#emergency brake in my brain activated

[midnightbrushandquill]

The Mind Fills in the Blanks.

There is a blind spot, in the vertebrate eye. A small patch where there is nothing to catch the light and transform it into a signal, only a bundle of nerve fibres, passing through the retina. The brain smooths this spot over, filling it in until it is unrecognizable that any patch of info was ever missing at all. This blind spot can be perceived, but only if one actively looks for it.

(Or, my friend last weekend made the comment of ‘What if Emmet forgot Ingo when he got pulled to Hisui’ and the thought has been rattling in my mind ever since).

Word count: ~4800

(The entire fic has an overall touch towards unreality, fair warning)

I

The first time Emmet thinks something might be wrong, he doesn’t notice it as such. It is a fleeting moment, a wayward thought that not so much strikes him, as gently builds; almost imperceptible among other thoughts and tasks demanding his attention, until it is undeniable. 

He is manning the Singles train, waiting for a challenger to reach the requisite number of uninterrupted victories when, as the train pulls to a stop at a station, a small growing unease manifests into a singular thought. 

I am not supposed to be here.

A wave of panic follows the thought. Was he on the wrong train? Did he read the schedule wrong? If he wasn’t supposed to be here, where was he supposed to be? Who was supposed to be manning this line instead?

He manages to pull the emergency brake on the train of thought before it can derail him completely. He is Emmet. He is the Subway Boss of Gear Station. He would not mess up his schedules. Besides, he is already a third of the way through the route, and if he had somehow boarded the wrong train, one of his employees would have radioed him to let him know. He has received no such calls, ergo, he must be in the correct place.

If the train leaves the station a half second behind, the only one who knows is Emmet.

II

The second time it happens, the thought that something is wrong is a conscious one, but he has nothing to link it to. 

He is on the Multi Line this time, finishing a battle with Cameron at his side. He has just finished the first two sentences of his prepared script (“I am Emmet. I won together with Cameron.”) when he is almost overrun by a wave of intense sadness. He does not understand why he is sad. There is nothing to be sad over. They won the battle, and Emmet likes winning more than anything else! And yet, he is indescribably, unbearably sad.

He almost stumbles on the rest of his prepared response, but it is a script, a script he has said so, so many times since he became the Subway Boss, and he is able to finish it. If he seems more subdued than usual - if there is something of a peaked underlay to his already relatively flat tones - the two trainers disembarking as the train pulls to a stop do not notice. They wave, promise to come back and beat them (one of them makes a joke about coming on a week when Cameron is not there; an empty threat, Emmet knows this trainer only boards the trains where Cameron is on the schedule), and step off.

Just like that, the sadness is gone, but the memory of it is not. Emmet too, steps off the train in what he feels is a perfectly confident manner and makes his way towards his office. He hears Cameron’s call about taking care of disembarking procedures, and lifts his hand in an acknowledging wave as he climbs the stairs up from the platform.

He is supposed to be doing paperwork, but he can’t get his mind off the strange feeling. What could possibly have caused it? He has no reason to be sad. The Battle Subway is doing well, it is just as popular as ever, Emmet has only lost two battles today when he was on the Doubles line in the morning. All in all, it has been as normal a work day as work gets, and Emmet loves his work.

Given the onset of the feeling, it seems reasonable to link it to battling with Cameron, but, no. That doesn’t make sense either. Emmet has battled alongside Cameron countless times before. Cameron is a good battler; not quite on Emmet’s level, but he holds his own, and meshes well with Emmet’s tactics, as they have trained. Emmet may be the only Subway Boss, but his depot agents are formidable in their own right. They have to be, in order to cover for him on the lines where he is not working, as he moves around the schedule.

He wonders, sometimes, why they have so many battle lines. Emmet is only one person, and his love for the subway does not make up for the fact that the workload is far too much for one person. He could close some down, convert them to normal transit, but, no. 

That doesn’t feel right. 

He could promote one of his agents? None of them were on his level, but surely he could use the help of another full-time Subway Boss?

The thought of another Subway Boss who isn’t-

The thought of another Subway Boss makes him sick.

He grabs one of the pieces of paperwork from the stack and forces himself to focus on it, taking sips of water to settle the nausea. That was unfair of him. His Depot Agents are all good people. It is verrrry rude of him to react so poorly to even the thought of one of them sharing his job.

He chalks it up to an after effect of that weird feeling from earlier, and focuses on the feeling of pen moving across paper instead.

By the time Cameron comes to check on him, he has no answers for his slight derailment earlier, and the feeling that caused it is as good as forgotten.

V-VI

It is a long time before anything else occurs out of place enough for him to truly notice, and this time, it happens twice in 24 hours. He is visiting his Uncle Dryden for Iris’s birthday. He is not keen to leave the Battle Subway if not necessary, but even he knows that he needs to take a break for maintenance, and it is good to see family again. Uncle Drayden, and by extension, Iris, are the only family he has left (well, besides Elesa, who has become as near to a sister as he can imagine over the years). 

The league is throwing a proper party for her, all fancy outfits, and important trainers meeting at the same station to network (there are no cocktails, Iris is still a child after all). Even if he wasn’t family, Emmet would have been expected to make an appearance anyways as the head of Unova’s battle facility. If Iris had not been family, Emmet probably would not have gone. He does not like parties. He was not good at conversation, and he is afraid of making a scene if the lights and noises overwhelm him. Elesa, as a gym leader, is there, of course, but it is rude of him to expect Elesa to stay with him to make up for his lack of skill with words.

But Iris is family, so Emmet is standing at the side of a large event space, wearing a fancy outfit Elesa has picked out for him, and watching as Elesa steps away from his side to converse with a visiting gym leader from another region. He does not really want to be here, but Iris has agreed to have a double battle with him the next morning, which is at least something exciting to look forward to. 

As he watches Elesa flit from guest to guest with an ease he wishes he could mirror, a waiter passes by with a tray of canapés. Emmet takes one. It is good, and, on what seems like instinct, Emmet turns to his right, raising a hand as if to gesture, his lips slightly parted with unplanned speech. 

The words die on his lips. There is no one there. Of course there is no one there, he already knows Elesa is across the room. Why had he expected someone to be standing there? He lowers his hand and munches on the canapé. The strange occurrence settles over him in a funk that he cannot shake.

Emmet skips the rest of the party.

The next occurrence happens the next morning, after his battle with Iris. He had lost to her, but it had been verrrry fun, certainly much better than the formal party. They have relocated to a much more private setting; a private party just for family. Emmet is bringing food and water to their Pokémon outside, and as he steps back inside to grab some more dishes, he catches the tail end of a conversation Dryden and Iris are having in the kitchen.

He does not hear all of it, does not even hear anything significant. All in all, he hears only five words, buried in a sentence that blurs to nothing as static settles over him.

“...it's lonely at the top…”

He does not know why the words have such an effect on him. It is not a saying he is unfamiliar with, and Emmet is not lonely. Maybe, he does not have a large circle of friends, but his current circle is a manageable number. Sure, he would not say he is close to any of his employees, but isn’t that how it’s supposed to be? They work well together, keep the trains moving on time smoothly, day in, and day out. The Depot Agents put up with his eccentricities; if anything, he would say sometimes they find them almost endearing.

Emmet is not lonely, so why can he suddenly not breathe? Why is he filled with such a gut-wrenching feeling over a simple saying?

Grasping at the wall, he manages to stay upright, and turn himself around. It is Iris’s birthday, and he will not let unwanted feelings ruin the moment.

Outside, his Pokémon are happy to comfort him as he collapses among them; happy to fill a hole in his heart he cannot explain.

Emmet is not lonely. He has Elesa, and his Pokémon, and-

When Iris and Drayden come out to see what is taking Emmet so long, the static is gone. He is not even sure why he was upset in the first place.

IX

He is with Elesa this time. They are sitting on the couch in his apartment, watching a bad movie, the kind of movie he would normally provide brash, biting commentary for. His heart isn’t in it. He is still thinking about a moment earlier at work. One of the agents had brought up the idea of renovating the empty office across the hall from him, and Emmet had all but shouted him down. He had been required to switch tracks, excuse himself and end the meeting early before he fully derailed. He could not explain the outburst, Emmet never went into the office. It was not even in use for storage. It made sense to renovate it, to make efficient use of the space.

And yet, Emmet could not stomach the thought of it changing. When he closed his eyes, he could picture the layout: a perfect mirror to his own, the decorations in dark colours where his were light, but a similar collection of books and manuals stacked neatly on the shelves. He could imagine sitting across the desk, working on paperwork from the visitor’s chair. 

The image made no sense. Why would he ever do that? He could not ever remember doing such a thing when his own office was available. And yet, something about the image was so natural and comforting that he could not shake it.

And he could not allow the office to change.

The conviction of his feelings, the raw emotion that had caused his outburst were gone. He could not even locate their tracks if he tried. But the memory of the outburst was real and fresh, and embarrassing. He had not meant to shout at his agent. 

“Emmet, if you stare any harder you’re going to burn a hole in the TV. Everything Goodlett?”

Emmet does not bother responding to the extraordinarily bad pun except to sigh. 

“I am Emmet. I am sorry Elesa. I am not feeling well.”

There is a hand on his forehead. “Hmm… You don’t feel warm.”

“I do not think I am physically ill. It is the circuitry in my cab that has gone awry.”

“Bad day at work?” He nods, and Elesa continues. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Does he? He is not good with words, but Elesa is like a sister to him. He is comfortable with her in a way he is not with strangers. He knows she will be patient if he stumbles over his words. He is not sure he can explain, but Elesa is good at understanding him (Not perfect, not in the way In-), maybe she will be able to make sense of the things that have been happening.

It takes him several minutes to put together the words he wants to use. Elesa pretends to watch the movie the entire time, as though she is not waiting for a response to her question.

“I do not want to change the empty office at Gear Station.”

Elesa looks over at him and makes a small hum in the back of her throat. “So don’t. It’s not like you need the space for anything right?”

Emmet nods.

Elesa scrunches up her face at him. “I’m definitely missing something here. This shouldn’t derail you that much Emmet.”

Emmet sinks into the couch. His smile falters. “I... yelled at Furze when they suggested it. They are on schedule for the Multi line with me tomorrow. Our coupling may come undone.”

Elesa reaches forward and grabs the take-out boxes off the coffee table, handing one the Emmet. He takes it, hurriedly putting food in his mouth as Elesa speaks around much more careful bites. “You apologized, right?” Emmet nods. He does not mention the cut-short meeting, or the fact that it had not occurred to him that he needed to apologize to Furze until hours later, because they should have known that changing that office was not an option.

“Then I’m sure it’ll be fine. Ask Furze tomorrow if they want to switch schedules, if you think you can handle that,” Elesa is continuing. Emmet lets her speak.

 “Don’t feel you have to answer this Emmet, but why is it such an issue? It’s just an empty office, right? I mean, you’re blunt, and to the point - anyone who knows you knows that - but you don’t yell. You barely even raise your voice, not like-” she cuts off, a strange look passing over her face. Emmet freezes, and forces himself to swallow. Was she feeling it too? Experiencing one of those strange, inexplicable moments he thought only plagued him? The look passes and Elesa continues, no sign of oddity in her voice. “You must have felt very strongly about it to yell.”

It is the question he has been dreading. The one he cannot even answer to himself. He puts the takeout box back down, appetite gone, and stares down at his hands, playing with the edge of the blanket that is spread out across their legs. He cannot meet her gaze, and when he finally speaks, it is in little more than a whisper. “I do not know.”

Elesa does not say anything, and he does not look up at her, but he knows, all the same, from the years they have known each other, the worried expression on her face. He knows she is waiting for him to say more, but is giving him the time he needs to find the words. He knows too, that Elesa will not blame him, will not be mad if he says nothing more, if he cannot find the words. For this reason, and many more, he wants to be able to explain further. So he sits, willing his mind to find the tracks that led to his outburst earlier.

“Did you want me to pause the movie?” Elesa interrupts his thoughts only once. He shrugs, then nods his head, still lost in his thoughts. The background noise of the movie stops, replaced by the quiet beeps and pings of Elesa fiddling with her phone.

He does not know how long it takes, but finally he finds the tracks that lead to the station he has been searching for - or at least ones that lead somewhere close. He remembers the thoughts he had earlier, about the strange recollection of events that never happened, the way the thought of change had filled him with such an intense nausea.

He relays this, shaky and stuttering over his words, to Elesa.

She does not respond, and when he looks up at her, she is staring at him with that same strange look on her face. “It’s oddish,” she finally says, turning to stare over the back of the couch, in the direction of Emmet’s bedroom, “But I know what you’re talking about. It’s like with your spare room. I don’t think I’ve ever been in there, but when you were talking about the inside of that office, I realized I know exactly what that bedroom looks like.” She frowns, her expression twisting as she places a well-manicured hand over her heart. “I don’t normally even think about it, but you have a perfectly serviceable spare room, and yet you sleep on the couch when I stay over.”

Emmet says what he knows they are both thinking. “That room belongs to someone else.”

It is a thought that doesn’t make sense - a train on a solitary track, unconnected to the rest of the system. Emmet lives alone, has lived alone since the day he moved to Nimbasa…. and yet it feels right. That room, with its black duvet, and trinkets that are like Emmet’s, but not quite, belongs to someone who isn’t Emmet.

Elesa is nodding rapidly now. “Eggs-xactly! It’s like that mug I have. You know, the black one, with the trains on it?” Emmet nods. He has seen the one she is talking about, he gave her one with the same pattern but in white some years ago, “Every time you come over and I pull that white cup down, I find myself wondering why I have the black one. You don’t use it, and yet, I feel like I’m supposed to be pulling it down at the same time. I have no reason to still have it, yet the thought of getting rid of it breaks my heart.”

Finally Emmet has someone else to talk to about the strange moments that seem to keep happening. About the little pieces he cannot explain of a life he has not lived, a person he does not know, and yet misses wholeheartedly.

They never un-pause the movie. Elesa has an early morning at work the next day; Emmet has an early morning at work every day of the week but one. They promise to talk more about strange feelings, to tell each other the moment one happens, before they can forget. Elesa hugs him goodbye, and Emmet goes to bed.

In the morning, neither of them remember what they had discussed the night before.

X

When he finally breaks, it is an accident. He is running late. A delay in his schedule caused by an unexpected communication breakdown between his Pokémon over who would join him on the Singles line that day. It is an easy argument to resolve, but it causes enough of a delay that he needs to rush in order to arrive at the station on time.

As he is sweeping through the apartment, grabbing everything he needs for the day, the edge of his coat catches on a photo frame and sends it crashing to the ground. Emmet stoops, barely breaking his movement to pick it up and set it back on the shelf where it belongs, but when he does, the glass has cracked, and he feels that static settle over him again. The cracked glass should not be a big deal. He can get it replaced, and it is not as though the crack, although large, is actually obscuring anything important in the photo. It is a photo of him and Elesa, his arm over her shoulders, hers around his waist, smiling brightly in front of Gear Station. The crack stretches from the top of the frame, above Elesa’s head, and down over her shoulder; splitting as a point just beside her to fork out to the left and down. The two of them can still be seen clearly, so why does the crack bother him so much?

He squints, peering down closer at the photo. Why was it taken at that distance, and with that framing? They are standing in front of Gear Station, which he knows because of course he knows what Gear Station’s entrance looks like, but the station is not the focus of the shot. The shot is too tight for the subject to be anything but Elesa and himself, and yet…. It is framed in such an odd way. There is only the two of them, but Elesa is centered in the frame, and enough space has been given to her right for an entire other person to be there. Emmet's field of knowledge is not photography, but even he knows it is a bad photo, so why does he have it displayed so prominently in his home?

He brings the photo closer to his face, as though that will somehow erase the crack and let him see what is beneath it clearer. It doesn’t, of course, and yet, there is a strange feeling as he moves the photo around. As though his eyes are sliding off of the frame, away from where the crack is, even when he centers it in his field of view. It is as though his mind does not want to look at what is to the right of Elesa in the photo. 

His mind urges him to put the photo down, to stop delaying his schedule any further and to get his cab moving. His heart has locked his fingers on the frame, locked his feet to the floor, unwilling to let go of even the faintest hint of-

Of-

Of something. No, someone. Someone who he misses with an intensity so hard it is blinding. Someone who he is profoundly lonely without.

He sinks to his knees, his schedule abandoned, clutching the frame to his chest. 

He is reminded, suddenly, of a moment in science class at school. Of the teacher handing out sheets of paper with a spaced out ‘R’ and ‘L’ on them. Of being walked through the process of closing one eye and focusing on the paper, moving it back and forth until one of the letters disappeared. ‘The physiological blind spot’ the teacher had called it. A spot where the eye doesn’t have any way to receive the light that comes in, but that the brain fills in so it is not noticed.

It is not the same thing. He is not trying to make a letter disappear on a paper, he is trying to see a cracked spot in a photo that his mind refuses to acknowledge. But…

Maybe it will work all the same.

Emmet closes his left eye and holds the photo up, staring intently at the crack in the photo, willing his eyes to stay stable, to not slide away. He moved the photo back and forth, in and out from his face in varying distances, and-

There.

It is a man.

There is a man standing to Elesa’s right in the photo. The split in the crack is right where his face is, obscuring it from view, but Emmet can make out the rest of him. He is Emmet’s height. He is wearing a version of Emmet’s uniform, but black, where Emmet’s is white. Like Emmet, he has an arm wrapped around Elesa’s shoulders, their arms over-lapping behind her, their gloved hands resting casually on each other’s arms. How… How had he not noticed that before?

Both Emmet and the man are pointing towards the camera. Emmet with his left hand, the man with his right.

The photo blurs, but this time, it is because his eyes have filled with tears. He cannot make out the man’s face, but he knows, with a certainty that rises from the depth of his soul, that the man shares his face. He can see, maybe not in his mind’s eye, but in his heart, the frown on the man’s face that is not at all indicative of the happiness Emmet can see in the rest of it. 

Emmet is not the Subway Boss of Gear Station, he is a Subway Boss of Gear Station. 

He does not live alone.

He is one of two. A twin. A two-car train, permanently coupled, only separable at the yard. 

Someone had separated them. And he had forgotten.

He still cannot remember the man’s name. (His older brother, his other half, his twin), but other memories flood his mind, no longer hidden behind a blur of unknowing. Memories of the two of them setting off on their Pokémon journey, nervous, excited, but together. Of late nights spent studying together in a dorm in Nimbasa, preparing for a future on the subway lines. Of the three of them (Him, his twin, and Elesa) sitting in cafés, or wandering the amusement park, Casteliacones and cotton candy in their hands. Of his twin’s exuberant joy at the puns Emmet found so disappointing. 

Him and his twin, congratulating Iris at becoming champion.

Waving to his brother as he boarded the Singles line, and Emmet the doubles.

Late nights spent discussing Pokémon, and battle tactics, and trains.

Standing side by side with his brother in the Multi lines; a battle style that flowed together with such fluidity, that it seemed hard to imagine he could ever battle alongside anyone else.

His voice, loud, where Emmet’s is soft. Expressive in a way people frequently tell Emmet he is not.

“We make a good two-car train, I- and Emmet. This time, we worked together toward a victory.”

The strange moments, the sudden feelings uncoupled from the moment at hand, the memories and surety of things that would be gone if he stopped thinking about them for too long, all suddenly make sense.

His twin is the one that runs the Singles lines.

His twin is the one who owns the office across from him.

His twin is the one who should be sleeping in the second bedroom of their apartment.

His twin is the one who is always at his right, who talks for the both of them when Emmet cannot.

His twin.

His twin.

His twin.

Of course Emmet is  lonely without his twin.

“I am Emmet. I won together with In-”

In-

Ing-

“I am Emmet. I lost together with Ingo.”

Ingo.

How could he forget. What cruel fate could have torn them apart and erased him so thoroughly from the minds of those who loved him?

How could Emmet have forgotten him?

Emmet realizes that, if he stops thinking about Ingo, he will forget him again.

He does not realize how much time has passed until Elesa comes by, letting herself in because he does not answer her knocks or calls.

When she comes in, shouting his name, he is only able to respond with the sound of knocking over the pen holder on his desk, but the sound of pens scattering, the worried chirping of his Pokémon as he refuses to respond to them, is enough for her to pinpoint his location.

When she enters the bedroom, she finds Emmet sitting at his desk. He is surrounded by worried Pokémon, pens scattered around him, and his coat has been discarded on the floor. His right arm is stretched across the desk, clutching a cracked photo frame, the sleeve of his shirt rolled back. He is writing desperately on his skin with a pen.

“Emmet?” she calls. He does not answer.

She places a worried hand on his shoulder and looks at what he is doing. It is only three words, but it floors her in the same way a broken photo frame had shattered Emmet.

Don’t forget Ingo.

It won’t be until years later that Emmet has the glass in the photo frame repaired.

[maxwell-grant]

Red of Overly Sarcastic Productions once said :"If you can imagine your Batman comforting a shared child, then congratulations, you're righting Batman. If not, you're just writing the Punisher in a funny hat". This got me wondering: could the Shadow comfort a scared child?

Could he? You forget who was there to lift young Bruce to his feet at his first brush with death (sadly far from his last).

But it's an interesting question to pose still, because children were straight up not in the pulps, not in any I've read, and I can't recall any episodes of the radio show that feature them much (there's gotta be at least a few, because they had everything in that show). The most interaction I think The Shadow's ever had with children (from comics that I can discuss here, because Marshall Rogers' "Harold Goes to Washington" is way, way too much for me to go into right now, and the less I talk about some other DC comics, the better) is in the Street & Smith comics.

There's Jerry from the Devil Kyoti arc, a kid who was traumatized by an encounter with the villain who Sayre's looking after and who ends up having some kind of hidden power that allows him to see The Shadow and defeat the villain. There was a blonde Jerry who showed up later in the Monstradamus arc, but he isn't a kid so much as he's diet Jimmy Olsen or a replacement for Harry, but he had weird eyesight-based powers and a familiarity with The Shadow, so I assume it's the same character.

