Frogs fall out of my mouth when I talk. Toads, too.
It used to be a problem.
There was an incident when I was young and cross and fed up parental expectations. My sister, who is the Good One, has gold fall from her lips, and since I could not be her, I had to go a different way.
So I got frogs. It happens.
“You’ll grow into it,” the fairy godmother said. “Some curses have cloth-of-gold linings.” She considered this, and her finger drifted to her lower lip, the way it did when she was forgetting things. “Mind you, some curses just grind you down and leave you broken. Some blessings do that too, though. Hmm. What was I saying?”
I spent a lot of time not talking. I got a slate and wrote things down. It was hard at first, but I hated to drop the frogs in the middle of the road. They got hit by cars, or dried out, miles away from their damp little homes.
Toads were easier. Toads are tough. After awhile, I learned to feel when a word was a toad and not a frog. I could roll the word around on my tongue and get the flavor before I spoke it. Toad words were drier. Desiccated is a toad word. So is crisp and crisis and obligation. So are elegant and matchstick.
Frog words were a bit more varied. Murky. Purple. Swinging. Jazz.
I practiced in the field behind the house, speaking words over and over, sending small creatures hopping into the evening. I learned to speak some words as either toads or frogs. It’s all in the delivery.
Love is a frog word, if spoken earnestly, and a toad word if spoken sarcastically. Frogs are not good at sarcasm.
Toads are masters of it.
I learned one day that the amphibians are going extinct all over the world, that some of them are vanishing. You go to ponds that should be full of frogs and find them silent. There are a hundred things responsible—fungus and pesticides and acid rain.
When I heard this, I cried “What!?” so loudly that an adult African bullfrog fell from my lips and I had to catch it. It weighed as much as a small cat. I took it to the pet store and spun them a lie in writing about my cousin going off to college and leaving the frog behind.
I brooded about frogs for weeks after that, and then eventually, I decided to do something about it.
I cannot fix the things that kill them. It would take an army of fairy godmothers, and mine retired long ago. Now she goes on long cruises and spreads her wings out across the deck chairs.
But I can make more.
I had to get a field guide at first. It was a long process. Say a word and catch it, check the field marks. Most words turn to bronze frogs if I am not paying attention.
Poison arrow frogs make my lips go numb. I can only do a few of those a day. I go through a lot of chapstick.
It is a holding action I am fighting, nothing more. I go to vernal pools and whisper sonnets that turn into wood frogs. I say the words squeak and squill and spring peepers skitter away into the trees. They begin singing almost the moment they emerge.
I read long legal documents to a growing audience of Fowler’s toads, who blink their goggling eyes up at me. (I wish I could do salamanders. I would read Clive Barker novels aloud and seed the streams with efts and hellbenders. I would fly to Mexico and read love poems in another language to restore the axolotl. Alas, it’s frogs and toads and nothing more. We make do.)
The woods behind my house are full of singing. The neighbors either learn to love it or move away.
My sister—the one who speaks gold and diamonds—funds my travels. She speaks less than I do, but for me and my amphibian friends, she will vomit rubies and sapphires. I am grateful.
I am practicing reading modernist revolutionary poetry aloud. My accent is atrocious. Still, a day will come when the Panamanian golden frog will tumble from my lips, and I will catch it and hold it, and whatever word I spoke, I’ll say again and again, until I stand at the center of a sea of yellow skins, and make from my curse at last a cloth of gold.
Terri Windling posted recently about the old fairy tale of frogs falling from a girl’s lips, and I started thinking about what I’d do if that happened to me, and…well…
if there is one piece of relationship advice i could give to straight women, it’s this:
you’re not his mother. you don’t have to take his tantrums and walk him through basic shit. i know women are taught that they have to be nurturing and all that but it’s absolutely not your responsibility to “teach him to be a better person”.
like the stress, the pressure and everything ya know. everyone keeps saying like ‘school makes me cry’ and stuff but has it really made you cry bc i cried a lot of times tbh
This loosely translates as “there is no fundamental problem with this and I have no issue with the people who enjoy it but it makes me personally deeply uncomfortable”
They’re not going to rat you out. They’re going to adjust your anesthesia dosage so you don’t WAKE UP IN THE MIDDLE OF SURGERY.
