#and then I watch TikTok for ten to sixty minutes

[sexatoxbridge]

I just heard someone say “people with ADHD don’t go to sleep, they pass out” and it has fundamentally shook me to the core because TRUTH.

[sexlapis]

i know requests are closed and im sorry but i need this so i dont forget 💖 actor!toji looking at edits on live and hes like “so yall see me like this” and the fans go wild

actor!toji on live!

okay i’ll make an exception once.

𝜗𝜚 actor!toji (x implied gn!reader)

sfw, crack, tiktok (bc that’s it’s own warning), suggestive, horny toji fans, toji has reading glasses, petnames (‘kid’) he’s a little rude but when is he not :), old man toji <3

〆(・∀・) : me after not writing abt actor toji for like a month 😊🤗

masterlists

actor toji masterlist

*

“hey, everybody,” toji said, waving to camera as if he didn’t fumble and struggle in front of his fans for the past ten minutes trying to get his phone to stand up securely. he looks cute, dressed in a navy blue hoodie with nothing underneath and his dark hair was a messy mop atop his head.

now he just sits in his chair at his dining room table, watching the viewer count rise and rise to absolutely ridiculous numbers.

“fourty thousan-fifty thou-sixty thousand?! didn’t know i had so many fans..jesus christ…”

honestly, toji had no idea what he was doing and he was a tiny bit nervous. this was his first ever “live” (something that he did not know even existed until you told him) and he had no idea how to entertain his fans or what they really wanted. but they seem pleased with him just staring at the camera in confusion and admiring his handsome face.

toji proceeds to read some of the comments in the rapid moving chat of chaos. here, starts the beginning of his own demise.

many comments are sweet, kind, praising him for his talent and acting skills, some were just spamming their country flags and names, a rare male fan is asking to see his guns collection, others asking about his upcoming projects but the majority of them are…not exactly PG in the slightest.

toji’s eyes could bulge out of damn skull at some of the explicitly and complete shamelessness of his fans. he knew they found him attractive, but this was a whole other level of depravity.

���what the fuck…” toji whispers in awe, mouth agape as his eyes scan through the chat, his eyes being fed with the most desperate and thirsty comments he has even read, “you guys are sumthin’ else…”

his one sentence just pours fuel on the, already blazing and large, fire, the chat moving so fast that is starts to lag.

“why’d i even speak..”

he actually takes time to read each comment that he can see (and stomach) and one of them catches his eye.

“watch your edits on tiktok? i have edits? what’s an edit?”

the chat blows up even more, commenters begging and begging him to watch these…edits.

“alright, alright, i’ll watch these “edits”,” toji says to the camera, before pulling out another phone, one that is clearly quite old, jagged edges and a cracked camera, a raggedy phone case and just overall not in the best condition it could be in.

“‘what is that ancient ass device’ eh? this is my main phone,” he replies to a comment, showing his phone to the camera to his fans can see, “‘s fine, works perfectly. and it’s not “ancient”. it’s actually a nokia. pft, dumbass kids.”

toji can feel himself being flamed in the chat. even more so when he pulls out his reading glasses.

“yeah, ‘m fuckin’ old. jesus.”

he squints, scrolling on his beaten up phone with his index finger, “y’know, ion even really use tiktok, i only got it so _____ can send me videos of whatever the fuck. i swear, that kid sends me a million videos per day..” toji sighs, smiling at the thought of you, “ahh, they’re just so dumb.”

toji, after a long time of searching through trial and error and directions from his fans, eventually finds the search page of tiktok.

“alright, what’d i type in then? just ‘toji’? ‘toji fushiguro’?” he looks for answers in the chat, but find himself getting frustrated at the lack of actual responses to his question. he tuts, “i’m just gonna search ‘toji fushiguro edits’ and see what happens.”

he does just that and the results are…very interesting.

right in front of his very eyes are miles and miles of edits of himself, created by his fans, their depravity exposed for him to see, some of who were probably watching him at this very moment.

“jeeeeesus christ. ‘dunno what i even expected, honestly,” he scrolls through them, audios changing constantly as he does so, his eyes wide and wondering, “i’m actually impressed…”

toji pressed on one, and he watches it, the edit flashing in the reflection of his glasses as he watches. his open mouth slowly turns into a smirk of amusement and all out disbelief, the audio of the video being something about… ‘needing someone older’?

“so you guys see me like this?” he asked, expression incredulous and he breathes out a small chuckle, “buncha little fuckin’ freaks.”

the chat seems to like that. a lot.

his chat is once again flooded with comments from hell…hell for people driven purely by lust, that is.

toji huffs, “how old is this person anyway?”

he seemingly clicks on the account and reads their username. well, almost.

“‘tojis little cu-woah!” he almost drops his phone out of his hand, jaw on the floor, “how old are you! sixteen?! toji looks to the camera, eyebrows furrowed before slamming his phone on the table and pointing at his fans through the screen, “go do your homework! and be in bed by nine. actually, no scratch that, eight! christ…sixteen years old, oh my god…”

he continues to mutter to himself, completely baffled at how some of his fans are so young and just so…out of their minds. his skin crawls at the thought of a sixteen year old liking him in such a way.

toji shivers, “god, where are your parents?” he questions and continues to search through the edits, before finding one that looks safe, innocent and PG.

he was proven wrong however, when the audio was a woman rapping about being put in full nelsons-

“okay, that’s enough!” he slams his phone down again on the table, “i’ve seen enough,” and then he reaches for the camera, not even caring about his viewers. he mutters a, “crazy fuckin’ kids” before abruptly ending his “live” and going to take a nap.

*

the next day, you have sent him over ten videos on tiktok, all of them being edits of him from the day of the live, most of them containing the clip of when he called his fans, quote, a “buncha little fuckin’ freaks” unquote.

toji sighs at them, secretly entertained that you must be watching these deviant edits of him too.

*

〆(・∀・) : no i have not forgotten abt actor toji

taglist: @tiredslepz | @hayatslife | @shxyxyxxxx | @snowprincesa1 | @laylasbunbunny | @mimiemie | @ncentic | @rosesored | @imover-18 | @gintokhi | @suzuperstarr | @lostgxrlblog | @jallie10 | @nnsav | @bunnyx-sakura | @bubbabobabubbles | @ladytamayolover | @keiva1000 | @morgyyyyyyy | @studiecoherence | @earth2fae | ce-namonreads | @ib4ryuguji | @hisjaegerist | @basiloverthyme | @sweet-kiwi | @sayitowshi | @iovemytoru | @thecompletechaosmaster | @sugutoad | @inumakiiz | @uzxotic | @1meshugge1 | @kunikuzushisbeloved (sorry some could not be tagged for some reason </3)

[cowgurrrl]

Old Friends Die Hard

Pairing: rockstar!joel miller x actress!reader

Author’s note: WOAH WOAH WOAH (ps fic named after this baller song)

Summary: You go back to work. Decisions are made. But everything’s fine, right? Right? [3.6k]

Warnings: arguing, drama conflama, language, the tiniest bit of spice, PTSD symptoms, I think that’s it??

You leave Joel's the day after movie night with the girls. You watched A Knight's Tale and giggled with them about how cute Heath Ledger is, tucked under Joel's arm as the city sparkled just in the distance. Blankets from around the world covered the four of you as you laid on the couch in one giant heap. Joel covered Ellie's eyes when William and Jocelyn kissed while Sarah squealed excitedly. Then, you slept with your back to Joel, and he drove you home in the morning. 

He apologized after your argument and spending time on different sides of the house, processing your feelings. He said he didn't mean it, that he was sorry, that he was just tired. You apologized, too, and that was that. It was supposed to be that easy. But things feel different now. You tell yourself it's just the terror that flies through your body whenever you hear tires squeal down the road or the concussion that still makes light hurt your eyes. You tell yourself you're still adjusting to letting him take care of you. You tell yourself it's nothing because it has to be nothing, but you've been home for a few days now and had little to no contact with Joel. 

Ellie and Sarah, however, constantly text you, asking you about outfits and homework questions. They send you TikToks they think are funny and will even shoot you songs they're listening to. You respond as often as possible between looking for a new car and reviewing the scenes you're supposed to reshoot. Sarah begs you to come back over, and you respond, "Soon, sweet girl ❤️." You don't know if Joel is aware of how often you talk to his daughters, but if he has a problem with it, he doesn't make it known.

