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munson-blurbs · 3 months

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Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: Being a perpetual people-pleaser meant that you were constantly putting others before yourself--particularly your parents and the eccentric guests who stayed at their motel. But when a surly and mysterious musician checked in indefinitely, he flipped your whole world on its head. (3.1k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, drug use, parental conflict, poverty, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ A/N: Thank you to my numerous beta readers, including but not limited to @the-unforgivenn, @lofaewrites, @lokis-army-77, and @corroded-hellfire, and to @hellfire--cult for the divider. I am forever indebted to y'all.

chapter one: room for one more

It was always the quiet nights, wasn't it? The ones where the only sounds came from cars barreling down Queens Boulevard and splashing through puddles left by an earlier rainstorm, or from the clock ticking on the wall.

The ones where your mind wandered until you’d thought yourself in circles, overanalyzing every last decision you had ever made.

The ones where you allowed your guard just down enough that the slightest oddity threw you off-balance—something or someone out of place.

It was during the quiet nights like that night where you should have expected the unexpected, because New York City never stayed still for long.

The evening’s sluggishness was normal; tourism always slowed in the springtime. The newest shows on Broadway were already months old, not to mention the warmer weather brought both an uptick in crime and pollen count. If out-of-towners were going to schlep to the East Coast, they’d prefer to see the cherry blossoms hours south in Washington, DC than to get mugged on the 1 train.

Business picked up in the winter months when people flocked from around the world to witness the Thanksgiving Day Parade, the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, or Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve, even though they were several bus and subway transfers away. Outsiders to the tri-state area struggled to differentiate between boroughs; it was unfortunate for them, but you counted on it to keep business alive.

The only guests who consistently frequented your family’s motel were junkies looking for a place to shoot up away from the NYPD’s watchful gaze or affair-havers who were considerate enough not to sully their marriage beds—just their vows. You were in no position to judge; their money was what kept the lights on, but it was impossible not to compare your clientele to the suits who stayed at the Marriott down the street. They wouldn‘t even allow homeless folks to sit within twenty-five feet of the building, let alone stay under their roof.

You leaned on the desk, wood grain pinching your elbows. You tapped your pencil against your textbook as you read, its margins cluttered with notes about different types of parent-child attachment styles.

Sleep prickled at the corners of your eyes, blurring the words on the page in front of you. Focus.

Secure attachment occurs when—no, you’d already read this line. Twice.

“Dammit,” you muttered under your breath, gently slapping your cheeks in a futile attempt to stay awake. Taking a full course load instead of your usual part-time was your academic advisor’s ill-conceived idea, bolstered by the prospect of an earlier graduation. In your haste, you’d neglected to consider two important factors: all of your studying now had to be done during your night shifts, and graduating meant telling your parents a truth they were unready to hear.

They were so proud of the motel, regardless of its reputation. It might as well have been The Plaza from the way your dad boasted about it. The three of you shared an unspoken understanding that you worked the front desk because paying an actual employee would put them under. Maybe if finances weren’t so tight, you could have freely admitted that your future plans didn’t involve taking over the business.

Your eyelids fluttered shut as your head rested on your book, a small puddle of drool pooling atop Bowlby’s theories.

Ping ping ping ping!

Time slowly stretched out before you, your conscious brain clawing its way out of its hazy fog. It took a beat for you to recognize that the incessant noise came from someone repeatedly smacking the tiny bell that sat on the desk.

“Hey, hello?” an impatient voice called out, jolting you from your impromptu nap. You blinked away the residual sleepiness and took in the sight in front of you: a curly-haired man, likely not much older than you were, a cigarette that had been nearly smoked down to the filter tucked between his lips. He had a patched guitar case strapped to his back and clutched a black garbage bag filled with what you hoped was clothing.

“Sorry,” you grumbled, wiping the moisture from your chin. “Need a room?”

“Mhm.” You could practically hear his eye roll: no, I just stopped by in the middle of the night for a quick chat. Fancy a cup of tea and a scone?

He plopped the garbage bag on the ground; its soft landing and the way it wrinkled told you that whatever was inside was, thankfully, not a body.

You nodded and turned around to the wall of keys behind you. There was no shortage of rooms; the only occupied one was being rented by Phyllis, a sixty-year-old self-described ‘entertainer of gentleman’ who paid double her bill in exchange for your silence.

He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on the countertop, grinding it into the base for good measure. “How much per night?” he asked, digging into his pants pocket and pulling out a wallet held together with duct tape.

“Fifteen.”

The man breathed out, his bangs fanning over his forehead. “Jesus.” He fished two twenties and a five from the billfold and placed them in front of you. “This should cover me until Friday, yeah?”

Nodding, you folded the bills and tucked them into the register kept under the desk, only accessible by key because of a series of break-ins during the late ‘70s.

The man lit another cigarette as you pulled out the ledger and a pen. “Name and date here,” you said, pointing to the ‘check in’ column. He took a drag before scrawling his name on the line: Eddie Munson, 5-4-93.

“All right, you’ll be in…” you scanned the assortment of keys dangling from their hooks. The walls were thin, and this guy seemed decent enough, so you decided to spare him the theatrical sound effects of Phyllis’s room 10 endeavors. “…room 4. Make a right down the hallway, and it’ll be the second door. Can’t miss it if you try.”

Your attempt at humor fell flat, both of you too exhausted to laugh. You strode past it, clearing your throat as if dispelling the tension. When you placed the key in his calloused palm, you couldn’t help but notice that the base of each fingertip is a half-shade paler than the rest of his skin.

“Thanks.” Eddie mumbled. He tapped the cigarette above the ashtray, the gray flakes falling into a neat pile. His right bicep flexed underneath his denim jacket as he heaved the garbage bag over his shoulder, careful not to bang it against the guitar.

He scuttled out of the tiny room masquerading as a lobby, shoulders hunched from the weight of the bag and of the burdens he inevitably carried. No one shows up to a motel in the middle of the night without a story or two.

After years of greeting guests at the front desk, you liked to think you had a decent read on them. Eddie was quiet, maybe even introspective, but not necessarily shy. He was tired; no, more than that: he was worn down, like so many other people who had come through these doors.

Most importantly, Eddie didn’t seem like he'd be much trouble. He didn’t stumble in wasted and reeking of booze or fidgeting as he awaited a fix. He wasn’t shouting or poorly concealing a wandering eye or making lewd comments. He’d made pretty much no impression at all besides being a bit gruff, which was just fine with you. Your personality wasn't composed of rainbows and sunshine at this hour either.

