#and yes maybe some of those followers are bots but i try to weed them out as they come so hopefully not toooo many :p

[starmaniamania]

Whaaaat!! 💥🥰

Let me use this milestone as a pretext to be corny earnest for a second...

I don't use this blog for my own personal thoughts too much so it might look like it's just an automated queue pumping out content with no one at the wheel. But that is not the case at all :p

When I started the blog in Dec 2022 it was supposed to be my own archive, and I was literally posting into the void to 0 notes every day. 18 months later, taking care of this place has become a big part of my daily life, between recording, editing, uploading and tagging everything, looking out for new meta / fanart, doing fic recaps, making memes etc. And then there's making sure the queue is ordered in a way where there's a little bit of everything all the time, something for everyone, no two videos of the same moments too close together, that every cast member gets a little bit of attention (well... you know :p)

I love looking at the "activity" page and noticing which posts you liked the most and queuing more of them, or seeing new people come in and go through a tag liking 100 pictures of Côme in a row (because lbr it's usually him) or reblog three dozen memes within a week.

So, yeah, just know that although there are very few of us still compared to many other fandoms, that only makes every interaction more precious! Whether it's a like, a reblog, a reply, an ask, a DM or whatever, it's all so deeply cherished, and I hope we keep going and growing together for a long time still! 💕💕 (<- Besoin d'amour shower of hearts on you!)

[daydreamed-snippets]

TW: Sorry, I’m in a mood. Talk of Suicide. Abuse of prescription medication. Underage drinking. Hints at abuse

It was quiet here in the bones of the old house. Cold. Drafty. Wildlife feasted on the general decomposition of trim. Faded tile and decaying drywall dangling at odd angles. Bricks lay uprooted by greenery. Furniture slowly losing its form was arranged haphazardly throughout the house. Winn could see her breath hang in the air, curl in a tight spiral before dispersing into the night. A single electric lantern kept watch beside a nest of her own making: a bedding of dried leaves, her favorite crochet blanket, and a little radio faintly playing an upbeat tune.

Oh, and a bottle of whiskey and every fucking antidepressant and mood stabilizer those bastards had ever prescribed for her. 

Playing eenie meenie miney mo, she uncapped a half-empty bottle of citalopram and popped all of it into her mouth. She took a swig, throwing her head back to ensure she swallowed. Looking around she supposed it was a fitting epitaph. Her end would be here, in this broken mausoleum, a showcase to humankind’s fundamental need to create something sublime but ultimately fail in its maintenance. To conceive something beautiful but become indifferent and bored with it, letting it fall into ruin. Wreckage that is only redeemable by nature itself. It would be nice, she thought, if something productive, beautiful even, grew out of her decaying life too. 

Then maybe everything would have been worth it.

Absently plucking at weeds poking through fractured flooring, she huddled over on herself waiting for the drugs to take effect. Her stomach turned as she tried not to think. Tried not to repeat the same question over and over in her head.

How many times did she have to lose everything to take the hint? How many times did she have to hit rock bottom before her knees buckled and her legs snapped trying to stick the landing as she broke herself to please everyone?

For her, the answer was four. Not that that matters now. Cause now it was too late. Now she finally gets it. Now she gets why her Mami was so unhappy. Why Miami's boyfriend, Leonard, wasn’t happy. Why her doctors weren’t happy. Her teachers, her friends. Everyone. Why the world was unhappy. Maybe her death would make them happy again.

A breeze picked up, whistling through the gaps. It sounded like someone was whistling and walking around the house, wooden planks creaking. That should have terrified her but her mind was starting to feel a pleasant, sleepy haziness. She took another half-empty bottle by her feet and downed the contents, choking on her own saliva and the aftertaste of the alcohol. 

Thoughts continued to rush in, unabated, like a broken dam. Each empty bottle held its own story, mostly of the times Leonard lugged her to another shrink, to “fix” her while her mother sat in the car, finding solace in a glass bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. Finishing it before Winn’s hour-long appointments were over. 

None of it ever seemed to satisfy Leonard. Not that he ever waited for her to finish her prescription before shoving the next pill down her throat, deeming the previous one ineffective when she would have another episode. Promising that the next drug would be it. That the next one would work. And she believed him. Each and every time, she believed. Whatever was wrong with her, these next pills would fix it.

But they never did. 

Soon it turned into, why can’t you be like x? Why can’t you just do x? Your attitude is why x is happening to you. Do you even want to get better from x?

She could put anything in for x. The equation stayed the same, with one common denominator: 

Her. 

Winn. 

She was the shared numerator whose value was always zero. And anything that is multiplied by zero forever equals zero.

Another half-filled bottle, another swig. Her heart started slowing down. So did her breathing, face becoming flush. She was having a hard time keeping her eyes open. 

Another floorboard whined under stress, and a voice followed it. “That is an especially painful way to die, dear one,” someone called out to her. “Overdoses can be messy affairs when attempted through the unpredictability of drugs.”

A surge of fright course through her. Who was that? A ghost? Leonard? She didn’t know. They remained out of sight. She looked up through the smog of her mind, unaware that anyone had breached the house grounds. She curled more into her nest. 

It couldn’t be Leonard. At least she didn’t think it was him. It was hard to tell right now. It didn’t sound like him. Her chest wouldn’t stop stinging, though, at war with medical sedation and her adrenaline. Trying to play it cool, she schooled her tone, wishing she had a taser on her. Cursing how stupid she was to come here without one. “You lost?” she called, scrubbing her face with the bottom of her palm, her coordination clumsy. “The main road‘s that way.” She pointed, not exactly knowing if that was the right direction anymore. “House gone to be destroyed in the morning. The bots won’t check to see if anyone’s in here before they start smashing.”

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” he asked, coming into view. It sounded more like a statement. “Because you don’t think anyone will find you before they start demolition.”

She squinted at the man in an impeccable blue suit, refusing to answer. Definitely not Leonard. But…

“Mmm, I know you,” she said scrunching her eyes, fighting to place the face, fighting to find a name. Yes, she has seen him somewhere, but her mind could only remember one location in which she encountered him. A place shrouded in metaphoric perception and youthful symbolism. A place that is both romanticized and villainized oftentimes in the same breath. A place she could only visit when she closed her eyes at night and slipped from this reality to another. 

“The man of my dreams. How—?” She swallowed, thoughts tripping over themselves. Her speech started to slur. He squatted in front of her, full weight on the balls of his expensive shoes, keeping his immaculate attire away from the dirt of the house. He moved gracefully, and though his smile looked concerned it was still every bit disarming.

“Uhh, I mean man from my dreams,” she stammered. “Uh, how is this?” It dawned on her. The part of her mind that was still intact. “Hallucinations. I’m dreaming. I-I’ve passed out.”

“You have not,” he said, making no move towards her. Simply staring her down with hooded eyes. “At least, not yet. And though I am, how did you put it, ‘the man of your dreams’, I’m not some figment of your imagination, Winnifred. I am quite real, and I’m here.”

Winn barked a laugh, “Oh my gods, for real? ‘I’m here’?” she mocked. “Everything’s good, I’m here.” She grabbed the bottle, his eyes following, and took a sip. “Fo sure, like that would really matter now. You can get your damn hair swirl outta my face with that.” 

She made a move for his hair, uncoordinated and choppy, catching herself when she leaned forward too much and fell onto her hands. It took a while. He remained still for her, attentive, but unmoved. She was able to ruffle his dark blond hair out of its slicked-back position, wrapping a finger around the bit of lock that fell over his brow without falling again. 

Their eyes met.

Realizing what she was doing she yanked her hand back as if burned. Confusion swept through her. He raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Convinced?”

“I can touch people in my dreams, it’s just...” It’s never felt so real. 

She reached for another prescription. Clearly, she was delusional. Clearly, this was a trick. She poured out the oval-shaped pill preparing to swallow it whole. It was quite possible that she was out cold, body slumped over like the furniture of this house. Quite possible she was unconscious and this was her mind’s last chance at providing her with a final comfort. A childhood sentential to keep watch as she fades away.

She tilted her head back, arm poised to sling the pills into her mouth. 

The man moves. 

He shifts to catch her wrist in a light but firm hold. The bottle slips out of her fingers, clatters to the floor, along with the pills, dropping between boards and out of reach. Winn curses. 

“Don’t touch me,” she said pulling away easily. “You don’t know me like that.”

“Listen to me, Winnifred,” his voice held a command. “I have not moved heaven and earth—I have not rescheduled my life just to watch your throw away yours. I do know you. I’ve known you since you were four years old. I’ve visited your dreams since your first nightmare. I’ve watched over you the best I could from afar.

