?!? You see the others finally at the bottom of the stairs and for a moment the nightmare is over and you think he wouldn’t be so stupid as to continue now, but then you feel a foot firmly place itself on your back. You’re thrown off balance and you’re plummeting down once again. You’re abruptly put to a stop as Red and Joe meet you halfway up the stairs, and they share a worried look at you. You feel fine now, but you will admit that the slick feeling coming from between your legs is uncomfortable. 

You’re confused as to what’s going on, Red rushes his way up the stairs to your tormentor who only gives you a cold look as he’s being restrained. Joe is helping you to your feet and rushing you out the front door while Pat grabs your purse and yells at Mary to call Elvis. 

They’re taking you to the cars and you’re not sure why, you just need to clean the blood off of yourself and you’ll be fine. It isn’t until you look down and see the dark red that stains your blue dress do you realize what’s happening. 

Joe was able to get you to the hospital without issue, but your journey didn’t get any easier from there. The whole experience was nothing but a nightmare for you. Your accented English and skin tone has the nurses trying to direct you to, quote, a more “appropriate,” hospital for you. Even the blood staining the front of your dress and the clear pain you’re in doesn’t seem to sway them. You’re ignored by the staff, as you beg to be seen by a doctor and it’s not until you slap your driver's license on the counter and they see your married name do they suddenly care very much about you and your baby. Or at the least they don’t want to be known as the hospital that turned away Elvis Presley’s wife.

They get you in a wheelchair, and as they take you to the maternity ward, they repeatedly ask you questions and you’re positive you’re speaking English, but none of them seem to understand you. Not even three hours ago you were complaining to Mary how the baby was giving you heartburn, and now you’re in a hospital, with not a single familiar face in sight, begging incoherently for someone to save your baby. 

This is why you had wanted to be in California, where you would have a better chance of having a doctor that spoke Spanish with you. But now here in Memphis, you’re more likely to get a unicorn to deliver your baby, than a doctor that can speak your first language. 

Your legs are held apart by nurses, who don’t care to be gentle with you, as you desperately cling to the rails of your hospital bed, feeling like you’re going to crack your teeth as you desperately push the baby out of you. The pain you feel from the rest of your injuries is nothing compared to this, but you feel like you're seconds away from passing out after each push. But you know you have to keep going because every second that the baby is still in there, the less likely they are to make it. 

And with one final push it’s all over. Amá told you how long the whole thing could be, but your baby came into the world quick and so quiet. You can feel yourself bleeding out more and more, but you still want to see your baby and you ask as much before you pass out. 

When you come to, you don’t know where you are, you don’t know how long you’ve been there, and all the staff is willing to tell you is that you're restricted to bed rest due to the fact that you nearly died from a hemorrhage, and that your baby girl is alive. That’s how you find out you have a daughter, and all you know about her is that she’s alive and you can’t see her. 

You allow for visitors, and the only ones who do come to see you are Pat and Joan, Joe’s wife. Despite your wish to not be alone, seeing Pat’s baby bump only gave you an empty feeling. They let you know that you had been given birth two days ago, that Red and Joe are holding down Graceland, and most importantly Elvis is going to be here soon. 

You don’t ask about Eric. 

You’re glad they’re here even if all you can do at the moment is cry, and feel hollow on the inside.

He looks awful, is your first thought when you see your husband for the first time in almost a month. His eyes are bloodshot, his outfit is wrinkled, and you can see a hint of stubble even from where you're sitting. The girls quickly make their way out as Elvis makes his way over to your side, his chest heaving and his breathing ragged. 

Elvis is not one for tears, but you can only watch helplessly as the love of your life falls apart in your arms. You thought you'd cried yourself dry at this point, but even now you find yourself holding back even more tears as you try to wipe his tears away. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he whimpers against your palm. Your heart is  in your throat at this point, knowing he only ever calls you by your name when it’s serious. “I shoulda been here for ya’, this is all my fault.”

“Amor… Amor, please look at me,” you beg. “This isn’t your fault.”

“Y/N, please tell me what happened,” he pleads. 

“They didn’t tell you?” 

“They did… I-I just,” he takes a deep breath to steady himself. “I need to hear it from you.”

You’re trying to get your breathing under control, but finally you whisper to him what happened. You’re saddened and humiliated as you tell him how your own pride got you into this mess. The pride that liked to frustrate and rile up Eric, because you thought it was funny. The pride that prevented you from telling Elvis, because you wanted to feel like you were the one handling it. The pride that made you turn your back on a man you knew to be dangerous, because you thought he would never do anything to you. And now people are suffering because of you.

You beg him for forgiveness in the part you played in this, and you’re honestly surprised when he sticks by you and you bury your face in his chest. He tells you there is nothing to forgive, but you can see the dangerous gleam in his eyes as he asks if you want to press charges against him, and you shoot that down just as quickly. 

You don’t trust the police, something that has been with you since your earliest memory, Apá telling you about his scars that he got for having the audacity to wear a Zoot Suit as a young man. Navy men had beaten and stripped him in the streets and then afterwards policemen who saw the whole thing arrested him as though he were the problem. It was a scary thing to tell a little girl, but the older you got the clearer the story became: the police aren’t there to help people like you. 

That’s why you told Elvis not to take it to the police, just to have Eric leave Graceland and never come back. It’s going to be a hassle getting the state to acknowledge your daughter as his, let alone getting them to recognize that anything bad happened to you. You just want to put this whole thing behind you and never have to think about this again. Elvis frowns at that, but you doubt after everything you went through he’s gonna deny you this. 

After things have settled, the doctors make their way to your room, now that Elvis is here, they’ve decided now is a good time to tell you what’s happened. They tell you that the fall caused something called placental abruption and as a result you went into labor prematurely. It also caused internal hemorrhaging that caused you to pass out. None of that mattered to you really, you simply wanted your baby with you, and you let them know as much.

The doctors share a look, but they allow you to leave the bed and Elvis wheels you to where they’re keeping your baby. There is a whole team of doctors and nurses to greet you and tell you how you can see her, and what to prepare for. They escort the two of you to a private room farther away and with private security guarding it.

And then you see her… Your baby girl. 

You never thought babies could be so small.

She lies there, wires attached to her and tubes up her nose. She’s too small to even know how to eat and they have to use a tube in her mouth and a needle in her hand. Her little feet kick at the air, her tiny fists are clenched, and her eyes are shut tight, but you're glad to see it all, to know that your baby is still fighting, still daring to live. 

You want to be able to hold her, to let her know her mamá is there with her, but they tell you she’s not ready to be outside of her box yet, and they warn you of how delicate she is right now, and that the slightest change in her environment could be devastating, so touch is to be limited. The doctors told you that they had almost lost her in the beginning, but she’s a fighter and things are looking up. 

They leave the two of you alone with her, when one of the nurses playfully suggests Erica as a first name on her way out. All at once it hits you like a freight train, why your baby is the way she is now and who is to blame. You weep silently, so she can’t hear your grief over the situation: your baby is weak, so you have to be strong for her now. 

“I hate him. I hate him so much.” You sob, your hand pressing on to the warm glass that separated you and your child. Elvis wraps his arms around you, he doesn’t need to ask who you’re talking about. 

All this time Elvis has been so quiet, and he swiftly wraps you in his arms as he promises to take care of everything, and as he wipes the tears from your face he swears that he will make everything better again. 

You know, in spite of the horror that it was to get her here, you’re both overjoyed to finally be able to meet her. But all too soon the both of you are escorted out and away from her. They explain that once you’re discharged, you and only you will be able to stay with her on a long-term basis, but policy prevents Elvis from being able to do so as well. No amount of money or argument will change that. 

The next few days you vaguely register the visitors Elvis brings to see you, but you can’t bring yourself to care about any of it. They all come with well wishes and promises to do anything the two of you need during this time. The men look haunted to see you in such a state and they promise you that they’ll personally make sure Eric never does anything like this again. It’s little consolation to you considering it already happened once.

Finally you’re discharged and you walk yourself straight to the NICU. You visited her as often as you could, as did Elvis, and getting to be with her throughout the day is a step in the right direction. Being there with him makes it easier, but soon Elvis has to leave and your heart breaks all over again. You part with a long sorrowful kiss and you save your tears, knowing that of all times, this is the moment you need to be strong, for both him and your daughter. It was a hard, sleepless night for you and one look at the bags under his eyes and the bruises on his knuckles when you see him the next morning, tells you that Elvis had a similar night to you. 

He smoothes out your brow, as he softly pleads with you not to worry about him and instead to focus on your daughter, as she’s the one who needs you the most. And as he gives you a kiss on your forehead and you wonder what you did to deserve such a loving husband. 

You begged Amá to stay home, not wanting to have to worry about her being this down south without you. She’s apparently been praying everyday for you and the baby, and she’s begging you for the name. You want to tell her so badly, but you can’t risk telling her fearing it will somehow get back to the world at large.

You and Elvis had thought long and hard about the perfect name for your first-born and with everyone seemingly wanting to have a say in it, it was a little overwhelming (with how easy your pregnancy was going you stupidly thought that this was going to be your biggest hurdle to overcome. You wish you could go back to those days).

Eventually though you were able to come to some agreement born from your mutual love of I Love Lucy, though the names mostly stemmed from a joke when some of the magazines started calling you two the new Lucy and Desi. Neither of you could figure out who was supposed to be Lucy and who was supposed to be Desi. And as a play on that, the two of you ultimately decided on Lucía for a girl and Richard for a boy, as a fun little reversal. 

You had been so eager to tell the world about your beautiful baby not even a week ago and now it feels like the last piece of this whole ordeal that you can control. Even the hospital staff only know her as “Baby Presley,” promising that you would only name her once she was discharged. Someone had snuck into the hospital and was able to get a picture of your baby in a box attached to wires and fighting for her life, while the newspapers excitedly announced “It’s Girl!” to all of America. Your husband saw his own daughter for the first time on the front of a newspaper walking into the hospital before he could see her in person or even know if you were dead or alive. It felt like the whole world saw your baby before you did and that hurts you in a way that you fail to find words for in either language you speak. 

That entire stay, you didn’t leave the hospital once, and you rarely ever left her side, and even then it was only when Elvis could be in there with her in your stead. The days all seemed to blend together for you, you would eat so she could eat, you would sleep when she slept, singing and telling her stories everywhere in between, and touching her as frequently as you’re allowed to do so. 

Early when you tried to speak Spanish to her in front of the doctors, they immediately shut you down, “warning” you that doing so has the potential to hold her back if she has to learn another language in the long run. You internally roll your eyes at that, having grown up speaking both, but nonetheless you comply, but save it for when you’re alone with her. On the list of things you absolutely do not need right now is the media turning on you for being a bad mother by not complying with doctors orders. They already make comments on how you should have been more careful in the situation, because as far as anyone outside of Graceland knows, you simply fell down the stairs.

You wouldn’t say it was all bad, you love the moments you’re all together. Moments where you both hold her hands at the same time and feel her delicate skin, where you hear her gurgle as she’s being tickled, and especially the way she wiggles her arms and feet as Elvis sings to her, are ll moments you would never trade trade regardless of the fact that you’re in a cold sterile room and not in your warm home. Elvis even brought a record player and the nights became a little more bearable as now you’re both able to hear him when he’s not there. 

Finally you’re able to get the all clear from the doctor and Lucía finally gets to experience the world outside of her little clear box for the first time in short bursts. You’ll be able to hold your baby fully and not be limited to just holding her hand. In many ways you were not ready to lose being so close to her so fast, and this was only made worse by the fact of how limited you were in touching your own baby during this whole time. And still you worry that maybe she’s still not ready, as you’re still roughly a month away from your original due date.

But as you’re finally able to hold her and you feel her latch on and nurse from you, these doubts and fears all fall silent. Your baby was almost completely ripped away from you, by someone who only had cruelty and spite in their heart for you. But now as she rests in your arms and feeds from you getting stronger, and your husband holds the two of you close to him everything feels as it should be now. 

Not too long after that, Lucía is finally able to be discharged and you can finally take her home. Elvis was nervous no doubt, from all the times he questioned the doctor if he was sure that she was ready and if she couldn’t stay a little longer just to be sure. You have similar thoughts but you’re trying to think on the brighter side of the situation, for the both of you.