Some anesthesiologists will refuse to put you under if you’ve smoked cannabis within the past 24 hours – and let’s be clear, this is NOT because they’re morally against it – it’s because THC and anesthetic react in unpredictable ways and waking up in the middle of surgery is slightly less of a concern than SLIPPING INTO A COMA OR DYING.
So there’s that.
Yes, this too. Should have included this. It just wasn’t on my mind when I made the original post because my mind was full of NOPE NOPE NOPE after, you guessed it, one of my patients woke up in the middle of her surgery because she didn’t tell her anesthesia team she used marijuana.
(unfollowed for reylo, which is triggering to me as an abuse survivor)
I…did not intend to reblog anything as Reylo as I firmly do not ship it myself, partly because it is dubious with some heavy abuse overtones (not my jam) and partly because there’s like a 90% chance they’re first degree relatives (REALLY not my jam). My interest in the two of them is more because he seems determined to batter himself to pieces on Rey, which is a dynamic I recognize as being very unhealthy and also find very interesting as a writer. I am sincerely sorry that you found it upsetting (fairly sure I know the post you mean), but not that I find the dynamic interesting.
I am glad you are taking care of yourself, though, and hope that your recovery is going well. You probably won’t see this, but in the event that you do, I want you to know that I am proud of you for surviving and withstanding. I know how hard it can be, some days, to hear the whispers of those who hurt you in the voices of those who haven’t, or see their shadows cast over the things and people you love. You have survived and that makes you strong even on the days when you don’t believe it.
every time i reread ootp i reach a new level of hatred for umbridge like i always think i’ve reached my maximum hatred for her but then i flip the page and its like NOPE THE LEVELS ARE FUCKING RISING AGAIN
So how do you think Rey accepting Kylo's offer to teach her would go down? It seems less like she would accept immediately and more like she would slowly, year by year, conflict by conflict, edge a little closer to saying yes. Well, provided the thought festered in her mind enough.
I could teach you the ways of the Force—
i. The fifth time, he is on his hands and knees in the mud of Daluuj, rain sluicing over the both of them, turning her into a shaking, drowned thing, hair plastered to the fine line of her skull. He can only imagine what he looks like—panting like a winded bantha and gritting his teeth around the pain, down on his belly in the filth.
There are two lightsabers in her hand (both of them his, one by blood, the other the work of his hands.) He hopes, with a bright bitterness, the cracked crystal chooses that moment to fly apart, and swallow her in light.
It does not. Instead, she steps forward, rests a hand on the wet tangle of his hair, very gently, like he is a wild animal to be quieted. (He wants to twist, bite out the soft skin of her wrist, bury his teeth in the tangled thread of veins and nerves and pull, tear. He wants to eat her whole.)
She says, stop asking me that.
ii. He is always asking from his knees, flat to the earth, down on the ground in the mud and snow and grass (once, still spitting out pond scum, green at the corners of his mouth.) She stands above him ever, a tower, a pillar, a thing unmoved. He could batter himself to death against her, and the rain would wash away the blood and she wouldn’t care. She wouldn’t care.
He thinks about tearing down those ramparts, finding the fear he knew still lingered in her, curled up like a sleeping animal. (It was all he had recognized in her mind; everything else was so bright.)
He never tries to coax her out, to persuade her to open the gates and allow him inside. He’s only ever been the tower, or the lightning that fell on it; anything else would be futility. No one welcomes the lightning in because it spoke a few honeyed words.
Also, it never occurs to him to try.
iii. The twelfth time, it’s Glottal and he is on his back, thinking that he should not have worn his cloak—the humidity is thick enough to choke on, and this fight was particularly vicious. She had wanted to end it quickly, and he had not wanted to let her. He tastes salt and blood, when he licks at his lips.