“When I said, I’m here now, it wasn’t meant to be crass or derisive. So many people have let you down in your life, I being the chief among them. But I am here now. Things will get better. Let me prove it.”

“That wasn’t real. And dreams isn’t knowing someone.”

He tilted his head. “I know that your father left you when you were six. I know that your mother has been bounding from boyfriend to boyfriend, looking for validation but never really finding it. Each suitor worse than the last. The current beau is a monster called Leonard.”

She gulped, running a hand over her face. Tucking a curl behind her ear. He watched, gaze overly familiar. Possessive without even touching her. Eyes extracting what he wanted. She imagined he didn't take no for an answer. She imagined he changed outcomes to fit his ambitions. 

She felt unable to hide. 

“I know what he’s been doing to you,” he said, voice changing.

“H-how?”

He let out a breath of air. “I know this because I’ve seen your dreams. I know you’ve been having a recurring one of Leonard assaulting you, and then ending your life. It may happen in different facets and different places, but the theme is resoundingly the same. You also have recurring dreams of your mother’s lifeless body lying on the side of the road while traffic rushes by. Sometimes hitting her, most of the time not.” He adjusted his cufflinks, before completely abandoning his position to sit on the grassy floor. “You’ve been having these particular dreams for a while. It is because you venture into Leonard’s dreams each night, before going to your mother’s. It’s not unusual for someone with your abilities since they are the closest people to you. You’re able to see what Leonard will do to you, whether he’s willing to admit to his own perverse desires or not. And you’re able to view your mother’s darkest fears. Of being abandoned by everyone.”

“You’ve always had a talent for dream wandering and precognitive dreams. You were once able to control your dreams, steer away from the nightmares with my help.” 

“I can’t anymore. It’s too—” her voice cracked, and she was reminded of his face. His words. How Leonard taught her to hold her breath, to clamp down on her tongue. He taught her to hide truths, and keep secrets. To bear the scars without screaming, and conceal them. He showed her to shut up while her dignity—her pride—would rage beneath the surface while he was near.

“Those dreams are just dreams. That’s what Leonard said.” She needed to adhere to that. If anything could appease Leonard it was that. And she needed to appease him. Her mother was too weak, too afraid for her own life to safeguard Winn’s, and yet too desperate for a man to head out on her own. Besides if they ran, Leonard would eventually find them. He always found them.

“Trust me, like you once did,” his voice was soft, yet it cut through her racing thoughts like a well-crafted blade. He held his hand out to her, the gesture speaking of promise and nostalgia. Reminding her of how of a strong presence he was in her dreams. The one bit of sanity in an array of insane characters and worlds. He slew monsters, clothed her when she was naked, stopped her before she'd slip into a free fall. Laughed with her. Held her when she cried. He was kind to her. Above all, he showed her tenderness when no one else did.

“Remember me,” he went on, “as I was. I can be that for you again, in this waking land. You can still choose to come with me and leave all of this sorrow behind. Or,” he withdrew his hand when she turned her head, refusing to take it. “You can choose not to, and I will sit with you until you lose consciousness. Then I will carry you to the nearest medical facility where they will pump your stomach, and a physiologist will evaluate you. One not worth the paper their license was printed on. They will, in all likelihood, lock you away in a psychiatric ward, to be forever treated as a pariah. It’s your choice.” 

Her eyes jerked back towards him. He said it like a threat. Winn supposed she was running out of time. She wanted to trust him, but… she hadn’t seen him in her dreams for two years. He said that he’s there for her, but he hadn’t been. And she’d learned that being alone felt safer. 

She pulled back, making a move to stand. Maybe he’ll let her go. Maybe he wasn’t even here. His fingers didn’t act like a vice when he grabbed her earlier. She easily slipped him then. Maybe she can do it again. Maybe—

Her legs buckled under her, nerve endings on fire. She vomited, hopefully not on him. Gods, not on him. Her vision blurred, darkness edging the rim. She felt hands on her but wasn’t for sure. She was dazed. She needed to resist. Or maybe she needed to give in. She couldn’t open her eyes though was mildly aware of the feeling of being lifted, of a certain weightlessness. 

Winn was heaved against a strong chest. Instinctively, her hands went up, fingers curling and uncurling around dream man’s lapel in a display of rebellion or surrender, she wasn’t sure. She wanted defiance but it was so easy to just give in. Darkness claimed her.

Like it mattered because he wasn’t really there. Right? 

[songtoyou]

Mr. Evans and the Congresswoman - Part 2

Paring: Chris Evans x Politician Reader

Rating: PG

Word Count: 1,858

Warnings: Political topics such as Biden, Harris, our current White House occupant and the current administration. 

Description:  It is the week of the DNC and Chris is once again interviewing you for A Starting Point. 

A/N: The DNC inspired me to write a second part for this story.  This is pure fiction as I do not know what Chris believes when it comes to politics and policy issues. This is a complete work of fiction.

I do not permit my work to be to be posted on any other site without my permission.

Note: Updated for grammar and punctuation edits.

"Hi, Congresswoman Y/L/N?" Chris Evans asked with a smile.

He was once again interviewing you for ASP. This time it was during the week of the Democratic National Convention. Chris and Mark had already talked to other politicians such as Senator Cory Booker and Representatives Ro Khanna and Alma Adams. You were the last elected official he was slated to interview to wrap up the DNC week.

Truthfully, Chris was happy to get the chance to talk with you again. Your previous interview for ASP was such a hit that it garnered a lot of attention from fans and the media. However, it was not because you helped bring more legitimacy and attention for ASP, but instead, Chris found himself genuinely admiring you.

"Hi," you said to Chris, giving a small wave through the Zoom screen. "I told you to call me by my first name."

"I know, but I still want to show respect," Chris responded with a teasing smile. Was he mildly flirting with the congresswoman? Yes, but he had no shame in doing so. "How are you? You are looking well."

"I am doing well. Thank you. How about you?"

"Same. Just trying to stay sane through everything. I'm actually currently in London. Working on a project." Chris admitted.

"Uh oh. You better be staying safe and following the right procedures and protocols," you lightly reprimanded him.

"My fans ratted me out. They found where I was just by the hotel door. Can you believe that? That is some FBI-level investigating, right there. I'd be impressed if I weren't also terrified of the lengths some of these fans will go to scout my location," Chris ranted. He did not understand why he was sharing this with you, but a part of him felt comfortable doing so.

"That…is quite impressive, I must say. Creepy. Scary. But impressive. You need to learn how to put in a Zoom background. It would solve all of your problems," you suggested to him.

"I would, but I'm technology deficient. Maybe I should look up some Zoom tutorials on how to do it. Give it a try."

"There is no try…only do," you advised cheekily.

"Now you're quoting Yoda. A woman after my own heart," Chris replied. He knew he needed to refocus. "So, as you can tell, Mark won't be joining us for this interview. I'm going to hit record if that is okay?"

"Okay. I'm ready when you are," you said.

When the record notification appeared on screen, Chris introduced you and immediately went into the first question.

"How do you think the DNC is going so far, particularly how this year is more of a virtual setting rather than in-person due to COVID-19?"

"Despite not having the big in-person celebration/gathering, I think the virtual setting is working very well. Better than I expected, actually. It gives off a more inclusive and intimate vibe to the DNC that we haven't felt before. I like the whole documentary approach and feel to it," you replied honestly.

"Were you excited that Joe Biden chose Senator Kamala Harris as his running mate?" asked Chris.

"Oh my God! I was so happy that Vice President Biden chose Senator Harris as his running mate. Like, my staff and I were beyond ecstatic. There is no one better to be Biden's running mate than Harris. She is amazing. Such an inspiration. I'm not going to lie, but I'm really excited for the debate between her and Pence."

That made Chris laugh. "Yeah, me too. Senator Harris really knows how to pull all the punches. Her nomination as VP has been met with overall positive response. The Trump Administration and Republican pundits appear to have a hard time painting a negative image of Harris. Why do you think Trump and Fox News are struggling to provide a negative image for her?"

"That is an excellent question. The public's overwhelming response to Harris' nomination is because 1.) she is the first black and south Asian woman to be on a major presidential ticket, and 2.) she is likable and charming. She has this exuberant energy that attracts people to her. You know, black and brown women and girls finally have someone that looks like them running for the second-highest office in the land. That is huge!