Of course you and Elvis still have to do that photoshoot for the press. You hate this, but also recognize that getting this out of the way now will sate their curiosity about your baby and get them to leave you alone, at least for now. You and Elvis recognized this would be the case when you saw them go into a near frenzy the moment you stepped off that plane from Hawaii with an obvious baby bump months ago. 

Ironically enough the only thing that has gone according to plan was this aspect, as you were able to get photographers you’re familiar with and Elvis brought the outfits you picked out months ago. His fans were also willing to give the two of you a wide berth so that you could leave the hospital. You are far too enamored with Lucía to really take notice of any of it, until the two of you are already in front of home. 

Your mood drops once you see where you are, and Elvis takes notice of that. He squeezes your hand and reassures you that everything's been cleaned and that the trash’s been taken out. Still, walking through the front door, you held onto his arm for dear life and your hands were shaking so bad you had him hold Lucía, as you were afraid you would drop her. You're greeted inside by a few friends and his family, but your eyes immediately narrow in on the stairs and you're relieved to see that it’s completely clean. Without the bloodstains, it’s easier to forget that anything terrible happened here. 

Everyone wants to get to see her and the two of you are immediately, but a squeeze to his arm from you and the subsequent single look he gives them has them back up a little. You’re able to sit down in the living room, and hold your baby in your home for the first time, but not all is right in the world. No one has said anything about the big Eric shaped elephant in the room, as they all no doubt know why you went into labor so early.

The women do their best to distract you from it, talking about their own experiences being a new mother, and how this has been a stressful time for everyone, especially the men who’ve been jumpy for weeks now. But no matter what your attention keeps being drawn back to the stairs, as though any minute Eric’s going to be trotting down to finish the job any moment now. You try to distract yourself with anything else in the room, and that’s when you notice something off about the carpet. You figured that the carpet would have been replaced but what’s odd is the fact that you remember going straight from the staircase to the car as you were bleeding, so you don’t understand why the carpet in the den had to have been replaced too. 

You shake these concerns from your head and begin to make your way outside to get some air, because the walls are making you feel like you’re going to suffocate. That’s where you find the men, as all smoking within Graceland had been banned for the foreseeable future, and Elvis still insisted on finally using those cigars he got for the occasion. What’s weird is that they don’t surround the patio or even the pool area. No, you find them more out towards the field, surrounding a large unsightly hole in the ground.

“Amor, what did you do to the backyard?” You question your husband when he makes his way back to where you’re sitting.

Some of the men tense up at your question, but seeing Elvis not really react to the question other than a slightly nervous laugh, makes you disregard anything’s amiss.

“Well…” he says rubbing the back of his neck, “after I got done with the nursery. I-I wanted to add something to the backyard so it wasn’t so empty to look at.”

“... and you decided the best way to make it less empty was to dig a hole?”

“It ain’t gon’ stay a hole, Darlin’,” he laughs, wrapping an arm around you. “I was plannin’ on puttin’ in one a them Gazebos in the back for our little princess here. It… It kept me busy the nights I couldn't sleep.”

You soften at that answer, knowing that with his sleep issues, the nights must have been torture for him. He was always the first visitor to arrive at the ward and the last one to leave, and only once did you ever dare ask what he did when he went home at night. You worried about him, how could you not? And so one day you gathered the courage to ask him how he was handling the nights?

All he said was that he “keeps busy.” At the time you didn’t want to know what he meant, as it was a stressful time for the both of you, so digging holes in the backyard is far from the worst thing he could have been doing.

You give an amused sigh saying, “Next time, get professionals to do it.”

He grins at that, “Don’t worry baby, we got a crew comin’ in to fill the hole in a few days. I wanted to have it done before you and the lil’ one got back home.” You shake your head at him and kiss him on the cheek. You don’t really notice the way most of the men take a simultaneous sigh of relief at your acceptance of Elvis’ answer. 

Later on you’re putting Lucía down in a little bassinet Elvis had set by your bed (you’re both reluctant to be away from her), and you feel him make his way behind you. The both of you lay beside each other and watch her sleep, and now, not having to be obscured by tubes or glass, you get to really see your beautiful baby girl. She’s sleeping with her arms straight up, her little chest rising and falling on its own, and the two of you nearly melt as she yawns and rubs her little mitten covered hands over her face. 

“You ready to sleep yet?” he whispers to you. 

“No, I just want to look at her some more.”

“Me too,” he hums. 

You sit with your husband and bask in this perfect moment.

You didn’t really notice the off-atmosphere that surrounded Graceland in those days, until you noticed that a trunk of yours was missing. You think you had packed some old baby things your mother had given you the last time you had been in LA. It had been with you in Graceland before you left the hospital, and it had also been where you were storing the outfit you wore when you left the hospital, so the fact that it’s gone is odd to say the least. Considering Elvis was the one that brought the outfit to you, he’s the one you end up asking. 

“What trunk?” he asks. 

“The big white one,” you say to him as you change Lucía into her pajamas. She’s trying to eat her fist and you’re trying to get her to smile by nibbling on her fingers a little. “The one you got me the first time in Hawaii.” 

“Oh that one,” he responds. “Didn’t you leave it at Hillcrest?”

“No, I know I brought it here.” you say confused. “I asked you to look in it to find the pink outfit I wore at the hospital. It’s gotta be here somewhere.”

He furrows his brow at that and he looks deep in thought, “Didn’tcha say that you didn’t want to pack clothes that don’t fit no more?” He says as he brings Lucía to rest on his bare chest. 

You do vaguely remember saying something along those lines when you were packing, but still you remember having it here with you. “Maybe… but I did bring it here,” you say, though not as sure as you once were.

“Y/N, why you wanna know so bad?” he says, as he gently pats Lucia on the back trying to get her to fall asleep. This question throws you a bit, not for the words themselves, but the way he said it, as there was a severe lack of humor or warmth in his tone as he said that, that you weren’t used to. 

“I-I was looking for a few baby things that Amá gave me last time I saw her.” you say, suddenly feeling guilty for pushing the topic. 

His eyes soften at your answer, realizing he scared you. He holds up your chin and gives a quick kiss to your forehead. 

“I-I think, I saw ‘em when I I was lookin’ for the little pink get up a yours,” you see him jump a little. “Though you might wanna save the lookin’ for tomorrow,” he says, a slight grimace on his face, as he looks down at your baby girl. “‘Cuz lil’ one here is trying to tap a dry well.” You burst out laughing as you see that Lucía has a good grip on one of his nipples and is trying desperately to bring it to her mouth. 

“Esos son para mamá, chula,” you jokingly scold her, as you bring her close to you so she can latch onto you, and Elvis tickles your side in reprimand. Still even with that moment of levity, you still can’t let go of what just happened. If it were anything else you would have written it off but that trunk was special to you because of the fact that Elvis had given it to you on that fateful trip to Hawaii. He had insisted you pack light, which confused you until about a week later when by that point he had already gifted you twice as many dresses as you had come with. By the end of the trip he gave you this trunk just to pack everything he had given you. (Smooth operator that he was, when the trunk found its way into his room when you got back home, he insisted it would be easier for you to move into his room, rather than moving the trunk into yours).

It has been a pretty constant presence in your relationship with him, as it went where you went, and you went where he went. But… you didn't go with him to Hawaii, and you did leave a lot of old clothes back in LA… maybe it is just baby brain, and you’re overthinking this.

Things only really seem to click that something is off a few days later when you caught Charlie staring out into the backyard. If it were anybody else from the group you wouldn’t have noticed or cared too much, but you liked Charlie. He seemed to be one of the more genuine ones of them all, and he’s also one of the few of them who's at least picked up on some of the more common Spanish phrases in all the years you’ve known him.

But now Charlie seems distant, as though he’s somewhere else in his head. He’s staring off into the same direction as where that pit is now. 

“Charlie, ¿qué pasa?” you ask, and he seems to jump ten feet in the air. 

“Y/N, hi-hello… um…I-I, d-do ya’ need something?” he manages to stutter out. 

“Yes umm…” you say slightly embarrassed about what you’re about to ask. “I want to put Lucía down for a nap, but I need someone else to help carry her up there with me.” You would have asked Elvis, but he’s upstairs already and you’re not about to leave her alone to go get him.

“Sure, but… why do you need help,” he asks, genuinely confused over the request. 

“I… well, since the fall, I… I don’t trust myself to hold her on the stairs,” you say, your eyes going a bit glassy. You shake your head to gather yourself, “I ju-just need someone else to carry her on the stairs. I’m fine on my own.” If by fine you meant having to have both feet on each step going up and down, and never letting go of the railing, then yes very fine. Elvis was heartbroken when he saw this the first time, but didn’t say anything about it, just offered you his arm and let you take your time. 

Charlie has the same reaction and wordlessly helps you with her. Though you do trail behind him you eventually are able to make it up to the landing, where you see Elvis whispering something to him. You think he says something to the effect, you understand now? Charlie would give a small nod in response as he hands Lucía to him and makes his way down the stairs after giving you a quick hug. 

You’re about to ask what that was about, when you see something on one of the steps that knocks the wind out of your lungs. You see a familiar looking rust colored spot on one step, and you force yourself to sit down, feeling unsteady on your feet and your eyes welling up all of a sudden. 

“Baby what's wrong?” Elvis says trotting down the steps, Lucía still in his arms. Your hands are shaking and your breathing quicker than you should, and you're filled with the same dread that you felt as Eric walked down those same steps. “Goddamnit, I thought they got all of it” he whispers when he sees where your eyes are fixated. He crouches down beside you and takes you in his arms as he whispers in your “You’re okay sweetheart,” he says, “You and Lucía are okay.” 

Gradually you feel yourself steady as you breathe in the scent of his cologne, and feel the way Lucía clutches around your finger. That brings you back down and you’re able to stop your weeping as you focus solely on the two most important people in your life.

You wouldn’t know this, but at the bottom of the steps, just beyond your view several men would come to the same understanding as Charlie did in that moment.

What did he mean about understanding? You would ask yourself later after Lucia had been fed and put down for a nap. You’re laying down in his arms, having tired yourself out from that episode, and just wanting to rest, but this question that rings in your ear, still eats at you making you unable to do so. 

These thoughts are halted as you feel him run a finger down your spine and you on reflex push your chest into his. You also feel as he brings his hips closer to yours, and he hooks your leg around his waist, lightly trailing his hand back up your skirt to rest comfortably on your ass, as you let out a shuddering breath against him, making as little noise as possible, as not to wake your baby.

He’s gentle with you, you just had his baby after all. There was no tearing so you’re healed physically, but you're glad nonetheless as you become reacquainted with his touch again. His fingers lightly trace the edge of your panties, as he nibbles on your bottom lip the way you like. 

You’re reminded of your first time with him. He had been having trouble with one particular scene in Blue Hawaii, and he asked you to come on to the set that night. He had you sit as an extra behind Joan Blackman and he kept stealing glances at you as he sang. As the scene cut there was not a dry eye on set and Elvis was heaped with praise for his best take yet, but what he was more interested in was your reaction to his song. 

He was gentle with you then as well. You confided in him before that you were untouched, and he made sure to make it as tender as possible. Careful, as he learned (as did you) what made you whimper, what made you moan, what made you scream. 

Knowing he’s gone just as long without it as you have, you want to. God, do you want to, but as you grind yourself onto his still clothed length, he makes the mistake of tugging your hair back and suddenly you're paralyzed with an overwhelming sense of dread as he kisses your neck. It takes him a second to realize that this is bad heavy breathing, but he stops the moment he realizes it. 

“Y/N, what’s wrong?” His worried look only makes you feel more guilty, while you try to even out your breathing. This feeling only made worse as you watch his heartbreak all over again when you tell him why you freaked out when he tugged at your hair like he did.

“I’m always gon’ protect ya’ Satnin,” he whispers to you, mindful of your baby sleeping a few feet away. “Nothin’s ever gon’ hurthcha again.”

You want to believe him. You really do.