She crouches down beside him, cocks her head. what would you teach me? she asks.
It’s the first time he’s ever seen her eyes without the refracted red and blue of their lightsabers to fill them. They are dark, which he had not expected. The ways of the Force.
She glances down at his body, which struggles under the great invisible weight that will not let him rise, nor reach for his lightsaber. I already know the ways of the Force. What else?
He bares his teeth. Is this how you used to bargain for scraps on Jakku, scavenger?
Yes. What else?
The lightsaber forms. The ancient ones, developed by Jedi and Sith, not some half-trained moisture farmer.
Again, she glances away, this time at his abandoned lightsaber. I think I can manage. What else?
I’ll give you the coordinates for the Stormtrooper training and conditioning facilities, he says after a moment, because he remembers the way she wept over FN-2187 on Starkiller. The Resistance would never pass up a chance to save innocent children from the clutches of the First Order, he knows. He has to believe—
She is perfectly still, resting on her haunches, studying him with those dark eyes. Two locations now, she says finally, as proof of good faith. Next time we can discuss terms. I was a good scavenger, she says, and there’s something almost like a smile, tugging at the corner of her mouth. I was never swindled or cheated, and I don’t intend to start with you.
You never answered my question, you know, she says as they ready themselves to return to their separate ships, carefully standing two lightsabers’ lengths apart. What could I learn from you, Kylo Ren?
The back of his throat is thick with blood and bile, and he has no answer.
iv. Two major Stormtrooper training and conditioning centers burn. The next time they meet, she is a tower, a pillar—but tired-eyed too, and he imagines he can still smell the acrid smoke in her hair, see the bruises from where a hundred small hands reached up to hers, begging sanctuary, sanctuary.
you need a teacher, he says. The hilt of his lightsaber remains in his hand, unignited.
what for? she laughs hollowly. (She does not even reach for hers.)
For a long moment, they stare at one another, and there is only rushing wind. Finally, he says, you do not have to be this.
(he means: tired and bruised, he means, a tower, he means, a thing unmoved, standing over him always. he means: he does not know what he means. he has never tried to articulate it before, not-having-to-be.)
She recoils as though he has struck her—but he has struck her before, and this is worse, the way her eyes open into wounds he did not mean to inflict. And I suppose you are the one to teach me that lesson? she asks, her voice cold as the Outer Rim. Tell me, Ben—did you have to be this?.
(He eventually gives her coordinates for the other three conditioning facilities, the heat from her lightsaber pushing at the softness of his throat. She generously breaks his nose with her boot, before going.)
v. The twenty-third time, he is lying on the floor of Snoke’s chamber, and most of the blood is not his. (Snoke had bled and bled and bled, and he had kept hacking, screaming through mouthfuls of foul ichor, pushing all his pain and fury and didihavetobethisdidyouhavetomakemethis into every blow, even when Snoke’s lightsaber buried itself in his belly, when the Force reached into him and snapped and crushed, and kept breaking—)
hey, he says, though it comes out slurred, half-choking. He can’t seem to draw breath. scavenger, hey. scavenger—I know what I can teach you now.
He is dimly aware of her hands, thin pressure on his skin as though to hold in blood no longer there. Somewhere above him, Leia Organa is screaming for a medic, and he feels a dull pang of regret for that, if nothing else. (something of the boy who once was, cannot bear to see mother cry.) The rest is right though, is fitting (he is always on his knees, on his back, down in the filth and looking up at the ramparts) and
scavenger, he says. She is looking down at him with wide, dark eyes. There is blood on her cheek; he imagines it is his. scavenger, I can teach you this—I can show you how to die. watch carefully, I’ll only demonstrate it once.
don’t—she says in an uncertain voice.