There was also Donald Jordan - Shadow Jr, and okay, I may have to talk more about this weird little failed experiment some other time, but the basic gist of it is that The Shadow had a friend in Tibet named Harry Jordan (and someday I'm also gonna write about the weird prevalence and significance of the name "Harry" in The Shadow's mythos in and out of universe) who was murdered, leaving his son orphaned and with nowhere to go. And, I'll admit that I have a real weakness for The Shadow calling people "son", which he does a lot in this story.

And as you can expect, it then turns out that the kid's also learned how to cloud minds and has basically the same powers The Shadow has in these comics, and they solve the mystery of his dad's murder together, and yeah, you can absolutely tell that they are setting up this kid to be The Shadow's Robin. Although, interestingly, they don't have The Shadow actually recruit the kid, instead it's Jordan who asks The Shadow if he can go with him and join his mission, and Cranston even states he's going to have to "earn" his way

"Must I stay here, sir? It will always remind me of dad - I'd like to devote my life to your fight against evil and evil doers!

Now, "Shadow Jr's" career was incredibly short-lived, it only lasted for about two other issues, and I have no idea what happened in his final appearence called "Snake Eyes" in Shadow Comics #77, I cannot find that issue anywhere and I really want to. But the one other solo story of his I've read was...well, I think it kinda illustrates why the idea of The Shadow having a Robin was doomed from the start.

...Yeah. Even The Shadow at his most sanitized and family friendly is still The Shadow, and there's no room for children in his network, obviously he shouldn't and wouldn't have children be in those positions or make decisions expected from grown-ups who have already had encounters with death and danger, why would anyone do that-

The only instance I can think of The Shadow interacting with a child in the pulps was during The Prince of Evil, when he has to rescue a young boy from Stark's thugs.

Cranston, dazed, tried to stagger to his feet. Before he could do so, the thug had picked up the limp figure of the boy and was darting out into the street. There was a scream of horror from pedestrians.

A heavy truck was racing at top speed along the avenue. Straight into the path of the truck, the thug threw the senseless boy!

The driver of the truck jammed on the brakes. But it was too late to halt the heavy vehicle. The broad-tired wheels rolled toward the limp head of the lad on the pavement.

An instant before it could crush out his life, Lamont Cranston dived headlong into the path of destruction. His shoulder struck the boy, rolling him toward the curb. A quick wriggle, and Cranston swerved aside from the grinding death that loomed over him.

He picked up the boy. One glance and he knew there was no time to lose. The attempted killer had leaped into a waiting sedan and had already made his escape.

The boy was all Cranston could see or think about. Brass knuckles had fractured his skull. He had suffered a concussion of the brain. A glance at his bluish lips and the fixed glaze of his staring eyes told Cranston that unless the boy was operated on immediately, he would die.

A leap, Cranston was in his car. He laid the boy gently on the seat beside him, then headed the car toward the nearest hospital. Traffic lights were ignored.

The boy was taken to an emergency operating room and a skilled surgeon went to work. When it was over, Cranston asked only one question: "Will the child live?"

"Hard to say. We'll do our best."

"Spare no expense. Put him in a private room. Engage day and night nurses."

Cranston's face was pale. He knew that he himself was indirectly responsible for the boy's attack. A supercriminal had made a prompt answer to Cranston's message over Jackson's telephone. That telephone must have been tapped. The attempt to kill the boy was a vicious warning for Lamont Cranston to mind his own business about the Harmon family. It was a follow-up of the attack on Jackson's dog.

Cranston felt a surge of hot anger. He kept it under control while he answered routine police questions. He told all he knew - which was nothing.

He had only one angry thought. He intended to drive straight to the office of David Chester. He'd get the truth out of the sleek Chester, if he had to batter him with vengeful fists!

Cranston was actually halfway to Chester's office before common sense returned to him. He realized he had lost his sense of balance. He was behaving exactly as the crooks wanted. He was playing their game, not his!

He parked, and the hot rage drained slowly from him. He stopped thinking about the limp figure of a young lad on a white operating table.

This is definitely because Tinsley writes the character differently than Gibson, but I actually cannot think of another occasion where we got to read about The Shadow actively wanting to hit someone with his fists. It's very, very rare to read about The Shadow actually getting mad in the first place in such an undignified way. And I think with this passage, you'll start to notice a pattern.

The problem isn't that The Shadow cannot interact with kids or that he can't comfort them, he does it to his agents and adults he wants to help just fine, he knows how to address people in their language, or any language. The problem is, The Shadow is constantly surrounded by danger everywhere he goes, because he is The Shadow. He can be any number of things at any number of occasions, but usually, when The Shadow shows up, it's usually because people are going to die, and people are going to kill, and it's his job to address that and work the scales.

Children should not be anywhere near this, and if The Shadow's interacting with a child, it usually means that some grave danger or tragedy fell upon them, and he's here to either prevent greater tragedy or address the fall-out, and he'd be the first to agree that neither of these options should be happening at all. It doesn't mean he's not gonna do what's right and give life and limb to protect them, but, it shouldn't be up to the Boogeyman to look after them in the first place. Maybe it shouldn't be up to the Boogeyman to protect us.

But then again, as I mentioned when I talked about my own reasons for liking The Shadow so much, there are many kids who would like nothing more than to have the Boogeyman by their side to protect them. There's comfort in knowing that the scariest man in the room is unconditionally there to protect you, and that is the comfort that The Shadow gives best. Not as Cranston, not under a friendly face, but as what he is.

Due to a lack of scenes from the pulps or satisfying scenes from elsewhere, I will instead be pulling one from a fan story written by Kimberly-Murphy Smith, editor and writer of The Hot Cornerm where The Shadow rescues a child who was kidnapped for blackmail. I couldn't care less that it's fanfic, and if you do, come back in 20 or so years after The Shadow's been made public domain and it's gonna be just as official as anything licensed (on my “to write about” list: how fickle the separation between “official” and “fanfic” is, and the many times it plainly didn’t exist). There’s aspects of her writing I don’t care for, but I really like this scene and I do think The Shadow’s more gentle interactions with people are necessary to getting the character.

Annabelle.

She stopped crying for a minute. "Who's there?" she said, her voice choked.

A friend. Your mommy and daddy sent me to pick you up.

"Mommy? Mommy's here?"

Sh-h-h. Annabelle felt a gloved hand gently stroking her hair. She's waiting for you at home. So, we need to hurry up and leave.

"'kay." She looked around. "Where are you?"

It's kind of hard to see me. It's dark in here, plus you've been crying so much your eyes probably hurt.

"Yeah."

Don't be afraid. I'm here to help.

"'kay."

The implicit trust of children was simply amazing at times. Adults trembled in fear of The Shadow's wrath, but children somehow seemed to understand that he was there to help them, even if they couldn't see him.

Sit up, Annabelle. I'm going to pick you up. Be very quiet.

One hand took each of her arms and guided them around a neck she could not see. "Why are you wearin' a blanket?" she asked as the fabric of his cloak brushed against her shoulders.

Sometimes I get cold at night.

"Even in the summer?"

Even in the summer. He gently stroked her cheek and wiped away her tears. Now, you need to be very quiet so those bad men in the next room don't hear us. I'll bet you're tired.

She nodded.

He rocked her on his arms, projecting a very gentle hypnotic relaxation into her with his powers as he did. You probably didn't get your nap, either. Poor thing. Lean on my shoulder and go to sleep. And when you wake up, you'll be back with Mommy and Daddy.

She yawned, then snuggled against his shoulder and went to sleep.

The Shadow sighed with relief. Now to get past the men out front. He gently pulled the pistol out of its holster under his left arm and slipped it into the belted waist of his overcoat within easy reach, then secured his grip on Annabelle and draped his cloak over her.

She clutched the edge of his cloak in her hand like a security blanket and snuggled against his shoulder again.

(Art by Jill Thompson)

[first-son-of-finwe]

im the anon from before that asked abt whether or not feanor or nerdanel would get back together, your take has been on my mind and I really like it. In my heart I too think there's potential for them to reconcile, but how do you think at least on Feanor's part, that would happen? Would he be a completely different elf, more tempered in his pride and emotions? How does one even approach the topic of forgiveness after all that happened?? I don't know if he'd prostrate himself in repentance necessarily. Maybe they have to start over from the very beginning, and it takes a very, very long time to re-earn her trust enough to repair even a friendship. let alone a relationship. And it makes me wonder just what it would take for Nerdanel to forgive him, would she miss the man he was before the madness? They can never go back to who they were and how they were before, I don't think. Moreso that they'd both have to relearn who they are and how to be around the other person. Omg sorry for the rambling I've just never taken an interest in them like this before now cuz its SOOO conflicting as hell. And juicy with drama.

Juicy drama and conflicting as hell is correct 😅 I'm glad you're giving me more chances to explore these two. I'm gonna pen a whole damn essay here, so bear with me.

What would it take, on Fëanor's part, to reconcile? Would he have to be a completely different elf? The idea of being a 'different elf' is always interesting, so I'll bring out my headcanons on how Fëanor changes from life to death, and throughout his time in Mandos.

First and foremost, I have always seen Fëanor as someone who was tormented by his own mind. It's no secret that smarter people suffer more, and geniuses are rarely happy...so for him, his gifts were a double edged sword that gave him wonderful things, but also demanded a price. That price, often, was inner peace and emotional stability.

After a certain point in Mandos, I think he would come to understand just how hard it was, living his life with his chemically abundant, trigger-happy and constantly restless brain. He would also understand that he can accept help, that it is possible to move towards having more inner balance and peace, and this will ultimately make his experience of being conscious (I won't say alive, because, Mandos) better. It's like installing some brakes on a runaway train - you're not fundamentally changing what the train is or what it does, but you're making sure there is control, and that it doesn't veer off the rails and hurt itself and others in the process.

So in answer to this question, I think he would have to achieve a certain level of....hindsight, a deeper understanding of himself, and a willingness to bring himself into a more centred place. Over time, and in recognition of the struggles he's faced all his life and how that affected everyone around him, I think he would want to do this.

How this affects his perception of who he fundamentally is, whether or not he feels he's lost anything....that's a whole other conversation to have, and it's not one with a definitive answer.

But this is where Nerdanel can come into this.

What would it take for Nerdanel to forgive? Would she miss the man he was before the madness? Nerdanel is named 'the wise', and I believe she is empathetic by nature. If she understands all of the above, sees for herself that her husband has understood it too, and is actively moving in a different direction....then, perhaps, the topic of forgiveness can be brought up.

I should say that here all of the above is distinct from Fëanor's personality, which is fiery, bold, adventurous, passionate and stubborn by nature. He had long periods of his life where he was just happy, and I think his courtship, marriage and years with his children were the longest of these. I can't imagine that Nerdanel would not have looked back and missed those good times terribly, ached for them.

I am also slightly weak to the idea of her emotions overpowering her rational judgement a bit. Yes, she is entirely justified in denouncing him forever, in not extending any forgiveness, or even another second's thought. But she still remembers the elf she fell in love with, and goddamnit, some part of that is still there.

If Fëanor ever managed to speak to her, I think he would want to express his remorse for a lot of things. I cannot imagine that he wouldn't be pained by how much he hurt her, and how badly he messed up his marriage to someone who was his soul mate in every way. As I said in the last post, he would not necessarily be expecting any reconciliation - he would just do it in the hope that his words could give her some kind of catharsis, and relieve some of her anger. After everything, he wants to give her that at least.

From there....who knows? Perhaps they could, as you say, learn to be around each other again. A small smile here and there for an old quirk they recognise, for an old memory, for the humour they used to share that naturally emerges sometimes.

I like to think that they could make it. It may not be the same again, but a) they just can't seem to stay away, and b) it gets a little better every time.

[marzipanandminutiae]

I feel you on the phone 'addiction' thing! I have ADHD and my brain needs some sort of input 24/7 in order to not go crazy, and my phone is the easiest way to satisfy that need.

Oof. That sounds like the worst.

I don’t know what it is about me that makes ditching screens difficult (computer as well as phone- the amount of time I waste online when I really want to be doing other things but can’t make myself is pretty distressing). I have a family history of addiction- alcoholism, specifically -and, while I wouldn’t remotely compare “have trouble disengaging from screens” to substance addiction, some studies seem to show that the behaviors and brain activity can be similar. So maybe there’s a genetic component? I just don’t know.

I’ve struggled to moderate screen time ever since the computer became something I could use myself, instead of something mysterious that only Mom and Dad knew how to operate. Around age 11. It used to be somewhat easier because it was out of my control and I had more things in my life occupying my time that took me away from it. School, friends, running around my hometown investigating haunted buildings, etc. Plus, without a smartphone, screens couldn’t really follow me around. I had a flip phone until after high school, even though the first iPhone came out when I was 14

Now, though...there’s no emergency brake. I have a screen with me at all times, and I get sucked into it constantly. I can’t just leave it at home or turn it off, either- all three of my jobs have some phone-based aspect and my parents have gotten used to being able to contact me whenever. They've been through the death of a child; I can’t blame them for wanting to touch base with me as often as possible when I live 1,100 miles away.

It’s not really interfering with the basics of my life- I still manage to go to work, do my job, get groceries, shower, do laundry, eat meals, etc.  But wresting myself away from the Internet to do “extraneous” things that make me happy is really difficult. I sit down on my day off intending to just be on the computer or my phone for a little bit and then only use it for background noise while I sew or bake or research or work on dolls, but the day slips away hour by hour and I accomplish next to nothing.

I don’t want this. I don’t like it. I see the time passing and think “oh damn, I really should go Do The Thing.” I just. Don’t. Because there’s always just one more video, just one more round of mindless scrolling through Facebook-Tumblr-Instagram. It’s a miracle I manage to do my hobbies at all. I haven’t written anything in months, either, because when I sit down to write the words just won’t come. (I suspect most of my followers don’t even know I love to write. I have an AO3 account and used to churn out small novellas’ worth of fanfic back in college.)

And that brings me to the biggest reason this behavior disturbs me: how it makes me feel.

When I’m on the computer or my phone for long stretches, especially doing something passive, it makes me start to feel- dull. My thoughts come slowly and I struggle to articulate them. My memory suffers. I’m normally pretty good at thinking and speaking on my feet, but I stumble over my words. Nothing but the screen can hold my attention. I feel like my mind can’t think deeper than the surface of anything, if that makes sense. I feel like I become stupid. I sleep fitfully and wake up a lot in the middle of the night, because sleep is boring compared to the constant stimulation of messing around on my phone.

I hate feeling that way, so much. It used to be a temporary thing, a state I could ward off by simply not getting on the computer before school (or mandolin lessons, or meeting up with a friend, or going out with my family). But now I can’t remember the last time I didn’t feel that way. It’s become my default state and I don’t know how to fix things.

Sorry, this got very long-winded. I just needed to talk through it. I want to feel normal again, with my mind the way I know it should be. But it seems impossible to break away.

[pareidoliaonthemove]

A Worthy Sacrifice

Notes:

This is what happens when I’m not careful about what shows I watch on the idiot box in close proximity. In this case, an episode of BBC’s excellent Horrible Histories, closely followed by Thunderbirds Are Go! Episode “Attack of the Reptiles”.

And, yes, the Roman Emperor Caligula was rather keen on people honouring their promises to the Gods, and did make people honour their promises to the Gods to exchange their lives for his after he recovered from a potentially deadly ‘brain fever’. I mean, technically, he wasn’t wrong … but sheesh!

The standard disclaimers, I do not own Thunderbirds, either the Original Series, the Movies (both Supermarionation and Live Action), or the Thunderbirds Are Go Series. (Although I do own copies on DVD.)

I do not do this for money, but for my own (in)sanity and entertainment.

 ____________________________________________________

 Gordon pulled frantically at the starter on the hoverboat’s engine, resolutely ignoring the noises coming from behind him.

“Come on! I’ll give up Celery Crunch Bars for a year if you’ll please just start!”

One final pull, as the Pentergasts cried out, and …

The engine caught.

“Yes!”

 High above Tracy Island, aboard Thunderbird Five, John flicked off the holographic recording and paused, smiling.

“Give up Celery Crunch Bars for a year? You might just need a little help to honour that promise, Gordon. And I know who can help you with that.”

“Ugh,” Alan moaned pitifully, “I mean, who cares?”

“Who cares about what, Alan?” The voice made Alan jump, how all two-hundred-plus pounds of Virgil managed to sneak up on him in steel-cap boots, he would never understand.

“History,” Alan moaned. The wonky eyebrow raised at him. “Ancient Roman history,” Alan amended, still hoping for sympathy.

“A lot of the basic principles of engineering were set out by the Ancient Romans,” Virgil commented. Alan rolled his eyes. Trust Virgil find a way to relate to a bunch of dress-wearing guys dead for nearly two thousand years. He’d be lucky, if Virgil didn’t start on about their art, to boot.

The holographic projector built into the kitchen bench flared into life, the halo of light resolving into John’s torso floating serenely in mid-air. “Virgil, good, you’re here, too.”

“What’s up, John, is it an emergency? A space emergency!?”

“No, there’s no emergency. This is more a … social call.”

Both brothers paused, “John, is everything … okay?” Virgil asked cautiously.

“Everything is fine, Gordon and the Pendergasts have managed to escape the facility, and Scott is about to make an extraction. How’s your shoulder, Virgil?”

Virgil scowled, one hand automatically going to rub the shoulder that had been strained as he had tried to keep from falling into the sea from the severed evacuation tube the previous mission. He was saved from answering by Alan.

“John, you don’t do social anything,” Alan pointed out with his trademark lack of tact.

“What are you supposed to be studying, Alan?” John asked.

The younger boy deflated. “Ancient Roman politics,” he moaned, once more dejected.

“Have you already done the Emperor Caligula?” John asked.

“The crazy guy who had sex with his sisters, and made his horse a senator? Yeah.”

“Do you remember what happened when he was deathly ill with ‘brain fever’?”

Alan frowned, trying to remember. “Yeah … he was popular then, a lot of people, trying to suck up to him in case he survived offered their lives to the gods in exchange for his … And when he got better …”

Virgil broke in, worried, “John, where are you going with this?”

John smiled innocently, “You know that saying that those who do not remember the past are condemned the repeat it?”

“Yeeesss?”

“Well, this just happened.” John activated the recording of Gordon and the hoverboat.

Virgil and Alan watched in silence. John flicked off the image when it stopped. “Well, what do you think?”

Alan grinned. “I think Gordon’s condemned to repeat history!”

 It had taken a lot of negotiation, but the care and housing of Buddy and Ellie the bearded dragons had finally been resolved.

A lot of negotiation, and not a little blackmail; “They’re a gift for their number one fan, in order to thank him for saving their lives. How upset do you think the Pendergasts would be if they found out you’d sold them?”

And so, as always in the face of a lack of brotherly sympathy, Gordon went to seek out the next best form of comfort: Celery Crunch Bars.

It was a little unusual that there none left in his stash in his rooms – Virgil had only just done the supply run not two weeks ago, but Grandma had been cooking a lot lately.

It was suspicious that there were none to be found in the gigantic industrial pantry – Gordon knew there had been an entire pallet there the other day.

And when his Celery Crunch Bars were not only missing from both Thunderbird Four and her spares warehouse, but replaced by the protein meal replacement bars that the other Thunderbirds stocked, it was a blatant act of sabotage against him. One worthy of the Hood.

So Gordon was distracted as he re-entered the comms-room, trying to figure out if it was feasible for the Hood to have regained access to Tracy Island, and not only sneak about Villa, but enter Thunderbird Four. Not that he was surprised that he would be most interested in the sub, after all, she was the most important vehicle of the International Rescue fleet, even if his brothers wouldn’t agree.

He was so distracted that he almost walked over Scott and Virgil. Not an unimpressive achievement, his oldest brother was ridiculously tall, and Virgil wasn’t exactly built for stealth, with all that muscle and steel-cap boots.

So Scott’s outraged, “Watch it, Gordon!” and hopping around clutching allegedly squashed toes, wasn’t met with the accustomed apologetic grovelling and ‘please-don’t-make-me-scrub-the-hangars-with-my-toothbrush’. Which naturally attracted the interest of the smother twins, along with demands for an explanation.

So Gordon explained, a lengthy and spirited explanation that attracted an ever growing audience. As Gordon started to elaborate his theories, the interruptions started.

“My uncle? Here? Absolutely not!” Kayo snapped.

“A-After the previous i-i-infiltrations, I upd-dated the security s-systems. T-There is n-no way the H-Hood got back on the I-Island,” Brains said with absolute finality.

“It’s not the Hood, Gordon,” Virgil said calmly.

And that derailed Gordon. Kayo and Brains denying his proofs, absolutely. They were both now so personally invested in the security of their home that they had initially not even listened to Scott and John’s increasingly less calm request/instructions to dial back the sensitivity of the sensors ringing their private waters, the two nets around the islands, and the Villa. It had taken Grandma in her full blaze of fury, something that none of them – not even their father – had ever defied, to get the sensitivity reset so that every ruffle of a leaf or wavelet braking on the shore didn’t set off an alarm.

But Virgil – Virgil who had spent a whole week scrubbing every inch of the Villa, and hangars, and had to be physically stopped from trying to sieve the sands to rid the island of the taint the Hood and his henchmen?

“How could you possibly know that, Virgil?” Gordon demanded, squaring up for argument.

Virgil rolled his eyes. It was a good effort, Gordon distractedly gave him a 7 out of 10; but Johnny was the master of eyerolls, closely followed by Scott. “John, Alan. This is on you. Explain, so we can all get back to our lives.”

In answer, a hologram popped up in the centre of the comms room. Gordon stood and watched himself desperately trying to start the recalcitrant hoverboat. Uncool, he looked so uncool – Wait! What?

“You’re kidding me!” he wailed. “You can’t expect me to go without Celery Crunch Bars for a whole year!”