It all comes to a head when the day before they’re set to fill the hole in the backyard, you finally find your trunk. Embarrassed at your reaction to being on some stairs, you decided to try to break this habit by confronting your fears. So one day as Lucía slept, you made your way to the attic stairs, but your fears were quickly forgotten as you stared at the previously missing trunk. It’s hard to comprehend its presence as it’s supposed to be on the other side of the country right now. Or… at least that’s what Elvis had told you. 

Whatever the case may be you can’t exactly leave it alone, and you go to inspect it a little closer. It won’t open and a brief brush on the keyhole tells you that it had been locked and the key lodged inside. You also see some dents and dings here and there, but the most noticeable change were some rust colored stains dotting the outside of it. You don’t immediately recognize what they could be, but even as your mind conjures up similar looking stains that are still on the stairs, you can’t really accept what it is.

“Whatcha doin’ up here baby?” a familiar voice behind you says, startling you for a moment. You turn to see your husband, but something is … off. His smile is a little too big, his eyes a little too wide, and if his jaw was clenched any tighter he would have cracked his teeth. It’s all far too unsettling

“I-I was practicing with the stairs, and I found this,” you say, pointing to the trunk.

Somehow he’s able to clench his teeth even tighter as he sees what you found, “I didn’t want you to find out like this, sweetheart. But I,”  he says , pausing to think on his next words. “I-I… Forget it you caught me. I broke the lock on it.” he says with a guilty look on his face. 

“...That’s it?”

“That’s all, baby. I wanted to try to fix it, but I just made it worse and now it won’t open.”

Maybe… maybe he is telling the truth and he just broke the lock… but that wouldn't explain why everything kept in there was taken out or why it was up in the attic, or why it’s covered in blood. Why is he hiding this from you?

“C’mon Satnin, it ain’t nothin’ to get so worked up about? I’ll getcha another one soon,” he says as he wraps an arm around you.

You don’t have time to really question what is going on as you hear Lucía below and you're able to stamp down that curious part of yourself. You make your way back, your feet feeling so unsteady that you clutch onto him with both hands. 

But it still eats at you, the fact that he was able to lie so easily to you, and convince you of that lie when he knew full well it was up here. And why hide it from you? These are all questions you ask yourself as you lay in bed with him, you wonder who exactly you are sharing it with. 

Your blood goes cold as you feel the bed shift right next to you, and you slam your eyes shut, genuinely fearing your husband for the first time. But these feelings of fear dissipate as feel the  quick kiss he gives your forehead before whispering to you, so low you barely hear it, “No one’s ever gon’ hurtcha and get away with it.” You’re paralyzed with fear, and have to remind yourself to breathe lest you give away that you're not actually asleep as he makes his way to the bathroom. 

You open your eyes and stare at the door and the longer you listen the clearer it becomes that he’s not using the bathroom. You also hear as several feet try to quietly make their way up the stairs and then you hear the tell-tale creak of the attic door. You silently make your way to the door and listen against it as you hear them 

You stare off into darkness as the noise gradually lessens until you’re left hearing nothing but the crickets outside and your baby’s steady breathing. You stay there frozen in place, debating internally whether you should follow them. You know in your heart that something is wrong, but you don’t want to confront it. Still after some time you find yourself in the kitchen making your way outside.

As you round the corner, you're hit with the pungent scent of cigar smoke in the air mixed with the unmistakable smell of a campfire, and you see him and all the other men stripped down to their underwear. You crouch down out of sight and you see they are all surrounding the fire pit in the backyard, piles of clothes sit next to each of them, and on occasion one of them will throw something into the fire. All of them seem to be shaking from the cold or from nervousness you can’t quite tell. All of them… except for Elvis. You know he’s prone to getting jittery when he’s nervous, but here, you’ve never seen him so collected. 

“Eric was one a my oldest buddies, and he threw that all away ‘cause he had to be a shithead to the most important person in the world to me.” Those words, cold as a grave, mixed with that vacant look in his eyes, sent shivers down your spine. “There’s a lotta things I can forgive, but what he did sure as hell ain’t one a them.” 

“EP…” Jerry says. “You don’t gotta explain yourself, we-we all woulda done the same thing.”

“I’m goin’ ta hell because that sack a shit, and I look forward to seein’ him again, just so I can beat the crap outta him again.” You can hear the smile in his voice as he says these words, as he seems to rub his knuckle, the ones you remember seeing so badly bruised when you were in the hospital.

It’s unsettling how similar this is to when you met Elvis for the first time, you crouched down, being nosy, him in his boxers trying to hide someone from you. It would be funny if you weren’t one hundred percent sure that your husband wasn’t admitting to murder right now. You don’t stick around for much longer, your curiosity is sated, but you don’t feel any better knowing. 

You don’t know when or how you end up there, but you find yourself on the stairway landing. Once upon a time you thought of Graceland as a safe haven surrounded by shark infested waters, but now you realize that that couldn’t be further from the truth. You’re swimming in it, but the biggest shark had decided that you were never to be harmed. 

You want to say that there was some internal debate on that landing, where you contemplated leaving and never looking back. How you wanted to do the morally right thing and report them for all the good it would do. How there was a part of you that stared longingly at the door feeling the desire to leave from the love that has driven him to do this for you.

You would say that… but you would be lying. 

No. You sit there taking in the new reality that the man who has repeatedly physically and emotionally hurt you is gone and it was at the hands of the man you loved the most. You feel something at this moment. A feeling that has eluded you for a while now. You feel… safe. 

It’s an odd feeling to have again. It was something you had always felt with Elvis, but not something you were ever able to verbalize. But now looking back you were always safe with him, when people got too close, when their words hurt, when their stares burned, you could always retreat into him and feel protected from the world. 

There’s a lot of conflicting emotions running through you all at once, pain and sadness at what Eric had done and all the subsequent heartache his actions brought clashing with the almost euphoric relief that is knowing he’s gone for good and it’s all due to how loved you are by a single man. If anybody were to see you right now, they would see a woman with tears streaming down her face while simultaneously giggling like a maniac. You’re only broken from this manic episode when you hear the shrill cry of your baby girl.

You feel lighter as you make your way up the stairs, so light you don’t bother to hold the railing as you usually do and you find your baby right where you left her. Your husband would return later while she’s still suckling at you, and he would make his way to sit behind you, his chin resting on your shoulder, neither of you acknowledge how long he’s been gone. No, in the soft light of the room you both bask in each other watching the little wonder you both made get a little bigger and a little stronger by the moment resting in the bassinet by your bed.

“I just realized something,” you say. You feel him go rigid behind you, but you quickly break the tension by lightly running a finger along the ridge of his nose. “She got this from you.” 

“No, she didn’t,” he says with an amused huff. 

“No, it’s the same shape, just smaller. Look,” you insist. You take one of his hands to show him, careful not to wake her. 

He concedes to your point with a soft, tender kiss to your lips, while his other hand rubs circles on your hip bone. 

You should be disturbed at where his mind is at right now, and you would be if you weren’t just as hungry for him as he was for you. It’s been too long without him, and as he runs a finger along your jaw bringing your faces closer together, you welcome him back home. 

With the straps already falling off of your shoulders, you shiver as he uses a single finger to drag the silky material over your nipples, already begging for his attention that he’s all too willing to give. He languidly laves at them, using the occasional scrape of his teeth to get you to jump, all the while pressing down on your clit through your panties, before removing them.

You're laid on your back and you feel as he spreads the delicate petals of your pussy and even you’re taken aback as to how wet you are right now. You hiss slightly as you feel him probe lightly at your entrance, and he rips his hands back afraid he had hurt you. 

You take his hand in yours and bring his fingers to your mouth, tasting yourself on him, only to bring him closer to you as you whisper against his mouth “not bad, just slower papi.” You think, in a way, you both need this: to be reminded that his hands can do more than hurt. You’re not scared of him or what he’s capable of. 

He rolls so that you're on top of him and you bite your lip at his straining cock within his boxers. You run a single finger up his length and he bites down on his knuckle as you circle around the damp spot already forming. As you spread kisses along his length, he quietly pleads to be inside you, and after all he’s done for you, you won’t deny him.

Finally you sink down on him, and a long, satisfied moan escapes from your mouth and you chance a look at your baby relieved that she’s still asleep. He gives a cheeky grin, biting down on his bottom lip to keep quiet, and you grind down on him in retaliation, though that quickly backfires on you as it feels way too good and you have to concentrate on not doing that again, as you don’t want this to end so soon.

Neither of you are in a hurry at the moment, just choosing to indulge in the connection that circumstances had denied the two of you for so long, sharing lazy kisses and secret jokes in equal measure until you can’t take it anymore. You set the pace for yourself and he is all too willing to oblige and let you chase your peak, as he’s not too far behind. You may very well be in bed with a monster, and yet you’ve never felt safer.

The next day you watch from the Balcony as the men fill the platform with concrete and you get one last look at that trunk, and hope to never see it again. Elvis joins you there, watching and holding you and your daughter, both secure in the knowledge that he’ll always be able to protect you.

You don’t end up thinking about him as much as you thought you would have. In those early days after construction had finished you had feared that the slightest slip up and everybody would know. You felt you could hardly breathe when you looked at it those months, and you were surprised and more than a little disturbed that Elvis had no such reaction to it. 

Though eventually a good memory would come to almost completely scrub out the sour taste that the Gazebo leaves you in the form of Lucía’s baptism. Even over a year later she was still so small compared to other babies her age and the doctors warned you to expect some developmental delays, but you still worried over the fact she still has yet to crawl. Most times she seems content enough to sit where she’s put and play with the toys within her reach and getting someone’s attention to get her what she wants. It’s almost as though she’s aware that Elvis is called The King, making her a princess and so she expects to be treated like one. 

Recently she’s taken to standing up using whatever’s closest, bouncing up and down on her little legs for a bit then sitting back down. You sat there letting Lucía hold your hands and do her thing, while you talked to some of the other women. Your husband on the other side of the platform, surrounded by Lucía’s godfathers (they helped him hide a body after all, this felt like the least the two of you could do to honor them), talking business.

When you felt her let go your immediate instinct was to grab her, but you stop yourself when you see that she’s not only standing on her own but shakily taking her first steps forward. You and the other women go dead silent as you watch her make a slow but sure beeline, her eyes set on her Daddy. You hold your breath so afraid that she’ll fall, but all of your muscles are tensed ready to dive in and catch her if she so much as stumbled.

Elvis was looking away, not noticing what was happening until she finally got to him and wrapped herself around his leg. Seeing her next to him throws you for a loop, as over a year ago, she was so tiny that she fit almost entirely in one of his hands, and now she stands on her own at his knee, and you really do see how much she has grown. Elvis finally turns around and sees her looking up at him, but with no one around to have helped her he doesn’t put it together until he sees your mile wide grin, and it finally dawns on him what just happened. 

You and Elvis would later joke that she, just like him, wouldn’t do something so big without an audience. And for that entire day you didn’t think once about Eric. Your little girl's first steps were over a grave, and you couldn’t be happier about it. 

When she was four, you had explained to Lucía that her father had had it built after she was brought home in celebration that the two of you had pulled through. After that she started calling it hers, and it just stuck, even when your other children were born it was always Lucía’s Gazebo. Birthday’s, barbeques, family dinners, many of them were held underneath that gazebo, and only occasionally would you even spare a thought toward Eric. 

And now as you watch your daughter dance with your husband underneath the gazebo, celebrating her quinceañera you’re glad Elvis did what he did. If that man had had his way you wouldn’t have any of this, and you refuse to feel anything close to guilt or sympathy for him.

Eventually Elvis breaks away from her to stand next to you as she now embarks on the arduous journey of dancing with her many, many padrinos. You welcome him with a tender kiss, and he holds you from behind as the two of you watch your little girl who is now becoming a woman.

“I swear she was this small yesterday,” he says while rubbing your two-year old son’s back as he rests on your shoulder right now. Elvis had been close to tears all day, with the doll ceremony nearly doing it for him as he always loved spoiling her with toys, so the idea that this would be the last one was very bittersweet for him.

For you it was the shoe ceremony that did bring you to tears, as you held her hand as she took a few shaky steps in her new heels, not so much for the first steps she took as a baby, but the painful reminder of all the things you thought you wouldn’t get to have with your little baby that couldn’t leave her box. You refuse to let that man ruin anything special for you again, and over his grave you whisper in the love of your life’s ear how it’s not too late to have another one. His eyes widen at that for a moment before he gives that devastating grin of his that won you over years ago and agrees to later.