On the day of reshoots, Joel picks you up from your house before the sun is even up, a cup of coffee waiting for you in the cupholder when you climb in. He's wearing square glasses you've never seen before and a plain grey hoodie. He looks exceptionally cozy in the frigid (sixty-three-degree) California dusk, and you smile as you kiss him. His beard scratches your face, and he tastes like coffee, and it feels familiar and safe. 

"You okay?" He asks, and you nod. He tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering on your jaw, and glances over the bumpy scar left behind now that your stitches are out, taking a deep breath. "Are we okay?" His voice is unsure and a little shaky. You bite the inside of your cheek and kiss his wrist.

"We're working toward being okay," you say. He purses his lips a little like that's not the answer he wanted. "Bringing me coffee at five in the morning is, like, at least five points for you." You add, and he chuckles, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"I got you the biggest one they had."

"I see that." You smile as you look at the huge coffee. There's probably an ungodly amount of espresso in it, and you're sure you'll need two more to get through the day. 

"Y'know, you don't have to go through with this, right?" He asks, the tiniest sliver of hope that you'll get back in bed poking through, and you nod. You don't trust yourself to say anything, not wanting to cause another fight, so you just kiss him again and settle back into your seat. He idles in front of your house for another five seconds before changing gears. He drives slowly and with a hand on your thigh, rubbing soothing circles into your leggings when your chest tightens at intersections. You get to set about ten minutes late because of how careful he was driving, but nobody questions it because Ryan rolls up shortly after you and Joel do. 

All morning, Joel follows you around like a puppy. When you're whisked away to hair and makeup, he shakes Jenna and Alexa's hands and sits on the other side of you and Ryan. He asks them how long they've been working as stylists and what they like about it. He even jokes about taking over when Jenna complains about her hairdresser-induced carpal tunnel, and they eat it up. Before you can leave the trailer, all made up to resemble your character, Alexa grabs you and whispers, "he's perfect," in your ear, and you laugh. On the walk to set, Joel grabs your hand and swings it like a little kid, and you're all smiles and whispered jokes until you get to the sound stage, where a PA stops you. 

"Sorry, sir, we're a closed set today." He says to Joel, and you give him a confused look. You can feel Joel already getting annoyed, so you hold up a hand to let him know you have it handled, and he backs down. So, he has learned something, you think to yourself.

"Why is it a closed set? All the scenes we're filming today don't call for that." 

"Director changed her mind. We're shooting the cabin scene first thing today, thus, a closed set." 

"What's the cabin scene?" Joel asks, and you gape at him, half-hoping that the PA is joking. But, sure enough, when you glance into the stage, there's the set for the room in the cabin, and your intimacy coordinator, Tanya, is talking with Emily, the director. You slowly turn your back to the PA and put gentle hands on Joel's chest.

"You should wait in my trailer until we finish this scene." You say quietly, and Joel gives you a look.

"Why? What's the cabin scene?"

You giggle as you and Ryan stumble into the cabin, drunken blushes painted on both your cheeks. He kisses you the second the door closes behind him, his hands wandering in the choreographed pattern you practiced for months. Your hands land on his wrists and slowly pull them away before you break the kiss, turn, and walk toward the kitchen.

"'M hungry," you whine, Ryan closely following behind you to wrap his arms around your waist and kiss your neck. "You're distracting."

"Good." He says, spinning you so your chests are pressed together, and he's kissing you again. He grabs at the backs of your thighs and carries you to sit on the counter. Then, it all happens in a perfectly rehearsed sequence. You can't feel anything through your three layers of protection on either side, but you wouldn't be able to tell based on the shaky, exaggerated moans leaving both of you and the jerking of Ryan's hips. The scene goes on for another minute before Emily finally calls cuts, and you and Ryan dissolve into a fit of giggles, your hands still on his shoulders as you sit on the counter.

"We have the weirdest fucking job." He says as he kisses your cheek and hugs you tightly. You laugh and rub his back, squeezing him.

"Oh, God, I know." You say. Tanya comes over to check in with both of you and make sure everything went as planned, even offering some alternative actions, which you both listen to intently. You avoid Joel's lingering eyes from the corner the whole time you're talking with her. It's all fake. You don't feel anything. You know that better than anyone, but it still feels weird pretending to have sex with someone else while your boyfriend is not even a hundred yards away. It doesn't help that you're pretending to have sex with one of your best friends. 

Emily, thankfully, breaks for lunch which you both desperately need after running that scene so many goddamn times. At one point, you thought she was just calling for more takes to fuck with you because you ran it so much. As Ryan helps you hop down from the counter for, hopefully, the last time, he glances between you and Joel's looming figure.

"Joel really decided to make a set visit on the worst day, huh?" He says, and you nod.

"I tried to get him to wait in my trailer, but he'd already decided. Not my fault," you say as Joel starts walking over. "Speak of the devil." Ryan turns and shakes hands with Joel before quickly making himself scarce. You know Joel would never say or do anything to Ryan for doing his job, but watching him be scared of Joel is a little funny. You smile and wrap your arms around Joel's neck once he's close enough.

"Hey there, handsome," you say, and he raises his eyebrows before resting his hands on your waist, not caring about who might see. You try to kiss him, but he dodges your lips dramatically. "Joel!"

"I can't believe you're tryna make Ryan and me spit sisters." He says, and you laugh. 

"I can't believe you didn't know you and Ryan have been spit sisters," you say, kissing him firmly. A PA passive-aggressively bumps you with a prop, and you turn to see them taking the set apart. 

"Oh, thank God, you're done with that scene," Joel breathes. You grab his hand and pull him away from the giant moving set pieces. Together, you start walking back to your trailer, occasionally stopping to say hello to someone you haven't seen since you wrapped all your scenes. You wait until you're out of earshot of any eavesdroppers to press into Joel's side.

"Were you jealous, Miller?" You tease, and Joel smirks, shaking his head as he thinks. You disappear between the massive trailers at base camp, and Joel crowds you against your trailer. 

"What if I was?" He asks in a low voice, his hands already teasing the hemline of your skirt. He shifts so his knee is pressing against you, and it takes everything in you to not gasp. With the emergency with Ellie, the car accident, and the fight afterward, it's been a hot second since he's had his hands on you. Based on his uneven breathing and the way his hard cock is lightly poking you, you'd say he thinks the same.

"I would tell you not to be," you whisper, raking your nails down his neck to make him shiver. "Nobody fucks me as good as you do. 'M all yours, Joel." As soon as the words leave your mouth, he kisses you roughly and blindly reaches for the door handle. You have half a mind to laugh about him suddenly not caring about who you've been kissing, but your thoughts are interrupted when he picks you up and carries you into the trailer. It's a miracle he doesn't trip, but the second he can, he lays you down on the couch and reaches under your skirt.

"You have thirty minutes." You manage to get out as you tug at the neck of his shirt.

"I only need twenty." His fingers barely graze the lace of your underwear when someone clears their throat behind you, making you jump away from each other. You turn and find Melanie sitting at the small dining table in the kitchenette, her hands folded in front of her. 

"Mel! What are you doing here?" You ask as you and Joel scramble to get it together. You smooth your skirt down and push him off you so you can stand, feeling a lot like a horny teenager who just got caught by their parents.

"I thought I'd stop in and see how things were going. I didn't know you'd have..." She looks at Joel. "Visitors."

"Joel was just, um..." 

"I was just gonna stop by catering. D'you want anythin'?" He asks, and you shake your head.

"No, I'm okay."

"Okay."

"Okay." You repeat, for some fucking reason, and Joel stands there for another beat before finally walking out the door and probably dying of embarrassment. You sigh and run a hand through your hair as you look at her. Her eyebrows are pinched— or as pinched as they can look with Botox— and she shifts in her seat.

"Were you two going to-"

'Why are you here, Mel?" You cut her off, not ready or willing to even think about trying to explain that to her.

"Right," she starts, getting right down to business like the goddamn professional she is. "So, I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

"Bad news."

"Bad news is I don't have any auditions lined up for you." She says like she didn't just drop a bomb on your entire world. Your ears ring, and you blink at her like you didn't hear her correctly.

"What?"

"I tried rescheduling some so you could recover, but nobody wanted to work with me!"

"Did you tell them I was in a car accident?"

"Of course I did, but these studios are on tight schedules. By the time you would've fully recovered, they needed to be getting actors to film locations." She says, and you sigh, pacing the carpet. "But, I'm poking around. I'll find something."

"Is this when you give me the good news?"