You looked at the clock and sighed when it only read 2:17. It’s already tomorrow, you thought grimly. Just under four hours until you could walk ten feet to your room, curl up in your bed, and sleep until it was time for your afternoon class. After years of balancing school and work, you were in the last two weeks of your final semester, and then…what? You casually inform your parents that you were leaving the family business–essentially forcing them to close it–to pursue a career in social work?

That was sure to go over well.

To their knowledge, you were studying hotel management and hospitality in order to “improve the business.” That was why they’d relented when you’d asked to start taking classes, switching you over to the night shift to avoid having to hire a new employee.

What they didn’t know is that your school didn’t even offer that as a major. Nor were they aware of the acceptance letter into NYU’s Masters of Social Work program that was stashed inside your dresser drawer, hidden from sight. That was a conversation for another day when you found the strength to face their disappointment.

Chaos waited to strike until the end of your shift.

Just as you packed your book back into your bag, a familiar, skunky odor wafted past your nostrils.

Ignore it, you thought. Let it be Dad’s problem when he takes over in five minutes. But if you could smell it, so could any of the cops patrolling the boulevard. One more citation and the motel was in jeopardy of being permanently shut down, and you couldn’t take that risk.

With a frustrated sigh, you yanked open the desk drawer and reached in for a pen, instead pulling out an unopened box of crayons. A twenty-four pack of Crayola—the good kind. You plucked a waxy cornflower blue from its spot and scribbled Be back soon on a Post-It note, sticking it on the front of the desk. Grabbing the pepper spray canister from its spot next to the register, just in case, you started down the hall. Marijuana wasn’t Phyllis’s drug of choice, though it might have been one of her various gentleman suitors’, but the scent was too strong to be coming all the way from room 10.

Maybe this Eddie Munson was trouble, afterall.

You knocked on his door, firmly but without aggression. It certainly wasn’t the first time you interrupted someone’s buzz, and it wouldn’t be the last. You knew better than to go in guns a-blazing; it’s easier to catch flies with sugar than vinegar.

Eddie opened it after a moment, cracking it halfway and revealing a lit joint pinched between his plush lips. One forearm was perched on the doorframe, showing off faded ink of a litter of flying bats and a dragon-esque creature. He was clad in only navy blue boxer briefs, but his lack of attire was no surprise. Many guests were shameless, not bothering to cover the holes in their Fruit of the Loom tighty-whities and showcasing faded yellow stains on the crotch. What confused you was the elastic waistband proudly proclaiming ‘Calvin Klein’ that cut off the soft hair trailing from his belly button. It seemed absurd that he would have been lugging around any designer clothes in that trash bag, but there was no other possibility.

“Can I help you?” he asked, shaking his curly bangs out of his face. Half-lidded brown eyes scanned your form, trying to determine whether you were a narc or trying to bum some bud off of him. His window was cracked open enough to let in fresh air, which also meant that the acrid smell could easily be let out.

“You can’t smoke that here,” you reported matter-of-factly, just as you had a million times before. When he cocked a challenging brow, you continued. “Cigarettes are fine, but no weed. The police will come after us and you.”

He looked around the room, unbothered, and absentmindedly scratched at his bare chest. A demon’s head was sketched just above a sparse patch of hair. Under different circumstances, or maybe in another life altogether, you would’ve asked him about his tattoos; if they had some philosophical meaning or were the products of spur-of-the-moment decisions. You could have blathered on about the ideas you had for your own future tattoos, if you ever worked up the nerve to actually get one.

“You mean to tell me that with all of the skeevy shit that goes on around here, the cops are gonna waste their time on a little pot?” He scoffed and took another defiant pull, holding it for a few seconds before exhaling away from you.

I guess chivalry isn’t dead, you mused, stifling an eye roll. “No, but they’re always looking for an excuse to ‘investigate,’’' you threw air-quotes around the last word, “so they can bust us for more serious things, and that is the perfect one.” You gestured to the joint only to be met with an eye roll. “Look, you can either put it out, smoke it somewhere else, or you can leave. Full refund, but you can’t stay here.”

His stare locked onto your steely eyes and clenched jaw, only breaking when you’d straightened your posture to stand your ground. “Whatever,” he huffed, but he snuffed it out. A glimmer of a smile danced on his lips, disappearing nearly as quickly as it arrived. Despite its fleeting nature, it managed to thaw you enough so that your arms weren’t held quite so tight to your body, your expression less rigid. “Just trying to relax and get some sleep, like you were while you were supposed to be ‘working.’” It’s his turn to supply the air-quotes, both in mockery and as a gotcha. A teasing lilt elevated his voice, smoothing out the edge he’d greeted you with earlier.

“I wasn’t sleeping, just…resting my eyes,” you volleyed back, your smirk betraying any semblance of the tough façade you’d worn.

Eddie crossed his arms and walked over to the garbage bag of clothes. He rummaged through it for a moment before procuring a pair of gray sweatpants, stepping into them hurriedly as though he just remembered his minimal attire.

“Maybe if you chose more interesting reading material, you wouldn’t be sl—resting your eyes on the job,” he amended, gesturing to the textbook in your canvas tote bag. “Ever heard of Stephen King?”

“I live in a motel, not under a rock.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You live here?”

Shit. That wasn’t information you regularly divulged. Sure, this guy seemed harmless, but looks can be deceiving. Prime example: wearing designer underwear while using a trash bag in lieu of a suitcase.

It was too late to double back, so you nodded. “Yeah,” you admitted reluctantly. The sole of your sneaker dug into the old carpet.

Eddie looked like he wanted to say more, lips parted and eyes wide like there was a follow-up question sitting on the tip of his tongue. Before he could ask it, your gaze landed on the clock radio: six AM on the dot.

“I need to go,” you said hurriedly. Shame at your sudden shyness burned a hole in your belly. Eddie Munson was a guest; for all intents and purposes, he was a total stranger. There was no reason to be intimidated by him. “Good luck falling asleep,” you added with a weak smile.

The easy banter that had been building between you dissipated in an instant, taking his good mood with it. His goodbye was a sardonic salute, the mattress springs creaking wearily as soon as you closed the door behind you.

Sure enough, your dad was in the tiny lobby, assessing some peeling wallpaper. “Gotta fix that,” he mumbled to himself, thumbnail picking at it aimlessly. He turned around when he heard the door open and smiled when he saw you.

“Sorry, I was helping out a guest,” you rushed to explain, hoping he wasn't too anxious to find the desk left unattended.

The wrinkles in your dad’s forehead became more pronounced. “Is everything alright?” The phrase ‘helping out a guest’ could range from unclogging a toilet to calling the police for a domestic dispute.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” you reassured him quickly, flashing an exaggerated thumbs-up. “No law enforcement necessary. Didn’t even need to use the pepper spray.” You waved the canister in your palm before placing it back.