You love Elvis Presley. And you were lucky enough to be the woman that he loves back.

@venus-haze @djsjs13949 @ilovehobi101 @butlerslut @richardslady121 @giabelia @sydneyyyya @meetme0614 @tacozebra051 @myradiaz  @thelifes-world @maythesunshineagain @rakitirakiti @lostteenagetale @j-v-9-2  @eliseinmemphis @dkayfixates  @immi547 @thatbanditqueen   @marriedtoeddie @cuteejeno @itlover8000​ @isthlsfate​ @mgparker​

#elvis #elvis 2022 #elvis x reader #austin!elvis #austin!elvis x reader #yandere!elvis x reader #yandere x reader #yandere!elvis #yandere elvis #yandere #yandere!elvis presley #yandere austin!elvis x reader #austin!elvis fic #austin!elvis angst #austin butler #austin butler x reader #latin!reader #latina!reader

[justagalwhowrites]

Holly Jolly - Ch. 3: Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

Joel and Sarah celebrate the holiday with you and Sharon. The final chapter of Holly Jolly, a modern no-outbreak TLOU fic found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: None really!

Length: 4.8k

AO3 | Main Master List | First Chapter | Previous Chapter

“You think this is the way to go?” Joel asked, looking at the drawing in his hand as he sat on a video call with you in the middle of a Home Depot. 

“Yup,” you said, glancing back to the living room to see Sarah and Sharon deep in some adventure with Sharon’s Star Wars action figures. There were active blaster noises followed by a very dramatic sounding explosion. They were pretty occupied as you stood in the kitchen, leaning against your counter, waiting for the oven timer to ding. “I think if you go totally in this direction and just build something that’s perfect for the arbiesbay and how she plays with them, it’s even better than a reamday ousehay.” 

Joel was quiet for a second. 

“Did you just speak pig latin?” 

“You try hiding things from the irlsgay without switching languages,” you replied. 

Joel snorted. 

“Alright, well, just tell me what you think of these paint colors,” he said. “You’re the one with the vision.” 

Something smacked into the wall with a thud in the living room and you looked up from your phone. The shoebox the girls had been using for a space ship was across the room. 

“Hey,” you said. “Let’s not throw things, OK? If we throw things that means we can’t play with them anymore.” 

“But how is it supposed fly?” Sharon groaned. 

“Pretend,” you said. “Not by hurling it.” 

“Fine,” she huffed before getting up and getting the box, running it back across the room and bringing it in for a landing with a dramatic, explosive sound. 

You laughed and sighed, looking at the mess of dolls and Legos scattered all over the floor after a few hours of the girls playing together. 

“I need to get a toy box for the living room,” you said. “This is getting out of hand. Alright, let’s see the paints.” 

Joel held up three samples of pink. 

“Um…” you squinted at the screen. “Middle one, I think.” 

“I was thinkin’ that too,” he said. “Looks closest to the box color for the arbiebay I already got her.” 

“Was that pig latin?” 

“Utshay upyay. What about this one?” 

He held up a few purples as you giggled. 

“First one,” you said. “That will play best with the first one we picked.” 

“Right,” he said. “Alright, just need two more…” 

He held up a few options for the white and then a few for a green. 

“OK,” he said. “Think that’s everything… Thanks again for your help on this, I really don’t know what the uckfay I’m doing with this.” 

You had to fight to not snort laugh at fuck in pig latin. 

“Any time,” you said as the oven dinged. “And I need to go pull out gingerbread. See you soon?” 

“Yup,” he said. “Just gotta check out here, pick up pizza and headed your way after.” 

“Oundssay Oodgay.” 

Joel laughed. 

“Ebyay.” 

You pulled the gingerbread out and set it aside to cool and just watched the girls playing from the living room. 

Considering that you’d never met Joel and Sarah Miller before Thursday night, you were suddenly spending a lot of time with them. You and Joel had lunch together while Christmas shopping and you were surprised to learn that you got along better than you thought you would. Joel was oddly funny in a dry, clever way, every teasing moment and wry one liner feeling like an inside joke even though you’d only known each other a few days. You had the same concerns about raising girls as single parents, especially as young single parents who still felt a lot like kids yourselves. He was almost strangely insightful for a man, especially one who was damn near a perfect stranger. He seemed to understand the meaning behind your hesitant pauses or why you chose the words you did. Communicating with him was so straightforward and easy going, unlike anything you’d ever really experienced with someone so quickly before. You really liked Joel and Sharon adored his daughter. You really hoped you could help give them a great Christmas. They deserved it.

You’d drawn up a plan for the Dream House on Sunday night, going in a different direction than just trying to recreate what was on the shelf at the store. 

Instead, you’d made a Barbie-fied version of Joel and Sarah’s house. You’d found their house on Google Maps - it felt a little too weird to look it up on Zillow - and took a guess at the layout based on what you’d seen on the inside and what the footprint of the house was from above. 

Joel had stopped by your apartment Monday after work to pick up the plans and you stepped into the breezeway outside your door, leaving Sharon watching a cartoon in the living room. 

“I hope it’s not too weird,” you bit your lip as you handed the blue prints over. “If it is, I can redo it tonight and I don’t think it’ll put you too far behind…” 

He took the pages and frowned as he flipped through them. Your heart sank for a moment. 

“Is this… our house?” He asked, looking up from the papers to look at you. 

“Yeah,” you said. “I thought… since, you know, you just bought it and you bought it to give Sarah a better life, that kind of makes it a dream house, right? And I thought she might like to have her Barbies in a house that was like hers… I’m sorry, I over stepped, that’s not…” 

“This is amazing,” he said, looking back down at the plans. “Do you think she’ll like it?” 

You smiled, shoving your hands in the back pockets of your jeans. 

“Yeah. I think so, anyway. I would have, when I was her age. I think she will, too.” 

Even though you’d just seen him three days in a row, you were looking forward to spending the evening with him tonight, too. You had the supplies for making peanut butter cookies set out - as well as the peppermint bark shortbread you’d made every year since you were 20 and looking for something simple to make in your first apartment kitchen - and Joel was coming over to bake with you and the girls. 

You had a little surprise for him, too. When he’d first dropped Sarah off that afternoon, you’d gotten the girls to help make some Christmas decorations he could bring home with him. Paper chains and cut out snowflakes and Christmas trees made out of plastic spoons. Once the girls got bored you let them loose on the toys and told Sharon to bring the adventure to the living room so you could keep an eye on them as you made gingerbread. They were having a blast and you now had enough gingerbread to build a small village of houses, plus a small box of homemade decor to give to Joel. You just hoped he liked it. 

The girls were so involved with whatever they were playing - lightsabers were out now and Sharon was standing on the couch - that they barely noticed when he got there with an armload of pizza. 

“OK definitely feelin’ like I got off pretty easy in this deal,” he said, setting the pizza down on your breakfast bar. 

“It’s fine,” you waved him off. “My downstairs neighbors work in the afternoon and evening so they’re not bothering anyone. And they’ve stayed out of my way so it’s been no trouble, truly.” 

“Daddy!” Sarah yelped, dropping the lightsaber and running for him, leaping into his arms like she hadn’t seen him in weeks, instead of just a few hours. “We made stuff and played Barbies and now we’re playing wars…” 

“Star Wars,” Sharon corrected, jumping off the couch and stumbling forward as she landed. “It’s so cool, it’s this real old movie…” 

“Alright,” Joel cut them off. “I’ll stop ya there, I remember when some of those came out, don’t need you saying they’re that old…” He set Sarah down and turned to you. “Didn’t take you for a Star Wars fan.” 

You shrugged. 

“Gotta introduce the kid to classic film.” 

“Oh lord,” he rolled his eyes and laughed. “Think you’re the same age as me, better watch what you say about classic film…” 

You got the girls to sit still long enough to plow through the better part of a cheese pizza and some carrot sticks while you and Joel split a supreme, sitting so close to each other that your knees brushed below the table. 

The first time it happened, you jerked your leg away on instinct but Joel didn’t react. So you let your leg relax a little and, bit by bit, your knee drifted until it was against his thigh and your heart was in your throat. 

After dinner, you pulled two chairs into the kitchen for the girls to stand on and you supervised as they combined the ingredients for peanut butter blossoms, their little faces getting covered in a dusting of flour and a smear of peanut butter ending up in the middle of Sharon’s shirt. They gleefully rolled the balls of dough in sugar and you handled putting the Hershey kisses in the middle of each one as the cookies neared the end of baking as Joel helped the girls secure the structure of their gingerbread houses. 

“This much frosting seems dangerous,” Joel said after you’d joined them back at the table, cookies cooling on their racks on your packed counter. 

“Oh, it is,” you said before you put your tongue between your teeth to concentrate on adding a small chimney to your house. “This is why we do it at the end, so you can get one sugar addled child and I get the other and I’m not wrangling both of them.” 

He laughed a little, adding a Twizzler window frame. 

“Daddy?” Sarah looked up from her sagging house. “It’s not staying up.” 

“One sec Baby Girl…” He got up and went around to help her and you watched as he carefully adjusted the roof and added a little support beam. “See, that’ll help distribute the weight better, makes it more secure. Make sense?” 

“I think so,” she said. “Can I add more M&Ms now?” 

“Yeah, you can add more M&Ms,” he laughed a little before sitting back next to you. You let your knee drift to his thigh again. 

He looked at you for a second, a soft look in his eyes, and you thought about taking your leg back but you didn’t. 

“In case I haven’t said it,” he said. “Thank you for just… everything you’ve been doin’. Sarah’s been so happy this last week and I know you and Sharon got a lot to do with that. I’m real glad Sarah met her.” 

You smiled a little. 

“I am, too.” 

Joel took a deep breath. 

“And I’m real glad I met you, too.” 

Your heart picked up. 

“Yeah?” 

You leaned in a little closer to him. 

“Yeah.” 

“Aunt Cocoa, look!” Sharon piped up from across the table and you turned away from Joel to look at her gingerbread house that was dripping frosting and sprinkles. 

“That’s amazing!” You said. “You’re doing a great job girlie pop, definitely better than mine.” 

When the houses were done, you and Sharon helped carry everything down to Joel’s truck, including the box of decorations. He frowned at it when you handed it to him to put in the cab. 

“What’s this?” 

“Just… open it when you get home,” you smiled. “Let me know what you think.” 

He lifted Sarah into her carseat and buckled her in before closing the door and turning to you. 

“So, I was thinkin’,” he said. “My brother was supposed to host Christmas dinner but now he’s going to some girlfriend’s place and it doesn’t sound like you’ll have anywhere to be… would you two want to come over? Don’t have to if it’s weird, I know we just met but…” 

“I’d love that,” you cut him off, smiling. “Just let me know what I can bring? Or I can volunteer a dessert…” 

“Dessert is great,” he said. “Just… mostly just want you there.” 

You smiled bigger.

“Then I’ll be there.” 

He smiled, making his cheek dimple. 

“Good,” he said. “Can’t wait.” 

***

Joel sent you one final picture of the dream house. 

Think it’s done. 

He half expected you not to respond. It was after midnight, officially Christmas Day. By all rights, you should be asleep. 

You texted back anyway. 

That’s perfect! Sarah will LOVE it. 

Joel smiled at his phone like a damn idiot and scrolled through the messages the two of you had sent each other in the short time that he’d known you. There were the pictures he’d sent of his living room after he put up the decorations you and the girls had made him, pictures you’d sent of the gingerbread houses on your breakfast bar as you documented evidence of Sharon slowly sneaking pieces off of them, pictures he’d sent of the progress he made on the dream house. 

He clicked on your contact photo and made it fill his screen, the selfie you’d sent him the first night he’d met you. He smiled a little. He couldn’t help it.

You were so pretty he wondered how he didn’t see it at first, even with the ridiculous sweater and the antlers. He must have been in a real shit mood to have not noticed because, over the last few days, he found himself pulling the picture up again and again just to look at you. 