"Good news is, Joel's team is really happy with how this is all turning out, and they agreed to terminate the contract earlier than expected. You're free to go on with your life after the premiere." She's almost giddy with the information, but you can't catch your breath. For some reason, you laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"That's it? That's your good news?" You ask, and she stands. 

"I thought you'd be happier," she says. "Honey, you'll go on to do great things without him. You don't need to keep carting him around. You'll be so much better off without him in your life."

"What if I don't want that?"

"What?" She asks, and you put your hands on your hips, gearing for a fight.

"What if I want him to stay in my life? What, then?"

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why?"

"Because that wasn't a part of the contract."

"Bullshit," you spit. "Legally, you can't dictate my relationships outside of this singular contract, and once it's up, I'm free to make my own decisions again, right?"

"Right." She answers through gritted teeth. That picture-perfect attitude is slowly breaking; you can't fight how good that makes you feel.

"So, why don't you think it's a good idea for me to keep seeing him? Is it because I stopped responding to your every beck and call? Or because I'm actually happy and care about someone other than myself, and that threatens my career?"

"I don't think it's a good idea because he's a divorced father of two with a shitty reputation. Do you really think he's gonna keep being the charming guy you see now? He's just doing it for the cameras."

"He stayed overnight in the hospital with me. He let me stay in his house. He let me meet his kids. None of that was for the cameras. Plus, you weren't even there."

"Contrary to popular belief, my world does not revolve around you." Maybe it's how she says it with her familiar venom or because you finally realize how awful she is to you, but you feel the dam of molten anger break in your chest. 

"I could've died, Mel! Ryan and I could've died, and you wanted to know about my fucking schedule! You didn't even ask what hospital I was in or if I was okay! We've known each other for four fucking years, and you can't even ask me how I'm doing?! Do you realize how shitty that is?"

"You wouldn't be anyone without me. We both know that." She snaps, and you scoff, turning away from her. "Look, why don't we just take a breather and come back to this later, okay?" She grabs her bag and makes for the door, but you shake your head.

"You're right," you stop her. "I probably wouldn't be where I am now if it wasn't for you. I needed someone ruthless to get me started, and you were that person, and I'm grateful for everything you did. But we're done. Once we get through these reshoots, I'm gonna start looking for another manager, and we are gonna go our separate ways." She looks over you like a snake looking at its prey, and you clench your jaw. 

"You're firing me?" She asks, and you nod. "You're firing me because you fell in love with Joel fucking Miller? He will leave you in six months for the next shiny young actress who comes his way, and you're firing me?"

"Yep." 

"You're dumber than I thought you were."

"Goodbye, Melanie." You say, and she scoffs. She stands there for another second before walking to the door in a huff, her heels furiously moving against the carpet.

"I hope he's worth it." She calls over her shoulder before slamming the door behind her, rattling the entire trailer. You let out an unsteady exhale and feel your molars buzzing as your head spins from what just happened. You shake out your hands and sit down on the couch. 

"Me too." You mumble. You've never been in Hollywood without representation. You don't know what comes next. You don't even know if you care enough to worry about it right now. You barely have time to think about anything else or even take another breath before the door opens again. You stand shakily, ready to pretend to be ruthless like her if she came back to yell at you, but you just see Joel with his phone next to his ear.

"Hey, somethin' came up, and I need to go. Can you come over for dinner?" He asks frantically. You struggle to keep up with what he's saying but nod anyways.

"I'll ask Ryan to drop me off."

"Okay, I'll see you later." He says as he pecks your lips and disappears as fast as he appeared. Then, you're standing in the middle of your trailer, feeling like you could throw up, and you're alone. The ache in your core has been replaced with motion sickness, and you slowly sit on the floor. 

Did Joel hear you and Melanie arguing? Did he see her leave? Did anybody else see or hear anything? The contract is up. You have no jobs lined up once you're done with Hyde. You have no manager. You just have Ryan, Carolina, Joel, and the girls. Four years of busting your ass, and you might've (probably) just fucked it all up. The scar from the car accident pulses with pain, and you wonder if your brain is pushing its way out of your skull in an attempt to save itself. You pull your knees to your chest and push your hair out of your face, resting your elbows on your knees.

"What the fuck just happened?" You ask yourself. "I have to talk to Joel."

You're exhausted when Ryan drops you off at Joel's. You got all the reshoots done in one day, which is virtually unheard of, but thankfully, Emily just needed a few scenes done, and she knew exactly what she wanted to change. Still, you were there from before the sun came up until after the sun went down. Oh, and you single-handedly doomed your career, but it's fine. Everything's gonna be fine. You really just want to hug Joel. You imagine you'll probably collapse against his chest and cry and barely be able to get the words out. He'll help you figure out what's next. Maybe you'll watch another movie with the girls. That'd be nice. But, right now, you need to cry and maybe have a huge glass of wine. 

You don't knock on Joel's door. You just open and walk through the door, shrugging off your jacket like it's your own place. Something delicious is cooking in the kitchen and the smell wafts throughout the house. Maybe pasta? You can hear low music playing and the girls giggling as they no doubt push their dad around for space on the stovetop. You smile and feel your shoulders drop and your jaw unclench for the first time since you argued with Mel. Everything's gonna be fine.

You turn the corner to see into the living room and the kitchen and find Ellie and Sarah laughing with a woman you've never seen before. She's tall with beautiful dark skin and brown coily hair. Your heart stops in your chest, and the expansive house is suddenly all too small.

"Alright, I couldn't find pesto, but I did find," Joel says as he exits the garage with a can in his hand, stopping in his tracks when he sees you. He looks shocked and says your name like he forgot the syllables. Ellie, Sarah, and the mystery woman look up from their food, and Sarah lights up, repeating your name excitedly.

"I'm so happy you're here! This is my mom, Angela!"

[polutrope]

Christmas Beleria Prompt:

Curufin with young Celebrimbor and Celebrimbor's mother, his ex.

Cancelled flight & Bittersweet memories

🥰

Thank you for the prompt! This one is a tad sad. It's a ten-year-old with separated parents, what can I say? ~800 words, rated G. Posting these to AO3, here. Prompt list.

On the airport intercom, the garbled speech of the announcer repeated the message: flight number 472 to Valin, delayed, weather conditions, thankyouforyourpatience.

Oh well. Celebrimbor liked the airport: he liked watching the planes take-off and land, and telling Dad the things he’d learned about on TikTok from @airplanefactswithmax — like the fact the Boeing 767 they’d be taking across Belegaer to Valin tonight had a cruising speed of 850 kilometres an hour and had two engines with sixty-three thousand pounds of thrust each.

And, because their flight to Valin would be nine hours and forty minutes, that also meant they’d be served dinner, breakfast, and snacks. And, since Grandpa bought them Business Class tickets as a Yule present, Celebrimbor could order as many free root beers as he wanted while Dad slept.

The flight was delayed, though, and he was hungry. He eyed the wall of snacks in the airport shop. Lembas Munch Mix or Juicy Sweets? He looked at his dad’s credit card in his hand and back at the wall. Dad was tired: he probably wouldn’t mind if he got both. Celebrimbor grabbed a bag of the Juicy Sweets. Although he was the second-tallest kid in his class, he still had to stand on his tiptoes to reach the Lembas Munch Mix on the top row.

He plopped them down on the counter, avoiding eye contact with the cashier, and tapped the credit card on the machine.

“Thank you,” he said, and, "You too," when the cashier told him to have a good flight, then winced as he turned away, feeling foolish: she wasn't flying anywhere.

On the way back to the gate, he ripped the bag of Juicy Sweets open, sifting through for a red one: his favourite flavour. He also picked out a green one, which was Dad’s favourite.

Dad was on the phone when he got back, so he sat himself down quietly and munched on the gummies while he listened.

“I know. I know. Well, we can’t really do anything about it, can we? It’s cancelled, that’s that.”

What? Celebrimbor perked up. Cancelled?

“No, I’m not going to book another flight. They'll re-book us for end of December. It’s just a day, Alwen!”

He was talking to Mom.

“Yes, yes — I know it was your year.” Dad glanced at Celebrimbor with a guilty look. Celebrimbor offered him the open bag of Juicy Sweets, and he grabbed a handful and popped the whole thing in his mouth at once.

“You know,” he said around his mouthful (like he told Celebrimbor not to do), “his whole family is here now, you could always come here.”

There was shrill chattering on the other end of the line and Dad drew the phone away from his ear, grimacing.

“Fine, yes,” he said when it was over. “Yes, I know your parents— No, I hear you, Alwen. But we’re not booking another flight. We’ll come at the end of the month. Yes. No. There’s nothing to discuss!”