He beamed, leaning in and pressing a kiss to your scalp. “It’s times like this where I just know I’ll be leaving this place in good hands.”

You swallowed the bile that crept up your throat and feigned a smile when he pulled you in for a tight hug. The mingled scents of Irish Spring soap and drugstore aftershave tickled your nose, and tears stung along your lash line.

If only you knew, you thought, giving him one last squeeze before you headed to your room. Disappointed wouldn’t even begin to cover it.

Your parents would never say the word aloud; they’d look at each other and heave identical weighted sighs. Their lifelong goal of a long-standing family business would vanish in the blink of an eye. Dad would pretend there was a chance that they could afford a new hire, even going so far as to fumble through the years of financial statements before inevitably throwing in the towel; Mom would force a pained smile and hoarsely encourage you to follow your dreams, even at the expense of theirs.

You shook the thought away as you trudged towards your room, sneakered feet like sandbags below you. Dwelling on this scenario had you teetering on the brink of insanity, so you’d willed yourself to focus on something else. Anything else.

Like the motel’s newest guest and his smile. The way it softened the hard lines on his face, offering you a glimpse of how he wore happiness. Something about it made you want to see him happy again.

You can’t even figure out how to make yourself happy, you thought, peeling back the starchy sheets and finally crawling into bed, much less a stranger. For all you knew, he was just relaxed because his high was starting to kick in, and not from some warming presence you’d supplied.

The sun cracked pink through the sky, visible through the paper-thin curtains hanging on the window. You had become accustomed to this backwards routine, able to fall asleep while daylight broke. It took a few extra moments this time; you were anticipating marijuana-tinged fumes to float through the vents when Eddie ignored your instructions.

It was that flicker of a smile that had you almost certain he would spark up once you’d left. The smile of someone who so naturally flouted authority that he no longer bragged about it. Yet time ticked by without a hint of evidence that he was smoking again.

Which begged the question: if the smile didn’t signify defiance, what did it mean?

Eddie Munson is definitely trouble, you surmised just before you drifted off, but nothing you can’t handle.

taglist:

@theintimatewriter @mandyjo8719 @storiesbyrhi @lady-munson @moonmark98 @squidscottjeans @therealbaberuthless @emxxblog @chrissymjstan @loves0phelia @kthomps914 @aysheashea @reidsbtch @mmunson86 @b-irock @ginasellsbooks @erinekc @the-unforgivenn @dashingdeb16 @micheledawn1975 @yujyujj @eddies-acousticguitar @daisy-munson @kellsck @bewitchedmunson @foreveranexpatsposts @mykuup @chatteringfox @feelinglikeineedlotsofnaps @sapphire4082 @katethetank @sidthedollface2 @eddies-stinky-battle-jacket @mysteris-things @mrsjellymunson @josephquinnsfreckles @the-disaster-in-waiting @eddielowe @hugdealer @rip-quizilla @munson-girl @fishwithtitz @costellation-hunter @cloudroomblog @emsgoodthinkin

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #lam

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shera-dnd · 2 months

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I am back on my bullshit, and with my bullshit I mean over analyzing small details in media

In this case the recent pages of Kill Six Billion Demons (read it! READ IT! IT'S REALLY GOOD!)

Specifically the framing and layout of the pages

so if you're familiar with Tom's work you know he's pretty much allergic to normal comic layouts and simple panels

and even when there are two panels side by side they're never the exact same size

but then we get to Wheel Smashing Lord, pages 77 and 78, where Gog Agog puts our protagonist, Allison, through the horrors of a talk show

and we got side by side panels, with the exact same size, evenly spaced, and with no art or anything between the panels

Of course this is partially done so as to simulate the framing of a TV show, so we get stuck in this TV screen format

buuuut I wouldn't be making a long ass post if this was the only cool thing this paneling was doing

Because what it does is also trap Allison in this neat little box of Gog Agog's influence

Bitch is literally controlling how Allison is framed. She's limiting Allison's range of motion and limiting how we get to see her

but then what happens?

Something that is outside Gog's control. Someone who she has no influence over

So they get to exist outside of the framing, because they're not part of her show

Then the very next page Allison decides she's sick of Gog's shit and how do we see that happen?

She breaks the frame. She gets up from the interview chair and just like that the TV format is broken, and with it Gog Agog's control and influence

Gog cannot contain Allison anymore and so neither can the frame

From this point on we're back to classic KSBD page layouts, except for one little detail

Now Allison gets to exist unbound by panel frames, while Gog Agog herself remains almost entirely trapped, because this bitch just managed to put herself into a corner

aaaaand that's all I got because that is literally the most recent page and it came out yesterday

So uh yeah this comic is really fucking good. Now go read Kill Six Billion Demons!

#kill six billion demons #ksbd #allison ruth #gog agog

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theunderestimator-2 · 4 months

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Baxter Dury as a 5-year-old alongside his dad Ian Dury in a '77 shot by Chris Gabrin taken near their house in front of the Axford Clothing store in Vauxhall, London, and used for the cover of Ian Dury's debut album 'New Boots and Panties!!' and again in 2023 as captured by Pål Hansen and edited in a 2001 reworking of the original photo by Sir Peter Blake.

Baxter Dury: "There’s a fair bit of mythology generated around the shot because Dad was a bullshitter, and consequently so am I, but the recollection I have of that day is that he said: “I’m getting my picture taken. Come along with me.” Being bored, I went. I walked into the shot and said: “Can we go now?” There were four frames taken, and he decided it would become the album cover. That was that. We would have been pretty impoverished at the time. Dad made no money from music at this point (...) I have amazing memories of my childhood, but we were on the breadline. Dad lived in London, near the Oval, in a council flat that didn’t have a toilet, so you had to use a local bar. He used to cut my hair back then. But after New Boots and Panties!! came out, there was a boom period when all the royalties came in and we behaved like there was an endless stream of money. Dad devoured the cash and at one point he lived in the Montcalm hotel. Jemima and I would get dropped off at the entrance and the concierge would freak out at the unwashed, feral kids running through their premises. We’d end up ordering loads of club sandwiches in Dad’s room. It was pure decadence. ...I was mostly brought up by my mum who was artistic but gentle and conventional. She wasn’t in a pot-smoking fraternity like Dad was. He got up at 12 in the afternoon; she got up at a normal hour. But when I was about 13 I moved in with Dad. He was in a chaotic state of mind, one career had drawn to a halt, and he wasn’t in the healthiest state. I exploited that to do what I wanted. ...My son and I now live in the flat Dad bought in west London. When we moved in, our neighbours, who’ve been there for decades, were like: “Oh my God, no! They’re returning!” I was like: “No, wait! We’re different!” theguardian.com/

(via & via)

#ian dury #baxter dury #rock n roll #pub rock #1977 #london #early punk scene #people

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dcangel · 7 months

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MY SMUTTY WRITING PROMPTS

I have a shit tone of smut prompts, so feel free to request any numbers for any of following characters: stiles Stilinski, Thomas (TMR), Dave Hodgman, Joel Dawson, Void Stiles, Stuart Twombly, Mitch Rapp, Simon Tarnum, Colin. I literally got pretty much done with this and was abt to post it bc I made the collage at the end and everything AND I FUCKING FORGOT ABOUT COLIN

As you can tell it’s all Dylan’s characters, and these are going to be the main people I write for. I don’t want to write about dylan himself as of right now bc I feel like it’s like sjrkrfk but yeah.

