#I DO NOT REMEMBER POSTING THESE. maybe i did.

[vaspider]

Tonight, the night before Election Day 2024 in the US, I am thinking about my stepkid.

I am thinking about the phone call they made to us earlier this year, the one where they told us they'd gone to the hospital thinking they had appendicitis and found out, instead, that a zygote - a tiny splodge of cells - had taken up residence not in their uterus but in a fallopian tube. The one where our kid said they were waiting for their partner to arrive, hoped that said partner would get there before the docs took our kid back to terminate that pregnancy, & assured us that they'd be okay.

After all, our kid lives in a state with choice measures embedded in state law. That pea-sized blot of tissue doesn't have more right to their health than they do. Nobody is standing between them and their doctors. They made a decision, and that was that.

In this tiny tragedy, the kind that plays out dozens of times a day at minimum across the country, we only had to worry about the small risk of surgery complications. We didn't have to worry about Ken Paxton threatening to charge their doctors with felonies. We didn't have to think, "What if the hospital's legal team doesn't think an ectopic pregnancy - which is never ever viable and must be terminated before it kills our kid - is really that big of a deal?" We didn't have to worry that they live in a state where ob-gyns are fleeing, leaving few experts behind, as has happened in Idaho.

We didn't have to watch our kid vomit up black blood before dying the day after their baby shower the way Neveah's mom did. We didn't have to pray in a waiting room (while doctors took our kid apart until their heart stopped because the doctors waited too long out of fear of anti-choice laws) until a doctor came to tell us we'd have to bury them the way that Amber's mom did. We aren't having to pick up our lives after fully treatable miscarriage-related sepsis took them from us the way that Josseli's husband and daughter must.

I could go on for far, far too long.

Listen. If you are a single-issue non-voter and have already decided that "both parties are the same" or whatever other thing you've told yourself so you can sleep at night, smug and secure, then I can't reach you and I can't help you. But if you genuinely think that your votes don't matter, if you're just suffering from a bout of overwhelm or apathy, if you're too young to remember the 2000 election and can't see that Dobbs is a direct result of that election and every one that's followed, please, I am fucking begging you.

I didn't really talk about this when it happened. I mentioned something briefly, maybe. The posts I've started writing about it are still in my drafts. It was too fresh, too frightening. It's not any less frightening now, honestly - because if this week doesn't end with President Kamala Harris, we're headed for a national abortion ban, at the minimum - but it's not about how fucking frightened I was or how sad and bewildered I was to realize that my kid was going through this crisis in a nation more hostile to them than when I needed a D&C for an abortion at 21, in 1998.

It's about stopping this chapter of this fucking bullshit and at least finding some new fucking bullshit.

Vote, dammit.

Do the other work on Wednesday. Tomorrow, the work is to vote.

[cassandraclare]

Kit to Ty

Election day: misery, stress, hair-pulling, at least for Americans (and a lot of other people around the world affected by our politics!) So I thought I'd post a distraction; I hope it helps and doesn't annoy!

A while ago I posted the beginning of a letter from Kit to Ty, created for a Kickstarter backer. Here's the full text:

A letter from Kit to Ty, never sent.

Ty, Ty, Ty.

Your name looks strange written out like that. Like an abbreviation. But Tiberius would be so formal. I never think of you that way. Or, I suppose I should say, I never thought of you that way. Tenses matter in these situations, I guess.

It’s late, past midnight, and I’m sitting on the windowsill in my bedroom at Cirenworth. Jem and Tessa gave me one of the best rooms. Of course they did. It has a view out over the gardens. Sometimes I see the ghost of a dog there, a golden retriever I’m pretty sure, running in and out of the flowerbeds. He seems like a pretty happy ghost. I think about how much you like animals and how much they love you, because of course they do. But it’s too late; this dog passed away a long time ago. You probably couldn’t even see him. It’s too late for a lot of things, now.  

I’m still mad at you, and I don’t feel good about that. Maybe if I could forget, I could forgive. But I can’t forget that night you brought Livvy back. I’ll suddenly remember even when I’m thinking about something else. I’ll be in the middle of helping Tessa in the garden and suddenly I’ll turn around and I’m back in Idris. 

I remember I told you I loved you. I remember I told you I would help you, but not if you raised Livvy from the dead. Not if you did necromancy. But you wanted that more than you wanted me.

And I understand that. I’m not angry about that. Here’s what I’m angry about: when you brought Livvy back, you changed yourself. You made yourself a different person than the one I loved. I don’t know the person you are now. You took yourself away from me. I can’t forgive that. And you made me someone who has to keep a secret I never wanted to keep. I was raised by someone who had so many awful secrets, and when I started my life as a Shadowhunter I wanted to do it openly, and honestly. But now I’m just someone else with secrets I can never tell. Just like my dad.

It makes me angry, so angry. I want to yell at you. I wish you were here so I could yell at you.

Kit

[fastandcarlos]

Post Race Massage : ̗̀➛ Charles LeClerc

summary: after another gruelling race, charles looks to you to help his aching muscles recover

You couldn’t help but laugh as Charles let go of a groan, his hands pressing against his back as the aches of the day caught up with him. He dropped down onto the bed beside you, his sad eyes glancing across at you as he struggled to deal with how much his body hurt.  

It had been a long weekend of racing for him, pushing his body to the absolute limit, but when he had a collision with Sergio during the race, his body was finally done in. After jolting in his seat Charles felt his body scream out in pain, a pain that had stuck with him for the rest of the day as you got back to your hotel. 

His steps were slow as he moved, his arm clung onto you for a little bit of support, it was unlike anything that you had seen from Charles before. As he laid himself down, it was the most comfortable that Charles had felt for hours, finally able to relax a little. 

“Who knew racing was so cruel on the body,” you teased, brushing your hand through Charles’ messy hair. “I thought you’re supposed to train so these things don’t hurt as much.” 

Charles frowned across at you, his usual confidence had been replaced by plenty of pity for himself, eyes searching in hope of a little bit more sympathy from you. 

You watched Charles for a few moments, thinking through of ways that you could help him. You remembered the things that you saw Charles’ team do in his driver’s room plenty of times before, confident you could do the same thing. 

“Why don’t you lay on your tummy?” You suggested, shuffling off of the bed so that Charles could roll over. “I’m sure there’s something that I could do to help you out and ease some of that tension.” 

Charles did as you said, with plenty of moans and groans, letting you know just how sore he was. You struggled to hold back your laughter as he did so, as much as you felt sorry for him, seeing him be so dramatic never failed to leave you in disbelief.  

Once Charles was comfortable, you pushed the legs of his trousers up so that you could get to his calves, pressing your hands into his muscles and massaging over them. Another moan came from Charles, this time one that was filled with relief and comfort. 

“Whatever you’re doing, don’t stop, that feels incredible,” Charles told you. 

You smiled back down as he rested his head against his arms. “If someone were to walk past our hotel room right now, they’d have some serious questions about what we’re doing.” 

“With how sore my body is right now, this feels so much better than sex my love.” 

A chuckle came from you as you continued to massage the tension and knots out of Charles’ muscles. You moved your hands up his leg, reaching the top of his thigh, pressing in as firmly as you could to try and help him. 

“I’ll bare that in mind,” you smirked, tapping against Charles’ bottom. 

He continued to sigh in relief, finally able to relax again. “Maybe it’s about time I accept that I’m not exactly a young racing driver anymore.” 

“How many times do you have to be told to do your warm ups properly before you listen?” 

Charles only had himself to blame for the pain that he was in, assuring you and the rest of his team that warming up was pointless. He was still young, fit, he didn’t need to stretch his muscles out, all he was doing was driving a car, or so he thought. 

“Take your top off,” you instructed, hearing a hum of delight come from Charles, only to feel you slap your hand against his back. 

Your eyes rolled as he took his top off and threw it on the floor. Your legs straddled around his body, sitting yourself just below Charles’ bottom so that you could get to his back. 

As soon as your hands landed at the top of his back, Charles’ smile turned up. Your hands massaged over him once again, digging into all the right places to try and untangle the knots that you could feel building up. 

“Good?” You questioned, although you already knew the answer, watching as Charles turned his head around to be able to look back at you with his smile. 

His head nodded in response, “I mean my body is still killing me, but you’re working some pretty good magic making it feel better right now.” 

“I’m glad I could help you out.” 

“I could get used to this.” 

“Having your girlfriend sit on your ass whilst she massages your body, I’m sure that you could,” you teased, “you can wipe that smile off of your face as well.” 

As much as he wanted to, Charles simply couldn’t, he was enjoying himself far too much. It was nice enough to have you help him, but feeling you sat on top of him was definitely an added bonus that he could get used to as well. 

“You know, seeing as you’re getting old we might have to invest in some things to help you when your body is sore,” you told him, “have you seen those massage guns that all the gym people are using these days?” 

“Trust me, no massage gun can make me feel as good as your hands,” Charles assured you, pushing back against you as you dug in against his spine, moving your fingertips around in circular motions. 

“Try and not sound so smug when you say that,” you challenged. 

Charles’ head shook, “I would love to try, but I’m feeling so smug right now, almost like I’m in some sort of dream.” 

He didn’t want to make his body suffer, but if this was how you treated him after it, maybe it would be worth it for Charles after all. He had a whole team of experts around him, and yet none of them took care of him as well as you did. 

“I think I’m almost done,” you told Charles, only to feel his hands reach back and rest on your hips, refusing to let you leave from where you were sat. “We can’t spend the night with me straddling you like this.” 

“What about if I turned over into a different position instead?” 

“I thought you were supposed to be tired and achy?” You reminded him, knowing exactly what Charles was hinting at from the suggestive tone of his voice. “You’ve suddenly changed your tune.” 

“I was, but then you gave me some godly massage and suddenly I feel like I’ve found a bit of energy again,” Charles smirked, sending you a knowing glance. 