"I also have to wonder if people have smartened up in the last four years and won't tolerate the…hypocrisy, sexism, and misogyny…in this case misogynoir that is thrown towards Senator Harris from the media, political pundits, social media bots, etc. So, what we are seeing with Trump and Fox News struggling to attack her is because…well…they just aren't smart. All we have seen from Trump in his attacks against her is that she was mean to Kavanaugh when questioning him during his nomination process. But none of what Trump says holds up because we all know that smart, confident women intimidate him," you finished off your point.

"There is also the left…or more of the progressive left who are unhappy with Biden choosing Harris," Chris spoke up and continued, "They say she is a cop and put people away for weed. That she took kids away from parents when the kid didn't show up for school. That Harris is too conservative. What do you say to that?"

"All of that is…you know…. Senator Harris one of the most policy progressive senators we have. Her voting record is more progressive than Bernie Sanders. All people have to do is research her time as a district attorney and Attorney General for California to find out what she actually did concerning policy. But as we both know, people nowadays don't know how to critically think, which scares me. Progressives need to look at the overall big picture. This election in November is crucial. We are in the fight for our democracy, for our country, and for our lives…literally."

"I talk with my brother, Scott, all the time about certain political issues," mentioned Chris. "He is a tad more progressive than I am. I can admit that I tend to be more centrist. The district you represent is a mix of blue and red areas; how do you balance opposing views from your constituents?" 

You took in a deep breath before you answered. That was a loaded question. Representing a district that was not solely red, or blue could be difficult from time to time. You wanted to be respectful of the different viewpoints from constituents, but maintaining a neutral balance was hard and frustrating at times. 

"The majority of Americans are centrist/moderates. You need a balance of both liberal and conservative policies. Bipartisanship is crucially important when developing and passing laws. We are currently seeing an overt of one-sidedness while sabotaging the other side, which is detrimental to our country's growth. It is important to reach across the aisle to talk with those who may have opposing views than you. At the end of the day, people just want to feel that their concerns are heard and valued. We all want to feel that way. So, as an elected official, I make sure to take the time to talk with those in rural areas, along with urban areas, about their issues and concerns," you shared.

"Do you ever get any pushback from Trump supporters in the red areas?" Chris inquired.

"Well, it is important to note that not all residents in rural areas are Trump supporters. They just tend to keep that to themselves. I have actually talked to Trump supporters in blue areas. We can never and should never assume that one area has this type of person and vice versa. I learned that the hard way when I was campaigning for city council early in my career," you revealed to Chris with a small chuckle. "But overall, my constituents will talk with me and have been respectful. Some of the concerns that have been shared with me do fall under the QAnon conspiracy theories, which do disturb me, I'll be honest. Um…when being confronted with someone who has that extreme of ideals, it is important to remain calm and not to come off combative. Meaning that I have to remind myself that I am not quite dealing with a rational person. The only thing that I can do is calmly talk to the person and respond back with facts. Either they listen or brush me off and call me a radical lefty."

"The majority of people are good, like you said," Chris reminded you.

"That's right. It's a good mantra to live by. I think the American people are tired and have been tired for the past four years with this Administration. We need a sense of normalcy and decency. Compassion and empathy, which were two of the big themes during the DNC. This week was a nice reminder that we, as a country, can have that again."

"I agree. Very well said. You always end on a positive. I appreciate that. Thank you, Congresswoman Y/L/N, for taking the time to talk with me. You always provide great insight into the world of politics and your experience as an elected official," said Chris and ended the recording. "That was really great, Y/N. I know Mark, and I really appreciate you taken the time to do these interviews for ASP," Chris added.

"Oh, it is no problem. Like I said before, I like what you both are doing with the site. Are you happy with how everything turned out?" you asked him.

"Yeah… it's…it took a while to just get the website up and running. I know there is still work that needs to be done. Some areas need to be fixed, but with a project like this, we can adjust. There is more room for improvement and growth," Chris communicated to you.

You nodded in agreement. "Politics is a whole different ballgame. Not many people are willing to venture into the field. It can cause a lot of annoyances and headaches. So, hats off to you, my friend," you said, giving Chris a salute.

"Thank you. Well, I better let you go. I know you must have a million things on your plate."

"Ah yes, I have to go and save the United States Postal Service from corruption. Talk to you later, Chris. Take care," you waved goodbye and signed off.

Chris had to admit, he was in awe of you. There was something about you that fascinated him. None of the elected officials he and Mark talked to for ASP had the liveliness you had. You were not jaded or defeated by the system, at least not yet, since you were still considered a junior member of congress. Chris hoped that the energy and enthusiasm you had for politics and helping people would not diminish. When his Uncle Mike was still a congressman, he shared with Chris that D.C. can cause a lot of strain on a person's values and beliefs. "I have seen too many of my colleagues succumb to the pressures of dirty politics," Uncle Mike once said.

Chris just hoped that you would not succumb to those pressures.

[null02255]

20 Tumblr Confessions

I got tagged by @quantumlevitation howdy.

Rules: Answer the questions you are comfortable with and ignore the ones you are not and tag 8 people to do the same.

1. When did you Join Tumblr, and when did you become active and started posting (broken down in case if different)?

Back in 2013? 2012? I forget when @some-creep told me “Make one loser”

2. Would you reblog your first ever tumblr post after responding to these questions?

... I mean, maybe??? It’ll be very a product of its time.

3. How many blogs do you follow?

420. Because I like the weed number.

4. How do you find blogs to follow; do you explore Tumblr by topic to find interesting ones, pick from the tags of the ones who look interesting, see them on your dash via current followers - or how?

Dashboard. Dashboard and links sent to me by friends because eventually it piles up into 420 just blaze. It will always become 420 Just Blaze.

5. Do you have any other blogs, and if so why and what are they about?

I had an NSFW blog once. Deleted it after the purge because no one really likes looking at me. I’m boring.

6. How often do you change the theme of your blog and how many themes have you gone through overall (as far as you remember)?

I will never not be a blog dedicated to that one time in the Code Veronica comic when Chris fucking uppercutted a god damn HUNTER with righteous fury.

7. Do you customize your themes or apply a theme as is?

Yes? I don’t recall... I just made myself the blog of Chris decking a Hunter.

8. Do you automatically follow back or do you check the blogs of all your new followers or only if they appear interesting?

I check first usually, just to make sure it isn’t a weird spam porn bot... it’s usually a spam porn bot.

9 How many of the blogs you started following within the first few weeks/months of joining Tumblr do you still follow (all, most, some, hardly any)?

Really all of the ones that didn’t delete or stayed. 

10. How actively do you use Tumblr’s messaging system?

I’d use it more if I got proper notifications when I got a message.

11. How many drafts do you have currently saved, or do you post/reblog straight away without saving drafts.

I live fast. Anything in my drafts is there so I can go find it again later!

12. Do you use Queue when posting?

It never works anyway so why would I?

13. Do you use XKit, and if so, what are your favourite features in it?

Once upon a time. I forgot though.

14. Do you use tracked tags, and if so, what are your favourite tags you check most frequently.

I do not...

15. Do you use tracked blogs, and if so, how many blogs you track?

What blogs?

16. Do you keep your Tumblr secret from people you know in real life?

I try. Some people found me once.

17. A) Have you ever blocked anyone? B) Do you have anyone blocked currently, and if so, how many?

I block the porn blog bots anymore. Was blocking all Jacksepticeye blogs going through a tag once for a game because it was all Jacksepticeye. Even blocked the Jacksepticeye tumblr account. Same with pewdiepie stuff because I JUST WANTED THE FANART 

18. Are you (to the best of your knowledge) being blocked by anyone, and if so, how many, and do you know why?

Probably. Because I’m fucking amazing, and bitches be jealous. 

19. Do you use blacklist, and if so, what do you blacklist against?

I did once upon a time, to block those YouTuber tags from being in certain game tags, like Resident Evil, Silent Hill, The Walking Dead TellTale and Wolf Among Us TellTale once upon a time.

20. Have you ever made a RL friend through Tumblr, someone who you have also met in real life?

Nope. No one fucking lives near Indiana because Indiana is a sinkhole of scared MAGA folk and public transit is non-existent.

I tag uhhh... fuckin’..

@viobliterator @hundinfaust @as-sweetasmilk @jojohko  @digital-slime and literally you reading this. Yes I see you, lookin’ ass.

[tisfan]

Clothes that Make the Man

Trope: Sharing clothes For Stony Bingo

It wasn’t that Steve usually took note specifically of what Tony was wearing; he was wearing a suit, the way he often wore suits on days when there were press conferences. Steve wasn’t such a fashionista that he knew anything about suits, really. Aside from the fact that Tony looked really good in them. But Tony looked really good in just about everything that Steve ever saw him in. The man could move like a tatty tank and a pair of jeans with the knees torn out were the height of fashion.