Alan shrugged. “Think yourself lucky that’s all you offered to the Rescue Gods.”

Gordon stared. “The Rescue Gods?!”

John shrugged. “Why not? It’s something Dad used to say.”

Scott nodded, slowly, “Yeah, if we were planning an outing on the weekend, it would be in the hands of the weather gods; an unpowered landing was ultimately in the hands of the aviation gods …”

Virgil nodded. “And finding a good car park was ‘Thank you, parking gods!’”

Grandma smiled into the distance. “Wasn’t just your father, your Grandpa said it a lot, too. Probably where he got it from.” She quickly wiped at her eyes under her glasses.

Gordon frowned. “So what does this have to do with my Celery Crunch Bars?”

Alan raised his eyebrow at him – he had obviously been spending too much time around Virgil. “You made a promise, you would give up Celery Crunch Bars for a year if the hover boat started. And the hover boat started.”

“Therefore, the Rescue Gods heard you, deemed your sacrifice as worthy, and accepted it, causing the boat to start,” John chimed in. “It’s obvious, really.”

Kay and Brains drifted away, Max following, having lost interest once it was established that the Island was still secure.

Gordon’s eyes narrowed. “So what happened to all the Celery Crunch Bars?”

John shrugged. “As you are giving them up, and no one else here eats the disgusting things; they were donated to a charity dedicated to feeding homeless people.”

“Yeah,” Alan chimed in. “No point them going to waste.”

Gordon eyed Virgil, the traitor. “No points guessing how they got there, either.”

“I took them,” Scott said brightly. “Hardly counted as ‘heavy lifting’,” a smug sideways look at Virgil, “and I had a meeting nearby the location this morning, anyway.”

“Don’t even think of trying to order more, Gordon,” John warned. “Our suppliers, and the factory, have been instructed not to accept any orders for Celery Crunch Bars for the next 12 months.”

Gordon stared in horror; ‘pet’ lizards, and now no Celery Crunch bars? He would rather the Hood.

His family drifted off, back to their planned activities, interest lost now that Gordon had been stunned into silence.

A plaintive wail followed them. “What am I going to eat for a year?!”

“There’s always my fresh-baked cookies.” Grandma brandished a tray at him. “Go ahead, take two.”

[savannahsdrabbles]

Ocean Song - Part Six

rating: PG summary: Marine biology student April O’Neil makes a startling discovery.

notes: 5k words - this chapter is a big boy! A03 link can be found here. Special thanks to @cloakedrabbitand @starfiretheninja for beta-reading!

Being constantly together meant that there wasn’t always a need for names in his family; no matter where they went or what was happening, a brother was always within earshot. Besides, surviving as a group often called for one to put aside the concept of ‘I’ and ‘me’, and instead focus on the importance of ‘us and ‘we’.

Us, Brothers. We, Father and Sons.

Individual names were thought of as precious things to be shared. To be called by name was one of the most intimate ways of being identified – it was a way of telling the other that they in particular were important and cherished and held a special place in the speaker’s heart. Being given a name was a special gift, and to be able to give someone their name was an even greater honor.

Father had given them their original names when they were still very small, cooing the sounds as they burrowed into his worn white fur and drank in the warm, safe scent of each other.

Small. Brave. Strong. Clever.

The chirped sounds were a reminder of his love for them - a verbal affirmation that he held them dear.

Once Father had passed, those names became something almost sacred in their family and were reserved for only the most special of occasions. They were spoken primarily in times of overwhelming emotion, such as during a particularly harsh winter when Strong Brother brought home a catch large enough to feed the whole family for many suns. The turtles had gathered around him that night, churring happily and celebrating their brother’s great and likely life-saving accomplishment.

Other occasions were less joyous but just as intimate, such as on nights where one of them startled awake from a terrible nightmare – an event that happened more frequently since Father’s passing. Brothers would huddle around their frightened member and press close, filling their ears with whispered names and reminding them that they were safe, they were home, and they were loved.

At this moment he yearned for nothing more than to be drawn into one of those tight embraces, cool scales and warm breath tickling his skin as the sound of his name chased away the surrounding monsters.

“Brothers here, Clever. Clever Brother safe.”

He blinked his eyes rapidly – one of the few body parts he could still move – as tears blurred his vision and began to roll down his face. The cold, hard object that had been clamped around his neck vibrated softly, a cruel imitation of the cool skin and hummed tones he was desperate for. The turtle bit down on the inside of his cheek and roughly chewed in an attempt to distract himself. No, he couldn’t cry yet, no matter how much he wanted to. For now he had to stay alert. If death was to come, he wanted to face it and be brave. That’s what Father would have wanted.

An acrid scent filled his nostrils as the ground swinging beneath him slowly transitioned from light to dark, and the harsh lighting above was replaced with a handful of flickering orange lights. The turtle let out a soft grunt as they came to an abrupt stop, his momentum continuing to carry his head and arms forward until they collided against the human called Ivan’s back. Before he could process what was happening, the hands holding him shifted to grip the edges of his shell and he was twisted around to face his captor.

Ivan stared down at him for a moment, his brown eyes seeming to note the turtle’s lolling head and the tear tracks that ran up either side of his face before he smirked. “Alright, in ya go.”

The turtle felt himself being turned again and then he was shoved into a small, dark place. He gasped softly, eyes flicking around to take in the new, colder enclosure. This one was much different than the other prison – it was much smaller, offering him only a few inches of movement on every side, and made of a shiny silver material that looped together to form an interlocking web. Several other prisons lined the one that he was being placed in, signifying that there was room for other prisoners if necessary.

The icy floor beneath his skin vibrated rhythmically as a mental image rushed to his mind, causing his already twisting stomach to gurgle a warning. No. Brothers safe. Brothers not here.

“Th-that cage is fairly small for a creature his size – and he should really have some source of water-” the red furred man that they had called “Doctor” leaned around Ivan as he attempted to peer into the silver prison. Waves of pity emanated from the human’s eyes, so similar to the expressions Red Girl and Boy Human had given him.

The turtle squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to shake his head and erase the memories from his mind. They hadn’t come back for him. Father had been right about Humans – they only sought to hurt and destroy. Their promises and looks of pity meant nothing.

All of the sudden a hand reached out and gripped the back of his neck, causing his eyes to snap back open. A warning hiss bubbled out from the back of his throat.

“Oh hush,” Ivan tapped sharply on the bridge of the creature’s snout, then leaned into the touch as he shoved the creature further back in the cage and swung the door shut. The turtle could still see through the metal links as Ivan latched the cage and reached into his pelt to retrieve what looked like a large gray egg. The man tapped the shell once, triggering a low beep from the object around the turtle’s neck. He gulped, bracing for the worst, and then barked in surprise as a wave of tingling warmth began to slowly wash over his body. It was an odd, hot sensation – like the feeling of urinating after a cold swim – but it was welcome. The turtle shook his head and gave a small sign of relief as life began to creep back into his limbs… until Ivan clicked the egg a second time and the weight came crashing back down.

“Eh, better keep you still for now. Just in case.” The large man twirled the egg between his fingers for a moment, looking thoughtful, then tucked the device into an inner pocket on the van door. Once he was certain it was secure, Ivan grabbed the doors and looked back over his shoulder. “You’ve done enough, Dr. O’Neil,”

The doors slammed shut with an air of finality, plunging him into darkness and making him whimper softly.

Seconds later a roar screamed at him from every side, and then a sudden jolt of movement sent him crashing into the cage door. He clenched his now bruised jaw as the rumbling continued to slide him back and forth, eyes blinking rapidly to adjust and then locking onto the door pocket that shifted in and out of his line of sight. He hummed in determination. That was it – his ticket to freedom. He needed that egg.

***

Okay, so it turned out that car chases were a bit difficult when you didn’t have a plan and didn’t want to alert the other car.

The Jonesmobile had exploded from the parking garage with a vengeance, spitting up gravel in its wake, only for Casey to quickly second guess his actions – a rare occasion and one to be noted – and slam on the brakes. He killed the headlights, essentially casting a cloak of invisibility over the Jeep, and waited impatiently for the van to put a bit more distance between them before gunning the engine. The two vehicles weaved their way through Hamato Lab’s property, the Jeep’s headlights staying dark until they emerged onto the freeway. There weren’t many other cars out at this time of night, but it was just enough for the teens to be able to blend into traffic without tipping off their target.

“We need a plan – is there a rest stop or something coming up? Maybe we can wait until they stop and confront them then?” April leaned down to retrieve her laptop from the floorboards and started to pull up a map of the highway. “I’m not sure where exactly Oroku Inc. is located, but I know it’s at least several hours away; they’ll have to pull over at some point to-”

“And then what? They’ll stop to get some Funyuns and we’ll break into the van?” Casey tapped his blinker as they changed lanes, moving the Jonesmobile one lane closer to the van and pressing on the accelerator. The Jeep rumbled beneath them as they powered forward. “As much fun as that sounds, I don’t think it’ll work – one of the goons will probably stay behind to watch the car.”

“Ugh, you’re right,” the redhead moved her hands to her face and rubbed her temples vigorously as if to stimulate brain activity. “Okay, okay. Did they lock the back of the van before they drove off?”

Casey shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road as the van signaled right and began to change lanes. “I don’t know – you had a better vantage point than I did.”

“I don’t think they did, but I’m not one hundred percent sure. But if we can get them both away from the car for a bit maybe one of us could get in through the back and pull him out?”

“Hmmm…” the boy hummed, impatiently drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he thought.

Ahead of them, the van signaled once more and began angling towards the nearest off ramp. Casey waited for half a moment before doing the same. He’d never driven on this part of the coastal highway before, but he could tell at a glance that the traffic was a lot less dense on the upcoming side street – meaning that there would be less cover and the goons would quickly catch on to the fact that they were being followed. If they wanted to take advantage of the element of surprise, they needed to act soon.

“How good are your acting skills?”

April blinked in confusion. “My what?”

“I have an idea. Just follow my lead – and brace yourself.”

Before April could ask any more questions, Casey jammed his foot against the gas pedal and the car rocketed forward like a sugar-high child released into Disney World. The girl shrieked in surprise, hand swatting at the roof as she grabbed for the ceiling bar and held on tight. The Jeep careened onto the off ramp, narrowly missing the siderail as they powered down to the lower level. Streetlights whipped by, illuminating the inside of the car in photographic bursts. Casey’s crazy, wild-eyed grin. April’s confused but determined resolve. The gap between them and the van began to close.

50 feet.

40 feet.

30 feet.

“Casey-!” April braced herself, teeth gritted and eyes squeezed shut as she prepared for what was sure to be a colossal collision. But then, without warning, Casey jerked the wheel and they blew past their target. April pried an eye open just in time to see the van whip past and start to shrink in their rearview mirror. “What the heck are you doing – we need to be behind them!”

“Just trust me – I saw this in a movie once!”

Once Casey seemed to be satisfied with the distance between them and the other vehicle – at least ten car lengths – he threw his right arm in front of April and slammed on the brakes.

Tires screamed in protest, immediately chorused by the voices of the Jeep’s passengers. Casey’s left hand gripped the steering wheel, fighting to keep the car under control as it skidded from side to side. A second screech joined the cacophony of noise, and April squeezed both eyes shut again as she waited for the impact that never came.

Then, with a crunch of gravel, everything stopped moving.

The two teens slumped forward in their seats, chests heaving against their seatbelts as they attempted to steady their racing hearts. As soon as she was sure that they were still alive, April turned her head and gave a snort at the shell-shocked expression painted across Casey’s face. “You good?”

The boy moved slowly, prying a white-knuckled hand off of the steering wheel and slowly patting it across his face and body in search of injuries. “I… I think so. You?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” April closed her eyes in relief and nodded breathlessly, then turned sharply in her seat as she threw a punch to Casey’s shoulder. “What the heck was that?”

Casey recoiled, color flowing back into his pale face as he attempted to dodge her flailing fists. “I have a plan – I told you, just trust me!”

“Trust you? After you tried to kill us? Boy I-”

“You call that crap driving?” A voice boomed from behind them, followed by the slam of a car door being kicked open. April tensed, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. Both of the men they had seen at the lab emerged from the van, looking every bit as shaken and angry as she felt.

“Like I said – follow my lead!” Casey grabbed April’s hand and squeezed once as he hissed his words. Without any further explanations, the teenage boy unbuckled his seatbelt and threw himself out the car door. He started speaking even before his feet had touched the ground, voice pitching into a pitiful and unsure tone as he turned to the approaching goons. “I am so sorry, sirs! I don’t know what happened – I was just driving along and all of the sudden I lost control of the wheel! Are you two alright?”

Now that they had headlights and streetlights to illuminate the situation playing out, April was able to give the Oroku Inc. employees a once over in the rearview mirror. They were definitely enormous – both solidly built men each standing at least six feet tall and towering over even Casey’s lanky form. She squinted, eyes straining to read their nametags as they passed the Jeep’s bumper and continued to move closer. Anton and Ivan. Those certainly didn’t sound like any Japanese names she’d ever heard – maybe they were transfers to Japan, like she and her father? Then again, these guys didn’t really look the part of well-educated scientists – more like club bouncers that had been handed official nametags and set loose.

“I think that something is wrong with the flux capacitor – I heard it making noise earlier this morning and thought to myself: ‘Self, you need to get this fixed’ and by golly look where that got me now.” The men continued to stalk forward, shoulders hunched and not speaking as they got within an arm’s reach of Casey. The boy stepped backwards, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips as he continued to ramble.

Okay, this didn’t look good.  Time to step in.

Taking a deep breath, April pushed herself through the passenger side door and did her best put on a mask of nervous innocence. “Oh yes, I hope that we didn’t scare you two gentlemen!”

Both mens’ heads whipped around to face her, as if just realizing that there had been a second person in the Jeep. They glanced at each other, eyes sharing a quick conversation, and then Anton gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Not at all, Miss. We were just checking to make sure that the driver of this car was alright – you were driving a bit erratically back there.”

“That’s because my girlfriend really has to pee!” Casey interjected. “We were speeding to get to the nearest gas station.”

April blinked, taking the moment of temporary darkness to roll her eyes back into her head before nodding and crossing her legs awkwardly. “Err, yeah. I really gotta… go.”

The bigger of the men blushed and glanced between the two teenagers. “Oh. Um, well then if you two are okay, we’ll let you go on your way-”

“No!” Casey and April both yelped at the same time, startling the two men and catching each other off guard.

“I really need help to get my car running again, and you can’t leave us stranded out here!” the teenage boy gestured towards the hood of his car and shrugged helplessly. “I totally suck at cars – I mean, look what happened! If I don’t get this fixed, someone else might come along hurt us or something and then I’ll have to tell the cops what happened and –”

“Alright, alright, we’ll give it a quick look,” the black man interjected with another tight smile, though his eyes betrayed a deep aggravation with the turn of events. “Ivan, you’re good with cars, aren’t you?”

“Good enough,” the white man shrugged and started to roll up his sleeves.

“Thank you so much, gentlemen, we really appreciate this,” Casey gave a small bow as the two men moved to the front of the Jeep and started to raise the hood. Before they could get started, he turned back to April and continued to speak in his lilting, false voice. “It’s pretty quiet out here, Babe. How about you go behind these nice men’s car and see if you can find somewhere to take care of business? I think their van will block you from the road.”

April nodded. Okay, maybe Casey knew what he was doing after all. “Okay, Babe. Try not to miss me too much while I’m gone.”

Casey gave a wide grin, his eyes glimmering with amusement. “Impossible.”

Before he could continue playing along and dragging things out, April turned and slowly started to make her way into the darkness. The van was still running, making her cross her fingers and pray that the back of the car would still be unlocked. If it wasn’t, she wasn’t sure how she could go about stealing the keys from the cabin without alerting Anton and Ivan.

From behind her, she heard a shouted “DUDE SHE’S PEEING, DON’T LOOK!” and bit back a snort. Bonus points for dedication on Casey’s part.

Moments later Casey’s voice resumed its awkward tone, assuring her that the goons had turned their attention back to the car. “So I always forget - how often are you supposed to change the oil in your car? It’s like once a year, right?”

April wanted to laugh at the absurdness of this all, but she knew that she didn’t have time to waste. The red head walked slowly, trying to appear calm before she ducked behind the van. Anton had apparently jerked the wheel when he slammed on the brakes, causing the van to fishtail and come to a stop at an angle – perfect. She waited in the shadow of the vehicle for a few seconds, half-expecting one of the men to charge around the corner, and then reached for the door handle.

“Please be unlocked, please be unlocked.”

Click. 

The van door swung open, and April was suddenly face to face with the turtle.

A wave of relief rushed over her, and the girl grinned as she reached for the sliding latch on the front of his cage. “Oh thank God – are you okay?”

The creature hissed loudly, his narrowed eyes locking on hers and shining with anger. “No!”

She hesitated, drawing her hand back and watching as the turtle trembled in the low light. “Hey – I don’t know what all happened after we left, but I’m here to help.”

“No! Human hurt!”

April bit her lip. He was right – she could see the scrapes on his arms and face where it looked like he had been roughed up, and the humming collar on his neck didn’t look good. Casey cleared his throat in the distance and continued to talk loudly, but she could tell by his tone that he was starting to sound less confident. She didn’t have much time to argue.

“Listen – I’m going to need you to trust me.” She whispered as she raised her hand to the latch again and slid it open. The turtle gave a low grumble, but made no move to snap at her or fight back. “I’m sorry that those humans hurt you, but I promise that that’s the last thing I want to do. Casey and I are trying to get you home. You know, home with Small Brother?”

That was the key – she could almost see the switch being thrown in his brain as soon as she mentioned his brother.

Once the latch was undone, the girl slowly extended a hand into the cage. “Trust me, ok? Just come with us, and we’re going to get you home.”

The turtle regarded her hand for a moment, then moved his eyes to look past her. “Egg.”

April froze. “Egg?”

“Egg!”

“I – I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means?” They didn’t have time for this – April reached into the cage and tried to grab for one of the turtle’s legs to pull him out, only to brush against the collar on his neck. The metal buzzed slightly, sending pins and needles through her fingers and causing her to jerk her arm back. The tips of her fingers felt numb to the touch, and she flexed her hand to force blood back into them. “Ow – what the heck?”

The turtle blinked up at her almost apologetically, then turned his focus past her once more. “Egg. There egg-egg-egg-egg-egg!”

The collar – maybe that was why he wasn’t moving? So what did an egg have to do with this…?

Casey yelled in the distance, and April froze. “Can you check my gas tank as well? I filled it up last week, but maybe I’m running low?”

“Fine, whatever, Kid! Just stop yelling – they can probably hear you from Tokyo!”

That didn’t sound good – Casey was running out of things to distract them with.

April turned in the direction that the turtle was looking and reached into the door pocket. Immediately, her hand closed around something small and round. She pulled the object from the pocket and held it out to him. “This?”

“Egg!” he chirped excitedly, still not moving but eyes shining with child-like excitement. “Egg egg egg!”

“You doing okay back there, Babe?” Casey’s strained voice floated around the corner and she gulped.

“Almost done,” she called back, trying to keep her voice even as she turned the device over in her hands. There was only one button on the object, so that meant it had a 50/50 chance of helping. Taking a deep breath and praying that it would do what she hoped, April pushed the button.

A beep sounded from within the cage, and April heard the turtle sigh with relief. He didn’t make any moves to climb out of the car, but she could tell that something was happening as the turtle slowly turned his head from side to side and looked up at her with eyes full of adoration.

“Hurry it up, little miss! We’ve got to get back on the road!”

Okay, no time to wait. April shoved the small device into her pocket and reached into the cage to hook her arms under the turtle’s armpits. “I’m sorry if this hurts, honey, but we’ve got to move now.”

The turtle’s legs trailed limply behind as she hauled him out of the van and attempted to lift him fully into her arms, only to stumble backwards and nearly drop him. Nope – not going to work. He was surprisingly heavy despite his small frame. April grunted as she shifted her hands and tried to hug the turtle to her chest with his head resting on her shoulder. His arms still dangled at his sides, twitching occasionally as feeling started to flow back through them, and the turtle let out a nervous hum.

“I gotcha, bud. We just got to figure this out –”

“Dude, you can’t interrupt her when she’s going to the bathroom -!”

“She’s taken long enough – what’s going on back there?”

Before she had a chance to consider her next action – fight? flight? - two sharp cracks rang through the night followed by the sound of multiple heavy objects hitting the ground. Less than a second later, Casey barreled around the back of the van and nearly crashed into her. His eyes had a wild shine as he quickly took in the situation and then lunged forward to scoop the turtle out of April’s arms. “We gotta go!”

April gave a grateful nod as the boy shifted the turtle into a bridal carry and tucked the creature’s head under his chin. “What about -?”

“I gave us a few seconds – now GO!”

The teens exploded from around the van in time to see both men moaning and slowly pulling themselves to their knees. The splintered remains of a hockey stick lay scattered at their feet, clearly telling the story of their downturn. April gulped as she leapt across Anton’s long legs and threw herself into the passenger side of the Jeep. Across the car, Casey pulled open the back door and quickly dumped the turtle onto the bench seat with a “sorry, dude.”

“You will pay for that, boy,” the white man snarled as he rubbed his head, then raised his eyes and let out a yell. “He’s got the turtle!”

“Thanks for the car help, guys!” Casey scrambled to the driver’s seat and threw himself inside, managing to slam the door behind him right as Ivan lunged for his arm. “Really appreciate it!”

Another hand slapped against the passenger side door, and April shrieked as it was yanked open. Anton towered above her, a deep scowl on his face as he reached down to unbuckle her seatbelt and drag her from the car. “CASEY! DRIVE!”

“On it!” Casey’s foot slammed onto the gas pedal and the tires spun madly in the gravel, searching for traction and throwing small pebbles into the air. April continued to scream and kicked out, her flailing legs connecting with Anton’s chest and sending the man stumbling backwards. Across the car Ivan pounded on the backseat window, yelling to be let in as the turtle squawked in terror.