You didn’t quite know what to say as Charles raised his eyebrows across at you, tensing his back so you could see his muscle definition, knowing just how much it turned you on. 

“If you moan in the morning that your body hurts, I’m going to have no sympathy for you,” you warned, sitting up so that Charles could turn so that he was facing you. 

“It’ll be worth it,” Charles promised you, “and anyway, I got another podium today, so we’re supposed to be celebrating that, aren’t we?” 

“That’s true, congratulations old man.” 

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

[wethotcrazy]

CAN'T CONTROL IT

pairing: Franco Colapinto x Fem! Driver! Reader

word count: 739

just something a little short and sweet for franco colapinto. also i think the can't control their mouth and can't control their face would suit him well?! idk bro

The F1 social media team had a new favorite hobby: catching YN's reactions to everything Franco Colapinto did.

It started during pre-season testing in Bahrain. Franco, fresh in his Williams racing suit, had spun on his installation lap – a rookie mistake that had the paddock chuckling. The TV director, whether by instinct or divine intervention, cut immediately to YN in the Alpine garage.

Her expression was poetry in motion: eyes rolling skyward, lips pressed together to suppress a smile, followed by a head shake that somehow conveyed both "I can't believe this" and "that's my idiot" in one fluid movement.

The clip went viral within hours.

"Have you seen this?" Franco bounded into the Alpine hospitality area, phone already extended. "'Every Time YN Dies Inside Watching Franco Colapinto: Testing Edition' – they even put sad violin music over your faces!"

YN didn't need to look. She'd already seen the compilation – a masterfully edited collection of her various reactions to Franco's testing adventures. Her personal favorite was the slow-motion zoom on her face when he'd described his first F1 car as "spicy."

"I'm starting to think you do these things on purpose," she muttered, but her treacherous face was already softening at his enthusiasm.

"Maybe I just like seeing your reactions," he winked, dropping into the seat beside her. "Remember in F3 when you said your face wasn't that expressive?"

"Remember in F2 when you said you'd learned to think before speaking?"

His laugh echoed through the hospitality area. "Some things never change, no?"

The Australian GP brought new material for the ever-growing collection of "YN Can't Control Her Face" content. As Alpine's reserve driver, she was in the garage when Franco scored his first F1 points – a remarkable P8 in a chaotic race.

His radio message was pure, unfiltered Franco: "P8! P8! YN, are you watching? Better than that time in F2 when you said I'd never score points because I was too busy talking!"

The cameras found her instantly: pride blooming across her features before she could school them into professional neutrality.

"Every time they show your face, the comments explode," Esteban teased later. "I think you've got more screen time than some of the actual drivers."

YN groaned. "Don't remind me. Someone made a TikTok trend out of my different 'Franco Reactions.'"

"At least you're not 'Can't Control His Mouth' Colapinto," Pierre chimed in. "Did you hear him in the press pen? He spent five minutes explaining how you once bet him he couldn't qualify top 10 without talking on team radio."

"Did he mention he lost that bet?"

"No, but your face when they asked you about it said everything."

Monaco was where things reached new heights. Franco, running in P6 during practice, had been providing commentary that somehow always circled back to YN:

"YN's watching, no? Tell her this is how you take the hairpin properly—" Franco spoke through team radio confidently before scraping through the hairpin.  "Ah. Maybe not like that."

The camera cuts to YN's perfect face-palm, followed by a head shake that somehow conveyed both "I knew it" and "why am I even surprised" in one swift motion.

The resulting clip went viral on Tiktok and became F1's most-watched social media post of the weekend.

"You know what I think?" Franco asked one evening, as they shared takeaway in the quiet of the paddock after everyone else had left. The cameras were finally off, but YN's face was as expressive as ever in the dim light.

"That's a dangerous start to any conversation with you."

He grinned, nudging her shoulder. "I think you like that I can't control my mouth."

"And what makes you say that?" she asked, trying and failing to keep her expression neutral.

"Because every time I talk about you, you make this face – like you're trying not to smile but can't help it. It's my favorite one."

"I do not have a special face for when you talk about me."

"Si, you do! You're making it right now!"

She threw a napkin at him, but her smile – soft and genuine and completely uncontrolled – gave her away.

The next day, during the drivers' briefing, Alex caught Franco staring at YN with an expression that mirrored all of hers – soft and fond and entirely unguarded.

The photo went viral with the caption: "Looks like neither of them can control anything anymore 💕"

[the-mad-stone]

SKILL ISSUE. LOOK. WE CAN FIX THIS

The solution is to remember what is and what is not within your control. I tortured myself with this for years because hearing [well i can't do anything about it] made me want to howl in despair even more. I thought that by giving up caring I'd be giving up my drive/duty to fix things. Doesn't being catastrophically worried mean I care? I used to have a partner who smoked and i worried myself into panic attacks over the possible risks of that. and now I see that the problem was. thinking that my lack of power there was a moral failing on my part. like. it wasn't. I had it backwards. My “caring” wasn't making me a better or worse person. All it did was make me feel certain emotions, from simmering anxiety to righteous fury - but feeling emotions/being aware isn't the same as changing the actual situation in real life. They're completely different dimensions of reality.

I think what we can do here gently untangle the following:

emotions (they're valid. if you're "catastrophically worried and miserably horrified then that sounds horrible and sucks. OP said they miss being regular sad - I miss that for them too, it really sounds overwhelming. The post is light-hearted but the emotions in it are very real and it would be okay to really let yourself feel this despair without trivialising it. At the same time, let's wait before letting our emotions dictate our actions.)

worries (OP is upset about something. What about? Something they value must be threatened. What is it? Climate, human rights? It's good to have values. It's good to care about something. It fucking sucks that it's facing problems, but for now, let's appreciate that this person cares about something instead of being consumed by apathy. Let's put a pin in that.)

actions (It's not that you can't single-handedly fix climate change - stoic texts say we actually can't control anything in this world but ourselves, hell, we can't control our own bodies and thoughts half the time. most of the time, maybe. Look at that post - "I miss being regular sad". Well, who's in charge of your head? You are. You can be regular sad about the world. It's easier said than done, but it can be done.)

We can let go of worrying about the things beyond our control - not to let ourselves off the hook, but because it makes sense in our material reality. What we can do instead is 1. feel that terror (MANDATORY STEP. DON'T DISMISS YOURSELF), 2. find out where it's coming from, 3. redirect our efforts. That's all we can do, and that's all we need to do. Is it the perfect solution? No. But that's exactly the point. Perfection is beyond our control. This isn't.

[nastybuckybarnes]

Clumsy Corporals

Pairing: Ghost x Reader

Summary: Someone takes a tumble in Ghost's bathroom, leaving him to clean up the mess.

Warnings: Angst, attempted assault, language, violence, injuries, fluff, murder(?), Nudity,

Word Count: 2.2K

A/n: fun fact - this is the first instalment for Ghost and Mouse that I ever wrote, and everything else kinda fell into place around this which I think is beautiful

A/n2: Posting this cause I feel like I just wanna escape reality a lot now and maybe some of you do too.

~*~

"Johnny told me you didn't join 'em for dinner again," Ghost says after closing the door to his quarters.

He can hear the shower running and shakes his head, following the sound and pushing open the ajar door.

"How are they supposed to warm up to you if..." the words die on his tongue almost comically as he takes in the scene before him.

You're curled up in a ball on the bathroom counter, bloodied hands clutching a towel tightly around what appears to be your naked body.

On the ground is Corporal Jacobs, a knife through the underside of his chin and a pool of blood around his head.

His lifeless eyes are open, and your eyes are focused on his body as if waiting for him to get up, to move, to attack.

Ghost surveys the scene quickly, taking in the marks around your neck, the blood on your hairline, and the cut on your cheek.

"What happened?"

He doesn't need to ask, but he does anyway.

Your bottom lip quivers, and for a moment he's not sure if you even heard him. You don't flinch, your breathing doesn't change, and you don't lift your eyes from the corpse on the ground.

"Mouse. Eyes on me."

Your gaze finally snaps to his and you suck in a sharp breath as if realizing his presence for the first time.

He inspects your face once more, swallowing his rage when he sees the bruise blooming by your eye.

"What happened here?" He nods to the body on the ground.

You follow his gaze and he watches intently as your fists tighten and you swallow hard. Your lip quivers so fast it nearly vibrates, but you take a deep breath and eventually speak.

"He fell."

He thinks he's misheard you at first, glancing between the dead man and you.

He kneels down and grabs hold of the hilt of the knife stuck under the man's chin. A knife that Ghost distinctly remembers you taking from him a long while ago.

"He fell?" He asks, tilting the dead man's head to the side and grinding his teeth together at the claw marks on the side of his face.

You put up quite the fight. He'd be proud if he wasn't so filled with fury.

You slowly lift your eyes to his and his stone heart cracks a bit at the unshed tears he sees.

"Yes," you whisper.

He watches you for a breath longer then nods slowly, looking back down to the mess on the bathroom floor.

"Looks like he took quite the tumble, hmm? Silly prick, s'what you get for running with knives."

A weight lifts slightly off of your shoulders and you nod, wiping a tear off of your cheek with a bloody hand, leaving a mess in your wake.

"Now, did he fall before or after your shower?"

You swallow hard before answering, shaking your head as if trying to get rid of the memory of what happened.

"Before." Your voice is so quiet, quieter than usual, and he finds himself straining to hear you.

He pieces together all that he can with what's before him, and quickly comes up with a plan.

"It's late, little one. How's about you finish your shower, and-"

"No!"

He's taken aback by the force of your words, the ferocity of them. The terror in your eyes is twice as surprising.

"No shower?" He clarifies, glancing at the running water, no doubt cold by now.

You shake your head, confirming his words, and he nods his understanding.

Slowly, he stands up and turns the water off, then takes a step toward you.

"New plan. You sit right here, and I stay with you. I'll call Price and Johnny to come clean this up. How's that sound?" He asks, his eyes locked on yours.