But when Pepper moved in to straighten Tony’s tie, Steve cocked his head to one side, his gaze drawn to the tie.

Not a great tie, really, although it was Tony and the tie did its job of drawing the gaze upward to his sharp chin and downward to his narrow waist, and knowing Tony, he’d manage to spin at the exact right moment to show off that perfect butt.

But it was a familiar tie.

Diagonal striped, a deep, muted red, a silvery shade of white, and a pale, slate blue. The sort of thing his PR manager always dressed Steve in, because even when Steve wasn’t wearing the Captain America suit, they liked to put him in those colors. Just in case someone (namely Steve, he thought privately sometimes) forgot that he was Captain America and maybe considered that he might actually be a kid from Brooklyn. Steve G. Rogers.

Steve shifted closer.

It wasn’t just similar to one of Steve’s ties.

It was Steve’s tie.

It’s not the first time Tony’s asked Steve to dance, but it is the first time that Steve says yes.

Tony’s not sure why Steve keeps turning him down; they’re charity events and Tony dances with literally everyone. He dances with his friends -- he and Rhodey cut a rug at almost every event and have since they’d been attending events together, and it’s quite clear to everyone that he and Rhodes are just friends. It’s not like Tony’s making a move on Steve.

Before, Steve has always blushed charmingly and stammered a bit and then miraculously spotted someone he absolutely had to speak with and wandered off.

Tony is pretty sure, at this point, that Steve’s never going to agree to dance with him. He keeps asking because it was still vaguely possible that Steve might say yes by accident someday. Tony is pretty sure that’s why Pepper ended up dancing with him. Tony is just persistent like that.

He doesn’t examine at all why he wants to persistently ask Steve Rogers to dance.

When Steve says yes and puts his hand in Tony’s, for a moment, Tony has no idea how to react. And then he leads Steve onto the dance floor. The music sounds old; Big Band music has had a bit of a come-back, remix era, like rap did with seventies music back in the eighties.

“You know I don’t actually know how to dance,” Steve says. That blush is back on his neck, pinking just over the color of his tailored suit. Steve looks good in a suit, when he forgets that he’s wearing it. The rest of the time, he just looks awkward and embarrassed.

“Yes,” Tony says. He draws one hand down Steve’s impressive bicep, displayed by the suits neat lines. “But I do. So, if you can take off your Captain’s hat for a while, and follow my lead, we’ll be fine.”

“I’m not wearing my Captain’s hat,” Steve points out.

“Well, take off something else, then,” Tony suggests.

Steve blushes, because of course he does. And then he takes Tony’s free hand and lets Tony spin them onto the floor.

Steve might not know how to dance, but he’s quick, and agile, and he can analyze combat patterns and situational maps. And they have been fighting together for quite some time. Which means Tony only gets his foot stepped on twice. (Which was good, because Steve is fucking heavy; bone and solid muscle.)

Tony manages to talk Steve into a second dance; they’d come in nearly halfway through the first song, so that was fair, right? (That was also a lie, they’d started dancing only thirty seconds into the first four minutes, but Steve didn’t object, so that was okay.) The second dance was slow, and even Steve could manage to put his hands on Tony’s waist and spin around in graceful, spiralling circles, staring down into Tony’s eyes.

Steve doesn’t say anything when they part, but Tony can feel him, watching, the whole rest of the night. As the event draws to a close, most of the men have loosened or removed their ties, unbuttoned the top of their shirts. (Clint’s jacket disappeared early in the evening and no one will ever see it again, because Clint.)

And if Steve’s tie, abandoned on the bartop, happens to make it into Tony’s pocket as a reminder of their first dance, Steve doesn’t seem to miss it.

(More below the cut or mobile readers can check it out on A03)

“JARVIS,” Steve said, leaning his hip against the wall outside Tony’s workshop, “could you remind him that I cannot get sick, so contamination isn’t an issue. Also that I have a lot of stamina, and I’m very annoying, and I will stand outside the door and bother him every five minutes until he lets me in?”

“He says,” JARVIS announced, “that calling you annoying is his job, and fuck you.” But the door slid open, which was really all Steve wanted.

He had soup and tea and a variety of cold medications for Tony, but getting the man to do anything but ignore his health problems was like pulling teeth. Tony would croon and get his screwdriver out the moment the disposal made a funny noise, or the instant there was anything he could fix, improve, or otherwise meddle with that was made of parts, but Tony didn’t much care about biology, as far as Steve could tell.

Tony was huddled up on the tatty couch, bundled in a blanket with his head barely poking out, like some sort of human burrito.

“It’s just a cold, Steve, go away,” Tony grumbled.

“Don’t make me spoon-feed you,” Steve threatened. “Come on, have some tea, at least. You need to rehydrate.”

As Tony was surrounded by crumpled up tissues, this was undoubtedly true. Dum-E was picking them up, one at a time, trundling across the workshop to the trash, and dropping them in there. Even from that close, Dum-E’s aim wasn’t so good. And Butterfingers was helping, if one defined help as picking up the missed tissues, and placing them carefully in the trash, then wiping his appendage off with a sanitary wet wipe and dropping that in the trash as well. That was probably as much fussing as Tony could stand most of the time, letting the bots clean up the mess. Tony was as proud of those bots as most men were of their sons.

“Ug, wet weeds,” Tony said. “Tempt me with something else.”

“Homemade soup?”

“Did you make it?” Tony wondered. He peeked further out of his blanket roll, then opened it up enough to pull the bowl up to his mouth and slurp noisily.

“No, Natasha did,” Steve replied.

He didn’t quite have to dodge out of the way of spluttered soup, but Tony’s face froze in the instant just before he swallowed. “Oh. Well, maybe it’s poisoned and it’ll kill me sooner.”

“Nat didn’t poison the soup, Tony,” Steve said.

“Too bad,” Tony replied. He drank the rest of the soup without complaint, though, so it must not have been terrible. Steve had his various favorite foods, of course, but he didn’t much notice if food wasn’t great. There was always worse that he’d eaten.

Steve managed to spoon a few doses of the cold medicine into Tony’s mouth, and then the tea, because cold medicine was terrible, and even Steve noticed that.

Tony was just swallowing the last of the tea with a grimace when Steve frowned. “Is that… my Army of One sweatshirt?”

Of course it was; he couldn’t imagine Tony voluntarily buying something that cheesy and propaganda-ish. Steve only had it because Sam had given it to him, meaning to make fun. And Steve always found that Sam got perplexed and agitated whenever Steve blatantly refused to notice that he was being made sport of. (This might also be why Steve had acquired several pairs of novelty sunglasses, a truly tacky American flag hat, and a stuffed bald eagle. Steve loved every single one of those items.)

Also, it was enormous on Tony. Tony was pretty fit for a normal human, but he was a good several inches shorter than Steve, and substantially thinner. He was practically drowning in the sweatshirt, and he had the sleeves pulled all the way down to half-cover his hands.

Tony merely shrugged, the tightness around his eyes the only indication that he was feeling defensive. “Might be,” he said. “I was cold.”

“It’s fine, you keep it,” Steve offered.

Tony had been kidnapped a ridiculous number of times.

He didn’t even know how many times. While Tony could recall every single instance with the remarkable clarity that was his gift and curse, he refused to grace the events by counting them. He’d been tied to any number of dirty beds or uncomfortable chairs. One time, he’d even been zip tied to a fucking box spring.

There were times when Tony wishes he’d followed Coulson’s little cards, because now that the world knew he is Iron Man, the number of assholes who try (or succeeded) to kidnap him also include super villains.

On the down side, this particular super villain tags and bags him while Tony is out for a cup of coffee.

On the up side, he is out for a cup of coffee with Steve.

Stupid villains.

It takes Steve all of about three minutes and one amazing leap onto a semi-trailer, to catch up. Even less time for Steve to deal with the villain.

And then he’s yanking Tony’s bindings free. Tony stumbles and Steve catches him. Tony gazes upward into those eyes that make the sky seem small and dingy. The color of rain, the color of comfortable jeans. Tony’s writing poetry in his head while Steve holds his arms, keeping him from falling to the ground. He probably wishes Tony would get his feet under him and stop swooning like a teenage girl at a Beatles concert. Not that Steve knows what the British Invasion is.

Except Steve doesn’t let him go, when Tony gets his balance back. He just stays there, staring back at Tony as if he’s seeing something clearly for the first time. He’s wearing his Army of One sweatshirt. It wasn’t a date, they don’t date. Except that Tony doesn’t always tell his stupid heart that.

“Tony,” Steve says, and he leans even closer.