Suddenly, they were off! Tires gripped the road with terrifying ferocity and the Jonesmobile went flying onto the pavement.

Casey yelped as the car lunged forward, nearly overcorrecting and sending them back off the other side of the road before he could get a firm grip on the wheel. He let out a whoop of excitement as the Jeep powered down the coastal highway, aiming for a small side road that wove above the shore. Soon the van and two screaming men fell into the distance, and both teens sighed in relief.

“Freedom, here we come baby!”

Their celebration was short-lived, however, as a loud BANG suddenly cut through the darkness like a knife.

April’s eyes widened, and she turned to look out the rear window just as headlights burst to life behind them. Another loud BANG echoed through the air, and then something thudded into the back of the car. “Oh my gosh – they have guns!”

“Oh heck no – we are not dying today!” Casey gunned the engine, forcing the car to work harder as they drove onto the rocky, winding cliffside road. “Look at your computer – see if we can find the nearest police station or something!”

“Uh – sure – ok. Keep your head down!” April lunged towards the floorboards, her hands flailing to catch the laptop as the car started bouncing and shaking violently. Small bangs and thuds echoed against the Jeep, and she wondered how many of those were rocks being kicked up versus bullets being intentionally lodged their direction.

A heavy weight thudded behind her and April whipped around, wondering if another bullet had connected with their car, only to see that the turtle had slid off the seat and landed on the floorboards between the bench and the back of the drivers’ seat. His arms flailed helplessly, clearly having regained enough life to move but not to push himself back into an upright position.

 “Here – ” Keeping her head down, April pushed a hand against the turtle’s shell and rolled him back onto the seat. The creature chirped in surprise, but continued to flail his arms around as the car began to shake even more violently. “What - are you going off road?”

“I am until you find directions – ” Casey had to raise his voice to be heard over the chaotic combination of bullets, rocks, and squawking coming from the back seat. “I’m trying to throw them off!”

Another BANG rang through the night, shattering the back window as a bullet lodged into the ceiling just above Casey’s head.

“Dude – that could have killed me!”

“I think that’s their point!” April ducked her head down again and started typing frantically on her laptop. She wasn’t even sure what to search for. The police? I mean technically they were the criminals in this situation – but the other guys were shooting at them, so they were clearly in the wrong, right?

Casey let out a whoop as he jerked the steering wheel to one side and then the other, eliciting a shriek of metal as the Jeep sideswiped the guardrail that separated the road from a steep drop into rocky, wooded area. The van was getting closer now, its headlights shining brightly in the rearview mirror and making it impossible to look back without being blinded.

“This is totally wicked!” Casey hollered as they took another sharp turn, tires spinning and spitting gravel up into the windshield wipers. “It’s kind of like we’re in an action movie, ya know?”

“You’re insane - and slow down on those turns – and calm down!” the red-head snapped first towards the driver, and then over her shoulder as the turtle continued to yell wordlessly and scrabble to get a grip in the torn upholstery. Her hands flew across the keyboard – maybe she could just find them directions to another side road where they could lose the people pursuing them?

Another loud BANG rang out, and then a large jolt rocked the Jeep first to one side and then the other. April’s eyes snapped up from the computer just in time to see a bridge pass them on their left… while the Jeep continued to plow forward into open air. “CASEY! BRIDGE!”

***

Somewhere across Osaka, a phone rang.

[cornedbeefhashtags]

Mrs Frizzle, or "The Frizz" as the kids like to say, was busy teaching an important lesson about the birds and the bees or the circle of life or something and left The Magic School Bus in charge of navigation. Distracted by everyone laughing at one of Ralph's famous zingers, the Bus - or "the bussy" as you have referred to it in messages with me - accidentally hits a sad pedestrian. Would the bus be tried for manslaughter or would Mrs Frizzle instead? I would like to hear your thoughts.

The Magic School Bus is, of course, a classic introduction to the Freudian model of the psyche. Despite her penchant for being a little bit wacky, Ms. Frizzle is a relatable human face and therefore serves as a stand-in for the concept of the ego, the realistic part of the psyche that acts as the go-between for the id and the super-ego.

Elizabeth Savannah “Liz” Frizzle, The Frizz’s pet lizard, is the id. The id contains our aggressive and sexual motivations, i.e. our “lizard brain.” We never hear Liz speak, but she is shown consistently perched like the proverbial devil on Ms. Frizzle’s shoulder.

This leaves the super-ego, aka our moral conscience, which is represented by the bus. Sometimes Ms. Frizzle drives the bus herself, and sometimes the bus runs on auto-pilot. In either case, the bus is responsible for ensuring the safety of an entire class of 4th graders on a regular basis.

The implication here is that the bus is both morally driven and capable of self-directed action. This suggests that a) we must consider the possibility that the bus was fully aware of its actions and that this was no accident, and b) we must look at the context of the situation as well as the identity of the pedestrian to understand the bus’s decision.

With this in mind, I would like to propose an alternate solution to The Trolley Problem:

The “sad pedestrian” here was, in fact, the person operating the switch in The Trolley Problem. No one is tied to the trolley tracks until the question is posed, which means that the philosopher who poses the question is also guilty of putting the people on the tracks in the first place. If the philosopher is activating the switch on the audience’s behalf, then the sad pedestrian and the ill-intentioned philosopher are one and the same.

Clearly, the bus recognized what was at stake and acted in everyone’s best interest. By slamming into the philosopher at exactly the right angle and speed, the bus sent him flying into the overhead electrical lines that power the trolley, shorting them out and activating the trolley’s emergency brake. The bus saved the lives of everyone on the tracks and ended the philosopher’s reign of terror.

In short, the bus is tried for vehicular manslaughter, but the jury is sympathetic and the charges don’t stick. After the trial is concluded, Phoebe is heard muttering at the back of the courtroom. “At my OLD school, sentient buses were ALWAYS given corporal punishment!”

[freudensteins-monster]

I Need a Hero! 

Following on from Ooh! Barracuda!

Despite what Darcy had promised, their third date had ended with them still fully clothed, kissing goodbye on the street outside the restaurant they were supposed to be dining at, all because some asshat let mutated wannabe velociraptors escape from a lab in Nova Scotia.

And though they both claimed to want a do-over, culminating in the stereotypical post-third date activities, that first interrupted date was the start of a holding pattern.

They made reservations at another nice restaurant and Bucky walked Darcy to her room at the tower. They made out against the door – the inside of the door, as the hallway had hears, and high resolution cameras – but then Bucky cut it short claiming he had an early training session at the upstate facility in the morning.

Okay, thought Darcy. Except she learnt later on that he had volunteered for it the morning of their date.

The following weekend JARVIS found them an old school dance hall and the pair got dressed up in their 1940’s finest and went out dancing. Bucky walked her to her door again, and again cut their goodbye kiss short claiming tiredness because of the training upstate, and the travel, and the dancing.

Fine. Except Steve had mentioned two days later that Bucky had been putting extra sessions in at the tower gym – including the night of their dance hall date.

Darcy invited him around for a home cooked meal and suggested they watch something from Bucky’s “must see movies of the last 100 years” list. She instigated a little Netflix and Chill action, only for Bucky to put the brakes on claiming he wanted to see how the movie ended.

Really? It’s not like they couldn’t have paused the damn thing, Darcy would grumble to Jane later.

For their next date she pulled out the big guns: a slinky, sleeveless, little black dress that showed even more skin than the blue-grey number that had prompted Bucky to ask her out. When she opened the door Bucky’s knees almost buckled at the sight of her (or the girls) and Darcy thought she was on to a winner. She was flirty and affectionate on the way down to the lobby, and Bucky seemed to be reciprocating, but of course, their luck being what it was, the second he opened the car door for her his phone rang with an emergency Assemble.

Fair enough. He couldn’t fake an Assemble, but he didn’t have to look so damn relieved about it.

The mission took three days and when Bucky returned Darcy was caught in the middle of Jane’s latest breakthrough, so it ended up being a full week after their last failed date before they could reschedule. This also gave Darcy plenty of time to plan a course of action to address the elephant in the room, which basically boiled down to “talk about it like mature adults in an adult relationship”.

“This suuuucks,” Darcy groaned to her empty apartment as she waited for Bucky to knock on her door.  Thankfully she didn’t have to wait too long; a minute later and she would have chickened out.

“Hey doll,” he greeted her with a smile and a kiss on the cheek. “I missed you like crazy this week.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a crazy week,” she joked lamely, as Bucky made himself comfortable on her couch.

“Did you have anything in particular in mind tonight? I was thinking we could try that Caribbean ramen place Tony was going on about and maybe start one of those Star Wars trilogies everyone seems to love. Sam wants to watch them at the next team movie night, but you know he and Clint will just talk over them and it’ll just ruin my first viewing.”

“Speaking of firsts,” Darcy interjected, grasping at any excuse to get the crappy portion of their evening over with. “Do you not want to have sex with me?” Bucky balked and couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eyes. Darcy cursed herself for having the subtlety of Thor’s hammer, but sat as close to him as she dared and powered on. “Considering how you were looking at me the day you asked me out, I’m going to go out on a limb and say you find me attractive, but you keep pulling away from me when things get hot and heavy, and I know you’ve been making up excuses so you can cut out early. So… what is it? Why are you embarrassed to tell me no? Is it a religious thing – do you not want to have sex before marriage? A medical thing? Do you not want to have sex at all, or just not right now? Whatever it is, I just need you talk to me about it and tell me where you’re head’s at so I can adjust my expectations accordingly, okay? Because right now I feel like an asshole for trying to move us in a direction that you’re clearly not comfortable with.”

It took Bucky a minute to reply, his mouth opening and closing as he tried and failed to find the right words, but eventually he turned those beautiful stormy eyes of his in her direction and took one of her hands in his.

“First off, of course I find you attractive. When it comes to brains and beauty I think you leave Hedy Lamarr in the dust,” he assured her with a smirk. “And don’t go twistin’ yourself up thinkin’ I only want you when you’re wearing one of those maneater ensembles of yours. Done up and dressed down, soft and sexy; I like the whole package, sweetheart.” Darcy couldn’t help but blush. “And I do want to have sex with you…”

“But…”

Bucky sighed and squeezed her hand just a little bit tighter. “But… Nobody but doctors have seen me without my shirt on since I came back to myself, and I can’t stop worrying about what you’ll think.”

“About?”

“All this,” he replied with vague gesture.

“Your arm?”

“You gotta remember that I got the knock off version of the serum; I ain’t like Steve,” he added, anxiously rubbing his shoulder. “I might heal fast but my scars don’t fade like his do. At least, the ones Hydra gave me didn’t. It’s not pretty, and I just don’t want to see you pretending like they don’t upset you.”

“Of course they upset me, Bucky. But only because I wanna tase every Hydra goon in the balls for what they did to you. Seeing your scars isn’t going to make me want you less. Solid muscle and solid metal, cocky and self-conscious; I like the whole package, Sergeant Barnes,” she teased.

“Oh, yeah?” he smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Ugh, dude. Don’t make me fall on my sword.”

“Huh?”

“JARVIS, can you play my favourite fanvid?” she asked the ceiling with a sigh.

 “Of course, Miss Lewis.”

“What are we watching?”

“Just… watch,” Darcy cringed as she shushed him. “And try not to hate me or, like, run screaming from the room in search of a restraining order.”

 🎶 Where have all the good men gone, and where are all the gods 🎶

Bucky knew this song. He heard it every now and then when he was passing by Jane’s lab on the way to or from Tony’s, but it would always cut out when he got close. He’d asked Darcy about it once and she claimed it was her ringtone. Now that he thought back on it she had definitely been lying but he’d been too distracted by her bashful smile to notice it. He turned his attention to the television fixed to Darcy’s living room wall and as the song continued dozens of hastily edited together video clips were thrown up on the screen. Video clips of him. There were paparazzo footage of him and some of the team leaving a bar in DC after they’d gone out for drinks on Sam’s birthday, some video of him lifting weights in the gym for that Avengers Tower behind-the-scenes thing that Pepper had organized, though it was slightly pixelated as the editor tried to zoom in on his arms. There was even news footage from his missions with the Avengers, and a few of his missions against them.

“Is that… is that the Winter Soldier in Germany?”

“Um… yes?” Darcy winced.

“People like that – you like that?” he asked incredulously.

“I know it’s awful of me, and you have every right to hate me for making light of something that is obviously so awful, but seriously dude, you were built like a friggin tank! I don’t know what you were eating when you were hiding out in Romania, but damn!”

After a few more minutes of crippling awkwardness Darcy finally asked JARVIS to cut the feed.

“So…

“So… I hear this song playing in your lab all the time. Just how often have you watched this thing?”

“I plead the fifth,” Darcy blushed.

“JARVIS, how many times has Darcy watched this video?”

“Don’t answer that!”

 “This is Miss Lewis’s 57th viewing of this particular Youtube video.”

Bucky looked rather pleased with himself. “Fifty-seven…”

“Okay, listen, I may have left it playing on loop one afternoon while I cleaned my apartment. I have not sat here and watched it fifty-seven times.”

“I can remember at least four separate instances where I’ve walked past your lab and interrupted this song.”

“So? That’s just four times.”

 “Miss Lewis also asks me to loop her into gym’s security footage whenever you and one of your teammates are sparring.”

“JARVIS? What the hell?” Darcy screeched as Bucky doubled over with laughter.

 “I apologise, Miss Lewis. I just thought Sergeant Barnes would appreciate having all the evidence at his disposal.”

“Go away, JARVIS.” Darcy sighed and tried not to combust from blushing as Bucky chuckled at her embarrassment. “Okay, fine. As you can see from Exhibits A through to like friggin J: I find you stupidly attractive. So, you don’t have to worry about me being upset about your scars from an aesthetic point of view, because if it’s not painfully obviously, I want to see you naked. Real bad.”

Then it was Bucky’s turn to blush. “Can I kiss you, doll?”

“Please,” she begged with relieved smile. “Anything to stop me from embarrassing myself further.”

They started tentatively at first, but soon things started moving in a horizontal direction, with hands toying at the hems of shirts and brushing over zippers, and Bucky pulled back. Darcy did her damndest not to let her disappointment show and waited patiently for Bucky to tell her how he was feeling.

“Do you think we could, uh, relocate?” he asked, surprising her as he tilted his head towards her bedroom door. “I don’t know if I’ll want to… I mean, we can try…” he stammered.

“Whatever you’re okay with. Whatever you want,” Darcy promised.

Bucky swooped in for another kiss before lifting Darcy up off the couch in one smooth movement, smiling like an idiot as she giggled in his arms.

“JARVIS, play us out.”

🎶 Racing on the thunder and rising with the heat / It's gonna take a superman to sweep me off my feet / I need a hero! 🎶  

[thejeksburyguy]

Warning: discussion of mental health and dark topics

I know I joke about my mental health and sleep deprivation on here. Alot. I reblog a lot of nihilistic humour and put 'lol same' or 'm e' in the tags. But in all honesty, my mental and physical health as of late is... not.. the best...

I haven't slept a full eight hours in weeks. I haven't slept for more than four hours in a few days now, and it just keeps getting worse. Recently I went four days in a row without sleeping at all, and I'm fairly certain I started hallucinating a bit before my body just hit the emergency brakes, and even then I only slept for two hours, maybe three. I might be starting to hallucinate again, actually, but I'm choosing to ignore that.

My depression has made a violent comeback, and my appetite is starting to go as well. If it weren't for someone very close to me (who I'm just going to refer to as Hyde from now on), I probably wouldn't be eating, but he pushes me to take care of myself and won't take 'I'm not hungry' for an answer. I haven't weighed myself (I'm actively avoiding looking or even touching a scale, I do NOT need to trigger my ED into waking up, I have enough on my plate (haha w o o p s) as it is), but I've probably started losing weight again.

Thoughts of self-harm and suicide are returning. It's getting harder everyday to ignore them. I have so much work to do, from school, from my parents, I haven't even had holiday breaks off because one of my teachers keeps assigning work over the holidays. Everyday more work gets added to the pile, and I'm struggling to keep up, but reaching out for help is pointless; half of my teachers treat me like I'm a burden on their life, and the other half I don't want to bother because my own mental illnesses prevent me from seeking help.

It's one of those 'it feels easier to just swim down' situations. I just want to hit the bottom and breathe out and drown. It really doesn't help that my mother completely ignored the doctor's orders and warnings and has not only made me aware of where my pills are, but has given me full access to them and trusts me to take them myself. It's tempting to overdose. It really is. And I'm scared, because I don't know how much longer I can hold out before my brain wins. Hyde helps alot, but he can only do so much.

I guess I'm writing this to clear my mind? Or maybe it's because, if I do go through with it one day, I don't want you all to wonder where I am. I don't intend this as a suicide note, not at all, and for now I'm not giving in, but it's hard. I'm honestly not sure if I'll survive finals week, heh heh. I know I've had public mental breakdowns in the past on here, but I haven't been 100% honest about how bad it is.

I have had 3 suicide attempts, only one of which my parents know about, and even then believe it was just me 'thinking about it'.

I have thoughts of killing myself and self-harming everyday, without fail.

I have high-functioning depression. Most of the people I interact with either have no idea I'm depressed, or don't know just how bad it is.

I have a lot of undiagnosed problems, things I believe are serious and need to be addressed, but as a teenager I can't do that myself.

It's 3:17 am right now. I should really go to sleep. I can't. My body won't let me, and the few times I do I have horrific night terrors. I'm afraid I'm going crazy. I know I make alot of connections between myself and TGS Jekyll, but I'm not trying to be memey or clever when I say I am genuinely terrified of being locked up in an insane asylum. My mother has already threatened to send me to one, not because of my mental health, but as a punishment or to 'scare me straight' due to a fight we had. I feel like I can't be honest with any of the adults in my personal life or I'll be strapped in a straitjacket and thrown into a padded cell. I'm probably wrong, but this is genuinely what I think of when I think 'insane asylum':

I know I probably should be in one. I'm a danger to myself, and most likely to others as well. I have a lot of tendencies and urges I suppress (alongside with my queerness; I'm openly queer on here and with friends at school, but most of it is either forced flamboyance or, when around other people, suppressing it and pretending to be cishet), most of which I know for a fact are a one way ticket to the loving embrace of medical torture. But I can't get into detail about it or ask for help or I'll be seen as attention seeking, faking it, or trying to be Edgy.

My therapist is incredibly sweet, but I'm not honest with her. I keep a lot from her. I feel like I'm burdening her, or she'll judge me. She won't, she's made it clear she cares about me, truly, but my brain won't let me progress and get the help I need. This meme I made pretty much sums up my life in one image:

I don't know why I'm even making this post anymore. I feel so manipulative, like I'm begging for pity and attention. I don't want that; I'd almost prefer getting anons telling me to shut up and kill myself, heh heh! At least then I wouldn't feel like I'm emotionally damaging people who care about me.

I sincerely hate myself for making this post now, actually. I want to delete it all, but I've spent so much time on it, it'd be wasted if I didn't post it. I can't afford to waste time, my brain might actually short circuit if it realizes I wasted time I could have been using to work. What is relaxing or free time, heh heh heh.

...I think I'm going to go cry to Hyde now.

[smolbeandrabbles]

Undisclosed Desires - Dave x Reader (Lost River)

Basically if “Speechless” is how the story ‘ends’ (ends! HA!), “Undisclosed Desires” is how the story begins...

Authors Note: Oh Dave! I was so impressed with my first 1000 words of this when I read it back it inspired nearly 6000 more. I’m proud of myself for inspiring... myself...? He was ultra soft in Speechless. So, I wanted to make it more obvious that he’s... not?... it’s more a circumstantial thing. BUT he ends up kind of soft here anyway. Again, I gave hints. I want you to know I’ll get there 😉 I know what he is! ALSO I really want you to have the song... Because even the title itself for this is just 👌 Undisclosed Desires - Muse

Disclaimer: I own none of the Lost River characters - I mean, I still gotta bless Ryan’s brain. For creativity. And I do love Dave so, thanks Ryan, here we are!

Premise: He knows his club needs something... Or someone... A chance encounter lead to exactly what he’s looking for. But maybe he can give you a lot more than just that...

Words: 6728

Warnings: Self-harm TW / Sub/Dom tones / Mentions of potential Non-Con relationship (again #NotOurBoi)

___________ I know you've suffered But I don't want you to hide It's cold and loveless I won't let you be denied

Soothing I'll make you feel pure Trust me You can be sure

I want to reconcile the violence in your heart I want to recognize your beauty is not just a mask I want to exorcise the demons from your past I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart

You trick your lovers That you're wicked and divine You may be a sinner But your innocence is mine

Please me Show me how it's done Tease me You are the one

I want to reconcile the violence in your heart I want to recognize your beauty is not just a mask I want to exorcise the demons from your past I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart

Trust me You are the one

---

The bar was dark, barely even back lit by the soft red lighting the smoke from patrons created a haze that made everything look just as seedy as it was.

In yet another town to be crossed off a long list (as it seemed his work was never done!) Dave enjoyed the respite. This was just the kind of place he was looking for. Though he already knew it wouldn’t cater to some of his more unusual tastes. Beautiful girls dancing to the whim of men dressed in an array of erotic costumes and lingerie at least gave him that spark he so craved.

Dave had a way of talking to people that let him get exactly what he wanted out of them. And one of the banks patrons just so happened to be the man who owned this establishment. As Dave has already gathered this could be the case by the way the man talked and dressed, it hadn’t taken a lot to garner that information from him. And then here he was, as an established guest of the owner.