no, you need a teacher, I’ve been saying so since the beginning. watch. watch. are you watching? say ‘yes m—’
In Captain America: Civil War I don’t want Bucky to be some lost little puppy. I want him to be all, “May God have mercy upon my enemies, because I won’t.” I want him kicking ass and taking no prisoners. When Bucky has figured himself out, everyone who ever wronged him or Steve better watch their backs because there is going to be a motherfucking reckoning.
leverage season 1: let’s help a hardworking, honest young patriotic veteran w/ a disability who just wants to get back to the workforce
leverage season 3: let’s steal a federal witness and set him up for murder, fuck the courts. let’s steal the department of defense it’s not treason as long as we give it back probably.
leverage finale: lets fucking find out every company who got a government bailout they didn’t earn after the crash and DESTROY THEM. destroy the us banking system destroy the companies let’s take on interpol to do it goddammit
leverage if they’d gotten another season, presumably: lets travel back in time and kidnap george washington and then steal the declaration of independence and erase all eagles from existence by stealing the first ever eagle
leverage the movie: Donald Trump is president. Let’s go steal America.
Hurt/Comfort is such an interesting thing. It’s basically an entire genre of fanfiction. I’d argue it satisfies a very basic, vital need–the same way that horror satisfies the basic need to be scared in a safe, controllable space.
And yet it doesn’t really have an equivalent outside of fan culture. "Tearjerkers” can sometimes come close, they’re probably the closest thing to a mainstream hurt/comfort genre that there is. But those types of books and movies don’t usually focus on the “comfort” aspect in the same way, and don’t make use of tension and release.
I think every good hurt/comfort fic makes use of tension and release just as horror does,
whether the writer is consciously aware of it or not. Though of course the tension and release in h/c comes from different sources than in horror. Instead of anticipating something frightening, you anticipate the intimacy and/or validation that comes from the “comfort” part you know is eventually coming. That’s what provides release of the tension built up during the “hurt” scenes.
I could write a goddamned essay about this it’s so fascinating.
Relationships are scary and complicated ONLY when you start thinking of your partner as some kind of adversary.
You know how to stop being scared of relationships? Remember that it’s got a goddamn buddy system *built in*. That’s all a relationship IS: “Let’s approach life with the buddy system.”
Check on your buddy. Make sure your buddy doesn’t forget their lunch box on the schoolbus. Hold hands with your buddy so you don’t get lost. If your buddy wants to look at the monkey cage, look at the goddamn monkey cage with them. If you are the one looking at the monkey cage, ask your buddy what they want to do next, and when they want to feed the giraffe, help them find a quarter for the little food dispenser. Be a good buddy, and if your buddy isn’t a good one too, tell the teacher and ask for a new one.
This isn’t fucking rocket science, people.
I have reblogged this before. I will reblog it again. And it’s not just romantic relationships: it’s family members and friends as well.
This kind of woke my ass up because of the amount of times I’ve had a buddy who didn’t check on me, didn’t want me to check on them, but didn’t want me to leave.
Years ago in my high school AP economics class I was assigned to sit in the corner of the room where I was flanked by a handful of very popular, very lazy kids. After every exam the teacher would announce (much to my chagrin) my “high score” to the class.
After a particularly challenging exam where I only scored 93%, the teacher announced that the guy to my right (let’s call him Matt) had ALSO scored 93%, his friend behind him 90%, and the friend behind HIM 90%! Needless to say I vacillated between self-doubt and suspicion for a few days before I finally “congratulated” one of the 90%‘ers on his score. With an impish grin he admitted that his friend Matt had been cheating off me for months and “thanked” me for helping “so many people do so well” in the class. The petty revenge gears started turning in my head for what seemed like ages before I replied “no problem, I’m just glad to help!”
At the next exam I put my my paper in very clear view of Matt. He had been told that I was now willing to “help” him and his friends. I circled all wrong answers while making a special mark for the correct ones. Just before the time was up, I quickly changed my answers back when nobody was looking, turned in my exam, and smugly walked back to my seat.