Tony is already shifting, moving up onto the balls of his feet, anticipating a kiss that he shouldn’t be taking.

Steve tastes like coffee.

They don’t talk about the kiss, later. Sometimes, alone in his overly large bed, Tony wonders if it actually happens at all, or if it is just a particularly vivid fever dream.

“Tony!” Steve scowled mightily. “Gimme back my hat.”

“What’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine, sunshine,” Tony said, dodging around the obstacle course. Steve would catch him, eventually. He always did.

But the chase was always fun. Letting Tony stay out of reach until Tony was breathless with running and laughing, and then Steve would knock him to the floor and kiss him stupid.

“I don’t remember making that promise,” Steve said. He leapt up onto the scaling wall, balanced there, in a squat, one hand down for balance. Tony rounded the corner and Steve dropped in front of him.

“You promised to share your life with me,” Tony pointed out, shifting to one side, then dodging the other way, getting around Steve.

“My life doesn’t mean my clothes, Tony,” Steve retorted.

“Well…” Tony came to a sudden halt and Steve nearly plowed into him. “Why don’t you take them off me, then?”

Steve smiled, put his arms around Tony’s waist. “Sounds like an excellent suggestion, husband.”

Tony smirked. “Wait til you see what else of yours I’m wearing.”

Steve went up in flames. “Are you wearing my boxers again?” Steve croaked.

Tony wiggled his left hand. “I was talking about our wedding bands, Captain Dirty Mind.”

“No. You weren’t.”

Tony gave him a wicked smile. “No. I wasn’t.” 

[gallavictorious]

I was tagged by the sweet and funny but ever horny @chokey-mickey, the endlessly talented and kind @sickness-health-all-that-shit, my thoughtful fellow tag ranter @freedomandfruitrounds, and my main woman @pathoftheranger Thanks for the tag, dearlings! <3

1. why did you choose your url?

Gallavicious was sadly and unsurprsingly taken, but this name is in the same vein – and I created the blog post the season 10 wedding, so it seemed appropriate to have something reflective of our boys triumphing against all odds. XD

2. any side blogs?

This IS the side blog. My main, keeloca, started as a Sherlock blog but these days... I don't know what it is these days. A two-posts-a-week multifandom mess, mostly.

3. how long have you been on tumblr?

2012, baby! I haven't always been very active, but I always come crawling back whenever I fall into a new fandom.

4. do you have a queue tag?

No tag, no queue. Tried it once, did NOT like it. Posting with careless abandon and total disregard for time zones is more of my jam.

5. why did you start your blog?

Crime of opportunity, really. Normally, I'd just let my main be the site of my new fancy but back then I was quarantining and only working two hours a day from home, so... time + understimulation + renewed love of Shameless = blog.

6. why did you choose your pfp?

Wanted something with them together that not a lot of other people have, and I love their looks for the season 7 roadtrip (once Mickey's taken off wig/gotten a haircut). Been thinking of switching it out, though, but haven't had the time or energy.

7. why did you choose your header?

BOYS AND COLOURS PRETTY!

8. what’s your post with the most notes?

I don't know. Some shit post, probably? Maybe one with Brad and Lip and Mickey as brothers-in-lawelessness (which I can't even find now)?

9. how many mutuals do you have?

Out of the Shameless blogs I follow, I think 21 or 22? Unless some of you have unfollowed me. In which case, ABSURD decision, but you do you. (I jest. I fully support you in curating your Tumblr experience and I still love you. <3)

10. how many followers do you have?

2315 on this blog. Until I reached about 1800 I was VERY careful and somewhat over-zealous about weeding out porn blogs and bots and whatever, and blocked about 2/3 of those who tried to follow me. I think I might have accidentally have blocked a few real blogs... 😬 (I've only ever blocked ONE real blog on purpose; anyone else is unfortunate collateral damage.) Then I just couldn't be bothered anymore. Come all ye weird blogs; you shall not be turned away.

11. how many people do you follow?

193. Of those about 25 are Shameless blogs.

12. have you ever made a shitpost?

Sure.

13. how often do you use tumblr each day?

It varies greatly. Due to family stuff I've been on a lot less since the show ended; my brain just needed a rest. When on a Tumblr high I'll check it constantly, though.

14. did you have a fight/argument with another blog once?

I've had a couple of anonymous asks I've resonded to with... restrained annoyance?... but other than that not as far as I know? I'm not a kind person by nature, but I very much believe in practising kindness all the same, so I try for that. That said, my favourite thing in fandom is having discussions about the text so I am always ALL FOR polite arguments about various interpretations of it.

15. how do you feel about “you need to reblog this” posts?

They annoy me but Tumblr is a shared space and people aren't here to cater to my personal taste.

16. do you like tag games?

In moderation, certainly! I probably wouldn't be best impressed if it was all over my dash all of the time, but I enjoy reading other people's answers and always get stupidly excited when tagged. It's a two-edged sword, though; I can be a little bit useless at getting round to filling them in and then I feel bad.

17. do you like ask games?

Again, in moderation. I don't tend to reblog them in spite of loving asks, but that's mostly because the above-mentioned uselessness – I don't want to invite people to ask me stuff and then let them down by taking forever to get back to them. *glances guiltily at the asks from the past two months that have yet to recieve a proper response*

18. which of your mutuals do you think are tumblr famous?

The very idea of answering this makes me nervous, so I shan't.

I have rather lost track of who’s been tagged and who hasn’t, so uhhh... @dreamylyfe-x @fiona-fififi @damngcoffee @howlinchickhowl @whatwouldmickeydo @mickeyspuffylips @bookstvandfanfic @ianandmickeygallavich @captainjowl @iwannabewhereyouaremickey As always, no pressure, no prisoners!

[occupyscifi]

Procedurally generated empathy

It was after a hard night of doxing, hating and botnet swatting that Harley James awoke annoyed the find that despite her best efforts the girl she hated more than anything in the world except cancer  hadn’t yet killed herself

“I mean, she should have done it by now” she gassed to her girlpals as they rode to school on the self driving bus. All of them had dressed in their matching KillerPorn themed co educational onesies as dictated by Harley  “we’ve been attacking her for months. Like actual, real, months”

“even Betty Hardwicke had hung herself by now” sighed Anastasia Kirkpatrick, her fingers twitching as she navigated an ancient sim on her e-glasses with a vacant expression on her face. In front of them on the bus assorted nerdboys were suffering through the various stages of puberty. Behind them the cool kids acted like they didn’t live in the safest society on earth “I dunno what we need to do”

“go nuclear” grinned Harley, paging through the options on her e-glasses. In another viewing window the poor victim’s social media history was waiting, ready to be dissected and weaponised against her. It was a treasure trove of hatefuel- endless threads of do goodery, of loving the wrong memes at the wrong time. Of cringy gawk and unintentional hilarity. It wasn’t possible to even look at the girl’s life without instantly hating her so viscerally that Harley could quite happily have torn the girl apart with her bare hands. Luckily she didn’t have to. The hungry AI’s of the post google age were practically begging her to ask them for help. It was the work of a moment to do what they wanted “let’s see her survive this” said Harley, tapping in the air as she selected the girl’s fate.

It took double maths, a French lesson and an impromptu fire drill before Harley got the ping she had been waiting for.

“oh yes, girl” she cried, high fiving Anastasia and earning a rebuke from a teacher whose only qualifications was that he’d agreed to be paid less than a security guard for doing effectively the same job “read it and weep” she swiped the message to her gasping friends and surfing the wave of laughter as it came “threw herself under a train this morning!”

As the laughing and cheering rang around the gym hall Harley reflected that it was probably a good thing that the girl she had driven to suicide was not someone she knew personally. Or indeed someone who had ever existed at all.

It had started when computer technology had reached the point where it could crate convincing fake faces. Algorithms in the early part of the 21st century had been able to create convincing unreal pictures of people from data sets very easily. Then it was just a short leap to creating convincing video fakes, and the porn industry collapsed overnight as celebrity fakes flooded the world. This was followed shortly by movie studios  re-creating digitally every actor since the golden age of Hollywood and ruthlessly using plotting algorithms  to create a nearly infinite spooling reel of movies. Of course ninety nine percent of the went unwatched, not least because passive entertainment was as popular with a late 21st century audience as epic poetry would have been to a 20th century one. People wanted interactivity, they wanted to be part of the story. They wanted to vicarious thrill of being able to shape a narrative themselves, or indeed to destroy it.