Anyways… there turned out to be 77 total prompts FOR THE SMUT ONES ALONE which is.. yeah

But I do have more than just smut prompts, I have some normal ones and I’ll make another post abt those.

RULES!! Idgaf how old you are as long as your 16+, I only write for fem!readers, and idk what else to add but like the basic rules yk? You can request more than just the prompts such as like sub!reader or sub!character (same for dom), or like maybe a specific kink if I feel comfortable writing for it like a nickname or just something else. You also don’t have to choose from one of these, you could just give me a request, and it also doesn’t even have to be smut. I’m always happy to hear your ideas and randomly thoughts<33

Anywayss…

SMUT PROMPTS—

1. “I want to hear you beg.”

2."Arch your back for me.”

3."You look better with my hands around your neck."

4."Swallow it. All of it."

5."God, you feel so fucking good."

6."Suck on it"

7."You're so fucking hot."

8."Open your legs for me, baby. I wanna see you."

9. “Don’t hold back.”

10. "Ah, fuck.”

11. "That noise...keep making it."

12. "Wrap your legs around my waist."

13. "Let's make this quick."

14. "Don't close your eyes, angel. Look at me"

15. "You're mine."

16. "Such a good little (slut/good boy, good girl), aren't you?"

17. "faster-ah shit-harder”

19. “I wanna go again."

20."I want you. I need you."

21.“Huh...uh...keep going."

22."Wait-uh-do...do that again."

23."Mark me. Mark me so everyone knows who I belong to."

24."Don't be gentle with me-I like it when you're rough."

25."One more time! Please!"

26. "Fuck-uh! I love it when you touch me like that."

26."kiss me again, but- mphh"

27. "lay down, love and let me do you how you deserve it."

28. “You can suck better than that, angel… don’t piss me off, alright?”

29. “Don’t muffle yourself. Let them hear your whiny voice, baby. Everyone should know how good I’m fucking you.”

30. "We'll take it slow."

31. "I've never done this before..” "Well, neither have I."

32."I'll take care of you."

33. "Tell me what you like."

34. "Tell me if it feels good."

35. "We can stop anytime."

36. "Do you trust me?"

37. "I've been wondering what it feels like…”

38. "I think l'm ready (for this/to have sex/...)."

39. "Please be gentle…”

40. "This is going a bit too fast…”

41. “I can’t believe you’re this innocent.”

42. "Makes me want to wreck you."

43. "You've never even touched yourself?"

44. "Show me how you do it when you touch yourself.”

45. "What do you like?" - "I don't know." - "Then how about we find out together?"

46. "It's my first time…”

47. “I can't wait to ruin your innocence"

48. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

49. "It's not a big deal. Let's just get it over with?

50. "I want you to be my first."

51. "I want you to teach me."

52. "Teach me how to make you feel good.”

53. "I wanna touch you too."

54. "Show me how to touch you."

55. "Am I going too fast?"

56. "You're doing so good for me.”

57. "Do that again."

58. "I never thought you could make such sweet noises." - "Me neither. "

59. "It's not scary at all. Let me show you.”

60."I'm worried I won't be good enough."

61. "Is it going to hurt?"

62. "I won't hurt you."

63. "I'm really embarrassed about this...”

64. "No need to worry."

65. "I got you."

66. “Kiss me?”

67. "Will you be my first?"

68. "Will you let me be your first?"

69. "I have no idea how to go about this "

70. "(If you like it), we can go all night."

71. "So (hard/wet) already…?”

72. "Are you sure this is your first time?"

73. "What do you want me to do?"

74. "Is this okay?"

75. "Does it feel good?”

76. "Tell me what to do."

77. "I'll guide you."

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lotusmi · 1 year

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77% 08:08 🍵 thoughts about inner self

felt like writting.

When outside world gets overwhelming I know that what I need is to take care of my self. My reality is just showing me what are my states, the material world only show me who I am. It is more than normal to see people blame their circumstances, they fight their thought and their senses till the point they have no energy anymore. Who are they fighting? Self. Who am I fighting? Self. When I blame world I blame self.

This happens when I let the outside world let me down. When I indentify myself as my body of meat and bones, I indentify myself with the false me. I am not who I look at the mirror, I am the one within myself, the voice I hear in silence, that is me. The outside me can be weak and powerless, but the inner me is great and almighty.

All the punishment I can feel inside my mind is my own punishment, there is no other man to hurt me when I am within myself.

All the unpleasant feelings we feel inside comes from the same thing, sin. What is the sin? The sin is to not fulfill my desire within. When I refuse to fulfill my desire within I am a sinner. My sin is to refuse to accept my desire, which already is mine, which is already done. When I want something I have to give myself this thing within, as I feel my wish fulfilled, I feel safe and relieved. But when i refuse my desire, I feel worried, guilty, sad, depressed, lost all of that.

Most of men are afraid of letting their inner man feels the wish fulfilled within. They don't believe in the world of imagination, they don't believe that what they assume is reflected. They believe life happens to them, not from them. But what do they fear? Theirselves? But who can hurt them when they are within theirselves? None can hurt them.

I had not been indentifying myself as my inner me lately and that is why I had not been feeling that good. The good part is that no one is locked in a state, we can move states as we decide to, as we accept new concepts of life, of us.

Even neville had forgotten about the law and worried about the "how" instead of being at the wish fulfilled feeling once, that's alright.

At the end of the day we do not change assumptions and states to change material world, we change because we want to feel, and so we let ourselves feel. The secret is the feeling. What feeling? The feeling we have what we want and we don't need to suffer. Make your inner world your heaven.