What I didn’t know at the time was that the cheating conspiracy didn’t just involve the kids sitting next to me, but that my answers were written down and forwarded to the next 4 periods, all of which took an identical test.
One week later a record 22 people failed the exam. Matt empathetically remarked “Oh man, did you fail too!?” I flipped over my sheet: 100%.
Okay but seriously the MCU missed its chance to establish tony and steve as friends, and in the trailer when Steve says “but he’s my friend” and tony says “so was i” there is absolutely no actual emotional impact to it. But imagine natasha saying that, imagine steve saying “i’m sorry nat; you know i wouldn’t do this if i had any other choice, but bucky’s my friend” and natasha saying “so was i” like just imagine Natasha playing the lead in civil war instead of iron man, imagine marvel getting over its sexism long enough to recognize that absolutely no one cares that steve and tony are fighting but everyone cares steve and nat are just imagine
I genuinely feel like more people are angry about Nat and Steve possibly being on opposite sides than Tony & Steve. After the last two Avengers movies, people EXPECT IT, even though Tony’s approach doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense when you look at his behaviour in the last 5 movies. No one is like, THIS IS A HUGE BETRAYAL. Everyone is like, LOL THIS AGAIN!!??
Meanwhile, I feel like Natasha’s approach to superhero registration and restraint would be SO COMPLEX. Natasha understanding the inherent danger of people who have near unlimited power and little control, but also understanding the inherent danger of the mechanism of the state, of the kind of corruption that comes with political and bureaucratic power. And having been a VICTIM OF IT.
And after CA:TWS, knowing the goodness inside of Steve, of the debt she feels to him. Of wanting to be on his side because of both friendship and, I believe, genuine affection for a man she deeply respects, especially when it comes to his loyalty. But also being a logical creature who is trying to make sure the kind of carnage she has both seen and committed herself is put to a stop.
NOW THAT WOULD BE A FUCKING HEARTBREAKING SCHISM. Add in Clint, and WOW SHOULD NATASHA EVER HAVE BEEN THE OTHER LEAD IN THIS.
Every single goddamn time I think I’ve at least gotten on with my life despite my continuing rage about how Natasha “Too Good For This Shit” Romanoff has been treated by the movies, y’all assholes bring up something like this and I am sO ANGRY ALL OVER AGAIN.
I appreciate that Americans who are anti-Trump threaten to leave the country and set their eyes north to Canada, like the world is their oyster and they can move wherever they want. But when another group of people are actually escaping real turmoil and want to move to the U.S. then it becomes a sensitive issue. Such entitlement even in jest.
this cuts deep
I am willing to bet the overlap between those wanting to leave the US if Trump becomes president and those who want to keep refuges out of the US is rather small.
^^^^ uh yes, that^^^^ like idk if you realize this but the people not letting other people into our country ARE the Trump supporters and the people who are desperately afraid and/or wanting to leave are the anti-trump people, often Democrats who WANT to take in refugees and immigrants in need. Also, people escaping “real turmoil” sure is a bit of a backhand to the immigrants and immigrants-children in this country facing the very REAL threat of an insane hitler-esque racist running this country who is already threatening to have us all deported immediately.
<p>tl;dr: wow stay in your lane there buddy
YES FUCKING THANK YOU That attitude annoys the shit out of me.
The ‘world is your oyster’ point is a somewhat fair criticism and ties into other issues like the persistent idea that americans are cultured only if they travel the world which is hella privileged in so many ways but to use it for this is glossing over other aspects of the whole ‘I’m moving to Canada’ thing.
In addition to the fact that the people in the US who are scared of what could happen and those who would refuse to take in refugees are pretty disparate groups of people, most people aren’t going to move. The number of people who could realistically move is spectacularly small
compared to the number of people who may talk about it or would
want/need to get the fuck away from this goddamned mess. NOT because they’re not ~serious~ like it’s a fucking joke but because they don’t have the resources it takes to move fucking anywhere much less internationally, no matter how unsafe or terrible conditions become. That shit is expensive, takes a lot of time and energy, requires specialized skills or exceptional work to land a visa, etc.