He did it when he had a break at work and was checking his phone for other messages. He did it when he was waiting for Sarah to finish breakfast as she dawdled before school. Most often, though, he did it just before he fell asleep when he felt oddly lonely and wished you were there. 

It was a strange thought for him. He hadn’t really been with anyone since Sarah’s mom. There just hadn’t been time, he was too busy with work and his daughter, and he’d never longed for someone he’d never even kissed before. At least, not since he was a fucking teenager. 

But he wanted to be next to you. He damn near melted the first time your knee had brushed his thigh, had to fight the urge to put his hand over that knee, trail his fingers along the inside of your thigh. And fuck, had he wanted to kiss you. You were so close and you smelled like vanilla and sugar and he knew - he just knew - that your lips would be soft and sweet. 

He’d only seen you two days since then - plenty, considering you just met, but it felt like so little. Once, when the two of you had taken the girls Christmas shopping and traded kids so they could get something for each of you, and another time when you’d taken the girls to the playground together. The two of you had tried to sit on a bench and watch them play but the girls weren’t satisfied, pulling you and Joel up to play freeze tag.

Joel was looking forward to Christmas now. He’d actually been able to get Sarah what she wanted - or hoped she wanted, anyway - and he was getting to see you. He wasn’t entirely sure how but he’d gone from a man who was all but dreading the holiday to one who was almost as excited as his daughter for the day to come. 

You sent him a picture of a Millennium Falcon set up for Sharon under the tree. Joel laughed a little and smiled. 

She’s going to love it. 

You followed it up with a picture of a sticker sheet. 

She might like this more, who knows. 

He wondered if it would be weird to ask you for a selfie. Probably. Still, he considered it. But he just texted, instead.

You did a great job. Really. 

Why are you still up? You should go to bed, Joel. Santa can’t come if you’re still awake.

He tried to picture you saying it, the serious look you’d try to keep on your face as your lips curved up at the edges. 

I will if you will. 

Alright, you convinced me! See you tomorrow. 

You sent a little heart after your last message and Joel tried to not read into it as he went to bed and pulled up your picture one more time, just to look at you, drifting off wondering how you’d feel curled up next to him.

Sarah tackled him at 6:17 a.m. 

“Daddy!” She shook his whole body. “Daddy, wake up, I think Santa came! Daddy, get up!” 

“Alright, Baby Girl,” he groaned, blinking the sleep from his eyes. “M’awake, gimme a minute, we’ll go see if Santa came…” 

He shook his head a little as he sat up, his hair falling over his forehead, and he got a shirt from his dresser before pulling up the camera on his phone. 

“Alright Kiddo,” he said. “You stay right here at the top of the stairs for just a minute so I can get you on video…” 

He went into the living room and turned on the lights, the paper chains you’d made with the girls dangling cheerfully from the doorways. 

“Alright,” he said, starting recording, suddenly nervous about Sarah seeing the homemade dream house. What if she hated it? This might be the first Christmas she really remembered, what if he ruined it? “Come on down, Baby Girl.” 

Sarah thundered down the stairs and into the living room, her curls bouncing as she ran. Her eyes went wide and her mouth made a small “o” when she saw the house sitting next to the tree. She ran over to it and dropped to her knees beside it, a Barbie and a Ken standing in the kitchen, ready for her to play with.

“Daddy!” She gaped at him, a look of awe on her face. “Daddy, that’s our house! That’s our house but Barbie!” 

“Is it?” He asked. 

“Yeah!” She said. “See, that’s the kitchen and we’re in here in the living room…” 

“Do you like it?” He asked, hoping he didn’t sound too hesitant. 

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen!” She looked back to the house. “Barbie has a house like us!” 

“Yeah,” Joel said, trying not to tear up. “Yeah, she does.” 

It took Sarah a while to even want to move on to her stocking - loaded with candy - and the gifts under the tree. Joel had never been happier to see Sarah happy and it tugged at his heart knowing that he couldn’t have done it without you. 

There were two things under the tree for Joel from Sarah, one that she let him have then and one that she insisted on waiting for you to be there for. 

The first one was half of a butterfly best friend necklace and he frowned a little at it. 

“Hold on!” She scampered off to her room for a moment before she came running back, flopping on Joel’s lap as he sat cross legged next to the tree. She held up the other side. “See? So when you go to work you can remember me!” 

There was the burning pinch of tears in his eyes when he pulled her in to kiss her cheek. 

“I always remember you, Baby Girl,” he said, voice wet. “But I love it so so much, thank you.” 

He put it on, the chain much shorter around his thick neck than it was around her little one. She giggled and put her half of the butterfly against his before going back to playing with the Barbies. 

Joel had to pull himself away from watching her play to get dressed and make breakfast before making her get dressed, too, and then handling all the holiday things that needed doing before you arrived. 

He was putting the ham in the oven when the doorbell rang and Sarah shrieked before running for the door, Joel only catching a glimpse of a red dress as he ducked back below the paper chain between the kitchen and the living room. 

“I saved it just for you,” Sarah said conspiratorially as he made it to the door. You smiled at Joel over his head. “I wanted you to see, too!” 

“That was very sweet,” you smiled at her. “Have you had a good Christmas?” 

“The best,” she said. “Santa made a dream house just for me!” 

“He did?” Sharon’s mouth dropped open. “That’s so cool! I brought a Barbie, can she come over and see it?” 

“Yeah!” Sarah took her hand and the two girls tore into the living room, almost running into Joel on their way past. 

“Hey,” you smiled, your eyes bright and beautiful, in a green sweater that was so far from the one he’d first seen you in. This one was a dress that clung to your frame, hugging all the parts of you he’d thought about far too much. You moved to hug him, a little awkwardly with a pie plate in your hands, but he didn’t care. He was just happy for the excuse to touch you, hoped you wouldn’t hear his heart pounding in his green flannel shirt. 

“Hey,” he smiled as he gave you a squeeze. 

“Told you she’d love it,” you whispered before you pulled back, giving him a wink. 

The two of you went to the living room and watched the girls play, your legging clad legs brushing against him and he wondered if you even noticed, if it was all just an accident or if you were as aware of every time you touched like he was. 

“Oh, Dad, I have one more for you!” Sarah went and got the other small box from under the tree. “Miss Cocoa helped me pick it. And helped me buy it because it was more money than you gave me.” 

“You didn’t need to do that,” he frowned at you. 

You just waved him off. 

“I had coupons,” you said. “And Kohl’s Cash. And then it was only like $15 more dollars. Nothing crazy.” 

He unwrapped the box and opened it. Inside was a watch with a black face, green band and a metal case, one that would actually hold up to his job. 

“I wanted to get you the pink one,” Sarah said. “But she said she didn’t think it would fit you.” 

“Yeah, your dad is a big guy,” Joel could hear you smiling. “That pink watch looked a little small. I think this one will work better.” 

“Try it on!” Sarah said, bouncing a little beside him. “I wanna see!” 

“Alright,” he said, taking off his old watch that had seen far better days and sliding on the new one. He turned his wrist in the light, admiring it. “It’s perfect, Baby Girl.” 

“You like it?” Sarah asked, her eyes wide. 

“I love it,” he said, pulling her in to kiss her on the cheek. “Thank you so much.” 

She clapped before going back to playing with Sharon. 

You were looking at his wrist, a small smile on your face. 

“Really shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “It really is perfect, but…”

You smiled bigger. 

“She was just so excited about it,” you said. “I couldn’t resist.” 

“Well,” Joel said. “I do have somethin’ for you, too.” 

“Yeah?” You asked brows raised. 

He stood up from the couch, holding his hand out for yours. You took it and he tugged you to your feet. 

“You two behave yourselves for just a minute,” Joel said. “We’ll be right back.” 

They didn’t even seem to notice, too busy moving the barbies through the house. 

“C’mon,” he said, still holding your hand and guiding you toward the garage. “Now if you don’t like it, I can redo it…” 

He led you to his garage workshop and turned on the lights, your gift sitting under a sheet on his workbench. 

“Couldn’t really wrap it,” he nodded to it. “But it’s under there.” 

“I can just…” You raised your eyebrows at him and he laughed a little. 

“Yeah, go for it.” 

You made an excited little sound before pulling back the sheet. You gasped at it and Joel smiled as you went to run your hands over the sides. 

“This is gorgeous!” You said, looking from it to him. “What is it?” 

“Well,” he said, coming and standing so close to you that he could feel you breathing. You smelled like sugar and cinnamon and clove. “When we were on the phone while I was at Home Depot the other day, you mentioned needing a toy box for your living room. Seemed like you care about things like your furniture and things so I wanted to make you one that looked like it’d be your style. It opens at the top…” He demonstrated, lifting the lid. “Put some bumpers on the lid, too, so if Sharon throws it around it won’t hurt anything… top can be a bench if you wanted, too, you got all those nice pillows on your couch and stuff… Anyway, like I said, I can change it if you don’t…” 

You turned and threw your arms around his neck, pressing your warm, soft body against him. He hesitated for a moment before he hugged you back, his fingertips gripping you tight. 

“I love it,” your voice was muffled by his shirt before you pulled back from him just enough to look at his face. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me, where did you find the time?” 

“I ain’t slept much this week,” he laughed a little. “But that’s OK. It’s… it’s worth it. You’re worth it.” 

You looked up at him, your eyes wide and warm and soft and all he wanted to do was kiss you. Joel thought it might be the only thing he ever wanted to do. 

“Joel,” you breathed, pressing yourself a little closer to him. 

“Is it OK if I kiss you now?” He asked softly, one of his hands slipping from your waist to gently hold your face. “Because damn, do I want to kiss you.” 

You nodded eagerly and he tightened his hold on you, tilting your head just so to press his lips to yours. 

You felt just like he thought you would but somehow so much better, your mouth so soft and warm against him, the taste of mint on your tongue. Your lips fit on his own the way that no one else’s ever had, he’d never kissed anyone and felt this desperate to keep kissing them, keep doing just about anything with them. 

Eventually, you pulled back from him, breathless, and trailed your fingers through his hair. He smiled a little at you, panting a bit himself. 

“Think we can get a babysitter and go out sometime?” He asked. “Just the two of us?” 

“Yeah,” you laughed a little. “Yeah, I think we can.” 

The two of you went back in the house, holding hands as you sat watching the girls play, giggling and chattering back and forth like they’d known each other for years. But Joel understood that now. He’d never seen Sarah latch on to anyone so fast but then, he’d never had feelings like this for someone so fast, either. 

At dinner, he sat next to you, all four of you laughing, Christmas music on the background. When your knee came to rest against his leg, his hand slipped below the table and cupped your knee, his thumb stroking your thigh. You looked at him and smiled a little before your hand drifted below the table, too, giving his leg a squeeze. 

When the girls wore themselves out, he left Sarah asleep on the couch, The Grinch on in the background, before he loaded the toy box into your trunk and then carried Sharon out, lowering her gently into her carseat. You buckled her in as she sleepily clutched her Barbie in one chubby hand and her Princess Leia action figure in the other. 

“Thanks for comin’,” Joel said, stepping close to you. “And for everything you did for me and for Sarah the last few weeks.” 

You smiled, leaning back against your car and tugging Joel against you, he smiled and laughed a little. 

“I was happy to,” you said, eyes shining in the moonlight. “So what do you think? Good Christmas?” 

He searched your eyes for a moment and slowly leaned in to kiss you again. Your smile broadened and you met him halfway, your fingers knotting in his shirt as you held him against you.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling just far enough away from you that he could look in your eyes again. “Best Christmas ever.” 

A/N: Thanks for reading this little holiday fic! I hope you enjoyed it, even though it went up a few days later than I'd really hoped.

Wishing you a beautiful holiday season with lots of love and laughter. Thank you for being here and spending some of it with me ❤️

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x oc #holly jolly

[sere-ness-ima]

Arguments against giving personifications a universal language (or another method of communicating with each other immediately and without any problem)

(Ok, this was a little clickbaity. First of all, I absolutely don’t intend to say that whoever does it is wrong. Like everything in Hetalia worldbuilding, it’s a matter of personal preference and goals we set for our story. Additionally I absolutely think that heavy focus on this matter would be detrimental for the story and unapproachable by audience other than a couple of crazy linguists.