 He wasn’t a man Dave particularly liked or aspired to be like. But Dave had ideas of grandeur for himself. He wanted to open something similar; convinced he wasn’t the only one whose blood ran hot at the thoughts in his head - he would have willing patrons... He would be able to get the space... It was just the acts. Acts because Dave thought that a show or production would make more sense than having everything on display at once. Give just enough, but deny them everything... That could have been just the way Dave thought... but he loved the idea... He had been notified there was an element of BDSM to this particular club. Which perhaps was the only reason he had chosen to frequent it tonight. Maybe he could find just what he was looking for amongst the girls here. Dave listened to the man, he didn’t remember or particularly care what his name was, describe every girl on display and sadistically explain what each was into. There was a smirk on his face and a disgusting tone to his voice that made Dave think he knew all these things first hand. Dave nodded along, lighting a cigarette for himself. They were all beautiful creatures - Sirens. But none that was being described to him had that edge that he craved. All good, not good enough. And all terribly used... as Dave didn’t forget to note each came with a price tag; “Yours for...”

 Then he spotted her, seemingly younger than the rest. It meant nothing, but it drew him to her. She was gorgeous; he knew that wasn’t the make-up. Not her face. But as a whole. His drew his eyes over her twice but barely needed to do it even once. The look in her eyes though; haunted him. Fear - of doing this. Or what happened if she didn’t... - the breath she took as she stepped up onto the podium in heels she walked gracefully in; even if he raised an eyebrow at their height. But her heartbeat... he was nowhere near her and he could already feel it on her skin. He tilted his head, his eyes fixed upon her. Something was drawing him to her, her aura. Her very presence in this room was matches to gasoline.

He was uncomfortably aware that he was not the only one drawn to her. He was also conscious that the man next to him was smirking. Dave hated that he was going to have to ask for all the information he wanted. And felt that for this girl, it would not be forthcoming. He leant back in his chair and took a long drag from his cigarette. He didn’t watch her dance. Everyone else was here to watch her dance; the way she moved her hips, her body, her hands... The men (and women. He noticed. Even women) leaned forward to watch her, as if this would somehow give them a better view. Dave remained back. He knew they were imagining how her body would feel against theirs... under theirs... powerless and begging for them... what she would look like on her knees... what she would look like bound... how she would cry... how she would scream for them...  But her aura... there was an untapped power about her, Dave could tell. Something being suppressed... and why? Her heels alone made him want to call her over, overpower him, tell him he couldn’t touch her... watch the look in her eyes, her lips turn up in a smirk as he begged for her...

Dave’s train of thought came to a sudden halt. Emergency brake on. It was hard to see them through the smoke... through the make-up used to hide them... but they were there. And Dave knew what he was looking for. Across her arms, and in some places on the back of her legs were arrays of scars. And that stopped his eagerness for sex. Her aura was surely not from this…? He was hesitant, but his brain was back in overdrive, for different reasons... “... This girl...” he didn’t even have to point her out. It was obvious who he was looking at. “She’s special... one of a kind. I would consider offers... but...” there was that satisfied smirk “... as she is mine.” That was disturbingly possessive, even to Dave. He was almost certain that this relationship was Dom/Sub. Dave knew about that - he was an active participant. But if she was self-harming then no good was coming of it. He was abusing his power, or abusing her. And Dave’s brain couldn’t stand for the injustice. “Oh... I see...” Dave’s eyes flicked to the table instead of the man. Right now, he was as likely to put his cigarette out on him as address a question. This was how safe practices got a bad name. And with an aura like hers? No wonder Dave sensed so much suppression. What would happen if Dave set that free? What if he could be to her what this man clearly wasn’t. He talked about her like some kind of exclusive relationship was happening. But no... you could clearly have her at the right price. Was that her fear...? That someone would come along with the right price tonight? How often did that happen. How often was her crying genuine, and not part of her pleasure. Dave had to put his cigarette out now. The taste was making him feel sick. His breath out of smoke was angry, but he held it. If she was his Sub. If she was into that at all. No one else would touch her. She wouldn’t have to harm herself like that. And he would help her with that as best he could... “Do you like her” “I do...” “So you want her...” “How much does she cost?” Dave hated himself for saying it out loud. Its justified was the only thought of comfort. He was still talking about a woman... “Haha-! My friend. If you could afford her you wouldn’t ask... she is expensive.” “There’s a figure there somewhere.” “Too much for you.” Dave narrowed his eyes but didn’t take them off her “And if I wrote you a blank cheque?” “... Ha-! Can you afford to do that? Is she worth so much to you?” Dave’s eyes still didn’t leave as he turned his head to his companion “More.”

 **

 Dave was shown to a back room. He straightened his shirt and jacket and took a deep breath. Upon entering she was sitting on the bed. She didn’t look as nervous as he assumed, she was. Those eyes of hers were wide. But gentle. She looked like she would take care of you. “Sir...” he closed the door behind him and turned the lock... she stood; her heels probably put her at about his height “Tell me what you would like me to do for you...” It was clear she’d been told he’d printed a blank cheque for her. “Nothing.” “There must be... something...” She raised her hands to the straps of her bra, which made him walk forward and grab her. She gasped; “I didn’t write that cheque for me. For you to take your clothes off. I wrote it for you. For your freedom.” “Freedom?!” Then her eyes were fearful “H-how?!” “Is that worth anything less than a blank check to you?” “... But you do not...” “… Oh, believe me. I do. But I cannot watch you do this to yourself... And I can’t let you stay here knowing you are...” He was holding her wrist from behind, so that he wasn’t putting pressure on the criss-cross of scars. “I wish to give you what you want, without you thinking you need to do this. What makes you so unhappy you are possessed to do this? The way they treat you? Come with me. And I will show you this doesn’t need to be the way you live your life.” “...h... How will I... live?” “I think you will like my business proposal... you can do what you do here. If that is what you wish. But no other man will touch you. No man will touch you again if that is what you wish, do you understand me?” “Yes, Sir.” He groaned gently at the submissive way she said it. At the look in her eyes because she knew exactly what he wanted. so he couldn’t help himself; “Good girl.” He let her go, and took a step away, to show he’d maintain that respectful distance. Still. He would have to discuss this proposal with her. They would have much to discuss. But all Dave cared about, was letting her spirit run wild. He could feel it, he wanted to feel it closer. He wanted her to be able to feel it too... That meant paying the right price... “What’s your name?” It was almost a question out of the blue, in an industry where names hardly mattered. Quite the opposite, you didn’t want people to ever know your name. It forced him to smile gently “Dave...” “Dave?” She couldn’t help her smile; she’d expected something a little more classic from someone who seemed to be attempting to save her life. “I’m Y/N.” “Y/N...” he repeated it quietly to himself, then held out his hand “Let’s make this blank cheque count!”

**

 You continued to watch him in silence, much in the same way you were used to people watching you, as he drove through the town. “How long will it take them to realise you’re gone.” You took a deep breath “After you...? I wouldn’t have to report back. Depends how long you stayed. Your blank cheque means anything goes...” Dave nodded slowly “So it could take until tomorrow night?” “Is that enough time?” He smiled “Plenty. He can clear out my bank account. You’re not going back.” “Why do you care so much?” He didn’t answer, which made you almost suspicious. Did he want to own you instead? He had made notion to the fact that he did and he would let no other man touch you. That was one thing... something exclusive... But, that gave you questions about Dave’s own intentions. What if he wasn’t a good man? Why did you trust him? Alarmingly you did trust him. Maybe because he’d told you, directly, his intent. He hadn’t decided to ‘rescue’ you after he’d had his way with you. He’d simply taken you out of there. But what was the business proposal? That almost scared you... 

 When he stopped the vehicle again it was outside of town. A quiet row of unassuming buildings. You raised an eyebrow, and he left the car, the indication clearly to follow him. You’d not thought out the idea this man could be a serial killer... but now you were. You exited his car and followed, but not too closely. He opened the metal shutter to a curious looking establishment, opening the door he beckoned you inside. Again, you kept your distance down the staircase; but had many questions already; “So you bought a place?” “Renting. Did he ever have competition?” “Alec. Probably ran them out of town... Why?” “You’ll see.” When you got to the bottom of the steps and he flicked the dim lights on you realised why. It looked a little more serious than your place of work. Like it was made for people who would pay higher for a classier experience. “Gentlemen’s” club.  But there was no mistaking what it used to be. Forgetting yourself for a minute you walked forwards towards the main stage, glancing up at the pole. Stage. No series of mini platforms. An actual stage. you turned back to him; “So… You want me to dance?” He indicated for you to sit, so you hoisted yourself up on the stage, still intent on listening to what he had to say, you reassured his idea with a smile; “I’m listening.” * You listened to the business proposal carefully. And suddenly understood exactly why he wanted you to be a part of it. “Sounds a bit macabre...” He noticed the way you covered your wrists and instinctively became defensive; “oh-! No no! That-! This isn’t why I asked you. But you have something. An energy. Unlike anything that I have ever seen. I don’t know if you can feel it but I can. Suppressing it is simply no good for you. You need to let it out... control it... that aura of yours will make you the main event. People in that club go to see you because they can have you. No, I want people to fantasise things about you but with the added bonus of never being able to.” “Do people get off on that...?” The look on his face told you he might and you wished you hadn’t asked. Dave skipped around your question “Difference is. This will be theatre. You’re gonna be up there alone, centre of attention, main event. I’ll make sure you’re paid better and like I say. You’re off limits...” he approached you again, taking your wrists in his hands “But this is more important to me than anything else. We’re going to work through this together. Okay?” He knew the look in your eyes was disbelieving, even though you nodded. You had no reason to believe or even trust a man you had just met. But Dave needed you to trust him. And he knew his window of opportunity was only short. “Do you promise…” Now you were using the word promise on a man you’d known maybe an hour or two. “…No man will touch me. Without my say so.” “I promise.” And there was nothing fake about that. “…What if he writes a blank cheque? Would you not sell me out to the highest bidder.” He understood your jab was as much at him as Alec. “…Contrary to what you might be suggesting… I am not him. And I would never let that happen to you. Do you not understand… Y/N? How much more than a blank cheque you are worth?” You didn’t. Because you didn’t see whatever he said he did. But maybe he’d show you… Maybe he’d help you feel that… You’d never know if you didn’t run with this.

Dave watched you process the information for a moment in silence, which gave him some time to think on what he had just asked you. The realities of something so in the moment… There were so many logistics… He didn’t exactly care about figuring them out right now, but realised that he must in order to help you out here. “Where do you live, how do you get to work?” “I live just on the outskirts of town… few blocks off Main... usually one of the girls picks me up... why?” “I’ll take you home... you know DPN bank?” “The bank?!” You smiled “Yes.” “Meet me there tomorrow...” You had to make sure you’d heard him properly “The bank?” “Yes.” Your eyes flicked up and down his frame “The bank.” He gave a nod, he was serious “... Who are you?” He laughed “To you, I can be anything... to the humble people of your town... I’m here to clear up a few things at the branch... that’s my job.” “You’re a bank manager?!” “It’s more consulting. I never stay in the same place for very long.” He noticed the way you leant forward. That was more than interest. That was the knowledge he’d leave. That he was saying you would go with him.  “You travel-!?” “All the time.” The smile on your face was beautifully genuine; “That’s how you’re giving me freedom!” He nodded “I wouldn’t take you of I couldn’t give you anywhere to go.” “Then may I ask why you’re setting up business here?” He smirked “Think of this as a trial run... a franchise.” It clicked “One in every place you go.” “Smart girl.” There was an edge to his voice that made you bite your lip. You’d likely hear it often. That was the promise it held.

** This stage looked different to you than previously. The concept was the same... the dancing was the same. But this was “theatre.” Dave has described to you, “theatre”. It made you nervous in a way that you’d never felt before. But it was excitement. Being good at something enough to be trusted like this.  Dave’s faith in you.... the faith you had in him too (you hoped not misplaced). And you wouldn’t let him down. Somehow tonight that felt impossible. And taking that stage suddenly had to swearing you could feel that freedom he was talking about.

It had drawn a crowd. This odd little club. People you assumed were like he was. Or just simply curious. But they were different than the patrons of your old haunts. You’d watched them carefully through the other acts. Through Cat and Rob who you had become fast friends with. Who you’d already heard Dave mention the big travelling word to. Would you all move together? Would the whole club move like this? Would it grow and change the more sure of himself Dave got? You smiled to yourself watching how everyone in the crowd was transfixed by these stars, and they were just like stars in this small town. How they looked entertained. They weren’t leery, they didn’t look cruel... perhaps because what they wanted was acted out here. Was this a safe space? It seemed like an odd safe space. You didn’t know exactly where his head was yet, but there was something sexually deviant about Dave. He wouldn’t have found you if there wasn’t. Not in that place.

Still, he watched the club from a table at the back. He looked satisfied. Pleased with himself, but calm and relaxed about it; he wasn’t smug. It was that quiet confidence; it was going to plan, but he had a long way to go. You took a deep breath. You were up next. You headed back to your little dressing area and sat, pulling on your heels. The sheer fabric of your long black jacket showed off just enough of the corset top and pants you had decided to wear. Just enough, but not enough. You didn’t want to be reminded of what you were used to; as much as you wanted to show what you could hit that stage in. You turned to the mirror again; without even realising it, even your make up was done differently tonight. You leant on your hands for a minute to study what you’d done with a smile. No matter how similar this was to where you had come from, you were determined to make sure they were vastly different experiences. And so was Dave. If his intentions were true.

He’d only told you one thing. “Have fun with it!” Dave’s smile was reassuring but, you know that was also exactly what he wanted. To see you dance with confidence. Maybe a smile... What he didn’t want to see was that same scared look he’d had to watch etched into your face (and your eyes) at Alexei’s. So tonight, when you were introduced and walked out, again in sky-high heels, he was pleased to see a different kind of aura. Nearly a different woman entirely. It was still powerful; it commanded attention you weren’t yet in control of. You’d get there, you would. But it was lighter, there was happy quiet confidence mixed into it now – present also in the way you carried yourself; and that look of determination in your eyes was intense. And you smiled, it was small but you smiled. All at once Dave relaxed back into his chair. This was only night one. Where would you be by night one hundred...? You got this Y/N... let’s keep this up...

  You caught his eyes; and you kept catching them. Here he has no one else to watch so there was no competition for you to fend off. But the look in them... That clear blue showed you things about this man you thought he was trying to keep secret from you. They were locked on you and only you. Every move you made was like he was feeling it with you. Moving in time even though he was sitting across the room. But you were his sole focus - all his attention was on you. Not on the people around him. Not on his cigarette - left forgotten in the ashtray next to him... you. Dave’s lean back was so relaxed. He didn’t lean into you... it was like he was trying to pull the lens on his world back - not a close up shot but something wider; like he was trying to get the whole picture. As if getting too close to you would not allow him to appreciate everything. That made you smile again; bigger than before. And whether the smile on his lips was conscious or not, you saw it. You hadn’t put together a routine as such. You’d chosen a favourite piece of music and combined all the moves you knew would work; that you could easily transition into each other without much thought. But even now you were thinking of it as an act. Part of a show. You’d work on it; and you’d work hard on it...

Even if whatever you did would draw people in, you wanted - No, you needed - a real routine; choreographed, practiced, fluid, and precisely executed... If Dave was giving you a place, you wanted to make damn sure you earned it.

 **

 You were sitting back at your mirror when he arrived. His hands hovered above your shoulders for a second before he decided to sit down on the dressing table. “Is that, or is that not, much better than what you were doing?” You nearly laughed “It’s similar.” Dave smiles gently; “But the girl I saw up there was certainly not the girl from barely a week ago... You had confidence... you smiled...” “It’s a good day.” He hesitated for a minute... Dave wanted to make every day a good day for you. He knew that. “Well, is certainly Like to ensure less bad days... less... Well, we won’t try ensuring miracles just yet... step by step.” There was kindness in that smile - it lacked plastic, false promises. The kind of ‘help’ Alec talked about like it would all just go away. When he cared. Which wasn’t often. And Alec got mad - when he cared about it, it wasn’t for you and your state, but for the patrons. Dave cared. He could have picked anyone in that club and he chose you. Whether his intentions on rescuing you were pure or not, you couldn’t yet fathom… He was not, by any stretch of the imagination a knight in shining armour. But if the closest you would get was a bank manager with a clear kinky streak in a business suit, you’d take it. He leant towards you, and reached out. Every movement was slow and deliberate in the way he made it, so you could see all his intentions. Brushing your hair off your face, he smirked. And it was that kind of smirk. The kind that let you know he wanted you, but he wouldn’t say it; “Well done.” You tipped your head, unable to resist calling him what he wanted. You’d done it before, and you remembered his reaction. You craved to see him shiver like that again. Like he thought you hadn’t realised... “Thank you, Sir.” There was a firmness rather than tenderness of his fingertips against your skin. And his tongue rolled out over his bottom lip “Mmm.” Almost inaudible. Almost. He chuckled. Once, a low sound. Indicating he wanted to do so much more. It was time for him to test your response to him. Those clear blue eyes stared back into yours for a moment, he ran his fingers down your face to just under your chin, where he tilted it, just enough to be level with his; “Good girl.”

**

You walked up the steps to the bank with your eyebrow quirked. What on Earth... A man like him in a place like this? You tipped your head. Well, you’d find out soon enough.  You pushed open the door hoping to find some indication of the man that might manage this place. The tellers with flawless make up, and shirts that showed off their cleavage, white shirts with coloured bras... but you were faced with a bank.  A normal boring bank... And the tellers were both male. One, stuffy looking that you could immediately fix the label “banker” too. And the other younger - looking like this was as much a summer internship or weekend job, than where he would spend the rest of his days. The patrons didn’t look any different to what you expected from a bank either...

You looked around, walking slowly. You were early, because it was better to be early than late, so you busied yourself looking at leaflets and acting like you might be interested in anything they had to offer. Whilst keeping your eyes on your watch. At about 2 minutes to your meeting time you turned back; wondering if you were supposed to ask someone for him or he would simply come out and meet you. But you didn’t even need to worry.

He was watching you from the other side of the floor. Arms crossed.  Not a trace of the man you had met anywhere. This suit had a tie though, and you quickly pushed down every thought that passed through your head. Even if you knew he was into it. Even if you thought he’d be into you, it was inappropriate right now. He’d turned it down in favour of getting you out of that line of work. You’d never had that before. It was strange to think you could want someone because they hadn’t wanted you. But he even sounded like he knew what he was doing...

Dave was giving you the same once over you were giving him. Because your attire made you look like a normal girl. But no less beautiful to him than you had been the night previously. He walked forward past the desks and into the foyer. “Hey...” his voice was calm. Quiet. It didn’t have nearly that same commanding edge. He wasn’t two different people but he would apparently act like it. “Hi...” it was like both of you were searching for an explanation neither could give; “when you said bank manager you really meant..” “Hey this is... my 9-5.” He gave a shrug; “Whoever, in reality, is their 9-5... though.” You smiled; “When I get a 9-5 I’ll tell you!” “Ah. See, I told you you were a smart girl...” He looked to the clock “So… It’s my lunch break. And I have a few things I want to talk to you about.” “About your...” “Side hustle.” He said words that didn’t look like they should come out of his mouth, and you couldn’t stop your amused smile; “Yes.” “Mm hmm. Well, your involvement in it...” “Side or main?” Your searching question matched the way your eyes searched his. “Far too smart...” His voice was low, and you finally caught a glimpse of that edge. Instead your face mimicked innocence “Lunch sounds good. Though.” “Mm. Let me get my things. Wait here.” “Yes sir.” He turned back to you for barely a second. But the smirk on his face said all it needed to before he wandered back to what you assumed was his office. By now you had caught the attention of the two clerks; who simply looked from you, to Dave, to each other and back to Dave. You knew the look. And you always liked the kick it gave you to see it.   

He sat you down. And everything about him was once again genuine. But he had that same voice. His ‘bank manager’, calm, negotiation voice. Even though he was talking to you about a contract for you being a dancer at yet another strange little club.  But it was how respectfully he talked about it that really got to you. And on top of that, everything you wanted changing - he struck through without question; “When did you write this?” He smiled - running a red line through something else and making a note “Some last night... some this morning... guess I can’t stop thinking about...” you? It? He left that word off. But the way he said it - cute, dare you say flirty? You weren’t really sure what you expected from him, but it wasn’t this.

It was well over a lunch hour by the time he’d finished. But Dave didn’t care. He loved your company. Now he just had to find out more about you. If this was ever going to extend beyond a business relationship. He walked with you back to the bank. You could have left him at the restaurant, but, something about him intrigued you enough to hang on to the conversation until the very last second. “So. I’ll redraft it, and we’ll keep working until it’s exactly what you want. Okay?” “Okay. I think we got it...” you indicated to his folder He gave a shrug “Eh... We made headway...” Modesty? Reassurance? He wasn’t easy to read. And you weren’t, suddenly, all that sure that this was an act. This was who he was and had to be here. Who he was in his personal life was personal. You were perhaps one of the few people who had experienced both. Which one you would see more... only time would tell. “Thank you.” “No. Thank you. You’re putting your life... literally in my hands.” You gave a shrug “If you keep your promise, I could certainly be putting it in worse places, Dave.” He gave a small smile. It said don’t trust me yet - but how could he-? You had to trust him. Did you have a choice, did you already? “Thank you... Y/N... I’ll be in touch… Okay?” You nodded and he returned the gesture with a small wave. He turned, without another sound and hurried back inside.

**

“How easy would it be for you to leave??” His gaze never left your face, even if you thought he should be watching the road. (There weren’t too many cars around at this time, but even so.) His look was as reassuring as it was unnerving. There must be something in him. There must be desire in him.... Dave never would have turned up to the club if not... but he never really outwardly showed it to you.  You knew it was there but somewhere buried deep inside… Because if he outwardly showed it, it would make him no better than the men at Alexei’s. It was in the way he waited patiently for you to answer. And the words he used were not reminiscent of where you had been before.  If he had any control over you at all it was only in terms of your work... not any kind of relationship. You remembered what he had first said to you... and wondered if he did too. If he was looking for that. You thought best not to dwell on it, in case you started looking for it too. You took a breath and bit your lip. “A lot easier than you would think.”