You think about it for a long moment then slowly nod, leaning into his hand when he pushes some of your hair back.

A soft sigh leaves his lips and he leans forward, placing a soft kiss to your hairline before stepping back to send a quick generic text to the two men he trusts most.

Pipe burst in my quarters. Get here now.

It takes a minute and a half for Price to get there, two minutes for Soap.

"I'm gonna go meet them at the door, Mouse, but I won't be out of eyeshot, okay? Keep your eyes on me the whole time. That's an order."

You nod carefully, your eyes never leaving his as he takes calculated steps backward out of the bathroom to meet the other men at the door.

"What's going on, Lt?" Soap's gruff voice asks quietly.

The huge man takes a slow step back, allowing the two into his room.

Each man does a sweep of the room, their eyes finally landing on the bathroom and the bloody scene within.

"Fuckin' hell," Soap murmurs, rubbing his jaw.

"What happened?" Price asks quietly, looking at you skeptically.

Your eyes, however, are still locked onto Ghost's.

Ghost gives you a gentle nod then glances over at his teammates, his friends.

"He fell."

"What the bloody hell was he doin' in 'ere in the first place?" Soap asks, slowly walking toward the bathroom to inspect.

His eyes take you in, take in the blood on your hands, the bruising wrapping like a necklace around your neck.

"I think I have an idea," is Ghost's grunted reply.

Your eyes are on the Scot as he steps into the bathroom. Your breath hitches and you scoot back on the counter the tiniest bit.

"Easy, Mouse. Johnny's just gonna help clean up. You can trust him, remember?"

Soap looks up at you and gives you a gentle smile, his own anger rising when he sees more of the damage on your soft face.

"You've saved my arse. More than once, I imagine. S'only fair I help clean up after the poor man's fall," he says gently.

You watch him for a long while then slowly nod, sniffling then wiping your face against your arm, only to hiss at the unexpected pain.

"Why don't you let the Lieutenant get you patched up, sweetheart, hmm? Let Soap and I deal with this?" Price offers, stepping into the doorway.

You look between the three of them then nod again, watching in awe as they move like a well-oiled machine.

Soap takes a step further into the bathroom and Price steps out of it, making way for Ghost to walk in and carefully scoop you up in his arms.

He carries you from the bathroom and sits you down on his desk, turning his back for just long enough to grab a first aid kit.

Price and Soap immediately get to work in the bathroom as Ghost gets to work tending to your -visible- wounds.

He starts with your face, spraying a gentle antiseptic onto the cut on your cheek.

Your eyes stay focused on his as he works, and every now and then he meets your gaze.

The bathroom door opens but you don't look away from Ghost as Price and Soap shuffle by.

Ghost, however, takes a pause and shoots a glance over his shoulder.

"Dump 'im outside. I'll do the rest."

They don't question him.

The only thing allowing him to keep a level head right now is the promise of chopping that pathetic piece of shit's body up into a thousand unrecognizable pieces and feeding him to the stray dogs in the city.

But he needs to make sure you're taken care of, first.

"When we're done here, Johnny will get you a snack while I take care of... our friend. Okay?" Though it's posed like a question, you know he's telling you what's happening and leaving little room to argue.

The door shuts with a soft click, leaving the two of you alone.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" He asks, scooting back to inspect you as much as he can.

You swallow hard and glance down, shrugging.

"I know you don't want to, but I think you should shower. I'll be right outside the door, won't let anyone in. I swear."

You look at him with wide eyes and shake your head.

"Come with me?" You finally ask, looking toward the bathroom as if it's where nightmares spawn.

For you, it is.

His brows draw together.

"You want me to sit in there with you?"

You shake your head again.

"In the water... please?"

Realization dawns on him and he's not too sure how to feel.

"You want me to shower with you?"

You nod, dainty fingers sliding over his wrist almost absentmindedly.

He doesn't have the heart to refuse you. To tell you that the shower is hardly big enough to fit him comfortably, let alone the both of you.

Instead, he just nods and helps you to your feet.

He's gentle with you, alarmingly so, as he helps you into the -now clean- bathroom, locking the door and turning the shower on.

You lean against the counter, towel held tightly around your body as he undresses swiftly.

When he's naked, he reaches a hand out to you and waits patiently for you to drop your towel, then steadies you as you step into the shower.

You barely made it this far before Corporal Jacobs-

Your thoughts are cut off by Simon stepping into the shower behind you, big warm hand holding your hip gently.

His chest presses against your back, the tiny shower even tinier now that it accommodates two.

"You okay, pretty mouse?" He asks, arms winding around your waist.

You shrug, leaning into him for a moment before slowly turning around to look up at him.

His eyes find yours, reading you, hearing the words you don't have the strength to say out loud, and then he's pressing his forehead against yours.

"You did good, little one. M'proud of you. Next time let me kill him, though. Poor bastard got off too easy, thinkin' he can go around n' touch what's mine. 'sides, don't need any blood on your pretty hands."

Your lip quivers and you tug your head away to lean it against his chest.

"Was scared," you whisper after a moment.

"Yeah, I bet."

"Of you," you add after a moment, not lifting your head even when you feel him stiffen.

"Why?" He finally asks, the fingers of his right hand trailing up and down your spine.

"Thought you... would not listen. Would think it was me."

His hand snakes up your back to grab your hair, tugging your head back gently and forcing you to look up at him.

His face is bare for your viewing pleasure, the steam the only thing between the two of you.

"Do you understand how much you mean to me? 've killed for you, love. 'n I'd do it again in a heartbeat, without question."

A silent tear slips down your cheek and is quickly lost in the humidity of the bathroom.

No more words are spoken for the rest of the shower.

He helps you gently wash your hair and your body, taking note of every scratch and bruise that wasn't there when he left you this morning.

Every new mark on your soft supple skin is another piece he's going to be cutting Jacob's body into, and he cannot wait.

But he needs to take care of his Mouse first.

When your fingers start to prune and the water is running a little cold, Simon helps you out of the shower and wraps a towel around you tightly.

He ushers you out of the bathroom, sitting you on the bed while he dries himself and tugs on some clothes.

After that, his focus is entirely on you. He dries you off gently, his eyes focused on yours the entire time, and you can't help but melt into his touch.

He helps you into one of his shirts then slides a pair of socks onto your feet.

"Do you want some water?" He asks quietly, his warm hands on your bare knees.

You shake your head, reaching forward and sliding your fingers over his thick shoulders.

"Want you. Stay."

He obeys, climbing into bed with you.

You curl up against him, nuzzling your head under his chin and taking deep comforting breaths of his scent.

He holds you against him until you fall asleep, moving only when his phone vibrates from its spot on the ground beside the bed.

Reaching for it slowly, careful not to move you too much, he scoops it up off the ground and reads the message quickly.

He sets his phone down and gingerly rolls you out of his arms, tucking you in tightly and then silently getting dressed.

He shoots you one last look once he's all dressed and ready, then slips out the door, shutting it tightly behind himself.

Soap stands outside the door, silently nodding to his Lieutenant, then turning his back to the door - keeping guard.

No words are spoken as the skull-faced man heads out to the coordinates on his phone. No questions are asked when he returns hours later with his sweater and gloves discarded and the faint smell of fire in his hair.

And when you wake up and start asking questions, he's sure to kiss them away and reassure you that you're safe. That Corporal Jacobs will never lift a finger to harm you again.

How can he? All ten are chopped off and sprinkled in different parts of the city.

Let that be a lesson to the next idiot who tries to harm his sweet little Mouse.

[dunmeshistash]

I've been having a bunch of ideas kinda float around my mind like little screensavers that I didn't feel like putting on paper, but one of these ideas just so happened to hit a corner, and it gave me an idea for what might perhaps be a bit of a silly (and oddly specific) question, but one I was very interested in asking nonetheless. Especially after reading your long post on the Demon's perspective of Laios' backstory. I really hope you don't mind.

While my memory's a tad blurry on how the scene played out in detail, I still find Laios' confrontation with the demon to be one of my favorite scenes. Definitely top 5. It's the one where Laios secretly orders Izutsumi to execute him at the slightest hint of suspicion. That one. I think that scene is among my favorites because it's both a perfect demonstration of Laios' remarkable cleverness hidden underneath all that lack of social skills, but it's also the perfect demonstration of how utterly terrifying the demon is.

At first I was under the assumption that Laios had it all under control, but the Demon's frighteningly gentle with how he twists Laios' very thoughts in a way that frames him as some sort of misanthropist, and the Winged Lion's words seemingly foil whatever plan Laios may have had. It made me think that Laios had failed, and Izutsumi's orders to lob his head off may have been a fail safe because he didn't know if he could successfully thwart the Demon's plans.

However, after finishing the story, extras, etc; I started thinking that perhaps failing was all part of Laios' plan, too. At least partially. Perhaps he realised that the only way to outsmart and ultimately best the Demon, was to let the Demon win. Perhaps he concluded that the only way for him to stand a chance against the Demon was to lose, to be at the Demon's mercy, to have his words utterly twisted; because he couldn't just make the demon "think" he had won. The only way for the Demon, the embodiment of hunger, to think he had won, was for him to actually win.

Maybe he ordered Izutsumi to… how do you put it… "artificially shorten his lifespan" because he knew the Demon would use his love for monsters against him, and would manipulate him into wishing to become the Ultimate Strongest Monster. His recent addendum (that the Ultimate Strongest Monster can eat desires) seems to support this theory, if I remember correctly. However, I can't remember for certain. Maybe his plan was to trap the Demon in his body and kill it that way? I genuinely can't remember.

So, I was wondering if you'd be interested in answering this oddly specific and mildly stupid question: How much of Laios' interaction with the Demon was planned, and how much was him fucking around and finding out? I'd love to know your thoughts on this!