Unfortunately I happen to be a crazy linguist, so here’s what I actually mean by this post:)

Fun linguistic things to consider in the context of Hetalia :D

Now, personally, I feel like the universal language takes away from the naturality of their relationships, *especially* so-called “first contact”, but not only that. Language is an enormous part of international relationships through the ages and removing this part from the equation results in the personifications not experiencing this side of their people’s history.

Sometimes in a story you don’t want two nations to understand each other. It happens. I’d much rather have choice than create a rule that takes this possibility from me.

The question of “which languages these two characters share” is interesting; it silently reminds of their history and points to cultural circles they belong to, as a subtle storytelling tool. (Other than that, deciding that is insanely fun, but this might be a linguist thing?)

Languages can be symbolic for other details of relationships. Think Lithuania speaking outdated Polish, from 19th century at best, because he didn’t have many opportunities to catch-up with the living language after that, now they’re not together with Poland anymore. [/personal hc, but even if they were, I think he’d still lag behind].

Another case, think a weaker country speaking the language of the stronger country, never the other way around, indicating a power imbalance between them.

Think a weaker country [personally I’m thinking a friend’s Serbia] absolutely refusing to speak the language of the stronger country, forcing them to seek compromises or use an interpreter or more drastic measures.

The lingua franca, whatever it would be, automatically carries a huge cultural and social influence with it. I believe the personifications should be prone to it too.

Another linguist thing, but I find communication struggles fascinating and endearing. There’s so much cultural exchange to be drawn from a second language user: which parts of learning are difficult for them, which are easy; what mistakes they make and how are these influenced by their native speech; what words do they choose to use, what do they think a chair’s gender is, do they sound soft or harsh or have an accent? If two Slavs talk to each other in English, is it correct English or do they use Slavic pronunciation and grammar to make it easier for themselves, causing a distress for each anglophone that hears them?

Another linguist thing, but a lot of pairs of countries that technically don’t have a common language can probably communicate with ease anyway. I want to see them go wild. I want to see them make a mixtape out of their French and Latin to talk to an Italian, I want distant Asian countries to talk to each other in English that no actual English person would understand, I want to see Latin America NOT understanding each other despite theoretically all speaking Spanish. And I want to see two distant countries find out that their only common language is something completely unexpected they’ve studied out of boredom.

I want to see the poor couple of nations without decent linguistic skills SUFFER.

Some of you speak like not having a common language was an unconquerable obstacle that would destroy all the fun and be a giant problem in the storyline. But I don’t really see how? Our ancestors did it. They travelled, they met other nations and they had to learn how to communicate with them. Some of them saw the opposite thing happen: they used to understand their neighbours without problem, but as the nations found themselves under different influences, the languages drifted away from each other until the similarities became unrecognizable. People across the ages have been learning languages, travelling and communicating. There are teachers, translators (my friend Laurynas says he’d like to see translators acknowledged), interpreters, etymology, lingua franca and body language all for them to use. I am not 25 yet and I speak 4, with a certain pain I can communicate in 6, and I could probably visit 100 countries of the world without worrying about the language issue at all. My nations are 100 years old. I just don’t think they need additional help. They'll slay :D

There were a couple ideas I’ve seen pro-universal language that I liked, so thought I’d share:

One, as beetroot said, being able to communicate with one personification doesn’t mean the countries wouldn’t have to learn languages, as the rest of the society wouldn’t be able to understand it. Therefore, most of these “fun linguist things” would appear anyway, just not between personifications. For me it’s a bummer, although acceptable. For someone else it can be more than enough.

Two, a quote from my friend Huku:

“Universal language is also a thing that helps them identify each other, which is a cool trick. It explains why, upon finding a personification in a swamp, the nation knows that this child is a personification and not some random mortal. Besides, nations from distant cultures also find it hard to communicate initially, because maybe the language is universal, but the context is foreign, the metaphors unreadable, the wording strange.”

Three, at first I didn't like morgenlich’s version that the language “can’t be written down because of magic”, but after seeing a suggestion that it wouldn’t be an actual language, just a mysterious way of understanding each other, the idea sounds more approachable to me. Cheers!

#hetalia #hetalia headcanons #historical hetalia #hetalia worldbuilding #nation lore #ness cinematic universe #nessay #if i've ever seen one

[doctorprofessorsong]

Destiel Fic Recs!!

Here We May Be Free by FriendofCarlotta @friendofcarlotta (39k, Explicit)

As you probably know, I love a monster Cas fic and this is a fun one. A mermaid AU with a lot of great lore.

When Dean was a kid, John took them on an ill-advised and unsuccessful beach trip. But Dean has never forgotten the moment of peace he felt in the water, and the half glimpse that he might not be alone there. It's a moment etched in his mind, and one he tried to drunkenly recreate years ago while Sam was at Stanford with no success. But finding himself struggling with what to do next now that their father and the yellow eyed demon are gone, Dean decides it's time to return to the beach in the hope that he can still reclaim that moment.

Dean and Cas have a delightfully magnetic relationship which makes this one immensely readable. There is also a truly fantastic brother dynamic (including Sam's sometimes clunky attempts to draw Dean out while missing the big picture). And Cas has some delightful mermaidy idiosyncrasies.

Suptober Day 10: Enchanted by tiamatv (9k, Teen)

Frog prince Castiel!! What else do you need?

The is a cute little one shot where Cas gets turned into a frog by a curse. It has all the fun tropes that go along with this genre. Frog!Cas snuggling with Dean and being cared for by Dean, Dean being able to use his words with Frog!Cas a bit better, awkward animal biology, and a healthy dose of humor. It's absolute perfection.

Highly recommend for a light little read. Low angst, fun froggy facts and a good time for all.

We Don’t Talk About It by luckshiptoshore @luckshiptoshore (6.5k, Teen)

This is a short little one shot, and it's SUCH a fun one. The concept is just such a delight.

Cas comes back wrong. Specifically, Cas comes back with angel aphasia-like condition where everything he says is a muddled mix of ancient languages instead of English as he intends.

Except…Dean would swear he seems to be able to understand him even though he doesn't speak Aramaic/Enochian/Ecclesiastical)/Latin.

There are some absolutely hilarious moments of Dr. Sexy appreciation and there is something extremely soft about Dean understanding Cas. There's a delightful element of somehow understanding each other better in different languages. It's funny and sweet and just just great read.

Dear Western Red Cedar #2409 by MittenWraith @mittensmorgul (63k, Mature)

This one is a fluffy little pine fest fic with so many soft moments. Dean is a park ranger with a crush on the local librarian, Cas. He's also secretly a successful writer. Between his long absences for work and his secret, he doesn't have much time for dating. Besides, he's pretty sure Cas isn't interested.

Cas, for his part, is very interested and very lonely. Desperate for some contact with anyone, he pours his feelings out in a missive to a stranger monitoring a reporting email for local flora. It's a delightful 2plt with some great epistolary elements. The characterization is soft and fluffy and the pining is soft and longing. It has all the elements of a great comfort fic.

no body, no crime by big_wet_cas_eyes @big-wet-cas-eyes (31k, Explicit)

This is technically a murder husbands fic, so know that going in, but it's a surprisingly *soft* one where it's more like a hurt/comfort with a side of murder. Being an enthusiast of both, this one managed to strike a great chord with me personally.

Sam and Cas have been friends since college and regardless of what else is going on in their lives, they always make time to get together once a week for dinner. But a week after Sam confesses he thinks his wife, Ruby, may be having an affair, he's greeted not by Sam, but Dean who informs him Cas is missing. Despondent, they turn to each other for comfort and find much more.

The emotional and physical (not just sexual) intimacy between Dean and Cas is absolutely lovely in this fic, and you find yourself rooting for them to be happy.

Stalk, Marry, Kill by Fullvoid @casgore (23k, Explicit plus timestamps)

On the other end of the murder husbands spectrum is this delightfully depraved fic. Dean is married to a famous author, Aaron, but he's restless and unhappy with his life until a smoking hot new co-worker walks into his engineering firm.

Dean and Cas are about to do a bad thing. Well several bad things. In great and dirty detail. This is a classic Void fic with obsessive undertones and bad behavior, so mind the tags. But if this is your thing, it's a great one.

Check out my other fic recs at @riversrecs

@varlysca @naturallyathief @greatbigbugger @fandoms-and-things @you-cant-spell-subtext-without @deanwasalwaysbi @fellshish @valleydean @raspberry-tooth @the15yearhatecrime @sunglassesmish

Ask to be added to my tag list!

#destiel #deancas #destiel fic rec #deancas fic recs #deancas fic rec #destiel fic recs

[ineffable-suffering]

Ceci n'est pas une plume.

(from this doc of all of Neil's answered asks)

The meta goes a little like this: I like nerdy stuff about language (and also Good Omens), so I wanted to elaborate on why Angels and Demons don't actually ever speak any language except their own. They simply have the ability to flick a translation switch and (make anyone) understand what's being said in whatever other language.

Also, I end up making a way deeper point of it and why it's so telling that Aziraphale would learn French (and magic) the hard way, in the end.

Find out with me under the cut!

(Word count: 1820 | Reading time: ~8 minutes )

Aziraphale and Crowley's exchange in front of Marguerite's restaurant started me down this path and I'm pretty sure that this is actually how it works. Because it ties together a few other loose strings that have been floating around in my head about the whole langue deal in Good Omens.

Let's structure this by the questions Neil has already answered about it.

The Lead Balloon

I feel like the "in the beginning"-scene in S2 showed us that Crowley did not actually have much of an idea what exactly the plan for Earth and the humans were (instead, Aziraphale did). He might have found out later still, after asking his questions, but I feel like the second part of that answer is more likely to be true, since they both seem to understand this metaphor. This is further supported by:

Ergo: They're speaking in the language of Angels but we understand it in English (or whatever language we selected on our Amazon Prime). Automatically translated for us because Crowley and Aziraphale wanted us to understand them.

"Ciao. It's Italian. It means Food."

They sort of are, yes. Idiots who either forgot to turn on their own auto-translator, or idiots who aren't aware that they have one for other languages except English, or idiots who were miffed that Crowley actually knew-knew a word in another language and didn't want to admit that they didn't.

Où est la plume de la jardinière de ma tante?

Right, so. The exchange that fuelled this meta. First of all, as a funny side note, the origin of that peculiar sentence:

La plume de ma tante ("my aunt's quill") is a phrase in popular culture, attributed to elementary French language instruction (possibly as early as the 19th century) and used as an example of grammatically correct phrases with limited practical application that are sometimes taught in introductory foreign language texts. As Life magazine said in 1958, "As every student knows, the most idiotically useless phrase in a beginner's French textbook is la plume de ma tante (the quill of my aunt)." The phrase is also used to refer to something deemed completely irrelevant. [link]

So basically, it's historically the most nonsensical and dumb phrase any student of the French language gets taught. And yet Aziraphale has been "wittering on about it for the last 250 years". Even looking smug about it, to this very day. Gave me a good chuckle.

Also:

In the 1973 horror film The Exorcist, Catholic priest Damien Karras interviews [...] a girl believed to suffer from demonic possession. While Karras probes to determine whether the possession is a hoax, the demon Pazuzu—who has possessed the girl—speaks in Latin and French, languages presumably unknown to the girl. When Karras demands "Quod nomen mihi est?/What is my name?" in Latin, the demon exclaims "La plume de ma tante!", using the phrase as a non sequitur to mock and evade Karras' line of questioning. [link]

Using that particular phrase to avoid answering a question you're being asked? Like: "You speak every language in the world perfectly ...

Neil, Neil, Neil, *shakes head fondly*, is there anything that you don't give layered meaning to, ever? No. No, of course you don't. And I adore you for it.

The whereabouts of the aunt's gardener's pen questioned, Aziraphale then says "But you still understood me" when Crowley calls him out for his bad French.

This is curious and affirming of my auro-translator theory for two reasons:

1) Aziraphale wouldn't have said this if he'd uttered this sentence in the language of Angels and simply hit the auto-translate button. Because if he had done it that way, of course Crowley would have understood him. But the reason Crowley understands him is not because Aziraphale used his language auto-translate, but because, again, Aziraphale, for two hundred and fifty years, has been wittering on about the plume of his imaginary tante.