So many times, he’d dropped you off and you’d almost turned back. You’d almost asked him to stay. Was it too soon? Did it matter if you felt like this? There was something about control. About someone else having control. About having power over another person and using it just right. And you felt that power from him. And you wanted him to use it on you. Would he? He never mentioned it. And he seemed almost stoic. Stepping around anything that might lead that way besides your contract and the few occasions he’d let it slip out; but that was only following your lead...

So tonight your turned back and you bent before closing the car door; “Dave...” “Mmm?” He turned to you, and all at once the look in his eyes made you lose your nerve. Instead you bit your lip, trying to quell your heart and looked to the floor. You swallowed, but your throat was dry so you sighed, smiled and opted against it “Goodnight.” His smile was agreeable “Goodnight. Y/N.” Dave always watched you inside, and you waved to him as you closed the door. Maybe he’d walk up. Maybe he knew and he’d walk up that path and give you exactly what you wanted. He hasn’t every other night for 3 weeks but maybe tonight’s the night... He had to know how you felt? Right? How could he not. He hit every other note perfectly.  But you heard the engine fade into the distance and hit the back of your head on the door. Idiot! Idiot!! You jumped on the spot a few times in the hopes that it would aid your frustrations... at yourself. “Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!” How could it be so hard to say?! He didn’t seem particularly shy about it and you knew you certainly weren’t.  Was it because you didn’t want him to feel like you were doing this for any other reasons but wanting him?  Not to try to say thank you... not because he deserved it... not because he’d laid out that blank cheque. But because you wanted him. And you had to make him believe that. Because it was the truth. ***

You didn’t think you’d ever done this. In your life. But tonight, you were. Every sway of your hips, every subtle movement of your hands and feet, those flirty glances, smiling. Biting your lip... even turning away - as if you were shy - was for him. And you made him know it. Because not once did you tear your eyes from his. You thought it might make him uncomfortable. Quickly you realised. at the way his body opened itself up to you, Dave didn’t get uncomfortable. He parted his lips as he leant back into his chair. His legs about as far apart as he could make them, one hand rested on his thigh: every so often his fingers would lazily tap to the beat of your music. The other arm thrown over the back of the chair. And those blue eyes were captivated. He drank you in. He smiled, like that when just appropriate. And it made you want nothing more than to walk over a steal kisses... perhaps steal a lot more. He had a way of making you feel. Here there was no one else for him to watch. But it still felt like you were the only two people in the room. No one else mattered. And he felt as close as if his skin was millimetres from yours as it did that his table was oceans from you. You wondered what the heat of his body would feel like with yours.  And every thought was not helping your feeling.

 Nor his. Because it was like he could see those thoughts in your eyes. You weren’t stealing glances. Quite the opposite, you were attempting to steal respite when you didn’t want it. Was this an act? He prayed not. He thought not. There were signals he hadn’t been able to ignore over the past 3 weeks, and it was like you were now directly asking him not to play dumb. Did you want him? He wanted you. But that wasn’t hard to accomplish. But for you to want him...?? Well, now you couldn’t have sent a clearer signal even if you had wanted to.

 **

 You were still in full make up when you exited the back stage area. In fact, all you’d really done was shimmy on your low-rise jeans. Dave was still front of house, stacking everything ready for the following evening. You couldn’t help it; “You know. I do like a man who likes to get his hands dirty.” He laughed “You should tell that to the mess at the bank...” then he turned; “What are you still doing here? I thought Cat was taking you home tonight?” You gave a little shrug and crossed the room, slowly, running your fingers over tables “...Maybe I didn’t want to go home just yet…” “Ah. I see. Spend a little more time here before moving on?” You smiled “Still moving on with you. Though.” “Eh. True.” He turned back to lean against the table top he’d just finished and you were basically on him. But you continued to lean into him. Almost surprised that he leant back. The look in his eyes suddenly didn’t make sense. Like he’d lost all will to be dominant. And the ability to breathe. There was silence between you for a minute and you were aware that you could feel it now. His body temperature. “Do you understand the power you have?” His sentence caught you of guard “Huh?” “This power. This untapped energy. It’s right there. can’t you feel it?” “Me?” Suddenly he had you reminiscing this conversation from 3 weeks ago… Back then you didn’t know him. Regardless of whether you did now or not, it had a different meaning when you felt like this. “God what I wouldn’t do to...” He looked away for a minute to stall the thought; “it’s been suppressed for far too long. But you have something inside you, Y/N... an energy unlike anything I have ever had the good fortune to witness. If we can tap into it... you can utilise that... do you understand? How powerful you would be? How powerless everyone else is.” What he meant was you were using it now. Without even an inkling of what you were doing. But maybe an idea of what you were doing to him. “I don’t know whether it would be me.... I would like to have control over me.” Ohh. That was like music. You’d just ticked the final box on his fantasy list and still... there was something in his head.  After what he’d witnessed, after what he knew you had been put through. He couldn’t let you just walk into this. Not without warning. Not without knowing who and what he really was, what he was capable of.  Your lips hovered millimetres from his and still he leant away from you. “Do not do this if this isn’t what you want...” “It is what I want.” His deep breath out caressed your face, he had all the power and he was willingly submitting it to you “If you do this I will not let you go.” He found his choice of words odd. Dave had muses, from place to place, and usually quit them like a bad habit and moved on. There were more girls out there. But you, there was something about you that he wanted to hold on to. “I don’t want you to.”

-- So! Introducing DAVE! as a #FullFicMendo! Did I think it would ever come to this...? Nope. Will it? Probably! 

@dennismitchell @krnncsbtch @happyskywhale #MendoTagSquad.

[pretty-well-funded]

monalisa72 replied to your post “is this thing on?”

Newbie rentboy Peter who keeps getting saved from abusive johns by Iron Man who eventually becomes his sugar daddy to keep him off the streets

@monalisa72 well, this is literally the opposite of what you asked for, but hopefully you like it anyway? lol

*

In Tony’s defense, he was sure the kid was a rent boy.  

Now, normally Tony doesn’t brake for street crime - there are others without highly advanced terrorism- and alien-fighting prostheses to handle that kind of thing.  The blind lawyer, the bulletproof bar owner, that PI in desperate need of antidepressants.  The guy in the onesie.

Still, if he’s in the right place at the right time, he’s not exactly going to fly away and leave someone to get hurt.

He’s on his way back from a rather lightweight peacekeeping mission when FRIDAY alerts him to a probable minor being choked below.  As soon as Tony gets close, he sees she may have misinterpreted the data - her algorithms for human behavior aren’t as sophisticated as JARVIS’s were, though she’ll get there in time - but when he asks her to estimate the kid’s age, FRI says 17.  And well, her physical assessment algorithms are just fine.

It turns out landing in an Iron Man suit ten feet away is enough intervention in itself to scare off rough johns of underage prostitutes, because Tony hasn’t even engaged his speakers before the guy’s tripping on his pants and running.  The kid wipes his mouth with wide eyes and scrambles to his feet.

“Uh, wow.  Hi.”

“Look, kid, everybody’s got to make a living, blah blah blah, sex positivity, wrap it before they tap it and try not to end up in a dumpster, capiche?”

The kid opens his mouth, frowning, but this was already a waste of time and Tony is exhausted.  He’s engaging his thrusters before the kid can speak

*

The second time, he’s just enjoying a little evening joyride, because he does what he wants, when FRI says, “Boss, someone is crying for help three blocks south.  I think he’s being assaulted.”

So, of fucking course, Tony goes.

This time it’s unclear it’s a false alarm until Tony has landed right behind the purported bad guy and yanked him away from the guy he’s got pinned to the bricks.  Said victim turns his head, and Tony groans.  “You again.”

“You should talk.  You’re turning into a serious cockblock, Mr. Stark.”

Tony turns to the guy he’s dangling a couple inches off the ground.  “Listen, pal, some solid advice: stop hiring hookers.  Or at the very least, card them first, huh?”

The guy nods agreeably, and when Tony lets him go, he only pauses to give the kid one miffed look before skedaddling away.

Once he’s gone, Tony lets the helmet retract so he can look at the kid directly.  “Didn’t we have a conversation about dumpsters?”

“There’s a little thing called ‘roleplay,’ Mr. Stark.  They may not have invented it yet in your day, but - “

Tony will not laugh.  Obviously the kid’s fine.  He puts the top up and takes off.

*

After that...well, okay, after that, Tony’s curious.  So he might have FRIDAY monitor for any signs of the kid’s activity in his neighborhood - the two incidents he saw were only blocks apart in Queens, stands to reason that’s his stomping grounds.

The boy’s not on the streets as often as he’d have assumed - probably not a street kid, then, whose only source of income is hooking.  Maybe an in-case-of-emergency-need deal.  Still, it’s weird then that he deals in mostly rough trade - every time FRI alerts him, the kid is getting choked or smacked, etcetera.  

He doesn’t usually intervene.  Either the kid is a hell of an actor or he’s usually pretty into it, which maybe explains who he caters to, even if he’s part time.

There does come a time, though, when the Baby Monitor goes off and Tony quickly realizes that the kid is in over his head.  He’s bruised to hell, for one, and Tony’s suiting up as soon as he sees the hand wrapped around the kid’s throat, which is squeezing.  Tony unfortunately knows what being manually strangled to death sounds like, and this is it.

It takes two minutes and fifteen seconds, which feels way too fucking long but when he arrives, the kid’s brain function is still intact.  Apparently this is less of a first degree murder situation and more of manslaughter-waiting-to-happen.  

Maybe not even that, because the kid easily shoves the other guy aside, and yells, “Okay, seriously, are you stalking me now? This can’t be a coincidence.”

Well, he wasn’t admitting that.  “No, dear.  It just seemed like a lovely night for breathplay, so naturally I assumed you’d be out and about.”

The other guy backs away slowly then flees, and the kid makes an exasperated noise, pointing after him.  “Is your new mission to give me blue balls?  Is that the actual best use of your vast resources?”

“My resources are vast enough to account for pet projects, yeah.”

“So you are watching me.”

“Hey look, Mysterious Skin, a death wish is overrated, trust me.  When it gets down to the wire, you’ll regret that you let it get that far.  Been there.”

The kid squints and clucks his tongue.  “Okay, I’m going to tell you a secret that you can’t share, but first you’re climbing out of that thing because my neck hurts.”

What the hell, Tony’s at least 30% intrigued. He’s done more for less.  The kid’s eyes widen a little when he sees what Tony’s wearing beneath the suit, which is to say a filthy tank top, a lot of engine grease, and sweatpants.  Sometimes when he’s in the lab, he skips underwear, sue him.

Tony lets the little moment of lust pass (he’s used to it), and then prompts.  “Do I have to pinky swear, or what?”

The kid eyes the suit.  “Your friend can tell there’s no one nearby, right?”

“The perimeter is clear. No witnesses with line of sight into the alley,” FRIDAY says through the speaker.  

“Thanks,” the kid says, and then just casually lifts a whole-ass dumpster over his head.

Tony’s jaw drops.

The kid sets the dumpster carefully down.  “See?  I’m fine. and if Mrs. Suit has the medical scanning capabilities that I know that she does, she can tell you my black eye is healing really fast.”

“It’s true, Boss, and quite remarkable,” Baby Girl chirps.

“Thanks, Mrs. Suit Lady,” the kid beams. 

“It’s FRIDAY.”

“Okay, everybody shut up,” Tony manages.  Mercifully, they do.  “First of all, what’s your name.”

The kid’s jaw clenches, and then he allows, “Peter.”

“Peter.  You’re the kid in the onesie.”

This abashed, the kid isn’t a superhero or a sex worker, he’s just a kid.  “I’m Spider-Man,” he corrects.

“Yeah, not until we upgrade you.  But that’s not relevant now.  You’re not homeless, right?”

“What? No!  I live with my Aunt.”

“Does she know that you hook on the side?”

“Yeah, see, I don’t know where you got this idea.  It’s actually kind of not cool of you, sir.  I just like sex. With men.”

Tony blinks.  Yeah, the kid never admitted he was hooking.  “In my defense, you have rough sex in an awful lot of alleys.”

Peter tucks his arms across his chest, defensive.  “It’s what I like!  And also, hello, I live with my aunt!”

“So you don’t need money.”

“We’re not you, but we do okay.”

“How old are you?”

Peter’s chin goes up a notch.  Stubborn, Tony likes it.  “Legal.”

Tony rolls his eyes.  “Not why I’m asking.  Seventeen?”

“Sure, which is legal.”

“Not to join the Avengers, it’s not.”

Now the kid’s eyes are saucers.  “Are you shitting me?”

Tony’s mouth quirks.  “No, I’m not shitting you.  We can’t even consider it until you’re eighteen, and there’s a process of sorts, but I’ve seen some of your work.  You belong on the team.  Regardless, we should get you a better suit ASAP.”

The kid grins, an interesting mix of earnest with a little dash of wicked.  He steps closer and takes Tony’s tank top in both fists  “Mr. Stark, are you propositioning me?”

Tony’s been seduced by the best, but it’s cute.  “Proposing to give you better crime fighting equipment, maybe.” 

The little shit bats his lashes. “So, not a sugar daddy.  A superhero sugar daddy.”

Okay, Tony can’t not smile.  “If you like.  Better than my actual title of ‘hey you, something broke, come fix it.’”

“Aww. I would appreciate you, sir.”

Tony smirks.  “I’m sure you would.”

“Although, right now you kind of owe me.”  

“Is that right?”

“Mmhmmm.  By my count, at least three orgasms.  But they don’t have to be mine.”

Well, shit.  “Tell me more about this ‘role play’ that you spoke of.”

Peter’s eyes fucking twinkle before he plasters himself to Tony’s front and speaks extra-breathily into his ear.  “You mean like I’m the poor desperate rent boy, and you’re the tech mogul cum superhero who sweeps in and saves me from the bad men?”

Fuck, Tony’s doing this, isn’t he?  “Something like that.”

“And I’m so grateful and so needy, and I can’t survive without you, so you take me home like a stray kitten and pet me just right.”  Aaaand there’s an underage hand in Tony’s pants. And he doesn’t care.  “Except you’re not quite as noble as pretend to be, right, sir?  So when I beg you to hurt me just right, you do that, too.”

“FRIDAY, Sentry Mode, please.  Keep all personnel and surveillance the hell out of here.”

Peter looks so pleased with himself, and so criminally young, but luckily for Tony, not actually criminal.  “Are we starting here, sir?  Rough sex in another alley?”

“Well.  I do have some making up to do.”

Peter grins, and folds to his knees.

[luxe-pauvre]

… I’d like to tell you a bit about a faulty alarm system in my life in order to illustrate a possibly malfunctioning component we need to be aware of in our brain’s sociometer. My house is quite an old building, gradually converted by our predecessors over decades, with the many and varied parts of the electrical wiring system reflecting this history. Shortly after we moved in, the installation of an additional light in the porch necessitated yet another (extraordinarily expensive) electrical circuit. What followed was weeks of frequent, unexplained and apparently random total power cuts. Several (similarly expensive) visits from puzzled electricians later, it emerged that the problem was in the newly installed trip switch - proudly fulfilling all the nuanced control requirements of a modern porch light, but constantly panicked by the vagaries of the Edison-era electrics to which it now found itself linked as well. Touching that slightly stiff switch in the upstairs bedroom? Someone opening the airing cupboard door? Maybe thinking about using the iron? Any slight hint of unusual activity and our super-sensitive trip switch took the line of least resistance (sorry) and switched everything off. So unlike Matthew Liberman’s smoke detection system, the sensor wasn’t really faulty but just oversensitive. Just like this trip switch, I think that there can be quite marked individual differences in the threshold above which our sociometer alarm system might be triggered. As we will see, some people can shrug off a job rejection with a touch of efficient post hoc rationalisation; others will be plunged into a Slough of Despond, their sociometer plummeting swiftly into the red zone. The outcome of an activated sociometer may not just be a short-term stop-at-the-red-traffic-light incident; it may, over your lifetime, steer you away from potentially positive events, or prevent you from making any life-affirming decisions. What sets the threshold for this system? Is there some kind of internal mechanisms that we are born with, or might the rules of our outside world be incorporated into the mechanism? And if the rules are gendered, do we get a gendered sociometer? […] In many circumstances, particularly with respect to social activities, we may be calling on past or even present events to get a handle on the rules of engagement. But very often our social musings are to do with predicting the future: how someone might receive your job application, what might happen if you changed jobs, asked for a promotion, put your hand up in class, how you might not not fit in or succeed, or might not enjoy the event you’ve been invited to. As an example, the kind of reactions to stereotype threat that we met earlier can be seen as an anticipatory response; your group- and your self-identity antennae are twitching with the realisation that you are in a situation where a blow to esteem is at stake and you might perform poorly, make mistakes, let the side down. This part of the system can also malfunction, in that anticipation may not match what actually does happen. A drop in pressure doesn’t always signal rain, so it may be safe to go out without an umbrella. But if the gauge is set to err on the side of caution, then the inhibitory warnings will be heeded much more than necessary. And, of course, failure to discover whether or not reality did match the anticipation will reinforce this avoidant behaviour, as no prediction error will be registered. If you don’t go out, you won’t get wet. […] For some people, this anxious anticipation is so overpowering that they are reluctant or even unable to engage with the potential vicissitudes of everyday life, which suggests that the predictive part of their sociometer is both overactive and focussed on negative outcomes. We might consider one version of the sociometer which would be less than useful in our social brain network. This version is oversensitive and may unnecessarily slam on the behavioural brakes; it is driven by a predictive cost-benefit analysis which is permanently set on ‘the game is not worth the candle’. To use a motoring metaphor, it is as though the speed-control limiter is set too low, and our brains will stay well below even the most minimal of speed limits, cautiously manoeuvring us along an ultra-safe inside lane. So we have a brain-based system, an inner limiter, which normally acts as an adaptive and influential control centre in the social brain, but whose settings have been altered to make it an overactive brake on ongoing behaviour. […] The consequences of our cautious limiter will therefore be evidence in problems with self-esteem, anxiety and over inhibited behaviour. As we will see, it is possible to characterise sex/gender differences in social brain processes in terms of overactivity in dAAC systems, which can help to explain where those gender gaps in power and achievement might be coming from.

Gina Rippon, The Gendered Brain

[inyourbestwriting]

Early one humid Monday morning while we were in London, I was walking past a pedestrian crossing when a man was knocked off his motorbike by a car. He’d slowed down to let somebody cross in front of him and the man in the car behind him didn’t.

I ran over to him and sat on the ground where he lay. I said a brief hello and called an ambulance. Through the mediation of emergency services I learned that his name was Mark, that he was forty-six and that it was his birthday in three days’ time. Once help was on its way, it was just Mark and I, waiting. The driver stayed nearby and various other people came and went. Fortunately, the spot it happened was right next to a fire station so we were inundated with firemen who came over and did helpful things like rerouting the traffic and asking questions of Mark that hadn’t occurred to me.

As he was at risk of spinal injury, it wasn’t safe to move him. So we stayed there in the road, Mark and I. Something told me to stick with him, that it would be nice for him to have some continuity of face, as there were so many people coming and going. From Mark’s perspective there on the ground there were voices of firemen holding phone calls; information-relaying conversation about what had just happened; passers-by; traffic noise; feet and legs; cars passing.

People talk about times like that stretching out and slowing down. I often wonder whether something happens to our brains in order to give us a cognitive advantage: we feel time pass more slowly because we’re gleaning as much as we possibly can from every second in case it can help us somehow. It also feels like tuning into an alternate frequency of consciousness in which our awareness of things to which we would otherwise be oblivious is heightened. If something extraordinary like this happens early on in a day, it’s likely that the rest of the day will also feel different. We’re jolted out of our MO.

The initial flurry of activity had subsided and people fell into small groups around the scene, with some emerging to somehow naturally manage the situation as though there was a formula that the rest of us just don’t know about it. In that moment it seemed some people rose to the top: the copers, the doers, the knowers. I just sat on the floor with Mark.

I introduced myself. In that moment of not knowing what was going on or how this was all going to end, I felt acutely aware of what I was bringing with me to the situation. How should I be? Too cheerful would be insensitive. Do I talk to distract him or is that not what he wants? What would I want to know (always too much)? Eventually I settled on my name and the fact that I was staying until he told me to go.

There we were, him lying on his side in full, boiling hot bike leathers across a zebra crossing; me sitting cross-legged in my yoga clothes from earlier. He held my hand for a while: a great big bear-paw of bike glove. Necessary information was passed around to various emergency service workers about what had happened; insurance details; witness reports. I phoned Mark’s partner and told her what was going on. The adrenalin of the moment drew out information of a kind we don’t share with strangers, and yet in those moments we think nothing of it.

He asked me some questions about the state of his bike and I struggled to explain what I saw. Bent silver things… brakes? I don’t have the vocabulary for bike parts. After a while we settled into silence. In normal life this would be odd. Once the lid of dialogue with a stranger has been opened it’s uncomfortably hard to revert to the moment just before when you didn’t know them and hadn’t spoken. We press on, awkwardly, perhaps worried that to shut the conversation down at that stage would be rude. And yet, silent we were. Digesting the shock, recalibrating. Ensuring toes could still be felt and wriggled in Mark’s case.

There’s so much talk in these days of digital snubbing of the need for presence: being fully present to the people in front of you. Giving someone your undivided attention and acknowledging them fully. Sitting in the road, I thought that I hadn’t felt that present to anyone for a really long time; quite so purely there. The extraordinariness of the situation had burnt off the fumes of both small talk and the urge to talk at all. We were just there, holding onto each other and being two people getting through something unexpected and hard.

The ambulance came and stretchered him inside. I sat awkwardly on a wall and waited for news so that I could update Mark’s partner. He emerged a while later, back on his feet, smiling and shaking hands with the paramedics. He was fine. I suggested we wait for his partner in the café in front of us and it was a relief to have something practical to do. Something with which to provide his poor body. We sat down and drank our coffee and slowly, slowly the adrenalin wore off until we were ourselves again. I realized suddenly that Mark was actually very shy, and that the access to his vulnerability that the accident had granted me was a surprise to us both. It flew in the face in which the direction acquaintance usually flows. Three hours had passed. We didn’t really know what to do with it, so we reached back to the small talk.