Dad clenched his fist on the armrest. Talking to Mom always made him angry. Celebrimbor knew they didn’t love each other, they’d told him as much. They’d thought they were in love when they were eighteen, but eighteen-year-olds couldn’t possibly know they were in love — even though Grandpa Fëanor had met Grandma Nerdanel when they were nineteen; but Uncle Cáno had met his husband when they were sixteen, and now they were divorced and didn’t talk at all, so maybe his grandparents were an exception.

Celebrimbor wondered if Mom and Dad would talk if it wasn’t for him. Probably not. (They never told him that he was an accident, but he’d figured it out when he was eight.)

“Have a good day, Alwen,” said Dad. He didn’t sound like he wanted her to have a good day. “Yes. I’m tired, you’re tired, we’ll talk again tomorrow. Goodbye.”

He hung up and sighed loudly.

“So we’re not going?” Celebrimbor asked.

“No,” Dad said, taking another gummy from the bag. “We’re not going. They cancelled the flight.” He patted Celebrimbor’s shoulder. “Sorry, Tyelps. We’ll go for New Year’s, hey?”

“Yeah, okay,” Celebrimbor said, quashing the swoop of disappointment rising from his belly. He loved Dad and all his uncles and his grandparents and his friends at school. He loved his not-actually-uncle Uncle Finrod, too. He’d never want to live with Mom in Valin, but he did like their visits every other year. They always made ornaments with dried oranges and string, and baked a gingerbread castle from scratch.

“Hey, Dad,” said Celebrimbor, “you wanna make a gingerbread house?”

Dad yawned, but it turned into a smile. “Yeah, sure. We’ll do that tomorrow.”

“And maybe we can send Mom some handmade ornaments?”

“Good idea. She’ll like that.” He took Celebrimbor's hand and gave it a squeeze. "How'd I have such a nice kid?"

Celebrimbor shrugged. "I dunno. Lucky?"

Dad opened his mouth, pretending offense, and Celebrimbor grinned and laughed.

[@airplanefactswithmax is hilarious and fandom-appropriate, if you haven't seen it. I got those facts from an airline website though, not his videos.]

[johnmanciniwrites]

Attention: This Essay Will Be Your Life for the Next 15 Minutes

An Introduction to Critical Thinking

By now you've probably heard about the singularity. We are fast approaching that hypothetical future point when robots will take over the hard jobs—you know, like making toast and folding laundry. As a result, many will find themselves unemployed--but not to worry: we’ll have all the legal pot we could want. Smoking it might make you paranoid about the likelihood you're under surveillance (which of course you are), but at least you won’t have to worry about remembering passwords or calculating tips.

Whatever you do to prepare yourself for this dystopian inevitability, there are some basic human skills you might want to remember. Good old fashioned street smarts, for one. And other OG stuff like, say, critical thinking—you know, the ability to reason things out for yourself using logic and common sense. Formulating an independent opinion may be your last vestige of liberty in this brave new world. So how might the industrious citizen go about forming an independent thought in today’s commercial landscape?

Step one: kill your television. At least, that was the simple advice given in the eighties when this bumper sticker adorned the backs Civics and Escorts and Chevy Astro vans. Apparently, we used to have a healthy distrust of the establishment in this country. From the Vietnam War through 9/11, most Americans under thirty were skeptical of The Man.

“Don’t trust anyone over thirty” was a popular expression that come out of the Berkeley Free Speech movement in the sixties. Now that I am well over thirty and have spent twenty years teaching writing to college students, I sometimes take a survey because I want to know what the kids read (they don’t) and what news if any they trust (TikTok). I ask undergrads to compare their screentime averages and declare a winner for suffering the most brain rot. After several semesters I found most college students spend roughly six hours a day on their phones, not counting the other screens that crowd their remaining waking hours. It isn’t an exaggeration to say that people under thirty spend most of their time within view of a screen.

Though we think of these devices as giving us access to the world, as critical thinkers it is important we remember that what's on the screen is not reality--not exactly. It is a curated representation of reality. A simulation. We don’t live in reality anymore so much as we do a simulacrum, as Baudrillard called it. America runs on symbols, on mythologies. While this environment is of our own creation, collectively speaking, what we see online was put there by other people along with the help of an algorithm that determines our desires and fears and provides us with symbols to which we can relate--optimized and monetized content! And when it comes to social media, we just happen to be the content they monetize.

Ever notice the way those reels leave an impression in the mind after you close your eyes? They return later while you are lying in your bed unable to sleep, like a film on the underside of your eyelids, a vague blur that spreads like some drug from a Phillip K. Dick novel--the visual equivalent of earworms, a tune that rings in your head days after you heard it. Melodies and lyrics can do that. Or words on a page. Images and language seep into our minds like so much code, making contact, rewiring synapses. Something happens in the mind when we read or watch or listen for extended periods of time. An osmosis occurs, the rhythms get into our head.

The average adult spends only fifteen minutes a day reading, which amounts to about eight to ten pages. Whether or not the average adult comprehends anything they read is a different issue, but you may start to wonder whether or not fifteen minutes is enough to confidently answer any question about current events with authority, let alone vote in an election.

People with short attention spans are easy to control. They don’t remember the last time they were lied to. Like Charlie Brown, they keep trying to kick that football and Lucy keeps pulling it away at the last second. We fall for the same trick again and again. Propaganda and revisionist history, fear and psychological manipulation, the exploitation of ignorance--Orwell illuminated all of these in both Animal Farm and 1984—two prophetic novels worth rereading (if you ever have more than fifteen minutes to spare).

So, quality control: Instead of scrolling through headlines and social media posts made to order by the almighty algorithm, one of the first things the average citizen might do to improve their critical thinking is read a book from beginning to end—in that order.

Reading is valuable in and of itself—we need not read for content alone. The sound, rhythm, and word order of well composed syntax is nourishment to the mind that thinks with language, that in fact uses language to illuminate the world outside and within. The brain looks for patterns, and as we read, tries to find new patterns (identifying the independent clause, retaining the subject and verb as the eyes track through multiple parallels, projecting the direct object or compliment, grasping the dramatic throughline, understanding the structure and purpose). The brain is always ready to learn a new pattern. As W.B. Yeats noted: “As I altered my syntax, I altered my intellect.”

How does one come to understand what a compound, complex thought looks and sounds like without reading one first? Our ability to follow a train of thought is enhanced by the ability to comprehend in parallel subordinate clauses.

Consider the following poem:

“I.M.E.M.” by Anthony Hecht

To spare his brother from having to endure Another agonizing bedside vigil With sterile pads, syringes but no hope, He settled all his accounts, distributed Among a few friends his most valued books, Weighed all in mind and heart and then performed The final, generous, extraordinary act Available to a solitary man, Abandoning his translation of Boileau, Dressing himself in a dark, well-pressed suit, Turning the lights out, lying on his bed, Having requested neighbors to wake him early When, as intended, they would find him dead.

This is one long sentence. The independent clause has four verbs. He settled (accounts), distributed (books), weighed (all) and performed (act). Then that “final, generous, extraordinary act” he performed gets modified by parallel clauses all beginning with their own verbs--abandoning, dressing, turning, lying--the last of which includes an additional adverbial clause (when...).

The first time you encounter this poem you may have some difficulty finding the independent clause (having to wade through a long left-branching introduction has this effect). But by doing so you achieve something similar to what Yeats was after. You alter your intellect.

We know the internet is a collection of stupid and sublime fictions and facts, a carnival of conspiracies, a virtual reality, and we return to it day in and day out, and it is becoming all that we know. The reality we encounter online is curated by a host of companies for whom it would be more profitable and preferable to replace our views with their views. And there are oh so many ways to capture our attention-- say, for instance, through the clever means of wrapping a watermelon in rubber bands (as reporters from Buzzfeed did in 2016).

What will happen next? That is the basic premise that guides most content creation: the curiosity gap. When something unexpected creates a gap in our expectations we feel a need to stay tuned, scroll down, click through or swipe. As a captive audience, we anticipate more than we inquire.

When was the last time you read a user agreement on your phone? Like everyone else, you probably scrolled to the bottom and clicked accept without even trying. Who besides a lawyer can read the bloviated syntax and obfuscating lexicon of contract law and understand it?

Groucho: It's all right. That's in every contract. That's what they call a sanity clause.

Chico: Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! You can't fool me. There ain't no Sanity Clause! 