PS: Laios rocks the swag he dons as king. Would happily serve under him. PPS: I hope you have a wonderful rest of your week, Mr. Morbius! Thank you for this awesome blog. You're cool.

Hello!!!!! Yeah!!!!!! The question Kabru himself would rather not know!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Same as Kabru I decided not to think too hard about but Kui definitely gave us hints that this could be the case, I don't think Laios "planned" to fail from the start, he strikes me as a very optimistic guy (as you can see with how he first thought the confrontation with Thistle could go and how he STILL tried to talk to him instead of fighting) but I think he did "prepare" somewhat for the worst case scenario, hoping for the best but preparing for the worst?

Like I don't think this part of his plan was a misdirection I think he really hoped it could be this simple? So this was plan A (although he realizes this is too optimistic I think he hopes it will work)

This part tho I'm pretty sure was partly a misdirection for his teammates, since he asks them to help him get his mind back only to tell Izutsumi to kill him at the smallest hint he lost his mind, so I think this was plan B as in "If I become the lord of the dungeon kill me so there's no more dungeon lord" which was the original canary plan

Which again is kinda confirmed by this thought bubble

I think this was plan C

He knew he no longer wished for a country where humans and monsters could coexist (because of what he saw) so I guess he had *some* idea that becoming a monster was his other wish and added that as a fail safe if plan A and B failed? I don't think he could have guessed the Demon would use his body but maybe he thought he could use the nature of the demon against him (granting his desire to become a monster even tho the monster can eat him)

As Marcille and Kabru realize tho, that might all be a coincidence and he really thought plan A or B would work lmao. WHO KNOWS Laios' mind is a mystery

I'd recommend rereading chapter 88 if you want to go thru Laios' whole plan and how the demon manipulated him, it's a great chapter (87 too with the demon origin story)

[seancurry1]

Remember, Thou Art Barnacle

A serenity prayer for election day.

Originally posted on my website.

The Ann Selzer Iowa poll, regarded as the gold standard in all of political polling, shows Harris is up +3 in a state that Trump won by +8 in 2016 and by +9 in 2020. 

And you are a barnacle. 

The election better markets have Trump up by +19 (as of noon EST, 11/5/24), and bettors don’t care if people are ashamed to admit who they’re voting for—they’re in it for the money and only the money.

And you are a barnacle. 

Mainstream pollsters have admitted to weighting their polls heavily in favor of Trump, to ensure they don’t end up with egg on their face like they did in 2016 and 2020 again. International whales are taking out huge bets in favor of Trump, swinging the markets, and right wing think tanks are flooding the zone with bullshit polls to artificially inflate Trump’s odds in the aggregate. And even if the popular vote is overwhelmingly for Harris, Trump’s team is already laying the narrative groundwork to support a Stop the Steal campaign that, by the time you read this, will likely already have started. 

All of that is true. 

And you are still a barnacle. 

You are not piloting the ship. You are not the captain of the ship. You are not laying out the potential courses the ship could take, you are not deciding which course the ship will take, you are not scouting ahead. 

You aren’t even a paying, ticket-holding passenger on the ship. You are a barnacle on the hull, deep underwater, and unfortunately, there isn’t really anything you can individually do to affect where this ship goes. Sorry! 

This isn’t an invitation to check out, or become apathetic, or (heaven forbid) embrace doomerism. Quite the opposite: this is a reminder of who you actually are in this entire scenario, of the power you do not have, and of the power you definitely do. 

After the 2016 election, some small part of myself was convinced I could change the outcome if I just posted hard enough. If I fought enough of my friends on Facebook, texted angrily, and tweeted from enough protests and rallies, somehow Trump would no longer be President-elect. 

All it did was, literally, give me a rash. I got so angry for so long that my skin started to break out in hives. A doctor friend more-than-half seriously prescribed that I “get the fuck off Facebook” until my skin returned to normal. Trump was still President-elect, the next 8 years happened the way they did, and here we are today. 

You’re going to hear a lot today: polls are tightening! Votes still aren’t in from this critical precinct! If these trends hold, then we can expect to know something by such-and-such a time! The race is as tight as can be! White supremacists are threatening violence to avenge a dead squirrel! 

(The squirrel thing is 100% real, and my god, I really wish I was joking.) 

Remember, through all of it, that you are not the captain of the ship. You are a barnacle on its hull, and there is very little you can personally do to change it at this point. You’ve already done all you can do—or maybe you haven’t, but even then, you’ve already done all you’re going to do. 

And as you stress, and consider how inebriated you’re going to get, and decide on which web pages you’ll be refreshing every thirty seconds, and stress out some more, remember too that Donald Trump hasn’t ever won the popular vote in his entire miserable life. He only won the electoral college, a racist system explicitly designed to empower slaveholders in southern states, one time, and ever since then, he has lost every election he’s declared for. 

More people did vote for the woman candidate the last time one ran for President, and more people have voted for the candidate of color than their opponent every single time a person of color has run for President on a major party ticket. 

And women have already made up a larger share of early voting than men in this, the first general election post-Dobbs, than ever before in American history. (53% women to 44% men.) 

So as you stress and consider your inebriates and say to yourself, “How can it possibly be this close?!” for the umpteenth time today, remember too that Donald Trump is a fascistic, deeply unpopular person (let alone President) backed by an even more deeply weird party, and that almost the entirety of your experience of this election is being filtered through the lens of a national, for-profit media that doesn’t care who wins, so long as you keep watching. 

Remember, you are not the captain of the ship, you are not the helmsman, you are not the map-maker. 

You are a barnacle. 

Vote for Harris, vote Democrat in your local and state races, and trust your other barnacles.

If you like this, consider signing up for my newsletter to get more writing from me right in your inbox the second it posts: sean-curry.com/signup

[drewsarms]

𓍼 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜

𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི more dark/icky!rafe bc you guys seems to loveeee him. Heavily inspired by these two post!! post 1 post 2

warnings: I would like to say I do not condone abuse or domestic violence. do NOT try to clock me. This is all fantasy. You have been warned. This is very…sinister maybe disturbing for some so proceed and read with caution. mentions of ownership, branding, slapping, spitting, tear licking, corruption, manipulation, very slight mentions of blood, 18+ mdni!!

If you sat and thought about the situation that you were in now it may seem troubling. You found yourself always asking how you’d end up with Rafe. With his actions. The people from The Cut and Figure 8 asks the same things to themselves and among their peers. You were such a sweet girl (still are). Always helping out when needed. Always being at arms reach for anyone despite what the situation was but now…now it was different. Instead of being there for everyone else it was always Rafe. Rafe was always in the picture. The cold hard stares you’d recieve from people did bother you to an extent but then again you were happy. If the word happy could ever describe it. Being up under Rafe and always at his service was something you loved, something that you’d never thought would bring you so much joy.

Fortunate was the word to describe it. To describe your connection with Rafe. Many girls would have loved to be in your place, right? The busted lip. The bruising. The branding from his ring. The burn mark from his bike when you tried to leave him. The accusations of your mind slipping to places it shouldn’t have been. Does he really love me? Why is he doing this? Is this wrong? But to you, the markings made up for it. The markings were your answer. I mean, why would he put markings that people could see, that people would know who you belonged to if he didn’t truly love you?

You found yourself stumbling in the bathroom, almost teary eyed from how hard Rafe pulled your hair when you asked him a question. “Can I go cover these bruises up? People are staring.” That was all you asked. You didn’t think it would cause such a commotion. As you rubbed your bruises, remembering what happened the last time, you overheard girls whispering as you stared at yourself in the mirror fixing your makeup. Do you think she lets him do that to her? She was such a sweet girl before. You would’ve never thought something like that would happen to her. How could she stay with a man who beats her?

“Beats me?” You thought. No. It wasn’t “beating” it couldn’t have been. It was love. At least that’s what he told you when you’d cry for him to stop. That’s what you believed. You believed any and everything that came out of Rafe’s mouth.

Wiping away your tears, trying your best to seem like you handled the situation you found Rafe amongst his friends. Your grabbed gently at his bicep. “Can we please leave. There’s something I need to talk about.” That was it. That was the last thing you remembered to come out of your mouth coherently as Rafe dragged you out of the truck and into his room.

Marks covered your entire body as you laid on the bed. A faint taste of blood swirling in your mouth, mixed with Rafe’s spit that he watched trickle down your throat, as you looked up at him in fear. “How many fucking times have I told you not to ask me questions like that?” A harsh slap coming down against your cheek and then your swollen pussy. You whined, trying so hard to conceal your cries. You didn’t want him to think he was hurting you. You didn’t want him to know how bad this was affecting you. You wanted to be his good little girl and crying because you were in pain wasn’t going to show that. “I’m so-sorry daddy. I promise it won’t happen again!” Rafe’s mind was somewhere else as he positioned three fingers against your sopping hole. “You said that the last time didn’t you bun?” Rafe pushed three fingers inside you of you, releasing a stringed cry from your lips.

You were already a mess. Bruises forming on your skin from his fist and spit dripping off your face as Rafe rubbed it in, ruining your makeup more than your tears ever could. You pressed your legs together hoping he’d go easy. But that was the thing. Rafe never went easy. Especially when he was like this. He absolutely loved doing this to you, more than he’d like to admit and secretly you loved it too.“Open those legs or I’m gonna make it worse for you.” How much worse could this possibly get? How much farther could he take this? That was a question to an answer didn’t want to feel, you didn’t want to find out. Rafe added another finger as he watched you stretch out around him. He reached up and pinched your nipples. Your mind was completely blank at this point. The only feeling you had was the fuzziness coming from your stomach down to your feet and the harsh lingering feeling of his slaps all across your body. “This will fucking teach you, won’t it?” Rafe started to slide his fingers in and out of you faster making you soak his sheets. The feeling of regret and somewhat wavered thoughts ran across the frontal lobe of your brain. What was left of it anyway.