✏📃🍵

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intotheelliwoods · 11 months

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2 Arms Left Masterpost (Part 3)

(Part 1) - Main comic masterpost

(Part 2) - Mini comic masterpost

(Part 3) - Bonus little drawings

(Part 4) - Crossovers, and misc sagas

Below the cut is just fun little bonus drawings!

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Bonus drawings #1 - Leo reference + a smoothie

Bonus drawings #2 - Leo reference, part 2!

Bonus drawings #3 - Self destruct

Bonus drawings #4 - Stump aches,, part 2!!

Bonus drawings #5 - Post-Surgery pains

Bonus drawings #6 - Why are they hugging?

Bonus drawings #7 - Jungle gym brother

Bonus drawings #8 - They are homies!!

Bonus drawings #9 - If youre happy and you know it clap your hands!

Bonus drawings #10 - At least neither Leo is alone in the one arm situation

Bonus drawings #11 - He found the flamethrower...

Bonus drawings #12 - Robot arm wrestling match!?

Bonus drawings #13 - Uno, the game that destroys families..

Bonus drawings #14 - Strike a pose!

Bonus drawings #15 - They are huggy?? Splinters reaction?

Bonus drawings #16 - The Traumatic Event color palette

Bonus drawings #17 - The Calm Mindscape palette

Bonus drawings #18 - Thoughts on anyone touching little Leo's stump?

Bonus drawings #19- Gaming together!

Bonus drawings #20 - I am normal about his bean brows.

Bonus drawings #21 - He is a tea person!

Bonus drawings #22 - Did you know I draw this all in aggie.io??

Bonus drawings #23 - Little Leo likes to be held :)

Bonus drawings #24 - Little Leo is a little pea sprout

Bonus drawings #25 - Some comfort in these trying times

Bonus drawings #26 - Pistachio.

Bonus drawings #27 - Hmmm.

Bonus drawings #28 - Mindscape shenanigans~

Bonus drawings #29 - squeak squeak squeak squeak squ-

Bonus drawings #30 - An assortment of doodles

Bonus drawings #31 - What would a grown up Little Leo look like?

Bonus drawings #32 - Shrink the beans

Bonus drawings #33 - Little Leo fidgets

Bonus drawings #34 - What does Future Donnie think about Leos natural brows?

Bonus drawings #35 - GROW the beans

Bonus drawings #36 - Casey and Future Leo travels!

Bonus drawings #37 - Little Leo becomes Medium Leo!

Bonus drawings #38 - Baby carrier

Bonus drawings #39 - Medium Leo beans! And stims!?

Bonus drawings #40 - Mindscape nonsense

Bonus drawings #41 - Free hugs!!!!

Bonus drawings #42 - Flashbacks?

Bonus drawings #43 - New Leos!

Bonus drawings #44 - The new Leo is also huggy~

Bonus drawings #45 - Little aggie doodles

Bonus drawings #46 - Shell Shenanigans

Bonus drawings #47 - Beach day!?

Bonus drawings #48 - "Why is F!Leo fat?" - anon

Bonus drawings #49 - Have I always been this annoying? (GIF)

Bonus drawings #50 - Wiggly (GIF)

Bonus drawings #51 - Sleepy

Bonus drawings #52 - Wings....

Bonus drawings #53 - Sketches

Bonus drawings #54 - Poptart.

Bonus drawings #55 - Hard to tie a mask with one hand..

Bonus drawings #56 - Get dangled.

Bonus drawings #57 - Where did the name Sprout come from?

Bonus drawings #58 - Funny outfits

Bonus drawings #59 - Pondering them

Bonus drawings #60 - Immobilize.

Bonus drawings #61 - National throw short people day.

Bonus drawings #62 - How tall is Sprout?

Bonus drawings #63 - Ducklings...

Bonus drawings #64 - Poptart arm concepts (SCRAPPED)

Bonus drawings #65 - Big Leo..

Bonus drawings #66 - Squish squish squish (GIF)

Bonus drawings #67 - Poptart nickname privileges

Bonus drawings #68 - Color Swap!

Bonus drawings #69 - That Beach Dad meme (nice)

Bonus drawings #70 - Prosthetic thoughts

Bonus drawings #71 - Uppies (GIF)

Bonus drawings #72 - Guess who bought CSP (GIF)

Bonus drawings #73 - Dance dance dance (GIF)

Bonus drawings #74 - He fell........ (GIF)

Bonus drawings #75 - Poptart outfit concepts

Bonus drawings #76 - Tall Sprout

Bonus drawings #77 - Colors for everyone!

Bonus drawings #78 - My Arm! (Video)

Bonus drawings #79 - Sprout.. Sprouting....

Bonus drawings #80 - Poptart shell!

Bonus drawings #81 - Toast him in a toaster (GIF)

Bonus drawings #82 - Average 2AL update in a nutshell

Bonus drawings #83 - Futrue Poptart!

Bonus drawings #84 - Hand practice... nail painting!

Bonus drawings #85 - What if Poptarts hand gets sore? (GIF)

Bonus drawings #86 - Poptot

Bonus drawings #87 - Poncho Poptart

Bonus drawings #88 - de-ages your huggy leos*

#2 arms left

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amphibious-thing · 28 days

Text

Philippa Gregory and Lazy Research: the Issue With Pop History as Exemplified by the Misinformation Surrounding Geneviève d'Eon in the Book Normal Women

If you frequent bookstores or libraries you might have seen Philippa Gregory's new book Normal Women in the best sellers or most wanted displays. The fact that Geneviève d'Eon, a trans woman, is included in a woman's history book is marvelous. D'Eon has been denied her place in woman's history for far too long. So what's the problem? Well Philippa Gregory's lazy research is the problem.

For full transparency I have to admit I didn't read the whole book. And honestly based on what I did read I probably wont read it because the short section I did read left a lot to be desired. While the section on d'Eon is short Gregory sure can pack a fair bit of misinformation into 7 paragraphs.

The most glaring error is d'Eon's name. Gregory claims her name was Lia however this is simply not true. D'Eon's full name was Charlotte-Geneviève-Louise-Auguste-André-Timothée d’Eon de Beaumont, or Geneviève d'Eon for short. When d'Eon transitioned she changed her first name to Charlotte, but she actually went by her middle name Geneviève, which was one of her baptismal names. The name Geneviève had both personal and religious significance for d'Eon having been given to her by her godmother. She talks about this in the draft of her autobiography:

I did undertake to make a novena to my patron saint, Geneviève, in the hope of gaining insight, since the name Geneviève was given to me at baptism by my godmother, the sister of my father and of my uncle.