He was picked up and off they went back to Uxbridge. We’ve been in touch since - we text occasionally to check-in with each other and I don’t think I’m imagining that we seem somehow bound to each other following that experience. Funny how adversity knits you to those with whom you share it in a way so much more long-lasting and profound than sharing in happy times.

I find myself feeling fond of him. He’s a sweet and gentle man and whilst I’d rather he hadn’t had the accident, I was lucky to meet him.

[Photo from here.]

[master-sass-blast]

THIS IS HALLOWEEN!

Alright... twenty four likes... plus twenty-one kudos... plus two votes in the comments...

Forty-seven votes for the trick or treat fic. Guess you guys liked the idea, huh?

*grins* I liked it, too. So much that I wrote it.

Rated T. Minor sensual content. Basically no other warnings.

It’s fluff. That’s it.

Set after “Dig the Needle In.”

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader, Ellie Phimister x Yukio, and minor Nathan Summers x Wade Wilson.

If there’s one thing you’ve learned during your stay at the X-Mansion, it’s that if a day seemed to be proceeding normally, Wade Wilson would undoubtedly pop in and make it delightfully weird. It’s like he has a sixth sense for it. Ah, everything’s calm and not chaotic. Guess I gotta fix that.

Take right now, for instance. There’s a temporary air of calm in the X-Mansion. Students are done with their classes for the day, there aren’t any emergencies or missions to tend to, and all the chores are done for the day.

You’re currently on the couch in the rec room, snuggled up in the arms of your beefy boyfriend, Piotr Rasputin. He’s finally off for the day, and you managed to coax him into taking a bit of free time to do nothing with you.

It’s delightful. Heavenly, even. Absolutely nothing compares to being snuggled against your boyfriend’s massive, muscular chest. He’s not in defense mode right now, either, which means he’s warm and infinitely more comfortable.

Piotr sighs and tips his head back against the arm of the couch. “This is wonderful, myshka.”

You hum your agreement as you nestle yourself against him. The peaceful silence of the mansion, the warmth seeping off your boyfriend, the way you feel safe and loved in his arms... it’s perfect.

Cue Wade Wilson.

“Emo Christmas came early!” Wade shatters the silence with a gleeful scream as the back door smacks open with a bang. “Who wants presents?”

Piotr lets out an annoyed growl. “Wade--”

He doesn’t have time to get anything else out, because Wade picks that moment to chuck a bag of Halloween candy straight at your boyfriend’s head. “Sugar Santa came early --and came early, if you know what I mean.”

“I’ve been babysitting for the past two hours,” Nathan growls as he shoves Wade out of the way so he can step in the house. “He’s all yours now.”

“Okay, hey, no! You said you were going to help!” Wade whines as he pelts you and Piotr with bag after bag of Halloween themed candy.

“I did. I didn’t throw you out on the highway while you were screaming along to ‘Hamster Dance.’”

“Okay, I have several questions, the first of which is: ‘Emo Christmas?’” You ask.

“Halloween! Okay, I swear to the International House of Beese-Churgers that if you don’t know what Halloween is--”

“I know what Halloween is, idiot,” You interject before Wade can gain any real momentum. “I just didn’t catch why you were calling it ‘Emo Christmas.’ And why do you need this much candy? You can’t eat it all by yourself.”

“It’s for the kids! For trick or treating! Duh.” At your blank look, Wade stills. “Oh my Francis. Do you know what trick or treating is?”

You look at Wade, then Piotr. “What’s trick or treating?”

“Holy shit. You don’t know what fucking trick or treating is!”

“What part of ‘locked in my room for the better part of a duration’ seems conducive to ‘allowed to normal childhood things?’” You snap, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Whoa! Pump the hate brakes, Zaheer! I wasn’t mocking, just commiserating,” Wade explains as he taps at his phone. “This is a serious tragedy, and I’m going to treat it as such. Now, trick or treating was a tradition started by the pagan elder gods in the year of--”

“Children dress up in costumes and go from door to door in neighborhood to ask for candy,” Piotr interjects before Wade can build up too much speed.

“Hey! You ruined my dramatic story-telling!”

“It would’ve been bullshit anyway,” Nathan grumbles, still looming in the kitchen despite his threats to dump Wade into your hands and disappear.

“So, wait, hang on a second. Kids dress up in costumes? What kind of costumes?”

“Anything. Depends on preference,” Piotr says.

You nod, then slump slightly. “But you said it’s for kids. That means I can’t do it, doesn’t it.”

To your surprise, Piotr shakes his head. “The X-Men take students to Halloween theme park each year to get them out of house, let them experience normal childhood activities. Most of teachers dress up. I went as Dracula last year.”

You gape, delighted. “You went trick or treating?”

“Well, not specifically. I went to act as chaperone. But many of older students trick or treat, so I say you could too, if you want.”

“Wait.” Ellie walks into the room, holding Yukio’s hand. “That’s your ‘life or death emergency’ you texted us about? Fucking Halloween and trick or treating?”

“Excuse me for trying to be a good friend, Wednesday Addams! Hi, Yukio!”

“Hi, Wade!”

“Finally, some decent treatment! About time; this is my fucking franchise, after all! Okay, show of hands,” Wade says as Neena and Russell walk into the room. “How many of you have been trick or treating before?” When only Ellie and Piotr raise their hands, Wade gasps and presses his hands against his face. “Oh. My. Francis. How is this possible? This is a travesty! Even for ‘murder-pedophilia-orphanages’ and ‘A Series of Unfortunate Events’ levels of abusive guardianship! That tears it! We’re going trick or treating!”

“I’m diabetic, asshole,” Russell says. “I can’t eat the candy!”

“Oh, whatever the fuck! Give it to the younger mutants! Eat it anyway and spend the night in the infirmary! Stick it in Cyclops’s shoes and film his reaction when he realizes all his footwear is ruined! This about the group experience, the camaraderie! Work with me, Zuko!”

“Only do the first one,” Piotr adds while Wade catches his breath from his rant. “Do not do the other two. And we can get sugar-free candy for you, Russell.”

That smooths the pyrokinetic teen’s ruffled feathers. He nods with a grin. “Cool. I’m in.”

“Count me in, too,” Neena says. “I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

“It sounds like fun.” Yukio flashes a sweet grin at her girlfriend. “Can we join too?”

“Sure. I was already going for the haunted house.”

“Excellent! Y/N and Metallica are already going, and Cable doesn’t get a say because I’m forcibly abducting him!”

Nathan pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters something that vaguely sounds like a death threat.

You grin. This is gonna be fun!

Fun --and overwhelming.

Piotr had excused himself shortly after Wade’s none too tasteful victory dance, citing ungraded essays as an excuse. Most of the X-Force followed, offering various explanations --or, in Ellie’s case, saying she needed to bleach her brain after watching Wilson’s ‘ungodly, idiotic flailing.’

Before you could think to follow your boyfriend to safety, Wade had grabbed your and Nathan’s arms and sat the two of you down at the kitchen table for an official crash course on all things Halloween.

Movies. Costumes. Decorations. Themed treats. Official candy rankings. Pranks. Wade was an enthusiastic fire hydrant of knowledge, and he was using his healing factor as much as possible to limit his need for oxygen so he could spew out information to keep Cable from interrupting him.

Two hours in, and you’re well past your limit. While Wade’s back is turned, you fire off a quick text to your boyfriend.

It’s been two hours. Wade’s still talking. Save me.

I’m in my art studio. Come see me?

“Hey!” Wade smacked his hand on the table, making you jump. “Pay attention! I don’t want to go through my discourse on jack-o-lanterns twice!”

Next to you, Nathan rolls his eyes. “Get on with it, dildo rack.”

You wait until Wade’s back is turned again --he’s rummaging through the fridge, which is just extra points in your favor--then nudge Nathan’s leg with your foot. “If you help me escape, I’ll owe you.”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “What’s it worth to ya?”

You wait until Wade’s sufficiently distracted again, then make the best offer you can think of. “Next April Fool’s. I’ll help you prank the shit out of Wade. All my best ideas and deep, dark knowledge from being his best friend. At your disposal. Plus twenty bucks.”

He smirks, then nods. “Deal. I’m gonna hold you to it.”

“Then you better make my escape good, dude.”

Nathan leans back in his seat for a moment, eyeing Wade as the merc flails around the kitchen, gesticulating as he starts ranting about how Mounds aren’t actual candy --again. Then, he shoves his seat back, grabs Wade by the collar of his shirt, and drags him off to the rec room.

You blink --then bolt out of the kitchen.

An exit is an exit, after all.

Piotr’s seated at his special angled table in his art studio, carefully lining a new drawing with a fine tipped pen. Even when he’s in his human form, he’s still so unbelievably delicate with everything he does. The light attached to his drawing table is on to help compensate for the quickly falling night, and his reading glasses are perched halfway down his nose --because, yes, he draws with glasses so his eyes are protected.

You enter carefully, making sure to announce your presence with noise so you don’t startle him and make him smudge his lines (he doesn’t get mad at you when it happens, but you can see the resigned frustration in does happen, and you always feel so awful for it). “I think I might’ve sold my soul to the devil on accident.”

“And how did you do that?”

“I agreed to help Cable prank Wade for April Fool’s if he helped me escape the kitchen.”

“I’m not sure which is worse: you made deal with Cable, or you made deal with Cable against Wade. For April Fool’s.”

“Hey, you never know. It could turn out amazing.” You wrap your arms around his waist as he takes his glasses off. “What’cha doin’?”

“Oh, I was --uh--working on some... designs.”

You peer around his burly shoulders to get a good look at the paper on his desk.

There’s two figures sketched out on the page --a male one and a female one. The male figure is tall, with broad shoulders and thick legs. The female figure is considerably shorter than her male counterpart, with an oddly familiar silhouette...

“Is that me? Wait, that’s you, too. Did you draw us?”

The tips of Piotr’s ears turn red. “Da. I... I thought we could dress up in couple’s costumes. I decided to work on some designs.”

You realize, for the first time since you entered his art studio, that there’s a small stack of papers on the arm of his arm chair. Beyond curious, you flash him a begging, purposefully adorable smile. “Can I look? Please?”

He consents with a nod, and goes back to working on the sketches in front of him.

You flip through the pages he’s already finished. Each design is meticulously crafted, detailed with delicate lines and sumptuous colors. There’s a wide array of choices, ranging from airy fantasy designs to terrifying horror choices.

It takes your breath away --first, because Piotr’s an incredible artist with a vast set of skills, and second because his efforts to making your first real Halloween so memorable and wonderful are making your heart melt.

The designs he’s already finished are all perfect and excellent choices in their own right, but you keep coming back to the page he’s working on. Something about it --maybe the color choices, maybe the way he’s interpreted the source material--keeps drawing you back in.

Eventually, you give in to your instincts and carefully tap the page he’s working on. “This one. I like this one.”

You’re in the library, curled up on one of the plush couches while you work on grading a set of essays for Logan’s history course. You’re partially tucked under a blanket --a perfect cozy counterpart to the steady drizzle of fall rain outside.

You let out a sigh of relief as you finish the last essay --Logan’s classes were either filled with half-assers or over-killers, no middle ground to speak of--and relax against the couch. You let your eyes close, just for a moment, as the aches of sitting in the same position for so long slowly work their way out of your body. You stretch your legs out and readjust your position so that you’re laying on the couch, instead of half-sitting, half reclining.

Just for a moment. Or so you tell yourself.

Unsurprisingly, a moment turns into several moments, which turns into you slowly dozing off on the couch. You’re almost out, just barely floating on the edge of consciousness, when your blanket tugging up around you brings you back to the surface.

You inhale sharply as you wake back up and let out a little squeaking noise.

“Sorry.” Piotr smiles apologetically as he brushes a few wayward strands of hair away from your face. “I wasn’t trying to wake you.”

“Oh. Hi, Pete.” You smile sleepily and stretch. “What’s up?”

“It can wait. I don’t want to disturb your rest.”

“No, it’s fine. ‘m awake.” You lurch into a sitting position and crane your head up so you can see his face --because even when he’s in his human form, he’s an utter giant. “How can I help you?”

“I need to take your measurements for costumes. I figured we’d go to my studio to avoid interruptions.”

You grin and lift your arms up. “By all means. Take me away, big guy.”

The measurements go smoother than you expected. Piotr’s surprisingly adept with the measuring tape, and he whisks through the sets of measurements like a pro.

You do manage to make him blush when he measures your chest, though, so it’s a victory, all in all.

When he starts talking fabric lengths and types, you realize that he wasn’t thinking about buying costume pieces from a party store. “Hang on --you can sew?”

“Not many clothes come in my size. For special occasions, it’s easier to make for myself than try to shop in store or online. It’s also handy for when I tear my clothes --more cost efficient to repair than replace.”

Well, that makes sense. Besides, it’s not like Piotr’s ever been the beacon of stereotypical, ‘kill-something-and-eat-it’ masculinity.

You suppose it’s the size. Trying to imagine someone as big as your boyfriend handling something as delicate as sewing is almost impossible.

He gives you a confused look when you start giggling. “What? What’s so funny?”

“It’s just --your hands! They’re so big!” You hold your hands up to his, as if to prove your point. “How do you not sew over your own fingers?”

He favors you with a soft, amused grin. “I am very careful.”

“I suppose that would do it.” You laugh again. “I mean, if that’s what would take, I’d have multiple holes through my fingers before I even turned the machine on.”

“Which is why I am sewing and you are not.”

You giggle again as you wrap your arms around his waist. “So. What’s next?”

“Next, we go to fabric store.”

The trip to the fabric store is surprisingly less disastrous than you thought it’d be --though that probably has more to do with your boyfriend’s focus and organization and less to do with your penchant for being an unhelpful, if adorable, nuisance. You amuse yourself with pointing to various bolts of fabric --none of which actually fit the look you’re going for--and taking weird selfies while Piotr finds what the two of you actually need. Eventually --specifically, after your third attempt to drape a length of neon green spandex over his head--he’d gently plopped you in the cart, set the materials he’d already found in your lap, and designated you the ‘official holder.’

You’d pouted, but it also got you out of standing around while he mulled over different shades of black and gray, so you weren’t complaining too much.

After you’d spent a good three minutes heckling him for being so obsessive with the colors, he’d relented with a laugh, settled on a choice, and wheeled the cart --and you--to the cutting table before heading to the check out.

The two of you had headed home --after he’d denied you a trip to McDonald’s for a milkshake, citing you ‘already being wound up enough,’ whatever that meant--with your costume supplies in tow. You’d manned the radio the whole way back to Xavier’s, singing and dancing in your seat.

Somewhere, in the chaos of trying to get everything inside while the sky unleashed buckets of rain at you and placating a very offended Wade, who was upset that he wasn’t invited along for the store run, you were hit by a sudden rush of emotion.

Maybe it was Piotr’s amazingly unfailing patience as he dealt with Wade, maybe it was the way his damp hair spiked and held together when he ran his fingers through it, or maybe it was his continuing dedication in supporting your effort to reclaim your lost childhood, but you suddenly realized that you loved him.

Not like the “I love you” love --you’d already come to terms with that, you told him “I love you” on a regular basis. No, like “long term” love. “Marriage” love. “Raising kids and growing old” love.

You’d mentioned the idea of marrying him after rescuing him from Harmony --the tale of ‘Cassidy Rasputin’ lives on, much to your chagrin--but you hadn’t really processed it. You hadn’t lied --because who wouldn’t want to marry the literal domestic and explicit wet dream that can also turn into metal--but it’d just... sort of been a ‘in the moment, holy shit you almost died’ sort of thing. Neither of you had mentioned it afterwards.

But now? Now you want it. This isn’t a ‘you almost died and I’m overly emotional but not misleading you’ sort of feeling. This is a ‘fuck, I want this to be the rest of my life’ feeling.

You swallow hard as you watch your boyfriend disentangle himself from another ‘hug’ attempt by Wade. Fuck. How am I going to deal with this?

“Neena!” You skip down the stairs, careful to not trip over the hem of your dress. “Neen-er Wiener!”

“I thought I told you to stop calling me that!”

“Hey, this is an emergency situation! I had to break out the big guns!”

You’re done up in your costume --Persephone, Greek goddess of Spring and the Underworld. Your light green, floaty dress --which is surprisingly warmer than it looks, because Piotr one hundred percent looked up the weather forecast for Halloween to make sure you were insulated properly--is decorated with various fake flowers and an ombre effect from the green of the fabric to black along the bottom of the skirt. Your hair is piled on the top of your head in the most elaborate style you can manage, and a crown made out of flowers and costume jewels sits on top of your head.

Neena --dressed as Michonne from ‘The Walking Dead’--grins at you. “Damn. You look good. What’s the emergency?”

You hold out an eyeliner pen to her. “I need you to wing my liner. My makeup took forever, and I don’t want to mess up. I need Lady Luck on my side.”

She laughs and nods at the kitchen. “Come on.”

Piotr’s already in the kitchen, dressed as an impressive Hades in a floor length black toga and cloak, head tipped back as Ellie traces a ring of eyeliner around his eyes.

“Looks like I’m not the only who needs help with their eyeliner. Looking good, babe.”

Ellie steps back so he can sit up. “Damn. Your costume looks good.” She nudges her mentor’s shoulder. “You really went all out, huh?”

Piotr grins bashfully and shrugs. “I don’t get to do this very often. It was fun.”

You smile at him. “Hey, I’m not complaining. I can’t remember the last time I looked this fabulous.”

“You always look fabulous.” Neena taps your shoulder. “Sit down. Let’s do this.”

“What are you supposed to be, Neg?” You ask while Neena starts applying your eyeliner.

“Yukio and I are going as different representations of goth culture. She’s going as Lolita goth, I’m going as American goth.”

“So, you basically get to go in your clothes,” You say as you try to hold as still as possible. “That was smart.”

“Well, not all of us are on the X-Men payroll and can afford to make really elaborate costumes.”

“I would’ve made you something if you had asked,” Piotr mumbles sheepishly.

Ellie shakes her head. “Nah. We’re having fun. We’re getting to learn more about each other’s culture this way.”

“That’s cool.” Neena steps back and caps the pen. “Two even wings. Lady Luck is on our side.”

You examine your perfectly pointy eyeliner wings in the mirror, and--

And it’s a good thing Neena got them done so fast, because holy fucking shitballs.

“Looks like I’m fashionably late. Perfect.”

You gape. Your brain stops. You can’t breathe.

Across the table, Ellie just looks traumatized. “What the actual shit, Douche-Pool?!”

Wade --resplendent in a red and black, long sleeved leotard patterned like his suit, black fishnet stockings, a pair of black, spike heel thigh highs, and his mask--leans against the door frame in what would’ve been a seductive pose if he hadn’t been the one doing it. “Like it? I’m ‘Sexy Deadpool.’”

“Oh god, I need brain bleach,” Ellie manages. “Lots of it. Right now.”

“I think you look nice, Wade,” Yukio chimes in. “I like your shoes.”

“Thank you. Finally, I get some decent treatment around here! I mean--”

Whatever Wade says next --you suspect it’s another ‘franchise’ comment--sails over your head when the final two members of your team walk into the kitchen.

Russell, who looks beyond cool dressed as a the Joker, and--

“Holy shit!” You start laughing, stunned out of your ‘I saw way more of Wade than ever wanted to’ induced shock.

Nathan, looking world-weary and mildly pissed off, is dressed as Terminator.

“That’s awesome,” you say as you clap your hands. “How did Wade get you in that?”

“I can be persuasive! You’d be surprised what people will agree to while under the influence of cocaine.”

“Shut up, dipshit. You didn’t drug me. I chose this on my own.”

“No.” You feel like you’re about to have an aneurysm, it’s so amazing. “No way.”

“There’s not many options for a cyborg, believe it or not,” Wade says with a sigh. “Discrimination. It knows no limits.”

“Christ, I chose it because it was practical, you fucking butt plug.”

“Mm, I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

“Wade.” Piotr presses the heel of his hand against his forehead, careful not to smudge Ellie’s efforts with his eye makeup. “First, just stop. Please. Second, your costume is not... appropriate. There are children going with us.”

“Relax, discount Silver Surfer. I have a coat. It goes halfway down my thighs. No unnecessary scarring tonight, okay?”

“You’re not going to get anything better out of him,” You murmur in Piotr’s ear. You pat his shoulder when he relents with a sigh.

“Fine. Coat stays on while children are present. No arguing.”

“Damn. Are you that good with commands in the bedroom? Hey, Y/N, is he secretly a dom?”

“You should know I’m not answering that question,” You fire back.

“We should go,” Piotr says as he stands. “It is lengthy drive to destination.”

You’re halfway to the door when you realize you left your candy bag upstairs. “Ah, shit snacks. I mean crud. I’ll be right back. I forgot something.” You dart upstairs and into your room. “Alright, where did I leave that fucker?”

You find the bag tucked under your pillow --you’re not sure how it got there, but you don’t have time to question it. You shake it out, smile, then freeze.

This is your first big event out since your stay at your uncle’s. You’re getting better, but you don’t have any serum to tuck in your bag in case an emergency strikes --and you’ll also be a couple hours away from the safe rooms designed to handle lapses in control like yours.

Nervousness coils in the pit of your stomach. You haven’t had an episode for a couple weeks, but you don’t want to push your luck.

A gentle knock on the door frame pulls you out of your spiraling panic. You glance over your shoulder and see Piotr watching you. You hold up your bag with a weak smile. “Found it.”

He smiles softly, but his eyes are knowing. “What’s wrong, myshka?”

You gulp. “I’m scared. I don’t want to have an episode while we’re out.”

He lets out a gentle sigh and holds his arms out to you. “Come here, lyublyu.”