Also people need to realize that talking about moving to Canada or wherever if shit hits the fan is often a form of escapism for a lot of people as a way to temper their growing anxiety and panic because the thought of living for 4 years with these people in charge and the amount of damage and harm it’s going to do is overwhelming and they’re just trying to get through the fucking day.
Yes, I prefer Bernie Sanders. But if Hillary Clinton’s the nominee, I’m voting for her. I will be damned if I live in a country with a President Cruz or President Trump.
Important to remember. We must vote. If you choose not to vote because you prefer Bernie over Hilary or vice versa, then it essentially becomes a vote for the Republican party. Please vote.
I get so irrationally angry that the first suggestions on Google images for baby crows r just black baby chickens
I’ve lost track of the number of times that this picture of a baby rail has been mislabeled as a “baby crow”:
This is a baby crow:
And here’s a much younger baby crow:
At no point do crows have to suffer the indignity of being overly fluffy fuzzballs on stilts. Instead they start out as rather prehistoric-looking beasties to gawky teenagers who find solace in their baby bat goth status, until they eventually mature into this fine bird:
This concludes our brief lesson in corvid physical development.
Your gender identity is yours. You get to decide how to describe and understand yourself. Your gender expression is yours. You get to decide how to present yourself.
honestly if you dont think like, the tumblr feminist scene, with all the occasionalyl cheesy kawaii-aesthetic misandry art, hasn’t had an impact on anyone at all like
you dont remember what the average teen girl in a fandom was like before this. you don’t remember how we used to make hate-sites about female characters who “got in the way”, games where you could beat them up, how much we hate our gender and bragged about not being like other girls, used to completely reject everything girly. a lot of us just wanted to be one of the guys. there was a lot of internalised misogyny there
now you get these 15 year old girls loving other girls and loving themselves fiercely, even at the total cost of male approval and just. god. if like 14-year-old me could see this shit now.
and like if you dont think teen girls learning to love themselves and their body and each other isnt important than i do not know what to say to you
Salvete, Gaius Iuli'us Caesar sum et pilorum album quam nivem habeo et aureos, sed interdum virides lauros et imperium Romanum construxi et eius eram quasi primus Caesar (sic merui nomen meum) et multi indicant mihi me Marcus Crassus similem esse (si non scitis Marcus Crassus, vobis opus est pecunia). Brutus non est filius meus quod est bonum nam ET TU, MI FILI???!?. Iamia sum sed dentes albos et rectos habeo. Pallidam cutem habeo. Etiam, maga sum magicum ludum, nomine Pigverruca, visitans quod desinam (ego sum MMCXIV), veni, vidi, vici. Classicus sum (si vos id non suspexistis) et multas togas emptas in Basilica Iulia habeo. Ratio amo et bellum Gallicum gero. Veluti, hodie omnia Gallia occupata. Omnia Gallia? Certe! Non est vicus parvus inter Aquarium, Babaorum, Laudanum et Brevisbonum. Ambulabam foris Pigverruca. Ninxit et pluvit et Gallia divisa erat in partes tres, quod me fecit felix. Marcus Porcius Cato me observavit. Digitum medium illo monstravi.
Okay but consider this- Elizabeth Swann. She’s a pirate nerd from the beginning. She’s fascinated. And by the time the Black Pearl blasts Port Royal she knows enough to defend herself- first with the iron, then with the Code. That nerd studied pirate law enough to quote it.
And not just pirates. Presumably she’s been on a ship once- when she comes over from England. But nope no piracy wasn’t enough for this kid no she did some intense studying of sailing too because why not. So when they’re being chased down who’s coming up with all these nautical maneuvers? Elizabeth fucking Swann, sea nerd extraordinaire.