(The Maiden of Tonnerre, p9)

She also mentions her name when writing about the joy of being able to live openly as a woman:

At present I am living in profound peace; and my joy is so great that I praise God in three languages so that a greater number of people may partake of the happiness of the angels in this life while awaiting the crown of ordinary martyrs, Nunc Genofeva d'Eon est nomen meum; quam suave et dulce est laetitia mea! [My name is now Geneviève d’Eon; how delightful and how sweet is my joy!]

(The Maiden of Tonnerre, p87)

[Ticket for Geneviève d'Eon's fencing display at Mrs. Bateman's house in Soho, c. 1793, via The British Museum]

The only evidence that suggests d'Eon may have used the name Lia is from a flirtatious letter written by her then boss the Marquis de l'Hôpital during her mission in Russia. L'Hôpital, who was 30 years her senior, calls d'Eon "ma chère Lia" and "ma belle de Beaumont". In other letters l'Hôpital often complains about d'Eon's lack of sexual activity, often making comments about her penis. It's unclear how d'Eon felt about the name Lia or the multiple sexual remarks made by her boss. (see Mémoires sur la Chevalière d'Éon by Frédéric Gaillardet, p16, 77, 80, 94, 99 & 110 for the l'Hôpital letters)

Gregory isn't just confused about d'Eon's name, she also mixes up details of d'Eon's life claiming that d'Eon dressed as a woman during her mission to spy on England in preparation for an French invasion, stating that d'Eon "moved in London society as Lia de Beaumont." I've never seen any strong evidence that d'Eon was dressing in woman's clothes for this mission and Gregory doesn't provide any evidence of this either. Certainly d'Eon claimed to have dressed in women's clothes during her mission in Russia but not England. (see The Maiden of Tonnerre for d'Eon's claims that she adopted a female alias in Russia)

Gregory also claims:

In August 1777, Lia de Beaumont chose a male identity and wore a grenadier's uniform to volunteer for military service in the American War of Independence, but was prevented from joining the conflict

While d'Eon did attempt to rejoin the French army in 1778 & 1779 she did not "chose a male identity". D'Eon asked to be able to rejoin the army as a woman. In February 1779 d'Eon published an open letter to "several Great Ladies at Court" hoping for support in rejoining the army:

Foreseeing that there will be less fighting on land this year than last, I earnestly entreat you to use your influence with the ministers, in favour of my petition (as stated in the enclosed copy of my letter to the Comte de Maurepas) to serve as a volunteer in the fleet of the Comte d'Orvilliers. Your name, Madame, is one to which military glory is familiar, and, as a woman, you must love the glory of our sex. I have striven to sustain that throughout the late war with Germany, and in negotiating at European courts during the last twenty-five years. There is nothing left for me to do but to fight at sea in the Royal Navy. I hope to acquit myself in such a way that you will not regret having fostered the good intention of one who has the honour to be, with profoundest respect, faithfully yours. La Chevalière d'Eon.

(Originally published in Correspondance Littéraire, Philosophique et Critique, translation by Alfred Rieu in D'Eon de Beaumont, His Life and Times, p233)

Nowhere in this letter does d'Eon claim to be a man. In fact she writes "as a woman, you must love the glory of our sex" (emphasis mine) and signs it in the feminine "La Chevalière d'Eon."

Gregory also includes the following quote from Madame Campan's book Memoirs Of The Court Of Marie Antoinette:

He was made to resume the costume of that sex to which in France everything is pardoned. The desire to see his native land once more determined him to submit to the condition, but he revenged himself by combining the long train of his gown and the three deep ruffles on his sleeves with the attitude and conversation of a grenadier, which made him very disagreeable company.

I have to ask why Gregory felt this needed to be included? Why is Campan's speculation on d'Eon's gender given more weight than any of d'Eon's own writings on gender? Shouldn't we prioritise what d'Eon said about herself over the speculation of an acquaintance of hers?

Why not include this quote:

I would prefer to keep my male clothes, because they open all the doors to fortune, glory, and courage. Dresses close all those doors for me. Dresses only give me room to cry about the misery and servitude of women, and you know that I am crazy about liberty. But nature has come to oppose me, and to make me feel the need for women’s clothes, so that I can sleep, eat, and study in peace. I am constantly in fear of some sickness or accident that will, despite myself, allow my sex to be discovered …. Nature makes a good friend but a bad enemy. If you chase it through the door, it just blows back in through the window.

(Monsieur D'Eon Is a Woman by Gary Kates p71)

Or this one:

If certain modern philosophers do not approve of my conversion, it is because they do not believe in God, the law, or the King. God forgave me, the living law vindicated me, and the legal systems in England and France awarded me full rights to wear a dress. Louis XV and Louis XVI were my patrons, the Queen who is the daughter of the Caesars had me dressed in her court by Mademoiselle Bertin; the very woman who dresses the Queen did not turn up her nose at dressing Mademoiselle d'Eon grandly.

(The Maiden of Tonnerre, p134)

Or maybe this one:

Having been a decent man, a zealous citizen and a brave soldier all my life, I triumph in being a woman and in being able to be cited for ever amongst those many woman who have proved that the qualities and virtues of which men are so proud have not been denied to those of my sex.

(La Vie militaire, politique et privée de Melle d’Eon (1779): Biography and the Art of Manipulation by Anne-Marie Mercier-Faivre)

Gregory isn't alone in the choice to highlight Campan's speculation over d'Eon's own words, Wikipedia also does this, which makes me wonder if she originally got this quote from d'Eon's Wikipedia page. Perhaps Gregory doesn't know what d'Eon wrote about gender because she hasn't read anything d'Eon wrote about gender.

It's clear that Philippa Gregory's research on d'Eon was frankly lazy and nothing exemplifies this as much as her thinking d'Eon's name was Lia. But why does Philippa Gregory think d'Eon's name is Lia when primary source evidence clearly shows otherwise? Well it's certainly a common myth that d'Eon used the name Lia de Beaumont as a alias while working as a spy in Russia. The assumption was originally made by Frédéric Gaillardet in his largely fictitious book Memoires du Chevalier d'Eon. Gaillardet assumes that d'Eon used the name Lia de Beaumont because of the letter from the Marquis de l'Hôpital in which he calls her "ma chère Lia" and "ma belle de Beaumont". Whether or not d'Eon even did have a female alias while working as a spy in Russia is a controversial point amongst historians. However even if we assume she did use the name Lia as an alias its still not really her name.

I don't think I've seen a single historian claim d'Eon's name was actually Lia but I have seen many people on social media claim this was her name. The logic seems to be that if d'Eon used Lia de Beaumont as an alias that it was probably her preferred name. With most secondary sources on d'Eon using her deadname and never identifying d'Eon by either her first name Charlotte or preferred name Geneviève the issue gets confused. Lia seems like the preferable choice of name to people who don't want to deadname d'Eon but also aren't aware of any other feminine name she went by.