Which explained the creation of the fake social media profile industry. This had first been spawned by advertisers who realised that paying real people to shill their products wasn’t as nearly as cost effective as just creating fake people who could be relied on to loyally boost a brand without ever going off script or being caught doing something they shouldn’t that might reflect badly back on the brand. They could be relied upon to sell the quasi dictatorial services offered by the social media companies who had realised what they craved wasn’t bringing people together but rather trying to control their every waking thought

Thus the ad industry created entire fake lives, flooding social media with people who had never  existed, families and towns of people who had never lived. All of them culled and mixed from the petabytes of data greedily hoovered up by various social media companies over a near century of recoded behaviour. However since most real humans lived off the ad revenue gained from shilling on social media in order to pay for basic goods like food and shelter there wasn’t any tangible difference between the product placement by humans and by algorithms. If anything the bots were a little less clumsy or needy. This was hardly surprising as having ad revenue was often the only thing staving off malnutrition for a hefty section of the population.

So for a while  it looked as if the noble experiment in fake people had been nothing more than an esoteric and depressing  philosophical / art project, when a bored researcher in the bowels of a silicon  valley content farm discovered something. Fake people generated as much hatred as real ones, if anything they actually engendered more.

“so what I was thinking” recalled the researcher, now raised up into the light and allowed to use the various playrooms and chic amusements given to only the hallowed princelings of silicon valley “is that people online love to hate other people, and we as responsible social media companies” the researcher had paused to allow her bank account to swell that little bit more with some good old company loyalty coin “have spent time and efforts to stamp out abuse, with little real success. So I concluded  essentially that jealously and cruelty must be an innate  part of human nature, and rather than trying to eradicate cyber bullying and online abuse we needed to redirect it. In this case to the fake people we had created”

The system was an instant success. Freed from the guilt of knowing they were destroying the lives of innocent people hordes of teenagers and the elderly flooded their hate mail towards the fake people generated by AI. Indeed the fake people now created were aimed at causing the maximise self righteous rage in all good thinking folk.  Trumplike hatemongers incited the left whilst snowflakey woke types enraged those who leaned right. For teens like Harley it was even easier, since all she ever wanted was to turn the tidal waves of jealousy and insecurity she felt into anger and hate.

In response to allegations that the social media companies were in effect encouraging hate crime the algorithms were adjusted to have the fake people respond realistically to the abuse they received. The fake people demonstrated real emotions, showing at first concern and then as the abuse increased gradually spiralling into depression, self harming and suicide. However instead of being a sobering reminder that victims had real feelings and spurring empathy in the abusers it only made them try even harder. Hence girls like Harley priding themselves on driving into suicide as many fake computer people as they could, safe in the knowledge there would never be any consequences. Or at least that was what Harley thought.

 The story of the fake girl’s suicide buoyed Harley through the rest of the deadly dull day. It got her through the chemistry class where, due to some even more dull political dispute between brands, they only learned about the properties of hair care products. It also got her through the bus ride home with her pals as they desecrated the social media site where the fake bereaved relatives left fake messages for their fake deceased daughter. If any of the practice had been designed to provoke empathy in girls like Harley then it had failed utterly. All it had done was make her glow with power and pride, a feeling that lifted her and took her out of her anxious little existence for a little while. As if she floated above the mere mortals she shared her life with. It was a feeling that lasted until she entered the echoey hall of her parents house and the ticking of the housekeeping bots, and the silence welled up and she felt very much alone. Alone with only her self hate, her anxiety and the crushing knowledge that she would never, ever be happy.

But this was a familiar feeling, and she had the cure in her bedroom. Gratefully she sank into her chair by the window, pulled on her comfy VR integrated onesie and prepared to find her next target.

“maybe some posh girl?” she mused as her skin felt the tickle of social media updates “or, like, an old fashioned hate crime?” they had been studying the golden age of online racism at school, in the days when social media companies had naively believed that the internet savvy user would be free of any prejudice beyond which operating system they used. Harley had been practising her anti semitic meme skills, and was pretty sure she could stitch together a decent conspiracy theory blaming any number of religious or ethnic minorities.

However all thought of whose fake life she would really ruin next was driven from her head when she flicked on her social media profile and saw what had happened.

“the fuck?” she exclaimed, scrolling through the various walls, feeds and posts that made up the ecology of her online presence. A place that should have been a carefully curated garden of bright flowering selfdom now ran riot with dangerous weeds “what happened?”

Harley scrolled through her feeds, feeds that should have shown posts she was tagged in that were mostly just bad recursive memes now in their second generation, or shout outs from her friends – both real and virtual. However now they were awash with poison. Every picture she had posted came tagged with its own tirade of abuse from dozens of different users. Her videos detailing the more dull aspects of her life had been spammed by messages, links to takedowns of her and threats so varied and bizarre that Harley wasn’t even really sure what they meant.

“oh, you dumb bastards” she said, feeling a surge of triumph run through her as she paged through the endlessly negative comments. The user name and ident tags of her abusers glowed red and she felt the throb of gleeful, righteous rage “you dumb, dumb bastards” she looked at the comments, at the ridiculously  over the top hurtful things that they were saying “I guess you don’t know a little something called the User Protection Act” with that she swiftly highlighted all the usernames that had abused her, and copied them to the User Protection Bureau “well, you’re about to get schooled, bitches” she hit send with a laugh “as in actual prison sentence banned from social media kinda schooling”

The User Protection act had been brought in shortly after the appearance of fake people, for the simple purpose of preventing actual real people being harmed online. The thinking went that since fake people could now take the brunt of the rage hate of humanity any real human facing abuse should have some legal protection. Thus the User Protection Bureau was set up, dedicating to protect real people from virtual hate. The Bureau itself was simple a semi sentient  algorithm  that you reported hate speech to, and if the user was found in breach of this law their social media presence was erased  until they had shown sufficient remorse. If this did not work the every hungry US prison system was happy to take people to work off their debt to society. But  since for many people it was their only source of income  online discourse had become considerably more polite, and few people ever needed to be told twice.

Unfortunately the bureau’s rules only applied to real human users, something that Harley was about to discover.

“what?” she said, when the User Protection Bureau Avatar appeared in front of her and smilingly told her that no action would be taken “but I am a real person” she waved a hand at the hate screeds that were defiling her social media presence “and I really, really am angry and upset about all this”

“you are real!” said the avatar cheerfully, as if she was congratulating  Harley on the observation, or perhaps even the state of being. The avatar was a genderless being in Harley’s virtual view, its face combining the caring and yet stern façade required for representative of what was left of the Federal government  “but unfortunately  the other user are not. All these comments are written by non human individuals”

“what the heck?” said Harley, looking at the abuse being levelled at her “you mean these were all written by fake people?” her forehead creased in thought “I guess that’s why they keep calling me a murderer” she looked again “hey, since when have fake people started abusing real ones?”

“well, its not my place to say” beamed the avatar “but I suppose if they can be attacked like real people, then they can do the same to you” the avatar seemed to be peering over Harley’s shoulder “and I have to say, they do really learn fast. Wow, that is some really nasty stuff!” the avatar made to vanish.

“hey!” shouted Harley, still sitting in her onesie in her room.  “what are you going to do about this? How do I stop it?”

“I don’t know” shrugged the avatar “how about you be a better person?”

“you useless dumb shit piece of software” yelled Harley losing her temper “you’ve got one fucking job…”

“now remember Harley” said the UPB  avatar “if this starts to get you down you can always talk to one of our counselling bots…”

“get me down?” said Harley “seriously? As if I’m going to let a bunch of computer code and crazy ass algorithms tell me how to feel. It ain’t nothing I can’t just ignore”

 It was precisely seventy two hours later that Harley climbed onto the roof of the school gym and made her way to the edge, ready to end her life by jumping off it.

At first it had been a joke, seeing all the fake people getting so angry at her.

“dude, they’re ridiculous” she said, scrolling down the comments whilst she and Anastasia were meant to be doing Yogalates in the school gym “as if I’m going be all sad cause ‘Chad_KroegerRULES69’ calls me a heartless fat bitch who deserves to die of Herpes”

“and this one” chimed Anastasia, looking at the feed as she completed a flawless downward dog. It helped that her parents had been giving her a cocktail  of vitamin supplements so potent she was practically an Olympic gymnast “says you’re so ugly your parents should have strangled you at birth, can you imagine? And it says your nose is way too big and…” she trailed off, unable to make sense of the fact that Harley’s face had gone red. For a moment Anastasia thought it might be the strain of the Yogalates, after all the virtual teacher was buffering again mid stretch and hadn’t told them to breath for several minutes. Last time that had happened three junior high students had been hospitalised. It was only after several seconds that she realised that it was because Harley was trying not to cry.