Was this luck? Was this what you considered to be fortunate? Your tears welled up in your eyes, coming down like hurricane rain. You began to hiccup and sniffle as you reached out for Rafe, hoping to feel that sense of comfort that always made you realize that he loved you, that this is what you wanted. Rafe cups your face as he stares blankly at your witless expression, eyes widened and brows raised. “Aw bunny. Are those tears? It feels good doesn’t it?” Rafe slowly licks your tears while moaning against your face. If you were in your right mind you’d tell him no, it didn’t feel good, but as corrupted as you were it felt like a high you couldn’t, didn’t, want to come down from. You shook your head earning another harsh slap, this time right against your mouth, making you bleed more promptly. “Answer me.” An elated screech came from your swollen lips as he pumped faster now adding a fourth finger. “Y-yes daddy! Please don’t stop!” And he wasn’t. Not until you were a shaking, panting, whining, pleading, eye rolling mess for him. Not until you realized that what he was doing to you, what he’d say to you, was the right thing. After all, Rafe was doing this because he loved you and those kisses to your forehead while he whispered how good you were for him proved it.

The love for him was unbearable. This is what love was. This was Rafe’s way of showing just how much you meant to him. How could you have ever questioned him?

Taglist 🏷️: @nemesyaaa @starkeysprincess @starkeyslove @venic-bxtch @archiveofvirtue @rafeyscurtainbangs @rafesangelita @fae-of-prey @bunnyrafe @wearemadeofstardust0 @starkeysbebe @shellxrls @erwinsvow

[sashaisready]

Since You've Been Gone: Chapter 1

Bucky Barnes x Reader

After a regrettable first meeting in the cemetery, you discover that you have something in common with a certain member of the Avengers. Unfortunately, you can't choose your neighbours, even in death.

(Setting is approx. post TFATWS)

Hi, I'm back! I have no idea where this came from, or where it's going! So apologies as updates may not be consistent while I figure it out. Warnings for death of parents, grief, mentions of cemetery/graves - please tread carefully if these are triggers for you.

🍂

It was a chilly Autumn day, but not unbearable. Your coat could more than handle the frigid breeze. You squinted at the headstone as you crouched on your knees, angling your head to make sure you hadn’t left any streaks or marks from the polish. Satisfied with your performance, you trimmed a few of the roses that were leaning against it before standing and taking a step back to admire your handiwork.

Immaculate as always, so neat you could almost be fooled into thinking you weren’t even outside. You could hear your parents’ voices in your head now, joking about being able to keep their graves far cleaner that you ever managed your bedroom to be, their frequent nags falling on deaf adolescent ears.

You smiled sadly as you looked at the intricately engraved text below their names on the shared stone:

Beloved parents taken too soon,

Waiting in heaven to be reunited with their only daughter

You’d never really like that phrasing; it was a little too whimsical for your tastes – especially all these years later. But a recently orphaned teenager wasn’t exactly an expert in choosing the best headstone wording. You’d been more than happy to let your aunt and the funeral home lead the way, too paralysed by grief to make even the smallest decisions in the hellscape that was death admin.

Still, you’d never want to upset your aunt by getting it changed, there’s a lot of strange emotion tied up in grief even when time has passed, and that mourning teen has become an adult. And it wasn’t like new headstones were cheap anyway…

As you packed up your cleaning kit your attention was drawn to the two graves next to your parents’ - George and Winnifred Barnes. They had both passed several decades earlier, long before your parents were buried next to them. They had died only a few months apart according to the text…maybe they’d couldn’t survive without each other.

It was easy to infer that they no longer had anyone left earthside. The graves had been long untouched, unkempt, and overgrown, the inscriptions getting harder to read – and you’d never seen any evidence of a visitor in all your time coming here. Except of course when the cemetery staff did one of their occasional mass clean-ups of the neglected graves.

About a year ago, you’d started tending to them alongside your parents. You weren’t sure why, it just seemed like the right thing to do. They were neighbours after all. And you’d want someone to do the same for your mum and dad if you weren’t around.

You’d cleaned their stones, wiped away the grime and given them a decent polish. You’d trimmed back the weeds and laid fresh flowers. The first time took a while, but after you’d got them to a reasonable standard it was all pretty easy to maintain.

You’d often wondered who they were. What they were like. The dates suggested they’d died of old age, a luxury your parents didn’t have. Were they kind? Funny? What hobbies did they have? They were around during the war, that must’ve been tough. You knew from the inscriptions that they had children who would’ve been over hundred by now. Maybe no grandchildren which is why nobody came by to see them anymore. It made you feel sad, how we could all be just a few generations away from being forgotten entirely. At least you could try to remember them.

You gave their graves a quick once over, took away the dead flowers and added some fresh roses in their place.

“Well, I’m done,” you said aloud, “see you soon, mum and dad. And you too, George and Winnifred. Sleep well”.

You sighed, walking back to your car and back to your life. You knew all too well that the dead may be still, but the world continues around them.

🍂

A week later you were back at the cemetery with your cleaning kit slung over your back, your arms full of fresh flowers.

“Afternoon, mum and dad,” you said as you placed your kit and flowers down and pulled out the foam pad that you used to kneel on, “and you, George and Winnifred”.

“Work has been kicking my ass this week,” you sighed as you got to work on your parents’ stone. “There’s only so much I can take of Brock’s moaning about the numbers…it’s getting harder not to smash my keyboard over his head – yeah I know, violence isn’t the answer, blah-blah-blah…”

You worked diligently, chatting away as you went through your maintenance tasks. It was nice, talking to them like this. You could say anything, really. No judgements, no admonishment, just silent acceptance of everything you told them. It was a bit like therapy for you. You often imagined your parents were sitting behind you as you spoke, just out of sight.

You liked to use old newspaper to buff up the marble. As you gathered your things together, you glanced at some of the headlines from the copy you’d brought with you. Lots of dreary grimness unfortunately. There was also a longread feature on the Avengers and where they were now, their photographs lined up across the top of the page. It was sad that a few of them were dead now, or at least no longer here. You felt a pang of sadness for their loved ones – you knew what that was like.

You didn’t know all the details of The Avengers and their associates, but like everyone else you knew the basics. It was a strange time, just a decade or so ago nobody had ever thought superheroes really existed…but then all of these ‘enhanced’ people started crawling out of the woodwork, revealing weapons and technology that previously had only existed in sci-fi movies. It was hard to believe, really.

You scanned the newspaper page, looking at the pictures for a few moments. You took your time studying their faces before sighing and placing it back down.

“All done…now let’s help out George and Winnie over here, looks like you guys need some new flowers…and all that heavy rain we’ve been having has really done a number on your stones…let me just-”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the gruff voice behind you demanded, causing you such a shock that you nearly joined your parents.

You spun your body away from the graves, horrified to see a man looming over you as you stared at him open-mouthed in surprise. You hadn’t heard him approach, not quite understanding how you hadn’t noticed him coming at all…

“I said what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he repeated to you, his blue eyes alight with anger.

He was big. Bigger than you. Even under his coat you could see his broad shoulders. A mop of dark hair framed his face, most likely quite an attractive face when it wasn’t pulled into a furious sneer like it was now. He wore black gloves as he pointed at you accusingly. The fact that you were kneeling on the ground while he stood towering at his full height had not gone unnoticed by you.

There was something strangely familiar about him, but you couldn’t place it. Did he shop at the same market as you? You couldn’t quite…

“I’m…I’m just-” you spluttered as you fumbled for the words, still caught in your surprise and the fact that this normally serene time had been interrupted by a stranger yelling at you…

“Get away from there!” he snarled.

You quickly realised he was talking about the Barnes’ graves. You bounced backwards, landing painfully on your ass in your desperation to do what he said. He had a chilling air of authority that you didn’t want to screw with. You weren’t trying to piss off an angry man while you were out here all alone…

“I was just tidying them up,” you managed weakly as you sat up and clutched at the flowers.

“Nobody asked you to,” he scoffed in response as he leaned over and ran a gloved finger over Winnifred’s inscription, “you shouldn’t be clambering all over graves of people you don’t know”.

You frowned as the initial shock of the encounter wore off, now annoyed now at his abrupt rudeness towards you when you only had good intentions.

“Oh, and you know them, do you?” you snapped back sharply as your felt your emotions surge and your eyes water, your cheeks hot with mortification, “well, nobody has been to visit those graves in years so-”

“Yeah, actually I do know them - I’m their son,” he spat furiously.

Your head bounced back in surprise and confusion. You curled your lip and frowned at his strange claim, he appeared to be his mid-to-late 30s at most – many years away from the very elderly man he’d need to be for that to be true.

What was his goal here, exactly?

Was this guy just looking to start an argument and decided you’d be his target? Spouting off nonsense about random graves just to mess with you?

And where did you know him from?

Despite your survival instincts, you couldn’t help but fight back. You didn’t appreciate being messed with at the best of times, let alone when you were only here to visit your deceased loved ones. Who came to a graveyard to fuck with people? And yell at them?!

“Huh? Son?” you scoffed with derision and jabbed a finger towards the inscriptions about their children, “well, that can’t be true as that would mean their kids would have to be over a hundred…and how many one-hundred-year-olds look like you…?”

“I’m 107 years old, actually,” he said venomously. He sounded utterly sincere despite the ludicrousness of his claim. His face was sullen, his eyes piercing.

You ignored the shudder that threatened to roll through you in response. It was a strangely familiar expression on his face.

Where had you seen that look?

“Oh, yeah! You’re 107…Sure!” you laughed sarcastically. “You just have the greatest plastic surgeon of all time, in fact there’s a bunch of centenarians wandering around looking thirt-”

You trailed off as a wave of recognition suddenly hit you and the penny dropped. Oh. Oh.

He wasn’t from the market…

It was him.

Your eyes panned down to the crumpled newspaper lying next to you. The same man’s face scrutinised you from the page, an exact mirror image of the brooding 3D version in front of you. A little older now, but still unmistakably the same man.