But why does Philippa Gregory think d'Eon's name is Lia? Surely Gregory isn't getting her information from social media? Right? But none of her cited sources identify Lia as d'Eon's name. In fact one of her cited sources, D'Eon Returns to France: Gender and Power in 1777 by Gary Kates, is one of the few secondary sources that does mention that d'Eon's name was Charlotte. Is Gregory even reading her own sources?

This issue isn't unique to Philippa Gregory it's a common issue in pop history. If you want to cover a broad topic that will appeal to a wide audience, like 900 years of women's history, you almost certainly are not going to study every aspect in significant detail. Can we really expect Philippa Gregory to do in-depth research into one individual she only talks about for 7 paragraphs? Of course not. So the research gets lazy.

#philippa gregory #chevalière d'eon #queer history

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gojosatorumyoneandonly · 9 months

Text

Gojo Satoru drabble #10

teen Gojo x gn!reader

Wn: grammar

A/N: i want to write Gojo x reader x Geto someday🧎btw, this is longer than i expect☠️ and should i write another character? i have been wrote A LOT about Gojo…and i’m lazy now, bye✌️

so, you are just chilling with Suguru and Satoru in the new cafe. the one that Satoru suggest because he saw it last week

as the waitress bring your order (and the two guys ofc) out. you have been ordered choux pastry with earl grey tea because ✨it’s Gojo Satoru’s treat✨ so it’s normal to order some LUXURY STUFF

Suguru and you force him to pay

you are sitting next to Satoru btw

Satoru and Suguru are still fighting cause of those nonsense things, that's normal. you sip your own cup of tea in your hand

Gojo: stop complain about my attitude! i do nothing wrong! that’s who i am

Geto: ugh, do whatever you want

Gojo: hah!

Satoru take a big bite of Suguru’s cake

Geto: the heck Satoru!?

Suguru glare at Satoru and trying to reach to take Satoru’s cake for revenge

you: can you guys please stop?

this nonsense fight should stop because everyone in the cafe started to looking at them like…they are aliens

Gojo & Geto: can you stop complaining?

you:…i’ll go home

Gojo: i’ll stop so don’t go

Geto: *mumbling* simp

Gojo: what?

Geto: nothing *drink his coffee*

returning to the peaceful atmosphere earlier, you decide to take a bite of the cream puff. you close your eyes to feel the choux pastry

the crust is soft and spongy, not dry. the software inside is sweet, fresh and not too fatty

you enjoying the taste a little too much so you can’t notice a pair of eyes looking deep into your soul…actually your eating and satisfied face

Gojo: hey, Y/n

you: hm? *slowly opening your eyes and look at Gojo*

Gojo: stay still…

Satoru suddenly lifted your chin. he came closer and licked the corner of your lips

Gojo: there is some cream there…sweet…

your eyes widen, staring at Satoru and shocked

Geto: can you JUST USE THE TISSUE???

Gojo: ah yes, it’s make sense

Geto: )@@/₫@:!/9::77:):&/8/!/!₫

#gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #gojo fluff #satoru gojo #shiyo is dead #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #geto suguru #suguru geto #geto #gojo satoru fluff #drabble #gojo drabble #jjk

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slaygentford · 1 year

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the jdcu: a comparative analysis in fact and fiction

several months ago I watched the netflix program mindhunter. this was a normal experience until I found out it is based on a memoir -- the work of 77 year old ex FBI agent John Douglas (jd). indeed, he is the man behind every behavioral analyst character youve ever seen, most notably jack crawford of silence of the lambs/Thomas Harris's novels, which consulted him personally.

I could not believe that those jds -- jack crawford and far more, as it turns out -- were based on the same man that jd of the show mindhunter was based on. mindhunter tv's jd is like if m3gan was a gay keebler elf. his girlfriend tells him to use his womanly wiles on murderers to get them to talk! and he does so -- the harlot! I was stunned. 77 year old ex FBI agent John Douglas consented for this little freak to be his eidolon forever on netflix? who even IS John Douglas?

and so I am compelled by intellectual curiosity to ask: by watching all jds ever committed to screen, can we qualify the multitude that is jd? and, after hearing John Douglas speak on John Douglas in his own words, can we decide who among the many is the most accurate fictional depiction? to conduct this study which is a really good use of my time, we begin by sorting the fictional jds into two categories: slaygent and hard boiled detective. after this, we will compare them to jd in his own words -- that is, his memoir and his masterclass.

mindhunter tv: let us begin where the problem first surfaced. much has been said about patient zero holden ford. a youthful thirty, he begins a career of seducing real life serial killers to learn about their behavior and so forth. many times I asked: girl what kind of interview is this? in the interest of time I will simply say that this evil roomba created and defines the slaygent category.

silence of the lambs: the next logical move. here we encounter the original and most famous fictional jd: jack crawford. despite a strong effort to manufacture chemistry with jodie foster, he is sadly still a man. three words I would use to describe this jd are Svelte, Serves in a trenchcoat, and Succinct. he falls in the middle of the slaygent/hard boiled Venn diagram.

manhunter: this jack is adorned with a rare and compelling mustache. in one scene he shouts, AND I'D DO IT AGAIN! I was not paying attention at this point to what he would do again but I did not doubt he would do it. no dignity, all exhaustion. hard boiled.

Hannibal nbc: jack crawford receives a much needed reboot! Laurence fishburne gives a nuanced and honestly moving performance of a man for whom meaning is unraveling one day at a time. this jack is sartorially aware but practical, and remains empathetic despite his painful job. hard boiled

the alienist: dr laszlo is our first sherlock holmes* archetype -- somehow this has not cropped up before now. with his difficulty relating to people, his lovely coat with a fur collar, and his genuinely sharp observations, laszlo alienist emerges as a dark horse slaygent.

*due to its original publication date, Sherlock Holmes and successive properties are not relevant to a John Douglas study.

criminal minds (& related procedurals): cm's david rossi, along with his counterparts across other networks, are unilaterally hard boiled.

though hardboiled jds prevail in quantity, slaygents are not necessarily an anomaly. now the moment of truth: is the real jd a holden ford or a jack crawford?