2) Point one is further proven by a tiny French nerdy fact I can provide because I actually did learn and graduate in French back in school, lol. Because Crowley actually makes a mistake while trying to not-automatically translate the sentence. He says:

But "jarndinère" is actually a female gardener (le jardinier = male, la jardinière = female). So, when Crowley says "he doesn't have a pen", he actually gets it wrong, which further proves to me that he (as well as all other angels and demons) doesn't actually understand the phrase like someone does who has learnt the language in a human way.

Crowley doesn't have the automated translation on in this moment, so he doesn't translate it correctly. Because he doesn't actually speak French. At least not in the sense that us humans interpret "speaking a language".

Comment ça?

Basically, what I'm trying to get at is: Would you say that Google Translate speaks every language in the world? That it's native and fluent in every tongue ever spoken? Or is it simply a program that can access all the language knowledge its been fed and as soon as you hit enter, it translates any and every language back to you?

Google Translate never learnt any language, it never sat down and went through the onslaughts of vocabulary and grammar that studying a language comes with. It never got frustrated with seemingly nonsensical sentence structures, subjonctifs (French-learnes, you know what I mean) tenses and conjugations. It never spent ages trying to understand different dialects and accents, never spoke with natives to figure out the hidden slangs and sarcasms that would never be translated on paper. It never went to night classes where the teacher wittered on about pens and gardeners and aunts.

No. Google Translate is being told a sentence and it soullessly, programatically recognizes the language through its binary coded translation filter and mirrors the equivalent in whatever other language you want it to.

It's furthest any-a thing could be from speaking a language.

And exactly like that.

Exactly like that is how angels and demons "speak" every language in the World. Hitting an imaginary auto-translate-and-auto-recognition button.

Aziraphale and French (and magic)

Just like with Aziraphale being giddy about the idea of human magic, of learning card tricks and pulling coins out from behind ears, Aziraphale chose to never hit his translate button when it came to French.

Why does Aziraphale learn magic the human way? Because he knows how to do it the ethereal way but that's "no fun."

And why does Aziraphale learn French the human way? Because he knows how to do it the ethereal way, but that's "no fun".

Let me recap real quick: Two of the very base principles of any angel's job and/or purpose (on Earth) is to 1) do miracles for humankind to ensure their souls will at some point be added to Heaven's tab and 2) be a being of Love and love all of Her creations.

Or, the condensed version: Magic and Love.

And what are the two things Aziraphale finds no fun (= boring and unsatisfying) to do the way it was intended for all angels?

Magic and (the language of) Love.

Aziraphale chose to try and learn magic as well as the language of love organically, without the God-given ability and the binary coded translation system Heaven provided his corporation with.

He wanted to learn it the human way. The hard way. The fun way.

Neil: "It's like magic tricks, which he is terrible at but loves to do, and miracles, which are no fun, but which he does very well."

Because that's the point, isn't it? Most of us think: "Wow, wouldn't it be great to be able to do actual magic? Simply snap your fingers and have any-a wish come true? Speak every and any language in the universe and never have to pick up a dictionary ever again?"

Sure, for the first few exciting moments, miracles and conversations maybe. But sooner or later, it renders everything meaningless. Soulless. Flavourless. And who loves flavour more than Aziraphale?

It's somewhat similar to why typing a sentence into Google Translate is never going to be as exciting as being able to finally translate it yourself after years of practising. Or why telling an AI to conjure up a picture of a beautiful landscape will never, ever be the same as working years on your own painting skills to one day finally be able to paint it yourself.

Heaven (and ultimately Hell) don't care about the process. The hardship. The pain and passion of putting work and effort into the journey. They only care about the end result. The means to an end.

Crowley: "They don‘t care how it gets done, they just want to know they can cross it off their list."

Want to speak any language in the world? There you go, automatic translator. Want to ensure humans will be added to the Heavenly/Hellish soul tab? Boom, you can do real magic. Get to work, then!

So, for Aziraphale to choose to learn the two things he was provided with to do his Heavenly work in the most efficient, soulless and flavourless way possible the human way instead, really says it all, doesn't it?

But he learnt the most important one the hard way, without his auto-translator.

The one language all angels are supposed to know fluently and wordlessly anyway.

The one language that makes an angel.

The language of Love.

Except that when it's programmed into you with the intent to only ever work as a means to and end instead of the beautiful journey it is, it will never be the real, organic, passionate, hard and wonderful thing it was meant to be.

And Aziraphale knows this.

Which is exactly why he learnt magic and French the real, human way.

***

Small addendum that I couldn't really fit into any paragraph up there: I think it's also really telling that Aziraphale only properly committed to learning French the right way by going to Monsieur Rossignol's (for those who haven’t seen it yet: rossignol means nightingale in French) night classes in 1760 after the first time we see Crowley rescue him (Bastille, 1739). There might have been a time before that where Crowley got him out of a precarious situation, but for all we know, it was the first one where Crowley really showed up for an angel in need who was absolutely swooning over it. Time to let the nightingale to teach you how to become fluent in Love!

#good omens #good omens meta #my own meta #good omens season 2 #good omens 2 #gos2 #go2 #good omens s2 #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #language #good omens language #why? #love #aziraphale is a romantic #and also the only good angel out there #and all of it because of a god damn pen

[elen-benfelen]

welsh remus guide pt.3

Third Lesson

Right then, lads. It’s alphabet time.

Often, when looking at Welsh place names, it can seem confusing and overwhelming for anyone who is unfamiliar with Welsh. Sometimes, the confusion comes from not realising that the names are in Welsh. 

Visually, we use the Latin alphabet and so it’s easy to make the assumption that the Welsh alphabet is exactly the same as the English. 

It is not, my dudes. 

To begin with, the following letters do not exist:

K, Q, V, X, Z

Secondly, these are the vowels:

A, E, I, O, U, W, Y 

(Occasionally H is also a vowel but I couldn’t tell you when or why??? I usually go off of vibes) 

Next, are the double letters. They count to us as single letters and each make a unique sound:

CH, DD, FF, NG, LL, PH, RH, TH

NG as in thiNG

PH as in PHil

FF as in Fun

RH as in RHiannon

TH as in THat

Now comes the uh, more complicated sounds. 

For those familiar with German words such as Nacht or the name Brecht, the Welsh CH is that same sound.

CH as in naCHt

DD is like a harder TH sound. It is NOT a D sound. 

LL sounds like hissing. I genuinely don’t know how else to explain this. It straight up does not exist in majority of languages but there are some out there with the same sound (sometimes shown with a different letter). 

To hear it and learn more here’s a better explanation.

This is a really fun video on the different accents but someone mentions the town Llanelli so it’s also a good example of the LL sound. 

And so in full we have:

A. B. C. CH. D. DD. E. F. FF. 

G. NG. H. I. J. L. LL. M. N. O. 

P. PH. R. RH. S. T. TH. U. W. Y. 

There’s no K because the C is always a hard C sound.

There’s no V because a single F is always a hard V sound. 

J is a modern addition to help us with new modern words we’ve loaned from English. Such as Joke becoming Jôc. 

G is always a hard guttural G sound. 

Despite misconceptions, Welsh is actually vowel heavy and we tend to stretch vowels. If a letter has a little roof on it, like “ô” or “ŵ” then it’s an extended/longer sound. 

This means, when speaking English, our vowels are more likely to be elongated. 

Similar to the “r” in Spanish, the Welsh “r” is rolled and therefore many will still roll their Rs when speaking English. 

For a reason I have yet to discover, despite H being perfectly clear and pronounced when speaking in Welsh, when we speak English, a lot of areas have a habit of dropping the H sound. 

“Here” becomes “Ere” or “Yere” 

I am guilty of this. Why do I do this? I genuinely can’t tell you. 

For the reasons above, the following words sound stupidly similar to each other:

Ear

Year

Here

Hear 

As with any language, understanding the basic sounds helps you understand the core of the accent. 

In terms of character dynamics, I would take note that the “CH” and “LL” sounds along with our supposed “lack of vowels” is usually what the language is mocked for. Usually by English folk but other folks, including non-Welsh speaking Welsh folks are perfectly guilty of this mocking. 

Fun fact: I didn’t realise W and Y weren’t vowels in the English language when I was a small child. So I really didn’t get why they thought there wasn’t any vowels in our place names. 

Another thing to note is that the Welsh language and accents are very up and down. It’s not usually flat or monotone. A lot of people also describe them as melodic. Sing-songy even.

Colourful alphabet video with BSL

Shorter alphabet video 

Note: I am not the collective consciousness of every Welsh person. My experience is not universal - especially when it comes to North Walian things. This is just meant to serve as a general guide. Hope this helps and good luck with your writing!

pt.4

#wHeRe ArE tHe VoWeLs? up ur bloody arse if ur not fuckin’ careful cariad #apologies for the violence <3 i possibly have some pent up rage on the topic of vowels lmao #welsh remus lupin #welsh remus #welsh language #wales #welsh #cymraeg #cymru #language #alphabet #marauders era #the marauders #wolfstar #sirius black #lily evans #james potter #hp marauders #Youtube

[katherinakaina]

Being bullied for knowing another language is a real thing. Think of all the animosity people feel towards the Bachelor for saying, what, 3-4 phrases in Latin.

Storytime.

Every Russian feminist remembers how Nixelpixel was bullied and I presume is still being bullied. It really was Russian gamer gate and Nixelpixel is Russian Anita Sarkeesian. Both were tormented for being feminists, that's the base of it. But Anita was also a target of antisemitism and anti Armenian rhetoric. Nixelpixel is a skinny white Russian, very little to add on top. So she was bullied for speaking English.

She is bilingual and as many of us bilinguals do, she mixed languages in her speech in the way that I do and feels natural to me and all my friends.

The Russian Internet was not having it, not even a little bit. Unanimous consensus was that she is doing it only to appear smarter.

For English speaking people in the first world it maybe hard to comprehend. English is just the default language. But remember how conservatives react when some nonbinary teenager makes a video about cultural appropriation or any other academic topic and suddenly they all feel like they don't know certain words?! And they have to google words to understand someone's complex speech?! This is unheard of! And what right does this "beneath me in social hierarchy" have to know something that I don't?!! Outrageous!

The core of this emotion is envy. Knowing English good enough so you become legitimately bilingual is a privilege in Russia. Knowing a lot of stuff about society and understanding complex topics is a privilege. You have time and money for education. Or you got lucky and had educated parents. Envy becomes even more venomous when the person you envy is supposed to be beneath you.

Like, I don't really get it. But that's how I make sense of other people hating me all my life for being... eloquent. As if they anticipate me being hostile because they are less eloquent than me and attack me preventively.

This is made worse by me being autistic and forgetting all the time that you must make all humble song and dance around your every achievement so not to trigger neurotypical rage. I genuinely forget which words are too smart and which are fine. The idea that I'm trying to sound smarter on purpose is so laughable to me.

Returning to the Bachelor. He's a doctor, he studied at university. Do you hate him when he uses medical jargon? What's the deal with Latin then? They study Latin in med school. It is a mandatory course. For me this trait of his always meant to signify that he took his education very seriously and knows everything that he studied very well.

When people just assume that someone, a character or a person, does anything just to look smart I'm a little triggered. I know I'm not safe in that company.

And I know that all of it is incredibly whiny. Knowledge is a privilege, as I said. Dankovsky is a privileged man. I'm not blaming those who feel uncomfortable around learned people. I'm not blaming those who are not into such characters.

But Dankovsky is not gatekeeping knowledge though! He looks like a man who would nerd out about Latin to you, if you only asked. He gives his degree away for free! It's not the same as rich people hoarding wealth. He's eager to share his knowledge! But now he is a coloniser imposing his western ideas onto indigenous society.

Oh well, damned if you do, damned if you don't.

Maybe it's not envy then? Maybe they want a smart sounding person but the one who would agree with them all the time? Like, Peterson uses a lot of long words and they love him. Hm...

#pathologic #pathologic 2 #daniil dankovsky #bilingual #the guy is being bullied for 20 years for using latin idioms three times in 12 days

[justcommander]

Well, I did get asked to write a little more about my little Father and Children AU.

Some little facts about this unusual trio? Of course, under the cut!