Oh!

Now you remembered that same picture on the news. Read about the terrible things he’d done before when he was under hypnosis. For the Nazis? The Soviets? Both? Flashes of recollection hit you at once, disjointed and scattered.

It wasn’t really him doing all of it, it was a mind control thing, they’d said. He was like the Captain…the first one from the 40s. Kept young…somehow. He had a robot arm. Then there was the big government pardon after he’d helped to save the world. The deep dive the New York Times had done on his assassin past. What had they said he was called? Iceman? Winter? Winter hitman?

The Winter Soldier.

Barton? Baines? No, Barnes.

Barnes.

As in…son of Winnifred and George?

Ah.

He must’ve seen your train of thought written all over your face as he nodded solemnly at you.

“Yeah. It’s me. And I only found their resting place a few weeks ago,” he said with disdain.

You got to your feet, taking a few cautious steps backwards. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. You didn’t need to be a jerk - I’ve just been coming here for years, and I’d never seen…”

You trailed off, he didn’t care. His focus was on the graves, one gloved hand gripping the top of his father’s stone as he peered down at the grass below.

You turned to leave, giving him his privacy, “I’m sorry for your loss,” you mumbled quietly as you picked up your kit.

You started to head back to your car, then turned to face him again after a couple of steps. You warily moved back towards him and leaned over, placing a single flower between the feet of his parents’ graves. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t pick it up and throw it back in your face, either.

As you walked away, you thought you felt the weight of his gaze on your back.

🍂

Another week passed and you were back at the cemetery once more, working the usual routine and doing your best to forget what had happened the last time you were here. Upsetting a war veteran slash Avengers superhero by accusing him of not being his parents’ child was impressively incompetent, even by your standards. But in your defence, he did just start yelling at you out of nowhere. And you were only trying to help. And he was a literal defiance of nature, time, and aging…

But then again, people weren’t always their best selves in a cemetery. It wasn’t exactly Happy Hour over here. And you’d probably freak out too if you caught a stranger tinkering around with the resting place of your parents. The parents who died of old age while you were cryogenically frozen and a prisoner in your own body…

You’d done a little more reading up on him, James Buchanan Barnes. ‘Bucky’. The man behind the scary winter soldier mask. The older images of him in his combat gear were chilling, as were the alleged stats of his kills, but mainly you just felt immense empathy for a man out of time. A man who had lost his youth, a limb, his autonomy, and everybody he once knew from his old life.

You tried to put it out of your mind, catching your parents up on what they’d missed and pretty-ing things up a little around their plot. You didn’t touch the Barnes’ this time, just gave them a little wave and concentrated on your own flesh and blood.

You were a million miles away, lost in the quiet fog that often seemed to overtake you when you were working in the cemetery. It was peaceful, really. This was the one place you could switch your brain off and quiet the chatter of your head, just concentrate on the tasks you knew so well by now that your hands did them on muscle memory alone.

You were just adjusting the newest flowers when a voice interrupted you.

“Hey,” it said.

It startled you as you were still in your own world and hadn’t heard anyone else approach. You whirled around slightly panicked as a pair of eyes the colour of sapphires met yours.

It was him again.

“Oh, hello,” you replied quietly.

He stared over at you, wrapped up in his coat as he was last time. His stare was still intense despite appearing much calmer than when you first met him. He wore black pants and boots, his hands tucked away into his pockets, a dark backpack slung over his shoulder. His face was more relaxed than it was during your first encounter. His blue eyes were just as arresting, but the absence of anger made them sparkle rather than burn. He had a soft dusting of stubble across his taut jawline, his dark hair was pulled back behind his head as he absent-mindedly ran a hand over it. He was…

…hot?

Fuck.

He nodded at you in acknowledgement and moved to George and Winnifred’s plot, kneeling in front of their stones. He pulled a candle out from his backpack and lit it with a lighter, placing it between where his parents lay.

You turned away sharply, not wanting to look like you were intruding during what was clearly a private moment of mourning. You focused on your own parents’ graves, clipping back the flowers as quietly as possible.

The two of you continued doing your own thing, the awkwardness thick in the air. You remembered how furious he’d been with you last time. You considered saying something, trying to explain that you were only trying to maintain the graves, but you didn’t want to provide any more ammunition for potential anger. Instead, you continued your routine in silence, keeping your eyes down.

After you finished you packed up your stuff and cleared your throat, ‘uh, bye,” you said quietly to him as you hurried down the path and back towards your car. He didn’t respond, but looked up at you as you passed, studying you intently.

[bringbackmaes14]

I don't think it's ever reasonable to stop interacting with minors. Sociologically, it's really important for people in different age groups (or generations) to interact with each other. That means people who are 17 and 36 or 45 and 84 or 3 and 52, whatever the age difference. It helps us build language and uphold a sense of community, and it's also important to interact with people of all ages to learn new and different things about the world. A Baby Boomer might be able to tell a Gen Z person about things they remember from the Civil Rights Movement in the United States that aren't commonly taught in the school system, and vice versa, maybe the Gen Z person learned something about the Civil Rights Movement in their high school history class from a document that was found discovered in the 80s that the Baby Boomer had never heard of. And you can learn all kinds of things at any age from any person! For instance, statistically, how many adults do you think are learn facts about dinosaurs or bugs from people their own age? Probably most of the dinosaur or bug facts that they hear/learn are from children who in turn learned it from adults on TV or online. It's all a cycle of learning!!!

That's not to say that kids/minors and adults don't need their own separate spaces to exist with their peers, but I think if you turn 18 and you say "okay I'm never going to willingly interact with minors again unless I become a parent or choose a job that requires me to interact with them" then you're losing out on a lot of learning and a lot of community. And you don't even have to like kids/teens! I personally don't particularly like children, but I don't necessarily go out of my way to avoid interacting with them if the opportunity arises either (there are a lot of little kids in my neighborhood who like to ring my doorbell and ask if they can pet my cats and sometimes I have to tell them I'm busy but there have been occasions where I'll let one or two hang out for a minute to pet the cats with their parents' permission, and while hanging out I've found that each of the kids is very endearing in their own way)!

As far as online spaces go, I think the "minors dni" label is silly. For the above stated reasons but also because it doesn't truly work. I believe that (if we're just talking about Tumblr) blogs that are going to post a lot of NSFW things should advertise their blog as such, but it should be kind of the same as the warning on AO3, y'know the one that's like "hey you've clicked on a work that includes mature topics and we just wanna make sure you know that before you proceed, just go ahead and hit yes or no". I'm not saying we should just give minors free access to all things NSFW but like, what teen in the age of computers didn't look up videos or pictures that they weren't supposed to? We've all heard the "yes of course I'm over 18 years of age but just to be safe I'm going to set my birth year as 1934" bullshit. I definitely did stuff like that as a kid when I wanted to access an age restricted website.

Overall, it's probably not gonna stop minors if you have a "minor dni" tag on your blog. And it's up to us non-minor folks to teach those minors Internet safety and decorum. Teach them to check their sources. Teach them how to keep their information private. Teach them reading comprehension. Teach them to look out for warning signs like "NSFW" or "18+" and how to filter tags or posts that might trigger them. Teach them that if a post is properly tagged with all the appropriate trigger warnings and they looked at it and it triggered them, that's not the creator's fault; it is everyone's own job to curate their social media experience and social media works the same way as fanfiction: if you don't like it you don't have to interact with it. It's literally as simple as backing out of the page. Most of all, teach them that they do not have to be afraid of adults or minors on the Internet. Yes, of course there are always going to be scary people on the Internet and a lot of them are adults, but what I mean by the previous statement, especially in a fandom heavy space like Tumblr, is interact with people outside your age range! Get different perspectives on your blorbos! Learn that the Internet, fandom, and the world, are not just for young people, because no matter what age we are, we're all people. Senior citizens are people. Preteens are people. Newborns are people. And ultimately, I highly doubt you will ever run into a single person, online or face to face, that you will learn nothing from. You could learn something from them as huge as astrophysics. You could learn something as small (but just as important) as the name someone chose for their pet fish and what it means to them.

Always keep learning, as long as you are able.

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[blossoms-phan]

tit summary/thoughts/spoilers under the cut!! <3

hiii wanted to make one of these just so I can ramble about everything bc what a crazy night LMAOO gonna make another post about the day so this is just about the show

my soul left my body when the lights went dark omfg, that is literally one of my favourite parts about concerts/live shows. the smoke and lights was a lot but the second they came out it’s like everything cleared up, i loveee how they come out with their backs to us and then the happy silly music when they’re running around saying hi hehehehe

the whole intro/beginning part was so fun i just loved the bits when they were just talking to us, canada love, the history of dnp/why we're all here etc etc. the dolls/diorama is such a fun little phistory recap, though i will say it was not as wild as i was maybe expecting or what they've done on other nights lol. they "wrestled" in the first one, nothing in the manchester apartment, "kissed" (69-ed lol) in the london one and that was it but they were all SO well made (shoutout pj and sophie), i loved phil's hoodie for the 2 apartment era hehe

role model or no-le model: very fun section, i wish i could tell you all the fill in the blanks we did but i can't remember for the life of me lol i shouted yaoi so loud for all of the lawyer dan ones but alas :( but i do remember lawyer dan writes erotica about timbits, then when the side by sides came up on the screens after it had been changed to "Phim Phbits" which made them both genuinely laugh it was so sweetie. we killed regular dan and doctor phil

phanspiracies were: toilet, clothes, tour bus and wedding. honestly very solid picks, it was so surreal seeing those "phan proof" comps of them wearing the same clothes on the screen down to the zoomed in picture of the underwear from the christmas cookies video 😭 the tour bus clip will never not be crazy but it was SO funny bc we cheered so loudly after phil said it was true that they shared the bed and dan was judging us but all i could think about is the stunned silence from phantwerp day one, i will never forget listening to that live and it's probably been so entertaining for them to see the shift from that lmao. the wedding edits were so funny dan was like "i know you had that as your desktop background for 6 years" and someone behind me was like "YES I DID", dan's little kick and cheeky smile at "i'm just opposed to anything traditional" ok sure