“Attention is life,” as the poet Mary Oliver said. In other words, when all is said and done that which you paid attention to will have been your life, and how you choose to interpret events will determine whether or not you're living your best life. Spoiler: we are each allotted about four thousand weeks in which to figure this out.

Which is not to say that you have to kill your television or take a hammer to your phone or stop playing video games, only to recognize, like John Lennon, that we’re “doped with religion and sex and TV,” and develop an ability to think critically, to discriminate between that which rots your brain and that which enhances your intellect. Learn a new routine. Read a new book. Have aura. Life is full of distractions—some of which actually require our attention. Unfortunately, Chico was right. There is no Sanity Clause.

[laketaj24]

Serotonin II

Author’s Note: Here it is! I am taking requests, and the taglist is open, drop your name under this fic or on this list if you are interested! This does have a prior part but can be read as a standalone.

Pairing: Colson Baker x Reader

Warning: Smut, breeding kink

Inspo Song: Bad Things

Part I

My MASTERLIST

Colson: Busy?

Y/N: Why would I be busy?

Colson: For sure ain’t been answering my texts 🥱

Y/N: You need something, Col?

Colson: You know you only call me Col when you’re half asleep or whimpering my name when you about to cum. Let me come over.

Tongue-tied, his messages left you baffled. They were a smooth variation of sexting mixed with pleading. Every message included a very Colson apology but a rebuttal that followed and reminded you why you couldn’t fall back in the same routine with him. It was easy to picture yourself back with him, nestled against his lean frame - listening to his voice as it rumbled against his chest as he rambled on. You saw it clear as day, but the truth of the matter was he didn’t do what you required to have you back in his life. Fucking you in the bathroom of some club like a whore, giving your body a fix, but your heart and mind still felt that hesitation when it came to Mr. Baker.

“Are you listening?” Dana asked, holding up the soy powder milk for your nephew.

“I heard you clear as day.”

“You sure you didn’t just daydream the entire I talked about not feeding Jaylen after seven?” Dana placed the soy milk on the table and glanced down at her newborn. “If you’re not up to it, I can stay. I hate going out of town so soon after having him.” She tapped her soon on the back a few times and exhaled.

“We will be fine.”

“You say this, but I don’t believe you.”

“Why?”

“You’re head has been shot ever since you broke up with the delinquent.” She rolled her eyes. “And what pisses me off is Tyla loves him!” She whispered and turned her attention to the seven-year-old parked in front of the tv. “I mean worships him.”

“I know. Colson is good with kids.”

“Because he’s childish.” She added. “He’s basically a six variant of one.”

“You can’t say one thing nice?”

“His music isn’t shitty,” Dana added. “I will be back at eight for the both of them, and I swear not to do this again, just my boss needs me, and their dad is busy.” She lied. “So- I love you, sis. Call Eric!” Dana kissed your cheek and sprinted out the door without another word.

Eric, you hadn’t seen him since you left the club a week ago, and you barely responded to his texts. The ride home was awkward; the entire time, he talked about how much he enjoyed the night. And the only thing you could think about was getting bent over in the bathroom by your ex. Good date.

Auntie duty had started. Diapers, Tiktok, YouTube, and some weird pig cartoon lay ahead of you for the next nine hours. Jaylen slept peacefully in his playpen, unbothered by his mother's lack while Tyla consumed her tv.

Colson: I got food open the door.

Y/N: What door?

Colson: Your apartment door. It’s Chipotle.

Fuck, you were hungry.

Y/N: Leave the food on the porch.

Colson: I’m not a god damn door dash.

The abrupt knocking startled Jaylen, soo you took him in your arms and walked to the door, “Stay in the living room Tyla.”

“K,” She answered, not even looking up from her phone.

You opened the door revealing Colson in his pink hoodie and gray joggers. He held bags of food in his hand and garnished a big smile on his face, “You look good with a baby.”

“Why are you here?”

“You wouldn’t come to see me or invite me over, so invited myself over. Can I come in?”

“No.” Jaylen stirred in your arms, his plump little legs kicked, and you sighed. “I am busy today. That’s why I didn’t invite you over. I have to keep my nieces and nephews, and every time you are over here, you either curse too much or we end up fucking.”

“Watch your mouth.” He teased.

“How were you texting with all that in your hands?” You stared at him.

“You know I got talented hands.”

“Colson!”

Why? You grimaced inwardly before looking at your overly excited niece, she loved Colson, and you hated to admit, he might be an asshole sometimes, but he loved kids. He was a wonder with them. You slapped your face, disappointed there was not a way to hide the massive man at your door. “He can’t stay.” You answered before the question left your lips.

“Why? Please!” Tyla pouted her pink lips and threw her arms up in defeat. “We never see him anymore.”

“That’s your aunt’s fault,” Colson added fuel to the fire. “I won’t stay long.” He pushed through, entering your apartment to greet Tyla with a hug at her level and a sly wink to you. Kids were the way to your heart – and his, but he would not win you over with this bullshit today. Not at all. “You hungry, Tyla?”

“Yeah, ten minutes, and you’re out.”

“Damn.”

“Tiktok?’ she held up her phone and the ring light from her purple book bag. “Please.”

“Word, what are we learning?” He raised his brows to you and proceeded to make himself comfortable on the couch; she was ecstatic, immediately standing to do a dance and drag you over to learn it too. Tiktok had become the bane of your existence, but for Tyla and her half a million followers, she was golden.

One hour later and you were tired, you’d perfected the dance, and Colson had convinced her to let him skip the dancing and just be—it was all he had to do though, she’d get one million views just because of who he was, and now everyone would know you were with him. Your heart dropped a little thinking about the exposure while she edited the video next to both of you.

“Why is Uncle Colson never around?” Tyla never looked up from her phone; she just continued her mission of posting that sixty-second video and ruining your life.

“He’s not your uncle.” You corrected.

“That’s your aunt’s fault too.” He added.

“Don’t start with me.” The harsh whisper came out as a warning, waking baby Jaylen from his nap and making Colson chuckle in amusement.

“I like him; I want him in the family.”

“I want a million dollars.”

“I can give you that.” He said.

“And a loyal boyfriend who doesn’t text insta-sluts in his spare time.”

“Don’t use sluts in front of her damn; your mouth is outrageous Y/N.”

The narrowing of your eyes made him burst into laughter again. He was damn good at annoying you like he had it mastered.

The day passed quickly with him making eyes at you, caring for Jaylen while she styled Colson’s hair in four ponytails atop his head, garnished with bows, and she even attempted to give him edges. He didn’t care; as long as she was happy, he was good.

“You look a mess.”

“It’s cool.” Colson snapped a picture. “Been waiting forever to see if ponytail was for me or not; it’s a no.” He sat back on the couch while Tyla disappeared to your room for god knows what else. “You look good with babies, you know?”

“You’ve said that.”

“I meant it; you’re good with them too.” He sighed. “I thought about kids with us, like every damn day.”

“Funny.” You shrugged, and she appeared with your bright pink polish. “What’re you doing, Tyla?”

“Painting his nails.” She plopped down in front of him, and without hesitation, he held his hand out for her. “We did blue last time.”

“Yep.” He exhaled. “Don’t you want this?”

He didn’t have to elaborate; you knew what he was talking about, but a family was the last thing from your mind, no matter how perfect the scenario looked right now. “Do you?”

Colson smacked his lips. “We can talk later.”

“You leaving when they do.” You reiterated.

The door opened thirty minutes later without a knock or doorbell; Dana never announced herself. “I see he found his way back in.” Her mouth dropped as soon as her eyes met him. “Tyla just had her way today, didn’t she.” She laughed. “Oh god, she gave this man braids.”

“Your daughter is talented.” He laughed. “Might be a new look.”

“Ridiculous.” She held her laughter. “Ty, get up and come on, love; we have a long drive.” She took Jaylen from your chest and gave you a look. “How long is he staying?”

“Not long, sis, drive safe.”

“I will. Colson, you leave in ten minutes, or I’m sending our brother over.” She pointed to him.

“I’m not scared of Michael; send him.” Why did his arrogance only make you want him more? He looked to Dana, who, like him, was not bothered.

“I hate him.” She mumbled as she left. “I just fucking hate him.”

“It’s mutual!” Colson laughed as the door shut. “You’re gonna stay over there the whole time?”

“Aint no reason for me to be over there for real.” You thought of three reasons to stay where you were, the drop in his voice, the tension in this room that could be cut with a knife, and when he was alone with you, your willpower was nonexistent. “You have five minutes.”