This is long. I'm gonna warn you, this is a whole lot of rambling.

This trio won't stay a trio for long, once Lisa and Father Garcia will reach John. Michael won't be happy to see one of the two. But will eventually accept his presence.

So, we started with Michael, a little more about him. The boy is not doing too well, but is also getting better now under John's care. His hair started to grow back but won't ever be as fluffy and soft as they were before: now they're coarse and grey. If they get grabbed and pulled, they fall right off in thick tufts. His nose is completely gone and he his right leg is permanently wounded, making John's knee look perfect in comparison. So he walks with the help of a crutch. He already got cataract, because of the infection in his eyes. Those sunglasses are a gift from the priest and he refuses to take them off even for sleeping.

Why wasn't he brought to a hospital? Well, John is terrified by those places and can't be the one to bring him there, risking to have police taking him back in for being a suspect for kidnapping and harming a kid that they've been looking for.

But why won't he go back to his parents exactly? They should be still alive. And they are. However, there is a number of motives why he won't do it. He's afraid to return to them now he loos like this, they've never been very caring towards him, and yet he also doesn't want to put them in danger now he got involved in something so much bigger than him. He thinks John is truly the only one who can fight demons and he loves him a lot. To him he's more of a father, than a Father.

How did he convince John that he does not have parents to return to? Easy: He lied about his name. He claimed to be called Michael Garcia. Unfortunately for him Father Garcia manages to contact John and this leads to a lot of misunderstandings. And confusion.

He speaks Spanish, yes. Though uses mostly English because John doesn't understand it. Only when he gets agitated or feels strong emotions of any kind, he slips. Or when Amy starts speaking Latin, he begins to speak Spanish to her. And John loses his mind when they do that.

-

Amy now!

Amy was saved by John just a little too late, but not that late. When he found her, her face had already been carved out but no offering was made. John made good use of that "one bullet" by shooting at Gary, and stopping him before he could continue with the ritual. Yes he shot Gary. Without knowing what he had just done. He took Amy away from him and wrapped up her face in bandages. He narrowly got away with his life and Amy safe in his arms.

What does this mean for her? It means she cannot be exorcised fully, even if he tries, because her body is dead. There is a portal to hell in her face, but without the sacrifice it required, nothing can truly come out. What kept Amy alive was the awareness of having John there for her, caring so much. The Second Death had never happened. The death of the soul was prevented because she never stopped fighting, when he arrived. Despite the pain and everything she lost. He was still there. The UNSPEAKABLE is inside her, but his control is weak. So weak, that she takes over without him even realizing, when he thinks to be the one in control in certain situations.

This means she can use those supernatural powers, stealing them from him. But the longer she does it, the more she risks to lose herself. Every night, she is afraid he could take over while she's asleep too , that's why she does not want to take off that straightjacket and specifically asks to be restrained. John can't bring himself to do it, he's afraid of that thing. So Michael does this instead.

-

Basically they both Love John so much. He gave them a reason to live, he put his life in danger to save them so they will fight for him even if they're frightened by the cultists and by Gary. They're just kids after all. But their Father also became their father, for both of them. They might be scared, but they won't let anyone take him away. In those moments when John's life really is at risk, that's when neither of them would hesitate and jump at those cultists's throats.

Anyway, they are very hard to handle, and they know it. When john faints on the chair after three sleepless nights, they try to put him on the couch and cover him with a blanket. They try to cook, they try to tidy the place. A little apology, for realizing they've exhausted him to this point.

And I wrote way too much. I warned you. This was a ramble. Ops? Maybe I'll write more in the future, when I'll learn to write more by writing less. Gosh, I talk too much.

#the commander talks #the commander talks too much #so sorry #faith the unholy trinity #father and children au #tw: straightjacket #tw: body horror #no actual visual of that #it's only mentioned but you know how it is.

[bread--quest]

14 secret love languages the government doesn't want you to know about

i. do you ever think about the voyager records? these little things, floating through space, our message in a bottle from our island in the void? there's no guarantee that anyone will ever hear it, or that they'll even understand if they do, but have i ever told you what we said?

ii. Greetings to you, whoever you are. We are thinking about you all. How are all you people of other planets? Have you eaten yet? Welcome home.

iii. i brought you food. i would like you to eat. i made you food. i want you to live. i am sharing this food with you. i am sharing my life with you.

iv. the word for care in latin is the same as that for worry, anxiety. it is both an adjective and a noun.

v. i love you in checkboxes and data and organizations. i am compiling, i am sorting, i am putting my love into boxes and shapes and panels that make sense. this is what i understand, this is what i can do: i am building a shrine of spreadsheets and slides to you.

vi. maybe if we were somewhat less alike, this could work. maybe if i loved myself more, i would hate you less.

vii. VIOLENCE! VIOLENCE! BITING YOU AND KICKING YOU AND DRAGGING YOU DOWN! GET ON MY LEVEL, MOTHERFUCKER! GET DOWN HERE SO I CAN MAKE YOU FEEL WHAT I FEEL! I WILL DRAG YOU TO HELL SO I WILL NOT BE ALONE! RECIPROCATE ME IN PAIN! I WANT TO SEE YOUR BLOOD!

viii. it is one thing to talk with someone, quite another to be comfortable enough to sit in silence with them. just to exist in the same place and feel no pressure to speak, to know that your mutual presence is enough

ix. when i say you are mine i mean my hometown, less possession more belonging

x. the worst part about being awake is when nobody else is, when it's just you and the darkness and you feel like the only person on earth. the best thing about cities is the glowing squares outside your window, a thousand others unsleeping, their lights spelling out in morse code you are not alone

xi. i love you in the way the moon loves the earth: forever stuck in your orbit, knowing that touching you would mean obliteration

xii. i love you in the way the sun loves the earth: as easily as breathing, and with as little thought

xiii. i love you in the way the earth loves the stars: calling out endlessly to pinpricks of hope. please tell me aliens are real, and they can understand, and they love us too.

xiv. Please come here to visit when you have time. We wish that we will meet you someday. Please contact. We are thinking about you always. Please.

Contact.

#sonder scribbles #poems #i . keep forgetting my poems tag #and i dont think i have a 'my poems' tag #anyway. as you can probably tell this was supposed to be a valentines day poem #but it took me a little while to get it to a good enough state that i wanted to post it #hope you enjoy!!! #wow look something original!!

[southernmermaidsgrotto]

Who is the bruja?

About Brujería and Curanderismo in Latin America, and witchcraft from a latine perspective.

You’ll most likely see the term Bruja used in anglophone communities to refer to latine magic practitioners. By that definition, any latin american person who does some kind of magic is, in a way, a bruja/brujo/bruje. This use of the word comes from a place of reclamation of said latine heritage and of our cultural folk magic practices, particularly for hispanic latines. Similarly, you’ll see portuguese-speaking latines using the word bruxa, or bruxaria. 

I can hear you already: But I am a spanish-speaking european! I am also a bruja!... given the context, you’re a witch, not a bruja. Brujería in the broader sense of the word, as is used in any conversation in spanish, can be translated to witchcraft. “Brujería” in the specific “latine magic practitioner” sense doesn’t have an english translation, and thus we keep the word in spanish, to signify that cultural tie to hispanic latin america. So no, in the context of an anglophone discussion of brujería, you’re not a bruja, in the same way that, while speaking a languange derived from latin, europeans are not latino/latine because they’re not from latin america. 

That is, considering the modern use of the word, specially in online spaces. But if you speak to your Elders, you’ll hear something a little different...

People like to ask themselves “am I a born witch?”, and well, traditionally, a bruja is made, not born, and it specifically implies baneful work. 

Old school folks will tell you that not just anyone who practices magic is a bruja, in fact, calling a Faith Healer a “Bruja”, could be taken as a major offense. 

Many elders will make a distinction between dual roles of what we’ll call the Healer, and the Witch, for convenience’s sakes, since the words for naming either vary in each languange and culture. One of the better known examples I can give you is how in spanish, and across latin america, you’ll hear the duality between the Curandera and the Bruja. 

The Curandera Heals, the Bruja Bewitches.

While the Healer is born, with a set of gifts or dones that are necessary to fulfill a role assigned at birth (or even before so), to serve their community. A Witch is made, by their own choice, in a personal quest for power and knowledge, and thus doesn’t act in favor of their community necessarily, instead, acts seeking their own benefit first, sometimes... in detriment of the community.

There’s nothing wrong with keeping our best interests in mind! In fact, a true Healer is taught to balance left hand and right hand work, one who cannot harm cannot heal, and I always say we must understand the wound and how it was made before we can understand it’s cures, but precisely because of that, the figure of the Witch stands out more. A Healer can do both, heal and harm. While the Witch... not necessarily. A Witch is, oftentimes, only capable to manipulate circumstances (and people) but not heal, and even when good intentioned, it can bring negative repercussions. That is why it has such a negative connotation traditionally, and why most of the older folks, or anyone trained by them, will likely avoid the term.

Note how I’ve been saying Healer or Gifted person instead of Curandera. Because having a don does not by itself make someone a curandera. Since I’ve seen more and more people using the term online, here’s a reminder that being a curandera is not a choice and does not refer to just anyone who practices herbal healing or any other healing modalities, it is a responsibility to the community you’re in. Nobody is born a priest or babalawo, and similarly nobody is born a curandera, while they could be gifted from birth, each curanderismo lineage will have their own initiations and traditions to train that person and turn them into a true curandero, and only then, the community will give the title to them, after working for years and earning their respect and love. The term curandera is only appropriate for someone who not only has a higher calling (vetted & confirmed by elders), but specifically someone who’s been properly trained and is already in service of their community.

With that in mind, bruja is definitely the right term for someone who’s just learning and is only doing magic for themselves or close friends and family.

But then... there’s some issue specifically with indigenous and afrolatine practices and descendants. During colonization, the church demonized our beliefs, called our Ancestral practices, Gods and Spirits “satan worship” and thus, our healers were called “brujas”. Hunted and killed specifically because indigenous culture & healing, aswell as african traditional practices, were targeted. That is, we were called “brujas” as part of a cultural genocide. Elders will often stay away from the term bruja not just because it doesn’t reflect their practice, but also because staying away from the words bruja and brujería was, and in some places stil is, simply a survival instinct. Choosing other words to identify, or even not speaking about it at all, along with the syncretism with christianity, were ways to survive that genocide, and pass on as much as possible in whispers and under catholic veils.

It is up to each practitioner to talk to their elders, learn their people’s history, and decide for themselves if they wish to reclaim the word, or if they’ll rather use more culturally-specific terms, or maybe both. I’ve known plenty of healers of many paths who’ll refer to themselves as brujas to outsiders, and will use more specific terms amongst kin (myself included).

While I respect (and support) the reappropriation of the terms bruja and brujería to refer to latine magic, I also believe it is important to know our history with these terms, and out of respect for our ancestors and the old traditions, also learn the proper names of things. Bruja may be a good way to identify for someone who’s just starting out in magic out of their own choice, who’s seeking community and doesn’t quite know their place in the bigger scheme of things, but also someone who, guided by proper elders and community, must dig deeper, and find their home. There’s specific names, even just in spanish, for different kinds of healers and workers. Are you an oracionista? huesera? yerbera? have you been trained in these practices? Only a skilled elder can identify if you possess any gifts, and teach you how to hone your own skills. And If you’re indigenous, you must take the time to reconnect to your indigenous community, to your own medicine, and learn the proper terms in your indigenous tongue.

My final thoughts: reclaiming brujería is important, but so is learning and respecting our culture & history. We have incredibly rich cultures, and reducing ourselves to just “brujas” is certainly an oversimplification, if not even an attempt from outsiders and appropriators to overgeneralize and commodify our cultural practices that we must fight against. We can appreciate brujería as an umbrella term for everything that unites us, and as a term to make understanding and communication between ourselves easier, while also acknowledging the history of the word, the huge diversity it covers nowadays and giving due respect to each of our corresponding cultures.

Thanks for reading!

#brujería #bruja #brujas of tumblr #witches of color #brujeria #santeria #santería #curanderismo #curandera #traditional witch #traditional witchcraft #folk magic #folk witch #folk witchcraft