i can't remember which section this was during it was something to do with discussing a past era but phil said "maybe I was just horny" and i screamed lmao

the boxing segment ajdjkskjsf i have been waiting for it my entire goddamn life tbh and it was so fun. no one told me about the visuals on the screen ok why do they look so GOOD in them?? i wasn't actually expecting them to knock each other out or anything but it did seem a tinyy bit tamed down from what i've seen before, like they were being very gentle with each other lol but it was cute, the bite was still bite-y and the run around the theatre was craaaazy, the camera following them is so good lol

they yapped for moose. meese. meeses for a minute straight and i forgot it was supposed to be a bit it was so natural they're good at it whether they like it or not

oh yeah that's the other thing. they are fucking INCREDIBLE performers. like, they are so good at what they do and it was one of the highlights of my life getting to experience it irl. the show is incredibly well paced, the script is funny, the audience participation makes it but it's so insane to see how well they work together. the comfort and familiarity after so many years plays a huge part (there was a solid like 7 shoulder touches btw) but their dynamic is soooo good, they play off of each other so well. literally everything @cheekyvank described to me about dan as a performer is true. he was ALWAYS moving, he moves his mouth and bends and grooves and does the absolute most but it's soooo natural, like he has so much fun doing it. that man is a theatre kid all grown up and it's incredibly endearing but he's also a master, like he was MADE to be on a stage, he's so fucking good at balancing between roasting and teasing us and pointing out at people and winking and he called out someone filming without actually saying anything and it was so smooth and lowkey hot but also like jesus i didn't even risk TRYING to take a picture i am sooooooo scared of him. also thanks to you @jonsaremembers i was looking forward to the 4 g's all night, i am their geeky girlie forever and ever 🫶

and phil. oh my sweet precious baby angel. my heart was burstingggg with phil love all night. he is so, so so so good literally everything right with this world tbh. you can tell he has SO much fun on the stage as well, there's moments where his smile softens or he just looks out onto the audience and i want to shower him with love and affection (and we did! i honestly think one of the loudest screams was for "normal phil" during role model hehe). he is so effortlessly funny, the silly little run over to the microphone every time for the "hiatus" was one of my favourite bits of the show. i absolutely loved his getting real with us bit, it reminded me so much of his youtube videos- and i hope he knows how powerful and meaningful that "light entertainment" is for us. his voice was soooo soft and gentle it was like we were his children he was talking to which i guess we kind of are in this context. i love him forever and ever

sister daniel. INCREDIBLE follow up. i knew it was coming and nothing prepared me for Her. another part of the set design/production that is so well done, the visuals and the bass dropping when she comes out is SOOO fucking good. i have never screamed so loudly in my life. i would do anything she asked me to. the underwear were so fucking short i could not see a THINGGG like. fucking hell. lots of pulling the dress down and legs crossed/staying sat the whole time though lol which fair but the confessions and water spraying was fun, it will never not be funny when dan shames people for opening their mouths after they say it's sister daniel's bath water lmfaooo

the SONG!!!!!!!! the most fun. in the entire world. it's so good it's so fun. the lyrics, them going FULL boy band mode, the hands folding over and doob grab was infinitely more devastating irl. dan is so fucking good at the dance i love you forever terminal theatre kid and i think phil has reached the peak of how well he can do it and i want to give him his flowers for trying his damn best every time you keep doing you baby. the part where it kinda slows down and they're just doing the geekiest moves ever like those are my BABIESSS dfjksajdks standing up to rave with dnp in a room full of phannies was the highlight of my entire fucking life.

this was SO much longer than i anticipated and i'm probably still gonna go on about things as i remember it but it was genuinely the most fun and memorable night of my life. i love these two silly little guys so much, it was so surreal seeing them in person after over a decade and i would do anything to experience it again but i'm so, so grateful i got to do it once and i will cherish the memories forever. and this has only made me more insane about them and cemented the fact that i wholeheartedly believe they love us, this new era, and that they're not going away anytime soon so i WILL see you guys back on the internet and hopefully outside of it one day again too <3

(i lied here’s the one picture I took aka far from dan’s prying eyes during the part where they’re not there being gay getting out of their clothes)

[staticymaticyyourlifeisatravesty]

Shit post entirely based on the fact that some of the primarchs have Xenos DNA, or straight up fucking animal DNA: Malcador, very stressed and somewhat confused: Why are the blood angels so blood thirsty? I get the black rage, that seems to some sort of strange thing to do with Baal, but why the red thirst? Emperor; entirely nonchalant: I gave Sanguinius vampire DNA *sips tea* Malcador: You did WHAT!? Why? Why would you do that?? Emperor: Seemed like a good idea at the time. I thought it might result in better soldiers and have them more enthusiastic to shed blood. I may have over estimated how enthusiastic it would make them. Malcador: .....and what of Sanguinius' wings? Are those also a product of genetic manipulation?" Emperor: Nah, that's just radiation from Baal and the warp. Oh and the little bit of Dove DNA I gave him, specifically white tipped. It was just a small amount. Shouldn't have done much. though his wings are weirdly white, so maybe I did white winged...? Hm, I can't remember. But, hey! At least the blood angels don't turn into bird abominations like the Space wolves! :D Malcador, having an aneurysm: That doesn't make it better!!!

[reidology13]

we could make it better (breaking every habit)

Spencer Reid x fem ex-famous!reader

Summary: After Spencer overcomes his addiction, he seeks out the company and forgiveness of an old flame. cw: talk of addiction, a little sad? mostly fluffy though a/n: technically a part 2 of my fic based off making the bed by olivia rodrigo, but it can definitely be read as a oneshot. maybe they are a bit unhealthy, but they're cute and that's all that matters. also this was so incredibly delayed cause my phone drowned so I'm posting this from my dad's computer

Part 1

They say time heals all wounds, and standing at the door of his past mistake, Spencer hoped it had healed hers the way it had his. It had taken him too long to find her, for his pride to break down enough to ask Garcia to search for her. A few years ago it would have been all too easy, a few years ago she was on the cover of every magazine. Now she was the public's favourite conspiracy theory, the biggest where did she go? post made on some website full of self important nobodies. 

Where did she go? A small house in a small town, a few hours from D.C, just close enough that Spencer had gotten in his car without a second thought the moment he had her address. Maybe it was a slight invasion of privacy, but Spencer had seen much more of her than the house she lived in.

As he lifted his fist to knock, doubt crept in for the first time since the beginning of his endeavour. Was he right to apologise, to show up at the doorstep of the person he hurt worse than anyone else in his life, and say sorry? Sorry. ‘Sorry’ was a puny word that could never hope to mean anything compared to what he had done, how he had used her. But it would have to do, because he had not come all that way to turn back at the flashing neon sign that said ‘CLOSURE’.

Knock, knock, knock. Was three knocks not enough? Knock. God four was too many and the last one had been so separate from the others it was clearly an afterthought that she would think was weird before she even knew it was him on the other side of-

“Spencer?” The door opened, just enough for her face to be visible through the small opening. She was so much more beautiful than he remembered, although he really didn’t remember much from back then. 

“I’m sorry.” Well that was one way to get to the point. He smacked himself internally, scolding himself for being so stupid and inconsiderate, not even saying hello or asking her how she was doing.

“Do you wanna come in? You look like you need to sit down.” She pulled the door open, stepping back to let him in, and Spencer froze. She was allowing him into her home, her space, he who had squeezed her dry, used her up and tossed her aside when he didn’t need her anymore.

Unsure what else to do, Spencer found himself sitting on her couch, the awkward tension between them palpable as he sat silently in regret of every decision he had made in the last week.

“So,” She prompted, gesturing vaguely in his direction, “How are you?”

“Good, yeah, better. You?” He looked around the room, trying to find something that would tell him anything about her life, about her. She was a stranger, really, a stranger that used to be someone he knew. He wanted to know who she was then, on that day, in her house sitting across from him.

“I’m good too. You look better.” He knew what she meant – he didn’t look high out of his mind. The far wall of the room was covered in framed pictures of her and what he assumed were her family and friends. Some were from her childhood, some were taken in front of the very house he was sitting in. 

What surprised Spencer were the photos, though few and far between, where he made an appearance. The Fourth of July party, a bright, sunny photo full of smiling faces. The poor quality of the picture did nothing to disguise the bags under his eyes, nor the dead look in hers. Her birthday, a photo of her blowing out the candles on her cake, blurred from his shaky grip on the camera.

“I don’t remember that one.” He pointed to a picture of the two of them, a dark photo that he nearly hadn’t recognised as himself. The ability to not remember had been his favourite thing back then, now the haze left him with a pit in his stomach.

“Makes sense, you were… you were bad. It was taken right near the end.” 

“I am sorry, really.” Neither of them spoke after that, the silence a warm blanket rather than a thick smog. The apology wrapped around them in a warm embrace, they did not choke on it.

She moved first, after what felt like the most peaceful eternity, slipping her hand around his, holding it in the space between them. He looked down at their joined hands, his gaze slowly drifting up until it landed on the soft smile spread across her face.

“I missed you.” She squeezed his hand gently, although it felt like she squeezed his heart instead, “I missed you from the moment I met you. It’s nice to get you back.”

“I missed you too.” He didn’t know how to explain the way it had taken him a month to get sober enough that reality hit and he realised what he’d lost. At least, he didn’t know how to explain it without having to actually say something about his addiction. He’d always been good at avoiding the topic, skirting around it with suggestions and subtle confirmations. The word ‘addiction’ made him feel weak, like he’d been defeated. He’d talked about his problem once, in a room full of people who had been through the same thing, and even then he hadn’t been able to say it. 