“they’re just fakes” said Anastasia quickly “like you said, bunch of computer code and shit. Why would you care what they say?”

“because they’re right!” Harley had howled, bursting into tears and running out of the hall. The virtual teacher strobed for a moment and called after her. Except instead of using her real name she called her fatty.

“I can’t believe there aren’t any laws covering this” sighed Harley’s mother, having been informed by the school of what was happening. However as most of the school staff were of course themselves virtual algorithms they didn’t seem terribly sympathetic. Indeed the virtual Principal had called her a whore of satan, but that might have just been his Christian preacher programming glitching again.

“s’ok mom” Harley had said in a small voice “I guess I deserve it, after all I kinda dished it out…”

“no, no I won’t hear of that” said her mother, the pair of them sitting at the kitchen table. Behind them the food fabricator hummed as it emitted the aromas of home baking, without actually baking anything. The bread substitute it would eventually extrude would look and taste like the real thing, but would take more calories to digest than it gave in return.  “You’re a super star Harley, you’re a girl with a real heart of gold. That these software sons of bitches are attacking you is just cause they’re jealous. They’ll get bored of it soon, just you wait”

Twenty four hours later even her mom had to admit that last part was not true.

“they ain’t got nothing better to do” she had said, sitting on the edge of Harley’s bed whilst the girl herself hid under the duvet inhaling ultra absorbent kleenex “they just exist to make snark and pick holes in other people’s lives. Imagine dedicating all that time and energy into being so nasty” she shook her head “what kind of creature does that?”

“I do” snivelled Harley from under the duvet. She hadn’t been back to school, not since the incident in yoga class. Not least because most of the school software wouldn’t let her anywhere near the gates without loudly announcing she was menstruating, or by digging out from the archives less than flattering yearbook photos that by rights should have been long erased “I did, I mean… that was all I did. Bully and pick on people till they lost their minds and killed themselves”

“oh, but they weren’t real people, were they?” her mother responded, patting the duvet in concern since her daughter hadn’t emerged from under it for several hours.  If it wasn’t for the smart material she wore in her onesie then she’d have started to stink “they were just software. Not real at all”

“they seemed real” said Harley “seemed real when I was ragging on them. Felt like they were real people when I treated them like shit, and it feels real now that they’ve all turned on me”

“well, maybe that’s your answer” said her mom, stroking the duvet in a way she’d seen moms do on old TV shows “if they’re like real people you could appeal to their better nature. Try being honest. Say you’re sorry. That you’ve changed. That you’ll treat people better from here on in” her mother smiled “I’m sure even a bunch of software would understand a sincere apology. I’m sure it will make things better, if nothing else they’ll respect you more”

“you think?” said Harley, her tousled head and tear stained face emerging from under the duvet.

“darling, I’m sure. Sometimes an apology is the best thing”

It wasn’t. If anything it made things even worse.

“I mean, I don’t know what she’s playing at” confided Anastasia to her closest subscribers as she walked about school the next day. The thousand or so followers she had guaranteed perfect discretion to, unlike the tens of thousands of other global viewers she shared most of her every waking thoughts. In an age where the average Chinese teenager could pull in a million hits for little more than wearing a short skirt Anastasia didn’t even register “apologising? Admitting that she was wrong all those times she drove those software people to kill themselves? That isn’t like her” she paused as several of her subscribers pointed out that there had been many, many times that Harley had said sorry in the past “okay, she does say sorry. But only in, like, a tactical way. A situation like this you never say sorry. Oldest rule in the book is never to show weakness. Whatever you’ve done, no matter how bad, you double down on it. accuse your opponents of doing what you’ve done. Go low when they go high. Play the man, not the ball” she nodded to herself, her mother was a leading member of the church of Trumponomics and had taught her well “I just don’t know what she’s going to do next”

She was answered by a scream from the campus in front of her, several girls in the grade below her pointing up to the roof of the gym. Anastasia squinted up into the bright light and saw a figure up there.

“well, I guess that answers my question” she muttered, and began running. All of her talk of PR strategy  was forgotten. Her best friend was going to end her life.

Harley had been up on the gym roof before, but only to film a mock suicide piece to make fun of some virtual boy they had bullied to death. However this time instead of mockingly singing the theme from Frozen (the steampunk live action version, of course, which Harley and her mother both considered the definitive best one) she was going to go ahead and end it all. She wiped the tears from her eyes, stepped up to the edge of the roof and took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, okay?” she muttered, barely loud enough for the floating beecams around her to pick up and livecast to everyone in the world “I thought it was okay to pick on people cause they weren’t real. I didn’t realise that it was me being mean because I feel bad about myself and I’m lonely. I thought it was harmless, but it was making me into someone I’m not. I don’t wanna be that person no more. So I’m not going to be” with that she lifted her foot, ready to plunge herself off the roof.

“well done” said a voice behind her “you’ve passed the test”

Harley whirled around, nearly losing her footing on the roof and almost falling  to the school yard below. Behind her floated the avatar from the User Protection Bureau, its impossible face so carefully imperfect that it was beautiful

“what?” said Harley, squinting in the light. The avatar only existed in her e-glasses, but had come under its own power “what test?”

“why, the empathy test” beamed the avatar “you passed it. you showed you were a real human being, with real feelings and the capacity for change”

“but… what? How?”

“you suffered the online abuse you used to dish out. You did what they did. To no avail. So you were going to end your life. That’s how we know you are sincere in your apology”

“you….you did this to me on purpose?” said Harley, shock showing in her face

“I am sorry” trilled the avatar, in a way that suggested apologies were for other people “we had to intervene more seriously. We tried showing you what happened to another being when you drove them to the edge, but that didn’t do anything because they were only virtual. And because your generation has become desensitised, like the previous one did growing up watching Youtube beheading videos  or Epic Deadly Fails. It wasn’t enough to watch someone hurting to make you feel real empathy. You had to go through the pain yourself. Do you understand now?”

Harley nodded miserably, feet right on the edge of the school gym roof and an open mouthed crowd gathering below. There wasn’t a single one of them that would forget the lesson, not one who wouldn’t feel like Harley did.

“now, remember you still have friends” the hologram gestured to Anastasia, who had burst out onto the roof and hugged Harley tight, pulling her away from the edge “and that every life matters, whether it’s real or virtual”

With that the avatar smiled and vanished. With it all record of the online abuse vanished too, the legions of angry software people melted away. Harley’s social media profile now resembled a perfect garden of harmony and supportive uplifting commentary. Gratefully Harley fell into Anastasia’s  arms, who lead her from the roof into a corridor. The door closed, cutting off the floating beecams that had been livecasting the event.

“oh, oh honey what were you thinking?” whispered  Anastasia as Harley clung to her “doing something like that….to think that you needed to…..” she swallowed hard, the image of her best friend plunging to her death would be etched on her mind forever. The idea that someone close to her could feel so bad they could only think of ending their lives, well that was if anything even worse.

“I was thinking I could get a hella sponsorship deal” said Harley, wiping her eyes and stashing away a small vial that caused the tears in the first place “and go on a full spectrum  repentance tour. The way I figure it I can milk maybe six months out of this empathy for others shit”

“umm, what?” said Anastasia, watching Harley morph from a wrecked and broken figure into the girl she knew, admired, but really never liked “you knew this was a test?”

“course” said Harley as they walked towards the stairs. The police were waiting at the bottom, but for no other reason than to take selfies and loltag some meaningless phrases about all lives mattering “I mean, you don’t think I just decided to through myself off a building? No, I carefully researched how to take my own life? Well every time I did I found out that someone from the Bureau always turns up to try and talk them out of it. Course it doesn’t always work because some people really, really want to kill themselves” she added, her face looking quizzical. Even now she couldn’t quite understand why people wanted to kill themselves to try and make themselves feel better. They could always just take out their feelings of resentment and self pity out on other people.

“so, like, you faked this?” said Anastasia, not sure whether to regard this as an excellent career move or proof of what she had privately suspected, that Harley was a psychopath “Why?”

“you know, bots can do a hell of a lot of things” said Harley, checking in her e-glasses that her makeup was smudged just so “but they can’t fake being sorry like a human being can. I’m gonna work being a recovering suicidal teen so hard it’ll put me through college” she smiled, her teeth bright white and her eyes artfully red and teary “thank the lord for online abuse”

[regressionuncensored]

Why I Left Agere...