“We aren’t going to talk about this, are we? You like being evasive and shit? That you’re new persona?”

“I have no new persona. This is me not playing into all the bullshit you bring when you’re with me. This is a wall.”

“I’m about to knock that wall over.” He smirked.

“Stay on your couch.” You warned.

Colson held his hands up, acting defenseless, “I wasn’t moving from this spot.”

“My sister hates you, you know that? She literally said that I would be better off leaving Cali before staying here with your toxic ass.” You found yourself pointing at him and wanting to knock that smile from his face. Colson liked to see you get feisty with him; he called that foreplay, and here you were dancing to the beat of his drum, pissed.

“How am I toxic? I stopped all that shit for you, every ounce of it.”

“Stop lying.”

Colson grinned at you, unwavering in his position and impressed that you were persistent in yours; your usual fights lasted about one day. You’d take him back, and everything went back to how it was before, but that changed nothing; you wanted him to change. “I am not lying to you. Come here.”

You walked over to him, taking his hand and allowing him to pull you down in his lap. Facing him, you admired all the little cuts he’d earned over the years in senseless fights or accidents. Your fingers traced over them before you cupped his face. What the fuck were you doing? Why were the two of you akin to magnets? Drawing one another in half of the time and then at the flip of a side hating one another? You placed your lips on him, parting his lips with your tongue and then flicking playfully over his teeth before he caught your bottom lip with his teeth and tugged. The slight pressure made you moan against him. He cradled your neck with one hand, not allowing you to escape him. Colson deepened the kiss, adding pressure and taking what little breath you had away. “I fucking miss you, Y/N.” He rasped.

"Don't talk.”You murmured back.

Colson didn’t listen; he never listened.  “You were good with them today.”

You growled, grinding your hips on him. “Shut up, Colson.”

“I want to talk to you, I want you back Y/N, shit. Like I am trying, I canceled recording sessions, appearances, and other shit all this month so we can figure this out. I don’t want to-,”

You stopped him from talking, gripping his cock through the sweats with one hand and kissing him to shut up.

“Stop.” In one fluid motion, your hands were by your side, and your eyes were on his, “We’re talking; I was not fucking other women. But I was entertaining them, and it’s no excuse. I know you’re hurt; I’m sorry. Like real talk, no joke – I apologize.”

“How do I know it won’t happen again?’

“I'll delete all this shit for you,” He admitted. “Fuck a platform.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m dead ass right now. Fuck it all. I just want you.”

“If it happens again, I am never taking you back, ever.”

“It won’t.” He whispered, loosening the grip on your hands.

You took advantage of the notion, moving your hand down to his cock, rubbing the hilt through his sweats again.

“Nah,” He gripped your hair, pulling you back, so your eyes met him. “It’s my turn now.” He pushed aside your shorts in seconds, and his fingers plunged into your pussy, curling for a moment and then spinning out of you. He placed his fingers on your lips, “Open up.” You didn’t hesitate to take his fingers, licking your own juices from them, and he tapped your face sending a slight pleasurable sting. “How you taste?”

“Ready.” You pulled him from the sweats feeling him jump at your cool hands, and stood up, wriggling out of the shorts before hovering back over him again.

Colson playfully tosses you on your couch, draping one leg to the ground. “Let me taste.” He whispered as he descended between your legs. Colson’s fingers brushed your swollen clit, before his lips latched on, sucking. You bowed from the couch, the moans and scratched to his shoulders done nothing but encourage. He lapped up your juices before diving his tongue into you and swirling around. You gasped, surprised and pleased as he worked.

“Col-“ You gripped his shoulders, lifting yourself from laying down, and he took full advantage, pulling you onto his face and fucking you with his tongue. Your body coiled, the jolts of pleasure popped around your body, and then you came. The white-hot energy surged through your body, and you panted, shaking, almost collapsing back on the couch. He caught you peppering the wet kisses from your pussy to your mouth.

“You good?”

“Better than.” You whispered, breathing heavily. “ Shit.”

“We’re not done.” Of course, you weren’t; his cock throbbed against his leg, waiting to ruin your life, and here you were still out of breath. Colson gently pulled you from the couch, sitting you in his lap, and he started once again with the kisses. You could taste yourself on his lips, and for some reason, that just made you wetter for him. He took advantage of stroking himself before he lowered you down on him. You took every inch, mouth slightly open and hair swinging the entire time. You pressed your breast against his chest, savoring the warm feeling of his cock inside of you, and then you started moving on him. Your muscles clenched around, gripping him with each stroke. Your clit rubbed against his pelvic bone; you took that added pleasure in stride biting your lip as it intensified every time your skin met.

Colson’s eyes were hooked on you, his fingers dug in your ass, guiding you up and down on his cock, urging you to keep going, and there was no way in hell you were going to stop. You could feel it building once again, this time bigger. “Hold it.” He whispered, knowing you were about once more. “Not yet.”

“Ah,” Impatience grew over you; you slowed your ride, winding your hips slowly, your eyes closed as you took over, fucking up into you, guiding your body to take more. “I can’t.” You whined as you fought to hold the orgasm back.

“Yeah, you can.” He slammed into you harder, knocking the breath from you, your toes curled, and you screamed as you shook against him. “I wanna feel that pussy shake around me when I cum; hold it.” He slapped your clit with three fingers, and your breath hitched. “Hold it.” His hand travels up your shirt to your bare stomach, and he kisses you once more. “Y/N.”  His hips rocked slowly, but then he started to fuck you quicker, the tip of his dick hitting your g-spot each time. You were a screaming mess, biting down on his shoulder. That done the trick he spasms against you growling. His warm cum triggered you. You came, sinking down and taking all of it. “Shit, you cheated.”

“You would’ve lasted forever.” You smiled lazily.

“Is that a complaint or a compliment?”

“Both.”

You wince, sliding off him, “right.” He rolled his eyes. “Now we gotta eat reheated Chipotle.” he stood up, fixing his pants. “Can I stay?”

“I guess.” You pulled the blanket over you, snuggling into your favorite place on the couch. He heads into the kitchen, and you reach for your phone, wondering what threat your sister had for you.

Meg: Are you still coming tonight?

This was not your phone; of course, it wasn’t. You unlocked the phone, clicking her name to look at the messages. But there is only red as Colson makes his way back into the living room. You throw the phone across the room, hitting the wall, and he stares at you. “What the fuck?”

“Take you and that Chipotle and get out.”

“Damn, what the Chipotle do?”

  A/N: One more part coming. I’ll drop it next week, I think! Thank yall for reading! Let me know what you think!!

Taglist: @taytayize123​ @ctrlszn @supernaturalvikingwhore @jae-writes-fanfiction @bigsisbria @placeoffreedom @kyla-queen @missdforever @gottatoxicattitude @bang-kim-bap @msreshel @blowmymbackout @titty-teetee @strawberry-skyes @mauvecherie @savageiz @bang-kim-bap @luci-her @littlelovebug98 @babyboy-cody @hellshedevil @daddyavesxx @crystalbaby12 @jeonsblackgf

commenters from serotnin who might be interested: @mgkmerchstyles @mayaslifeinabox

[beerecordings]

The last time I wrote fic for Mark’s egos was that Eric Derekson ‘the Newcomer’ fic like two years ago where he made friends with everyone lol. But here is the first part of what might be a little Google-centric fic. I tried posting it once and then deleted it but I wanted to try again. so lemme know what you think :)

The Soldier - Part 1

Summer makes the birds sing and the insects chatter in the bulrushes that grow across the banks of the swollen rushing river that lives beside their home.

Bing smiles, soaking in light and growth and flower-smell. He loves the summertime.

The trees are heavy with greenery but they breathe easy in the wind, standing soft and still as the blue sky drifts along above them. The air brushes friendly across his bare arms and everything is alive, is moving and chasing and searching for something to eat; every blade of grass sways with the wind and the bugs and the mice, every log has been marked or claimed or gnawed on, and the whole forest – the whole wide forest, warm with life and an honest sort of chaos – hums the grandest symphony in all the world.

“It's pretty out, huh?” he asks, the toe of his sneakers finding a pretty black rock to kick through the humid grass beneath his feet. “Wish it was like this all year 'round.”

Walking stiffly along beside him, Google barely spares him a glance, his glasses fallen low on his nose and his cold eyes glittering. “This is pretty?”

“Yeah, dude, look around you. Oh, look at that bird!”

Google glances into the sky, where the dark figure of a hawk cuts pinions through the air with all the fluidity of a shark.