Fast forward and she’s not just a nerd anymore. And she isn’t a pirate, either. She’s the Pirate King, doing battle with Davy Jones and the entire British navy, with every Pirate Lord and their crews behind her. No more improvised weapons, no more parlay- she commands every black heart that ever set sail. And then her bae becomes ferryman for every soul lost at sea.
So then what? Everyone just goes back to what they were doing? And Elizabeth just goes home to make a quiet life for herself as a single mum? From studious sea nerd to Pirate King and now suddenly she’s happier at home, waiting for Will?
Give me an epilogue where Elizabeth has her father’s estate and enough gold to keep her comfortable for a lifetime, but instead travels the world, her son at her side. Adventuring and exploring, in and out of the law. Tell me she calls up Calypso for tea from time to time and they talk about uncharted lands and the price of sugar. Tell me in some ports she’s recognized as the daughter of Governor Swann and wined and dined. Tell me in some ports she’s recognized as the Pirate King and gets barrels rum on the house.
Tell me even honest sailors whisper stories of the mysterious and elusive Pirate King, who rarely strikes at all but then vanishes for years at a time.
Tell me Elizabeth spends time aboard the Flying Dutchman, so she can be with her husband, and her son can be with his father and grandfather. Imagine young William learns to sail on his father’s journeys to and from the land of the dead. And when he finally captains his own ship, he’s learned to be both a respectable gentleman and a good pirate.
Imagine Elizabeth spending her life on the sea, sometimes with Will and sometimes not, with a wind from Calypso always in her sails, adventuring enough for lifetimes as a part-time well bred lady, part-time Pirate King.
“I never thought about my future until now. I guess I never had very good timing.”
Okay Raleigh fucking Beckett. First off FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU for saying the most ROMANTIC thing I’ve EVER heard to the person you respect and admire SO MUCH I just sgslshksjsk. And in an ACTION MOVIE of all things. You hold this character on a pedestal for reasons that are 100% valid: she is your equal in combat and emotional connection. She is able to handle not only your mind, but the mind of your brother. She know your every thought. She knows your heart. And then you have the GALL to say (approximately) THOSE WORDS TO HER BEFORE ATTEMPTING TO CANCELLING THE APOCOLYPSE I JUST.
You are too much. Too damn much.
You know how in Agent Carter we saw the Red Room girls learning about American culture by watching and reciting along with Snow White?
Please consider: the Red Room, fifty or sixty years later, Natasha one of many girls obediently imitating It’s Patsy!
Idealized American Dream (and, let’s note, pointedly ginger-haired) Patsy on the screen, while tiny murderprincess Natasha Romanoff silently mouths the words, thinking I have to be able to become this while fervently desiring not to, while on the other side of the camera Trish Walker is doing almost the exact same thing.
aww man i’m having super cute domestic life hades/persephone and cerberus feels now tho
like hades, lord of the underworld, gets this three-headed terror dog and names him “spot”
hades spends forever personally training cerberus, which mostly involves (unsuccessfully) teaching cerberus not to chase shades around and eat the innocent deads’ bones
half of hades’ stuff is just constantly covered in dog spit because 3 times the heads means 3 times the slobber, and at this point he’s stopped caring (or really noticing) and has on more than one occasion handed somebody something completely soaked in cerberus drool
hades is super nervous about introducing persephone to cerberus for the first time because, as mentioned above, he’s a three-headed terror dog, but at this point persephone isn’t phased by anything and she just immediately goes to rub cerberus’s belly and hades wants to cry a little
cerberus goes absolutely bonkers when persephone comes back down to the underworld for the winter, because dogs are dogs and he really did think that she was never going to come back ever again and he missed her so, so much
on a related note, hades especially hates the first few days after persephone leaves, because cerberus barks and whines nonstop for her
cerberus, like the good dog he is, always fetches the mail for hades. by which i mean that, if hermes ever comes to give hades a message, cerberus tears through the underworld after him and eventually spits him out right at hades’s feet