You eagerly step into his arms. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“I know. And I don’t think you will. You’ve been doing so much better.”

You frown down at your shoes. “I just wish I had some of the serum with me. Just in case.”

“No, myshka. It’s not good for you.”

“I know, I know! I’m just scared!”

He hugs you against his chest and kisses the top of your head. “It’s going to be okay. And, if you start feeling bad, I’ll drive you back. Khorosho?”

The terrified part of you knows that once you start going, there’s no transport fast enough to get you to a safe place.

The rational part of you, the part of you that’s been dutifully working with your therapist to reach a healthier mindset, knows that you’re going to be alright. Your stress has been significantly lower over the past few weeks. You’ve been meditating and journaling diligently. You’re going out to do something fun, with your friends and your boyfriend. All the factors are in your favor.

You take a deep breath, then nod. “Yeah. Come on.” You yank Piotr down the hall and towards the stairs, as though he were the one causing the delay. “I’ve got candy to score.”

The Halloween park is amazing. Hands down, one of the top five coolest places you’ve ever been.

There’s a trick or treating run that the kids and teens --and you; you pair up with some of the shyer kids--do, loading your bags up with as much candy as you can bear to carry. Piotr comes with, acting as a translator for Sasha and Katya and generally looking amused by and smitten with you.

There are also “haunted hayrides” that run through the woods that sit behind the park. It’s pretty cheesy --plastic skeletons and pop up mummies--but you still beam from ear to ear while the students gasp and shriek.

On Piotr’s advice, you steer clear of the haunted house. It looks interesting --and definitely less campy than the hayrides--but according to him it’s an intense run.

“Not that I don’t trust your control, dorogaya moya, but I’m not sure you’re ready for this.”

When Russell emerges twenty minutes later looking somewhat traumatized, you’re happy with your choice to stay with your boyfriend and help him manage the gaggle of sugared-up kids.

There’s more mutant groups than just Xavier’s, and you wind up running into a bunch of people who want to take yours and his picture. The two of you make for quite a striking pair, with you in you sweet, almost angelic Spring costume as Persephone and him in layers of flowing black --completed by a pair of red contacts that he put in once he was done driving.

Wade and Nathan are also stopped for countless pictures, mostly by teens who think Nathan’s costume is hilarious and that Wade, for reasons the merc can’t completely fathom, looks fabulous.

“I mean, I get the costume looks good, but they’re saying I look good. Are they blind? Are they fucking with me?”

“What do I keep telling you, gorgeous?” Somehow, Nathan manages to make the line sound borderline insulting. The small smile he follows it with, however, is anything but.

The festivities conclude with an announcement that Neena won the raffle for the two hundred dollar value candy bag, complete with gourmet chocolate.

Wade whines, furious at losing, before he does a double take when Russell walks past. “Hang on,” he says. “That character’s not in the Marvel franchise! This is a fanfic, isn’t it?”

In short, it’s a perfect night.

As you head back to the car, walking hand in hand with Piotr, you can’t help but feel that you’re going to have a lot more of these.

You’re sitting on Piotr’s bed, sorting your massive load of candy to see what you managed to pick up. You’re in your pajamas and your hair is damp from your shower, make-up and hairspray long since washed away.

It’s been an amazing night. A magical night.

You tear open a fun size bag of M&Ms --right when Piotr walks out of the bathroom.

“It’s midnight, moya lyubov’. You don’t need sugar.”

You look him right in the eye as you pour the whole bag into your mouth. “Fight me.”

He shakes his head with a soft laugh and eyes the spread of candy currently dominating his bed. “Are we sleeping on the floor tonight?”

“Hey, Wade said that sorting out your candy was a vital component to Halloween. I’m about halfway through; I’ll put it all back when I’m done, but I need to take stock of my spoils, Piotr. These are hard earned prizes!”

He chuckles and favors you with a soft look that you know means he’s feeling a little sappy for some reason. “Do you mind if I draw you while you ‘take inventory?’”

Ah. There it is.

Your face flushes, but you nod anyway. “Sure --as long as you don’t want me to hold still.” You resume sorting out your candy while he sits down in his desk chair, but you’re highly aware of him watching you now, of the way his gaze studies you while you place fun-sized candies into neat piles.

You’re not sure what, exactly, makes this a ‘draw-able’ moment to him. It’s mundane, almost silly. You’re just sorting out candy like a kid, without any real rhyme or reason --even though Wade gave you a formal list ranking all the popular Halloween candies, you’re pretty sure most of it’s bullshit anyway.

You suppose, though, that sentiment means different things to different people. Kind of how some people --Wade--thought that the Transformers saga was the pinnacle of cinematic beauty while other people --literally anyone else--thought it was hot, shitty, explosion-laden garbage.

Besides, it could jut be a case of the potential nostalgia of the moment being lost on you. You lack the perspective required to tell whether this is going to be a highly sentimental moment for you years down the road. Piotr, on the other hand, has probably seen the kids at the mansion do this enough times to know that it’s objectively adorable and worth committing to physical memory in some fashion.

Or maybe it’s just because it’s your first time doing any of this ever. Which, yeah, first times of anything do warrant some special treatment --and, god, you’re glad Wade’s not here right now. You’re glad that he manages to miss your unintentional innuendo moments ninety percent of the time, because holy shit he can be insufferable if he thinks --knows--he’s witnessed some comedy gold.

And, back to the main point, you suppose that different people just flat out label different memories as ‘golden hued.’ This moment might not be it for you, but there were plenty of instances over the course of the night. Namely, getting to wear a costume for the first time, going on the hayrides and enjoying the campy horror, watching Piotr work with the kids --and those moments had been particularly entrancing. You’d had to snap yourself out of a giddy daze several times and remind yourself that those weren’t your kids he was interacting with, and that the two of you weren’t actually married the way you’d envisioned in your head, and that you didn’t have a family of hyperactive munchkins, and--

“--and I’ve just been talking out loud the entire time, haven’t I?”

You have. If the dryness of your mouth and throat weren’t telling enough, Piotr’s bright red cheeks and shocked expression definitely are.

He’s sitting in his chair, pencil poised a few inches above his drawing pad. His blue eyes are impossibly wide, and he looks like he’s seen the face of God.

Oops. This wasn’t how you’d planned to tell your boyfriend that you wanted to marry him and make a family with him. No, that was definitely a Valentine’s Day or anniversary sort of thing --you know, go all out, expensive date and hotel, confess post a couple rounds of love making. Definitely not a mindless ramble while sorting out candy like a fourth grader after trick or treating--

“--and I’m talking out loud again. Dammit.”

“Language, dorogaya moya,” Piotr murmurs, broken out of his shock by your profanity. He sets his pencil and drawing pad on his desk, then crosses his bedroom and sits down next you, careful to not disturb your hard work. He takes your hands in his and gives you a shy, impossibly hopeful look. “You... want to get married? To have family? With me?”

“Well, like, eventually. Yeah. I mean, I think I’ve got some shit to work out first --and I say ‘shit’ because it is exactly that--but once I’m... better... yeah.” Your face feels like it’s on fire, but you don’t look away from him. “I love you, Piotr. I thought that was obvious.”

“I love you too, Y/N. I just...” He pauses to smile, and he looks so thrilled and awestruck that it makes your heart melt. “I know you mentioned it after Harmony, but then you didn’t say anything else. I thought it was... ‘we almost died’ sort of thing.”

“Well, it sort of was, but it wasn’t. I wouldn’t say something like that if I didn’t mean it, Pete. And, I mean, after Harmony I wasn’t in a good place. I didn’t really think about...”

He kisses the top of your head when your voice trails off. “It’s okay, myshka. I understand.”

You swallow hard, but soldier on, determined to finish the point you were trying to make. “And I mean it now. But not in a ‘we almost died’ sort of way. I mean it in a... in a ‘I love you so much it hurts and I really, really, really want this’ way. In a ‘yes, I want this to be my future, just give me time to get better’ way. What I’m trying to say is--” You stop to wet your lips, even though your mouth’s gone dry “--I love you, Piotr Rasputin, and I know I want to marry you someday. I know I want to do that, and I know I want to have a family with you. The fact that I’m not there yet doesn’t change that I know and want it.”

Piotr’s eyes are shining with happy tears, and he gives you the biggest, most wonderful smile you’ve ever seen. “I love you too, myshka. And I want that too. Everything you’ve said. Bozhe moi, I’ve never wanted anything more.”

“I don’t know when I’ll be better enough to do all that--”

He kisses each of your cheeks softly. “I know it will take time. You’re in driver’s seat, okay? You decide when you’re ready. Whenever that happens. I’m happy to wait.”

Okay, and now your eyes are stinging with happy, mushy tears because, fuck, he’s so wonderful and kind and--

“--And I’m talking out loud again. Motherfu-- just come here.” You loop your arms around his neck and pull him in for a kiss.

“You should finish sorting candy,” he says when the two of you part. “Otherwise, we will never sleep.”

“Nope.” You begin shoveling your candy back into your bag. “This can wait until tomorrow. I’ve got more important things to do right now.” You drop your refilled bag onto the floor by his bed and clamber into his lap. “C’mere, you.”

The kiss, which starts sweet and gentle, quickly turns into unabashed making out. You moan into his mouth as he swirls his tongue around yours, and he groans as your hands tug at his hair. You let out a sharp gasp when his hands slide down your back and squeeze your ass, and push him onto his back --which only works because he’s happy to humor you; if he actually felt like resisting, you’d never be able to move him.

You let out a soft, happy sigh as his hands skim up your back and under your shirt, smoothing over your soft skin.

You don’t know what the future holds. You don’t know how long it’ll take to get your episodes under control.

But you do know that you love Piotr with all your heart, and that he loves you with all of his.

For now, that’s more than enough.

[eyesicedive]

of summer and a broken arm

it was a week before summer holiday finally came when donghyuck broke his right arm.

well, he was supposed to spend the weekend with mark as just per usual but mark had to go out of the town for family gathering and donghyuck, as though he had no other options, wander around his garage out of boredom  — long enough until he unexpectedly found his old black bmx bike in the deepest corner of it, then eagerly rode it as though he was still at the size when he was first received the bike as his birthday present half decade ago. he was too preoccupied in exerting all of his strength to pedal his bike to notice that the chain was already too dilapidated and that the brakes had been removed from the handlebar by his dad since long ago.

and that was it, donghyuck fell into the warm asphalt, stupidly stretched out his arm first as a reflex to protect his upper body.

mark just figured it out on the next day after he couldn’t find donghyuck’s presence when he came to his class during recess. mark was almost pissed because he neither could contact donghyuck nor got any notifications from the latter since yesterday but once he was told by jeno — who he recognized as donghyuck’s desk mate — about donghyuck's current circumstance, mark immediately made sure that he didn’t have any club activities so that he could go straight to donghyuck’s house once school was over. the moment he saw donghyuck opened the bedroom door for him, mark stunned for a brief moment.

“hyuck, you look…” mark pushes his round glasses higher on his nose bridge as he’s examining donghyuck from head to toe, pausing in the middle to get a better look at the sling on his right arm before continuing with, “badass.” because instead of look like he had just fall off the bike, donghyuck rather looks like he'd just gotten into a fight with some mobsters, mark thinks, but he chooses to not state it directly to donghyuck.

donghyuck only deadpans and snorts as a response.

the soft grunt from the whirring fan near donghyuck’s bed being the background noise as the injured boy recounts in details how he fell with adding some unnecessary dramatization. mark grimaces in pain while his hands playing with donghyuck's bangs, keeping it from covering donghyuck’s face because of the blowing air from the fan. his lap propping donghyuck's head since the latter still feels too sore to sit properly. 

“but hyuck, i still don’t get it how you got those wounds? i mean, how did you fall? this one cut on your lips looks pretty cool,” mark carelessly brushes his thumb on the said scar and without missing a beat donghyuck slaps mark’s hand vigorously with his uninjured one and glares daggers at him.

“hyung! it stings!” donghyuck exclaims and hisses in pain.

mark murmurs sorrys as he draws his hand away from donghyuck’s face. “it just… those scars look good on you.”

donghyuck rolls his eyes yet fails at the attempt to hide his smug smile. contrary to his mom who upsets with the wounds that littered his son’s beautiful face, he rather pleased with how the wounds kind of adorned it. he admits it that he got a few cool wounds — like the cut on the corner of his lips, a scrape above his left eyes, and another cut on his left cheek — when he looked at himself in the mirror this morning.

yet, as much as he delighted with his fresh look, it doesn’t change the fact that the amount of minor blisters on his hands and raw scabs on his feet also bruises on his back make his whole body feels sore and it sucks when the only way to relieve the pain is just to lie down on his bed. not to mention that he has to wear a sling on his right arm until the summer holiday ends. for the sake of god, he almost bawled his eyes out in the hospital when he heard the doctor said exactly that.

“instead of praising my wounds you can pray for my fast recovery hyung. i don't want to end up spending my whole summer in my bedroom with this sore feeling, helplessly...,” donghyuck trails off and lets out a long, heavy sigh as he playing with mark’s uniform with his uninjured hand.

“of course! and i don’t mind spending my summer holiday accompanying you though,” mark is combing donghyuck's hair and continues as he glances at donghyuck’s right arm in sympathy, “like, you know, i don’t think your arm will get better in a week or two.” 

donghyuck closes his eyes in frustration and whines as he buries his face on mark’s torso. his wounds hurt against mark’s uniform but he couldn’t careless. summer has always been his time of the year. it has always been like that since forever and the idea that he has to sacrifice his summer holiday for his recovery which means he can’t spend it outside, basking in the heat of summer sun, with mark — though the latter said he’s willing to spend it accompanying him — irritates the hell out of him. he’s never been this devastated his whole life.

“hey, hey, it’s okay. i believe we can still make it as fun as last year,” mark’s ruffles donghyuck's hair and only stops when the latter draws his face back to look at mark square in the eyes.

“oh great,” donghyuck says, voice clearly feigning excitement. “then what’s your plan? any idea?” donghyuck raises an eyebrow up, looking expectantly at mark who just blinks, obviously in the middle of ransacking his brain to bring any idea out. donghyuck lowkey hopes mark can actually come up with a plausible plan but a minute passed and donghyuck concedes that this summer is going to feel like a shit. oh, he already misses the summer heat outside when he glances at his bedroom windows.

“see? when all i can do is lie do-”

“no, we have one.” mark says, rather tentatively.

“what?” donghyuck quirks an eyebrow.

“this,” mark says and without missing a beat leaning down and plants a light kiss at the uninjured corner of donghyuck's lips.

down there, donghyuck grows red in an instant, utterly flabbergasted.

donghyuck opens and closes his mouth few times, not sure about what he should throws at mark; curses or asks him to repeat what he has just done but donghyuck is not the one to go easy even when it’s come to his own boyfriend.

“i swear to god mark le-”

mark holds donghyuck's neck and leaning down again. his glasses bumps with donghyuck's nose. the kiss lasts a tad longer than the previous one and donghyuck just want to curse and curse the hell out of mark when he notices a teasing twitch at the corner of the older’s lips when the older pulls away.

“fuc- shit did you just take advanta-”

this time, mark misses the timing and he pecks donghyuck's foretooth instead. tingles start to emerge inside donghyuck's stomach in no time. mark definitely takes advantage of his current incapacity.

“fucking stop it or i wi-”

mark, little bit fumbling, kisses donghyuck's chin but he hastily finds donghyuck lips again and give it light pecks.

the tingles grows rapidly, goes up to his head and makes donghyuck giddy. having loss of words, donghyuck bites his lip to prevent smile to spread across his face. he glares at mark but then reached out to takes off the latter’s glasses with his uninjured hand and folds it in his palm.

“holy shit mark at least do it properly.”

mark’s laugh is contagious and donghyuck just can’t take it anymore so he pulls mark’s tie while still makes sure to keep mark’s glasses safe in his palm. they giggle at each other lips and it doesn’t take long until donghyuck put mark’s glasses aside and uses his uninjured hand to trails at mark’s jaws before pulls mark’s neck delicately to deepen their kiss.

this summer might not turn out to be as fun as last year but, hell, donghyuck doesn’t mind.

[mentalhealthsessionswithmarc]

Mindfulness. What is it and why do we keep hearing about it?

Today, we’re back on topic digging deeper into other aspects of mental illness and some ways you can recover. Most people who have an illness, especially a mood disorder at some point have heard someone say something about mindfulness. Why do professionals push it? At one point I used to talk about it like I was a paid salesperson. So what is it? How does it relate to mental illness? And what can I do to achieve this “mindfulness”?

I have some real experience with this. But first, let’s define what this helpful tool is. First, just think about the word. Mindfulness is pretty much what it says it is. It’s a state of self awareness. As I have mentioned before, anyone with a mood disorder of any kind has an inherent lack of clarity in their thinking. It’s not your fault. It just comes with the territory. When you have anxiety and depression your mind is moving quicker than you are. Thoughts are a constant self-assault, spinning faster than you can even handle. Your emotional stability is zero and the way you see things is tainted. So, can you see why a practice in self awareness may be helpful? There are many ways you can practice so you can gain control of your mind.

Actually, two days ago I helped someone with mindfulness. One of my roommates had suffered what was an extreme anxiety attack. After he emerged from it, he asked me what I did to overcome mine when I had them. What I told him was the very first practice in mindfulness. Once you feel the pandemonium rise in your mind, there will be an equivalent manifestation physically. Usually it’s marked by an adrenaline rush and heart attack levels of palpitation. Once you notice you are in the throes of an anxiety attack, HIT THE BRAKES! The mind’s first natural response to an anxiety attack is to feed into it. You feel it. You panic. Your mind races further. There’s no escape. Then more negative thoughts manifest. Instead of giving in to the racing internal slaughter that is going through you head, you must mentally validate what’s going on. Once you recognize what your mind is doing, you then respond to the physical aspect. You change your breathing. Slowly breathe in through your nose and count slowly to 4. Hold for a second. Breathe out through the mouth to the count of five. Repeat. Always in through the nose and out through the mouth. Each time, release your breath for one count longer. Do this until your heart rate slows. Once you gain control over your functions, you can then gain bearing on your situation. First, do what is called a body scan. This gets you in touch with your body. Start with the top of your head and end with your toes. What you are doing is noticing how each area of the body feels. Make mental notes while you are doing this. Is your hair sweaty, is it dry? Is your skin hot? Etc, etc. While this may be a bit confusing to you, what this does is gets you in tune with your body. Now that you are in control of your body, you can then assess your situation. Where are you? What room are you in? Where in the room are you? What does the environment in the room feel like? Do you know what this does? It enables you be in the moment. That is the single most important thing that anyone with anxiety or other mood disorders must be able to do. It trains you to be aware of what you are going through, when you are going through it, where you’re going through it at. Once you are done assessing your mental, physical, and environmental state you will be completely calm. 

It is when you reach this state of mind that you can think clearly enough to pinpoint why this happened, and what triggered it, and what you can do to respond to it. This clarity of mind is what builds the blocks into the recovery mindset. Once you are able to see outside what your mind usually presents, it is then you can gain control and start making changes. Change is the key to progress. Especially with mental illness. Change is essential to growth. 

There are other ways to practice mindfulness. Meditation is great. I used to meditate often. There are actually apps you can get on your mobile phone that can train you to meditate properly. I used an app called Mindfulness and one called Headspace. There are different meditation practices for what illness you are currently dealing with. I used to do guided meditations for anxiety, depression, and emotional regulation. In my honest opinion, guided meditation is the best way to go because it is easier to learn by example than to run into it not completely knowing what you’re doing. After you get the hang of your guided meditation practice you should be able to conduct a meditation session all on your own. It doesn’t take forever. The shortest guided ones takes about 7 minutes. When I was having a rough day, I usually did the 15 minute/mid-range option. When I was gaining real ability to meditate, I occasionally got adventurous and embarked on a 20 minute session or two. They really do work. Once you emerge from a meditation, you are so relaxed and very much in your element. From there you can actually start engaging in better behaviors because you actually have the mind to do so. Again, everything is based on change. And this practice can get you there. I achieved the first steps to my recovery by doing these meditations daily.

After I progressed a little further in this process, I realized that meditation wasn’t always going to be practical. Especially living with 3 other people that are constantly going in and out. Not only that, but the crazy hours at work didn’t allow for much time to sit still. There is an active practice and I believe that helped me the most. I am very active. Inside of work and out, I am constantly in motion and am working on something. This is still very true of me. This practice teaches you to bring your awareness with you. It’s simple like noticing the things in the room as soon as you walk into it. Noticing details about your environment, interactions and how they make you feel. Once you gain experience in doing this it becomes less complicated. For me to gain that kind of focus before doing anything, was very complicated. Even worse, I’m ADHD, which allows me to be a bit of a space cadet every now and again. But I still made myself do this and in the end what it teaches you is to again be in the moment. It forces your mind to never be ahead of your body. And once you have control over these factors, again it allows you to see where you can make change. This brought me a clarity I never thought possible. I was able to see where I could make improvements, make healthier choices, set goals, and inspire myself to see through my changes. It even helped me at work. I no longer take medications for ADHD and I function at a rather high level. I still have an obvious deficit, but it does not hinder my ability to function and excel at the things I put my mind to. 

So, through mindfulness, the right medications, and therapy, I was able to make the kind of changes I knew I needed to make. I struggled through a lot of this, but being able to keep myself in the moment and to be happy with what I had was key. It’s proof you can train your mind to change your situation despite how bad you are. A year ago today, my brain was addled with anxiety, drowning in a life-sucking depression, and exhibiting explosive mood changes. I was in constant suffering. Today, I am a completely different person. I have little to no symptoms of anxiety or depression & no longer exhibit the features of BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder), and it appears I may start coming off my medications soon. I am extremely happy with life and a lot healthier physically and mentally. I am almost always in the moment. 

I’m living proof this works. Hopefully you try some of these practices for yourself and find some success. 

Sincerely,

Marc