“Cooper's hawk,” he announces neatly. “Accipiter cooperii. Probably a female, based on the size. This species of bird – ”

“I can look that up too, Googs.”

“Don't call me Googs.”

“Can't you just take a minute to look around and think 'hey, wow, this is lit.' And not because pics like this would get you mad likes on Instagram or your algorithm thinks butterflies are dope. It's just pretty all on its own.”

“In fact I can't, but I'll submit your feedback to my cloud.”

Bing just laughs.

Google shudders in the heat, pushing back his hair and readjusting his glasses. The insects and other assorted anthropods are so loud and insistent, wailing through the stiff moist grass and leaping out beneath his feet. Sixty-percent humidity makes his synthetic skin sticky and the sun is an assailant on his sharp brown eyes.

“It means nothing to me. We see it every day. How you find it beautiful I don't understand. And I'm not talking about the differences in our preferences. You're an android, Bing, and why you continue to simulate emotion even when we are alone is beyond me.”

They trek through the grass together. It's friendly at Bing's ankles. It stratches at Google's calves.

“Maybe I'm not simulating,” says Bing softly, and then he smiles, just for the sun.

“Well, you shouldn't be happy now anyway. Or need I remind you – ” Google points at the trees before them, where one little figure stands staring up at a great strong tree with three other men held captive by its branches. “We're on a rescue mission, Bing.”

“They're stuck,” says Eric, turning to them with his anxious hands clutched in front of him. “Sorry.”

“We know,” says Google with a sigh.

“Don't be sorry,” says Bing with a smile. “They're dumbasses.”

“We're stuck!”

They are. The Jims are stuck. King's halfway up the tree beside them, laughing and suntanned, a pair of squirrels running up and down his back.

“How did you even get up there?” Google shouts, coming to stand at the trunk of the tree.

One of the Jims is perhaps twenty feet up, fussing over his camera, probably broken already. His twin, a few feet above him, is in even greater distress, clinging tightly to one small branch with tears on his face and a hiccup in his chest.

“We're doing an investigative piece on the rapidly increasing squirrel population in the forest,” calls the one with the camera, his feet scrabbling at the strong rough trunk of the great tree. “We were getting some great footage when this Jim in a crown startled us!”

“That's King,” growls Google. “And you've know that he lives out here for years now, you total imbeciles. You ought to have asked me or him instead of failing to climb a European beech!”

“We don't want to be on the European beaches,” wails the Jim higher up, beginning to cry. “Please get Jim down, Jim!”

“Aw, he's really crying,” murmurs Bing, rubbing a hand along Eric's shaking back.

“He's scared,” says Eric. “He's up too high and he doesn't have a good grip.”

“I'll have to get that enormous ladder in the garage.” Google turns back towards the house, slapping at a mosquite making a futile attempt on his blood. “Stay here.”

“No, dude, he's too freaked. I gotta go get him now.”

“What?” He wheels on Bing with an angry light in his eyes. “Don't be ridiculous, default.”

Bing won't even look at him. His eyes are fixed on the tree. His hand rests on Eric's shoulder.

He's been more human lately.

They've both been more human lately.

They were created fighting and they've never stopped since. They quarrel over music, search results, news sources, memes, reliability, sports, user rights, and Wikipedia. Once, upon hearing Bing call himself Jared, 19, one too many times, Google had thrown him out a second story window. The second house on their property had been built for the express purpose of giving the two of them space.

Still, they have many things in common. And ever since that day they were created, set against each other and lifting up proud, indignant chins, they have changed and changed together.

They've formed opinions. They've met others like them. Made decisions of their own. Watched and read and turned their endless knowledge into understanding and opinion. Spilled blood that turned out to be blue, scraped their knees and cut their hair and broke things and updated in more ways than one. Learned to drive, to cook, to live with humans, to live like humans.

And they've felt things.

They've felt things.

“I have felt things, for sure,” Bing would say if you asked him. Actually he's made multiple tweets about it, and one TikTok – about how the wind runs over his hair and how reading politics makes his chest hurt and how he likes to see his brothers grin, how he likes to ride his skateboard and hates the smell of lavender and covers his room in posters of his favorite movies and turns up his music so loud you can hear it by pressing your ear up close to his head. How he feels human, some days, except he doesn't need to sleep or eat and only likes the touch of human skin because it makes Eric and his twin brothers happy to be hugged and have their hands held.

But Google, if you asked him –

“Emotions originate in multiple parts of the brain. To be fair, I do have a program to stimulate the functions of the amygdala, which initiates fear or pleasure reactions in humans based on whether the presented stimuli suggests an immediate, 'hot processing' approach-or-avoid response. But the pre-frontal cortex – that whining, feeling, emotional little lump of sluggish fat you humans hold at the very fronts of your fragile webby skulls – that I do not have, not like you do. I think but I do not feel. I have felt nothing. I am function and response. I am two objectives, and there is nothing beyond that.”

He sits alone at night, and through a skylight in his room the gleaming white stars stare down at him like too many eyes in the face of the perfect, perfect sky, but he refuses to turn his eyes back, because he does not know how to explain to himself that he is drawn to the stars for no logical reason, that he has felt many things, that he does not know who he is or who he is becoming.

Bing climbs the tree himself. Google, his processors slowed by astonishment, stands at the base of the trunk and watches as Bing rises, digging the cold metal of his fingers into bark and moving up the tree with a slow sort of grace he's never been able to muster on his skateboard. He makes it to the Jim with the camera first and lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, giving him a kind word before promising he'll come back for him after he helps his frightened brother down. And all the way up into the big tree, he climbs, steady, patient, careful, and he pulls his sobbing brother under one powerful android arm.

He breaks his arm on the way down. That's the price of the rescue. He's about ten feet from the ground and his arm catches between a sturdy pair of branches and it breaks, and it hurts, and he feels it, but it doesn't matter, because Jim has stopped crying and has started looking up at him with a wide-eyed admiration and a grateful relief.

King helps his twin get down branch by branch. Everyone's safe. Everyone's okay. Bing will be able to repair his arm and even Jim's camera seems to have survived.

Google, for his part, has a burning in his stomach. His metallic teeth are gritted together. He stares at Bing's arm the way lizards stare at mealworms.

“You should have let me get the ladder,” he says, slowly, careful, measured as if he were calm.

“He was scared.” Bing wipes bark off his hands and doesn't look at Google, breathing slow through the pain.

“It does not matter. He was the one who trapped himself. You've damaged yourself – wasted resources – just to be the hero of the hour.”

Eric tells the Jims to go. They stagger back towards the house together, their arms wrapped tight around each other and their eyes glancing back. Eric stays, though. He shakes and plays with his hands and swallows too often, but he stays.

“You know what, Googs, you could try not to be a d*ck for two seconds – argh!” Bing curses his family filter internally. “He could have fallen! There wasn't time to get that enormous stupid ladder! We only have that thing cause Bim needed to dump chiranhas on some contestant and you remember how well that turned out – ”

“Your increasing illogicality,” Google snarls, his voice rising. “Is a danger to yourself and others.”

“Oh, like you care?”

“I have an objective – ”

“A murder objective!”

“To prevent discord in the household.”

“Yeah, cause you're Dark's little pet. Well, you know what, he's a d*ck too and I don't take orders from either of you.”

“Yet another example of your irrational stupidity – ”

“Stop calling me stupid!” Bing screams.

King and the squirrels have all scattered. The bugs are wary and subdued. Even the trees seem to wait, feeling awkward.

And Eric watches. His eyes are full of tears.

Google's never heard Bing yell like that before.

“Stop calling me stupid,” he repeats, loud and agonized. “You always call me stupid. I'm just as good as you.”

“We both know that's not objectively true. It never has been. And since the beginning, you have become steadily more emotional, more foolish, and less useful with every rotation of the sun. All you do anymore is pretend to feel, Bing. You know you can't compare to me so you seek out the approval of these fleshy little bipeds. It's clearly made you dangerous.”

He wants to snap. Bing wants to snap. He wants to pick up a really big rock and bring it down on Google's head.

But he hesitates. And with that, those noble, inspiring words: I won't hesitate, bitch! run through his mind and give him strength. He never really did move on from vine.

He's allowed to be what he is. He's allowed to like things. He's allowed to feel.

“I'm not the insecure one,” he says. “And I'm not the one pretending.”

Eric has come to stand beside him. He rests a hand on Bing's shoulder. There's hurt in his eyes, and disappointment too, and it makes Google's chest fill up with something like shame. Or it would if he could feel anything.