Mindhunter (book):

while reading this book I began to feel...discomfited. and not just because it's 400 pages of self aggrandizing ghostwritten prose. something was wrong. it wasn't until, in the last five pages of the gauntlet, that it all cohered.

jd and his wife separated because work kept him away, because he barely knew his children, and because when his daughter skinned her knee he couldn't find much empathy for the scrape because of the shit he saw all day. this isnt the unmarried antisocial slaygent ford who began our odyssey. this isn't even the stylish and heterosexual Jack Crawford of silence of the lambs, nor our mustachioed manhunter. a man who lacked empathy for his child? whose marriage crumbled? who thinks shrinks are dumb as hell? whose main recourse in difficult moments is to remind himself that serial killers are nothing but "inadequate losers" -- of no inherent interest to him outside of their contributions to his noble mission to stop serial killing?

whatever answer remains, however unfuckable, is the truth: holden ford -- and indeed any slaygent -- has never been John Douglas at all. even jack crawford is barely a jd himself. we've been overlooking the real jd all along. and he was right under our noses. hiding like the adder, right in plain sight.

the bill tench paradigm shift

a chain-smoking vet whose wife leaves him because he thinks their kid sucks? an unapproachable asshole clinging to his slippery moral high ground?

target locked.

but make no mistake. this is not yet a victory. if bill tench was right before us all along, then how many jds did I overlook with my narrow definition of a jd??? has hubris bested me again? who will we find now that the truth is blown open before us? how will we wrangle this new data into a useful paradigm? what does paradigm actually mean and can I use it in a sentence like that? questions we must answer.

I propose an ontological compromise. if we set slaygent at one end of a spectrum and the true jd at the other, we may examine all jds and potential jds without compromising the integrity of the real/tench jd, AND without ignoring the fact that slaygent ford is BILLED AS jd. indeed, slaygent and jd CAN coexist -- it is only that their differences must be accounted for.

below are MANY, though not every, possible jd.

now to the final frontier: www.masterclass.com, where for the low low price of 100 dollars you can access celebrities just verbatim reading from their memoirs. literally just verbatim reading from them. like I'm not joking like you could just go to fucking barnes and noble.

mindhunter (masterclass by jd): the discovery of this masterclass was a windfall in my work (thank you cj). now, at last, to the knowledge gleaned. jd (real) is man with white hair and a very slight New York accent. he is well fit for his age with minimal male pattern baldness. he confirms everything we have discovered regarding the bill tench paradigm shift; gruff, to-the-point, sardonic. even his controlled mannerisms are tenchian.

and so I must ask: from whence did the slaygent archetype spring? and why did jd consent for the scary keebler elf to be his proxy? despite the depth of my work, I cannot access the mind of this man, nor the circumstances which gave rise to these anomalies in the continuum.

still. in the indefatigable spirit of jd himself, I feel a theory nipping, nibbling at my ear. I mentioned sherlock holmes before, and now some unwanted voice within me calls out that very name. is it Holmes who shapes the slaygents into his image, even from beyond the grave? has all of this been a prelude to the real work -- the work of examining and classifying every Holmes committed to screen?

like vercingetorix, exhausted by the struggle, here I toss down my arms. with or without me, though, the jd quest continues. what doors remain unopened? what slaygent homunculi lay in wait behind them? and what will become of us, if we knock?

#well

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learnyouabiology · 2 years

Text

Fun Fact Friday: There are Species of Lesbian Lizards!

This is a New Mexico Whiptail Lizard (Aspidoscelis neomexicanus), and I am 100% sure that this lizard is a female! How can I know?

Well, because every New Mexico Whiptail Lizard is a female!

There are about 45 species of whiptail lizards (which used to be one genus but then were sorted mostly into the genera Aspidoscelis and Cnemidophorus), at least 15 of which are “unisexual” species, i.e. all-female species.

(some species are fun colours!)

These lizards reproduce exclusively via parthenogenesis, which basically means they clone themselves every time they reproduce, laying eggs that contain genetically-identical offspring. Now, normally I would call such a species asexual lizards, to get some of that good ace rep, but here’s the thing:

These all-female lizards still mate with each other.

(gal pals! 😉)

Every breeding season, these lizards go through same-sex mating behaviours, including lengthy courtship rituals, which culminates in one female lizard mounting the other.

This process can last more than 10 minutes.

(I love this paper)

Without same-sex mating, a female might lay one or two eggs in a breeding season. Maybe. With same-sex mating, a female can lay up to 9 eggs in a season! That’s 2-3 clutches with 2-3 eggs in each, and a HUGE increase in reproductive success!

A BBC clip about these lizards from 2010 claims that the “male-like” behaviour of the females is caused by an increase of “the male hormone testosterone”, but that’s actually not true. At all.

The BBC lied to me about Lesbian Lizards!!!

In reality, testosterone levels stay uniformly low throughout the breeding season, while the cycling of estrogen and progesterone are what triggers the different mating behaviours. Neither of these hormones are generally referred to as “male” hormones.

(git gud, BBC. Honestly, this 2 minute clip has a bunch of mistakes, mostly to increase the Drama, but whatever, I guess).

(one of my favourite graphs in anything, tbh)

Before the ovulation, the lizard’s levels of estrogen increases, leading to “female-like” mating behaviour. After mating, but before the eggs are laid, estrogen drops off a clip while progesterone peaks, and the female goes off to mate with other females, this time in the “male-like” role.

(This one is A. exsanguis, which is fun because it’s name means “lacking blood” although I am 99.999999% sure that they do have blood)

Once the eggs are laid, the female has a period of inactivity, probably because laying eggs is a lot of work and she doesn’t have the TIME or ENERGY to deal with the ups and downs of courtship.

(Seriously, though, it probably is a way to recover after the metabolically-taxing work of reproduction. Let the new mom REST).

This has been Fun Fact Friday, telling you the story of the Lesbian Lizards because I love lesbian lizards so much you guys you don’t even know.

Also, my city celebrates Pride in August, so Happy Pride to All! (But especially to Lesbian Lizards, my beloved)

Oh, look. More Sources:

Crews, D., & Fitzgerald, K. T. (1980). “Sexual” behavior in parthenogenetic lizards (Cnemidophorus). Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 77(1), 499-502. https://www.jstor.org/stable/8233

Crews, D., & Young, L. J. (1991). Pseudocopulation in nature in a unisexual whiptail lizard. Animal behaviour, 42(3), 512-514. https://doi.org/10.1016/S0003-3472(05)80056-9

Cole, C. J. (1984). Unisexual lizards. Scientific American, 250(1), 94-101. https://www.jstor.org/stable/24969281

Crews, D., Grassman, M., & Lindzey, J. (1986). Behavioral facilitation of reproduction in sexual and unisexual whiptail lizards. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 83(24), 9547-9550. https://www.jstor.org/stable/28660

Crews, D. (1987). Courtship in unisexual lizards. Scientific American, 257(6), 116-121. https://www.jstor.org/stable/24979584

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