“You’re so strong, Spencer. You’ve come so far.” It was like she could read his mind, see every fear that haunted him and soothe it accordingly.

“So are you, I mean, you got out of everything.” His eyes dropped to his lap in shame of everything that he hadn’t noticed, all of the obvious signs of just how not okay she had been. All that she must have been going through, that he had been too far from reality to know existed, even when it was staring him in the face.

“You say that like you didn’t.” It was a simple sentiment, but maybe that was what hit him like a freight train. It wasn’t some mantra he’d heard hundreds of times, or a complicated conversation with his friends where they tried to talk to him without saying anything that actually mattered.

He got out of it.

“You’re perfect, you know that right?” The way he looked at her in that moment could only be described as reverential, she was the brightest star in a sky that he had never truly seen before.

“No I’m not.” The way she said it like a definite fact made Spencer’s heart start to crack, “Do you know why I have those pictures up?”

Spencer shook his head, “Tell me,” he said the words under his breath, as if they were surrounded by people in the empty room, “I’m not going to find you any less perfect.”

“Hope. I could never get the thought out of my head that you would come back.” She shook her head, gaze locked on the ground like she couldn’t bear to look at him as she spoke. “It was stupid, and then you actually did, and that’s stupid all over again.”

“You’re even more perfect than I thought.” Spencer laughed, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes, happy and sad and something he couldn’t put a name to. She was still holding his hand, he realised, and he used that information to interlace their fingers, placing their joined hands in his spare palm.

“I’m stupid and lucky, that’s what I am.” She snorted, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“No, not stupid.” Spencer drew circles with his thumb on her palm as he spoke, “Lucky, maybe.” 

“We’re gonna have to talk about this, us, you know that.”

“Eventually, yes. Not right now.”

“Not right now.” She confirmed, nodding slowly. They were both there, and that would have to be enough, at least for the moment.

[bawdyknocker]

A long rant justifying one minor parallel of dialogue in Gideon the Ninth...

[GtN, Harrow sees the end, maybe the entire, duel between Gideon and Naberius Tern... After the Response trial, she says a very important thing, imo.] At the end of that fight, when Gideon gets the move on Babs and punches him, pulling back and getting ready to fight again, and Babs bitches about her, Naberius calls Gideon out saying she thinks “she’s some Nonius come-again,” and says she’s more of a brawler than a *real* fighter, like him. The Third’s technique is impeccable. Perfect. Pristine. Clean… preserved… stale… so maybe he’s upset that he lost to someone who was creative while at a handicap. Gideon could’ve taken off her glasses and her cloak. Hell, she could’ve USED the cloak like a net, which would indeed fit with a style of fighting consistent with the Cohort in a real fight, you use everything you’ve got. You stick the other bastard before they can stick you, or else yer dead. (thank you @chuusyfucker for positing the idea of the cloak itself as a weapon that went unused in that duel) and yet, after the trial in Response, when Harrow is babbling gayly about how impressive and incredible it was to see Gideon fight, *through* her own eyes, she makes special mention that Gideon is, indeed, “like Nonius come-again” There is no way she did not hear Naberius Tern make that shit-ass remark at her cav. There is no way she didn’t remember that statement and specifically draw a comparison in the moment she did, explicitly to tell Gideon, “no, for real tho, you *do* fight like Matthias Nonius (no really, you can trust me on this, I have idetic memory, and I have the horrid misfortune of knowing every verse of Ortus’ Noniad… if anybody would know and recognize [who is alive and here today], it may well be me)” I honestly just love how defensive she gets for her here. it's super sweet, and also marks a serious inflection point in their relationship and the overall narrative of GtN long rant summed; Harrow, gone fan-girl post Response, tells Gideon she very well *could* be Matthias Nonius come-again, is super gay for her in ways, and is super fucking proud of her cav

[tinfoil-jones]

Gravity Falls: For Your Own Good, Ch. 5

Summary: A few years after moving to Gravity Falls and having his lab built, Stanford Pines happens upon his estranged twin brother, Stanley. He mentally prepared himself to be suffocated by his brothers neediness all over again - what he wasn't prepared for was Stanley walking right past him like he didn't even notice him.

Rating: M for language, violence, and adult implications

Preface: Dialogue only, but some actions will be annotated for clarity. Cross-Posted on AO3 Here

First - Prev - Next

CH.5

“Hey, stretch. You here to play doctor?”

“I’d just like to interview you. I’m not going to touch you if that's what you’re concerned about.”

“Why not?”

“...ANYhow, I have a few questions for you.”

“Yes, I'm single.”

“Not those kinds of questions. Can you tell me your full first name?”

“Can you give me yours first?”

“Fiddleford.”

“Stan.”

“Okay, Stan. Where are you from? And don’t you dare say from my dreams.”

“Well yeah, I’d say ‘from your dreams’, not mine. Other than that, probably some gutters or a ditch somewhere.”

“What do you mean?”

“As far as I remember, I’ve been out on the streets, or in prison. I think I had a car at some point? But I dunno what happened with that, it makes my head burn trying to think about it.”

“Do you have any family?”

“No.”

“Do you remember ever having a family?”

“I don’t remember having one, but I feel like I had one before.”

“What do you feel like happened to them?”

“They probably got tired of my BS and told me to take a hike. It’s how it always goes with me.”

“That’s a theory you’ve put together. I’m asking what you feel like happened.”

“Feel like I had a dad who was waiting for an excuse to get rid of me. I feel like I had a mom who was a liar - I probably got it from her. Maybe a sibling or two? But they don’t want me around.”

“And what do you think about Stanford?”

“You mean the guy who drugged me, kidnapped me, and is keeping me prisoner in his evil basement sub-lab in the middle of the woods? I gotta say, he makes an impression.”

“But does he seem familiar to you?”

“I don’t think I could forget someone like him” 

“Is it because of his six fingers?”

“It’s twelve , and no, that's pretty normal compared to all of his other weird crap. It’s because he’s fucking crazy , and convinced I’m some mystery twin of his. But let’s stop talking about him, and talk about you instead. Are you single? You doing anything later?”

“Stay on track, Stan. Let’s take a step back and go back to talking about you. Have you recently gotten into any accidents or sustained major injuries?”

“Define ‘major’.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Judging by your friend's reaction to the stab wounds when we met, I don’t think your definition of major injury is the same as mine.”

---

"What did you determine, Fiddleford?"

"It wasn't easy to glean things because he would not stop flirting with me - was he always this way?"

"He was a little girl-crazy when we were younger, I didn't know he liked men. But that doesn’t matter right now, what were your findings?"

"He has full cognitive function. And based on your scans he has no signs of brain damage - comparing images of his brain to yours, his genetically identical twin, there isn't any morphological difference. Based on my interview, it sounds like he's never sustained significant head trauma neither.”

"But..?"

"If he really does have amnesia, it wasn't caused by a head injury."

"What else could it be?"

"A few things - perhaps he took a drug or substance that warped his brain chemistry. Or- more likely in my opinion, based on his lifestyle and what little history he tells me, he might have undergone extreme distress that caused a mental breakdown."

"Mental trauma can cause someone to lose their memories?"

"Our memories can be a shield and a sword, Stanford. Even good memories that can comfort you through a difficult time, can also cause pain and frustration when compared to a bad predicament.

He must have gone through something so traumatic that the only way his mind could cope with the stress was to... forget things. This is a phenomenon known as repression . Most of the time, a person would repress the traumatic event itself, but it looks like he’s defied the statistics and forgotten everything else instead.”

“He can’t be… that traumatized, right? This is Stanley we’re talking about.”

“I don’t know what he was like before, but he’s got a mullet, Stanford. There ain’t no way he's in a good place mentally.”

"And how would repressing memories about our family- about me , possibly help him cope with trauma?"

"If I'm going to be frank with you, this is the first time in the years that I've known you that you even mentioned having a twin brother . You've talked about other family members before, such as your older brother Sherman, but never him.

If his mind had to prioritize which memories to keep, why would it keep memories of someone he isn't close to?"

"We are- well, we were close."

"Were is a strong word, Stanford. Survival focuses on the present, not the past.”

“... What can we do to get his memories back?”

“I’m not a therapist. But perhaps if you can get him out of the survival mindset, he’d be open to some introspection.”

“So we must disable his fight-flight-freeze response…”

“Stanford Pines, I will throw that damn tranquilizer gun down the bottomless pit if you don’t put it down. Ya'll really need to stop using the slippery slope of science without consideration for morality like it's a damn seesaw. There are other ways to get him out of fight-flight.”

“Such as?”

“I would suggest you make him feel like he’s in a safe space, but that might not work.”

“Why not? He’s perfectly safe here.”

“But does he know that? From his perspective, you’re a stranger who shot him with a tranq dart and imprisoned in your basement for scientific exploitation. And I’ll remind you, this is all without his consent. He is here against his will.”

“It’s for his own good.”

“According to you, someone he thinks he doesn’t know. This may be your twin, Stanford, but he doesn’t know that. You need to gain his trust; maybe he would have trusted you by default in the past, but that isn’t the case now.”

“I… I’m not sure how to do that, Fiddleford. At one point, we knew everything about each other. And now I barely know him, and he thinks I’m a stranger. I’m still angry at him, and still bitter about what he did before he left home, and I’m disappointed in the conman and convict he turned into… but I’m sad, because he's convinced he’s not my brother.”

“You ain’t exactly the same person you were even when we first met all them years ago. People change. How about you try talking to him?”

“Just talking to him?”

“This may be difficult for you in particular, but you should try talking to him like he’s a person; and not a science experiment, anomaly, or an equation you’re trying to solve… Hey, hey don’t be looking like the last pea at pea-time now. I believe in you, you got this.”

“Thank you, Fiddleford.”

*Ford goes back downstairs to the lab. Fiddleford waits for him to be out of earshot before speaking*

“Bless his heart. This is going to be a disaster.”

To be continued…