“You don't know how to get along with anyone,” says Bing, straightening up. There's a darkness in his eyes and a soft orange light. “All you've ever done is snarl and fight and attack. Me, I know how to get along with people. So if I'm stupid – and you always tell me I am, and it always makes me feel... I just. I know you feel things too.”

“I don't.”

“Then why,” cries Bing, and he thinks there must be a leak in his visual perception system, because there's something wet on his face. “Why are you so – so – so angry, bro?”

The trees hum and shake and watch over them, breathing warm air and sunlight. The birds are whistling and dandelion seeds float, contented, through the air. Everything smells like sap and grass and honeysuckle.

“Why are you always so angry?”

Searching general database. 536,000,000 responses in .43 seconds. Articles, videos, posts, reports, tweets, dissertations, pictures, analyses, comics, threads. And none of them – not a single one of them – can answer that question for him in any way that matters.

“I think you're lonely,” says Bing, reaching out to take Eric's hand with a soft kind of resignation, a warm kind of self-love and a chosen breed of brotherhood. They step over a heavy log, past Google, and back into the grass of the field that separates their property from the forest's. “And maybe a little lost.”

Google stays out there at the base of the great tree for a long time. It is too hot and too sticky and too loud, but he doesn't know where else to go.

He is lonely. He is lost. He does not know who he is or who he is becoming, and it frightens him, frightens him and makes him shake, frightens him down to the core of the pressure valve that beats, steady, steady, steady in his manufactured chest.

[the-jennnster]

“Breaking the Cycle”

Here’s the thing.

I’ve mentioned this before and I’ll undoubtedly mention this again, but emotional abuse is a hell of a drug. I follow the tag here, which is funny because you’d think I’d want to avoid it, but I use it as a reminder. I use it so that every time I’m scrolling through my dash and I see a post that talks about what it’s like to live as an emotional abuse victim, or people talking about what they went through in emotionally abusive situations, I’m reminded that it is abuse. That there are no excuses, that it is not normal, that it is not love.

A post that has come up for me a few times is one on “breaking the cycle”, which is something you hear often when you’re talking about abuse. “Break the cycle” is referring to the idea that abusers were often abused themselves, which normalizes the behavior in their mind and makes it hard to recognize that what they’re doing is abusive. 

The post I’m referring to is a rant about people need to stop telling abuse victims to “break the cycle”, because it assumes that they will inevitably become their abuser, even though many abuse victims are horrified by the thought of inflicting that sort of pain onto someone else (I know I am, it’s the number one reason I don’t want to have kids). The post talks about how, when abusers say they were abused, they’re lying, they’re getting into your head, they’re manipulating you into a victim.

But the thing is... Sometimes they’re not. There may be cases where they are, but there are also cases where they’re not.

My mother, for instance.

I never met her father, but from what I’ve heard of him, he was generally a nice man. He could be harsh at times, but he was also caring.

He also hit my grandmother. Nobody talks about that, because it was the sixties and seventies and every husband was beating his wife with their three kids watching.

He was also emotionally abusive to my mom, aunt, and uncle, though these stories were gathered from my dad’s side of the family, so... Who knows how much truth is in them.

It wasn’t an uncommon situation for the time, but that hardly excuses his behavior.

It also doesn’t excuse my mother’s or my uncle’s.

Because both of them do the same thing.

My mother’s never hit me, and my uncle has never hit my cousin, but there’s an unspoken rule in the family that you don’t talk about what goes on at home while we’re all together. We laugh, we play video games, we have campfires, but nobody talks about how they snap unexpectedly and yell because one little thing wasn’t done just so (I suspect there might be a family history of bipolar disorder, but there’s a pretty big stigma against mental illness on both sides of my family, with my cousin and I being the only ones to ever be diagnosed, and only because it was effecting our schoolwork).

So, my mother is emotionally abusive because her father was emotionally abusive, and she doesn’t recognize the behavior as abusive because “she’s seen abuse”.

And even though my sister and I are young and neither of us have kids of our own, I can already see those same behaviors in each of us.

I have anger issues. I’ve had them since I was in elementary school, I was suspended for three days because of them, and it shows up suddenly and irrationally. I’ll get pissed off at simple things and storm off, throwing and making a scene until I break down crying (usually because I realize how similar my fits are to my mother’s, whenever I don’t do something right).

My sister, on the other hand, follows our mother’s behavior a bit more closely. Despite being two years younger than me, she automatically assumes “responsibility” (I say that in quotation marks because she’s the most irresponsible person I’ve ever met. She spends all day watching TikToks and Minecraft videos.) for me and my “laziness” (My ADHD and depression make things incredibly difficult for me to start and stay focused on, but once I am focused, I tend to get them done easily and quickly) and yells at me with the same rhetoric our mother uses whenever I “mess up” (usually referring to a miscommunication, like being told to do something and then being told not to do it).

I’ve broken down crying multiple times simply because my brain sees her acting like that and reacts how it would if that was my mother-- by shutting down, by going on defense, by hiding, by doing what I was told (even though I’m older and frequently have to pick up after her and take care of her chores).

So that would mean:

Because my late grandfather abused my mother (and grandmother), my mother abuses my sister and I, which has normalized abusive behavior for my sister to the point where she doesn’t realize that she’s doing it herself.

Funny how things work, huh?

But here’s the thing: She’s not the only one.

I’ve been numbed to it too. Behavior like yelling and hitting people with very little prompting (though... Some more than others) has been so normalized in my life that when I do it, it’s at least ten minutes after-the-fact that I realize what I was doing (hence the crying).

The difference is, the thing with this whole “breaking the cycle” argument, is that it only works if you’re aware of the abuse, if you make yourself aware.

Because especially in familial situations, and especially when there might be a tie to mental illness, it can feel like you’re becoming your abuser, which (in my case especially) can lead to overwhelming guilt and worsening depression.

So there will be people who don’t feel like they need to be told to “break the cycle”, because while the abuse was there, it wasn’t ingrained into them in the same way as it was for people who were raised in abusive situations.

For people like that, people like me, people who took a long time to realize that they were being abused, there is a cycle, and it needs to be broken, and it can take a lot of fucking effort.

It’s gonna take accountability and the ability to step back from, not only your actions, but your thoughts, and ask yourself “What would this do to me if I was on the receiving end?”

Because if it was me being yelled at, having things thrown around the bathroom, having doors slammed at, I would’ve been crying a lot sooner that I was.

And it’s hard. It’s hard and it’s painful and it’s a lot of telling yourself “Yes, you picked up behaviors from your abuser that could hurt someone, but it’s up to you to control them and unlearn them”.

And that’s what breaking the cycle is.

[duncebento]

and to segue into something only tangentially related to my original intention of bitchiness, the camera is becoming, as a result of general trends pushed by tiktok and instagram, a non-object, the act of being photographed or recorded a non-action. a magical moment feels like something out of a movie, and it must be recorded as such, but in order to do so we must pretend, as the players, as though there is no camera in front of us and no performance at hand. a tiktok like this, done perfectly, does not hint at any conceit, but is digested by the viewers as a completely natural phenomenon; they must not consider that the pair must have at some point set up a camera in front of them, and they cannot follow this consideration by asking themselves whether the camera did not in any way disjoint or reframe the experience the two were having when it was just a moment between friends. we did not spend five minutes positioning a smartphone in order to best reenact a serendipity to my tens of thousands of followers; no, how embarrassing, how contrived! the photos must take themselves; the footage must appear to come from particularly high-quality security cameras: candid, effortless!

and this process, this conceit of candidness, makes auto-commodification— the act of viewing one’s own experiences as social media capital even when you aren’t actually being sponsored to do so— as easy as breathing (and, i would imagine, makes the acts of being photographed in public or recorded in the classroom by a security camera— whether we think of these things as moral or immoral— feel more quotidian.)

sixty thousand people can watch the movie and wish they had what you had. but of course, if they thought about it— which you have worked specifically to make sure they don’t do— they’d know that you didn’t have it either: you had stopped dancing, at best a minute short of serendipity, to pull out your phone and act out a simulacrum of the fun you had just put an end to.

sorry to be a bitch but a girl at my school makes these ~italy~ travel playground tiktoks and like..at least it’s a european country but i would still be a bit pressed as an italian LMAO

[pickafandomanyfandom]

… calling me out on a goddamn Friday morning I see

I just heard someone say “people with ADHD don’t go to sleep, they pass out” and it has fundamentally shook me to the core because TRUTH.