I’m submitting this on anonymous because I do not feel comfortable giving out my new URL– especially with this controversial opinion I’m about to give. I don’t think age regression is healthy. My therapist did not think my age regression was healthy. Over the three years I’ve been in this community I have not improved mentally by any margin– and here is my story. TW: grooming mentions, swearing, pedophilia mentions, mental illness mentions, possible sexual assault mentions. Read with caution if you’re triggered by any of these things. I will jump right into this without making introductory small talk. I have OCD. I have the delusion of being dirty by even thinking of sexuality in any form. The forced sexualization of agere (even if it’s claimed to be “nonsexual”) is too much for me to handle, and it’s very clear that it overlaps with kink in many areas even if you don’t want it to, or say it doesn’t for you. Somehow, saying your regression isn’t sexual has wrapped around and become sexual again– read in between the lines of any cg / little post and you’ll see what I mean. Anyway, daddy / mommy / caregiver– rather we like it or not– are terms associated with kink and they have been for several years, even before agere. The only time it isn’t is when actual, real children use it as a nickname for a parental figure, or if a person is giving care to someone who is physically unable to help themselves for a medical reason. This is the only time the term is not sexualized because people don’t know about age regression and they more than likely never will. Secondly, the amount of minor and adult relationships in cglre are ridiculous (you all know very well who I’m talking about)– but as an added example, remember the eighteen year old being groomed by a twenty eight year old and none of you said anything about it because it was “not sexual”? Yeah. “BUT SHE WAS EIGHTEEN WAAAHHHHH” I don’t give a fuck, that’s no excuse for a twenty eight year old to be interested in someone of that age and if you disagree you need to rethink your life. Cglre is grossly predatory from my experiences and the things I have witnessed there have made me report multiple blogs to NCMEC because that’s how disgusting it is, and every single cg needs to think hard about their interactions towards minors (THAT INCLUDES EIGHTEEN YEAR OLDS). Adults (AKA people in their late twenties and early thirties in this case) in this community should be absolutely ashamed for interacting with minors– and I’ll be watching the notes of this post, too! I’ll report you if I have to! Not to mention when Tumblr blocked the tag for adult content it was for a reason. “C” “G” “L”. Caregiver/little. Aka a kink with a power exchange. You can’t slap “regression” on the end and expect it to magically become safe for work… look at your tag for fuck sakes. People are constantly cross tagging it with kink tags. It was a mistake right from the beginning and everyone refuses to acknowledge it because it’s inconvenient for them to– just like me having this opinion is also inconvenient for them. As for chire, it fell apart way back when mod wolf got called out for being a pedophile and Donut got called out for being a mega jerk. The new chire community is empty and is filled with recycled ideas from 2017. It’s dying, and I think it should stay that way, but I have to applaud them for actually trying to keep kink out of their coping mechanism by not using the word CGL– other than that, it’s the same community as cglre, but it’s more successful for being safe for minors, where cglre is not (and still is not) and has failed miserably at doing so, despite the many block lists the community has created. Let’s not even mention their allowing of truscum and transmeds and how they did absolutely nothing to keep their trans members safe– I see you, cglre mods! Averting your eyes has been the death of your community, and the reason for this entire letter. Don’t even try to tell anyone in cglre this, though. They’ll just act like literal children… but, like, accurately for once, unlike the cheap baby talk they always use. They just plug their ears and go “Nwooooooo it’s not bwecause it’s rwegression and you’re just a bwig fwat mweanie head :((((((( I’ll tell my dwaddy on you.” The cringe writes itself and I don’t even support cringe culture. That’s not even a healthy way to think, by the way. You just decided it was to go along with the majority’s opinion. Regression is so harmful, especially for people like me who already have issues becoming adults due to my BPD. I am leaving this entire community utterly upset for what it’s done to me– and to see minors regressing to a younger age WHEN THEY’RE ALREADY MINORS is absolutely ridiculous. There are better, healthier coping mechanisms than sticking a pacifier in your mouth and calling your musky-husky-two-month-old-boyfriend “daddy”. Take a walk. Learn to knit. Bake cookies. Practice mindfulness and thought correction. Do CBT and DBT. Literally any of those are better than regressing– any good, licensed therapist will tell you this. Mine did. If yours didn’t, find a better one. You are only hurting yourself by regressing. You are only hurting yourself by refusing to grow up and be an actual, functioning adult in society– and if you can do that and regress? Good for you. The fourteen year olds in your communities can't– and they especially can’t have caregivers (especially when none of you can take care of yourselves at that age already), otherwise you may need to report that to the authorities. I know no one in this community will, though, because the last person who did that was chased out of your community. I saw it with my own two eyes. There is also a reason porn bots and daddy dom blogs follow you against your will. It’s because, rather you like it or not, are participating in age play at the end of the day. Not all age play is sexual but it is most definitely a kink and I highly recommend the Wikipedia article on it, as it provides accurate information to what everyone is really participating in (look, I’ll even tell you if you’re lazy or angry at me to click: Ageplay or age play is a form of roleplaying in which an individual acts or treats another as if they were a different age… wow, sounds very familiar, eh?). It’s really all regression is– age play made out to be therapeutic, but in reality, holds people back from accepting their problems and permanently harms their state of mind. Is it really any surprise that people who act like children will also do so when shown the cold, hard facts? Amazing, really. And to be honest- this is just my opinion– there’s nothing normal or therapeutic about a thirty four year old wearing a diaper and sucking on a pacifier claiming their healing from past trauma. I won’t believe you for a single second if you told me that. It’s not healthy. I don’t see any of that stuff outside Tumblr (except a poorly written and unsourced Wikipedia article) unless it’s attached to age play or ABDL– and that’s the facts. Not to mention the original age regression article specifically fucking states that it’s a hypnosis technique used in therapy, but is incredibly controversial as it provides negative results most of the time. Do your research– I know you won’t, though, or else you’ll get five page call out and get suicide baited off your blog (way to go, cglre. Suicide bait the people who don’t need it unlike, you know, TERFs or MAPs). Anyway I’m going to wrap this lengthy ramble up here and watch all the anons come in and attack me. Worst case scenario they’ll poorly dissect my letter without textbook psychology sources and think that they won– the equivalent to the pigeon shitting all over the chessboard quote. Sorry for the oncoming shitstorm in your inbox… remember to block if you have to. I know I have.

Love, A very hurt and tired former member of the agere community.

_______________________________________________________ I agree with some of what you said but I think there are some main things I need to point out.

1. I think your mental illness is changing how you perceive things. I have ocd and I am scared of animals cus I think they are contaminated but I decide to examine why I am having these fears and challenge myself because I could not live well if I didn’t. 

2. I regressed when I was younger like an actual kid. From guess what? Trauma!!! Yeah I was stuck at a younger age and guess what I am now! I have been in therapy since I was four but regression does actually help me. I don’t think regression on it’s own fixes anything but along with therapy (I currently do DBT) I think it’s fine!  3. Just cus you think it’s weird does not make it bad. Maybe a grown adult never had any trauma resolved (or just thinks it’s fun) and it relaxes them. Then WHO CARES if they don’t think it’s kink and they are not being sexual in anyway then WHO CARES. I am sorry but by saying regression is ageplay (even nonsexual) is sexualizeing people who regress. 

4. Kink is not bad and even if it is it’s not your job to tell them. I mean people are drug addicts and that’s bad but I don’t make it my job to tell them that it is. I mean there are people who use drugs (like drugs and alcohol) and are fine! Even if you think drugs are gross if people are not addicted then it does not matter. Like with anything weather pain or smoking weed if you are doing it for the wrong reasons. (not mentally stable, a minor etc) then yeah it’s bad but the average person who has a few drinks a week or even one drink a day is not actually in harm's way and does not need your input. (for anyone who didn’t follow drugs are kink I know bad analogy cus kink is even less harmful but whatever.)

Yes I think we need to protect minors and maybe even age gate it a bit (like I see 11 year olds here and like I was not mature enough to be here at 14 soo) but I think what everyone here is tired of is being told we are gross. That we are sick, crazy, stupid, sexual etc by everyone. Look I don’t like agere either i’m going to kink as soon as I can cus that’s what fits me better but making people feel gross fixes nothing it just sorta makes you annoying. CGLRE (you have a clear bias for chire even though I know you have issues with them too) has worked hard to be a safe place. I know kinksters and miseducated regressors might use the wrong tags but the issue is them not cglre and people can be non comm if cglre is not for them. Why not educate I mean I write stuff on this blog hopefully to show and honest side of agere and I want to educate not shame. Also it’s kinda hard to have a nonsexual kink that you do alone (most of the time) with no power exchange......well i’ve rambled enough but I think you get my point. There is nuance to this issue and people need to know both sides. My side has points and so does yours but people need to hear both and I really don’t suggest shame as your vehicle to get your point across-Lyra