#fuck the greek coastguard

[pagan-mushroom]

So the sub imploded. Instant death. Even James Cameron said it most likely imploded. Yeah, five people died.

The media keeps saying how "extremely wealthy" or "billionaire" died. Just a reminder that they were rich.

The media doesn't talk about how for about 13 hours, The Greek coastguard stood and watched a ship in distress as 700 people on a ship were sinking into the water.

Yeah there is a little snippet, but that is it.

"Tributes are paid to the family of a wealthy.."

OH FUCK OFF

Tributes should be paid to the over 100 dead and 500 people still missing at sea. Where was their rescue mission? Where was the coast guard when they were screaming, crying, praying and drowning?

For context, 700 people is about the same number that the Carpathia rescued from the Titanic. She nearly destroyed her damn engines and raced through an ice field to get to her sister to try and save as many as they could.

Did anyone do the same for the 700 people on board the ship in Greek waters? No, they watched the ship for 13 hours as it sunk and lives were lost.

Oh, and incase you're wondering, the US coastguard still says they might try and recover the bodies. WHAT FUCKING BODIES?

They imploded, they were turned into instant fish food. Leave them down there and maybe focus on then 500 missing people stil lost at sea?

[cantquitu]

.

[marinaiguess]

if you wanna know about what happened to that sunken ship carrying 750 immigrants (of which around 100 survived), i can tell you but i cannot promise you i can keep my cool.

i’m gonna start biting ohmygosh okay. 

immigrants. refugees is probably the better word. those people took a ship from libye heading to italy. they were trying to leave their country to go to a better place, right? to live under better conditions. but you cannot do that “legally”. i hope you know how it goes. people from that area would travel on road, from turkey and then from greece to wherever they wanted to go. but as of recently, right at the borders of greece and turkey there was a wall built (wish this was a bad joke) by the greek government. the reason: to deter immigrants to pass the borders (since there are a lot of them in our country but that’s no fucking excuse since the EU literally funds the governement for this). and it worked, unfortunately. 

refugees had to find a different means to leave. so? travel overseas. it’s riskier but when you have no other option left, you take what you have. and it’s not the first time this has happened. it’s not the first time refugees have drowned and their bodies were found in greece’s coasts. we’ve mourned many people, many children. 

this time? this time it was different because this is the biggest ship the greek government has ever found “trespassing” their sea borders. (there could be others that were never found you know). the biggest ship with the most people on it. never before have there been 750 people abroad. and never before has a ship like that sunken. 

so what happened? based on what i know and not what the greek media claims, based on the survivors’ and the residents’ claims, the coastguard sinked that overcrowded fishing boat. yeah you heard me right. they towed their ship to that boat, probably in hopes to get it out of the greek sea borders so that malta would have to deal with it. malta’s sea borders weren’t that far away and keep in mind that towing in this case is illegal because it could be fatal (and it was).

so, the coastguard firstly claimed that they hadnt approached the boat until it was near sinking. after the survivors’ spoke their truth, they had to change their initial statement. and they did that quite fast. they said they approached them hours before it sunk in order to maintain their safety and supply the boat with food and water. according to them, the reason why the boat sunk was due to the people who were moving too much and tried to shake off any help given to them. it was dark and it wasn’t windy, no waves big enough to disrupt the boat. 

the greek authorities have lied, twice now, and their claims oppose those of the survivors’. survivors who lost their parents or their children. because governments make their lives harder and harder and when the people try to escape their fate, they realize they dont have the upper hand on the matter. and those humans who dont deserve to be called that, act like they care, announcing a 3-day national mourning. that happened a week ago. i havent seen any government officials talking abt the matter since then. (and ofc the only reason they pretend they care so much is because it’s elections season)

i am so done with the hypocrisy. we know the truth and we want justice to be served. but i really really wish it hadnt come down to this, i wish we didnt have to mourn for all the lost ones.

it isn’t the first time it happened. it isn’t the first time in this year that we have lost people thanks to our government’s incompetency. im tired of this. and im tired of people who vote for them, who back them up and excuse their actions. my heart hurts. it really does. as a kid of immigrants who had to go through hell to move across countries, who risked their lives to have a chance of living peacefully and under better conditions, it hurts. and it hurts even more to know that even if there’s a very very very slight possibility jsutice will be served, those people will never be the same again. justice wont be enough to bring their loved ones back. it fucking hurts. 

[clueingforbeggs]

There is also another layer I think is important

The submarine rescue attempt was at first carried out by the US and Canada. The UK and France also joined. All four of those countries border the Atlantic Ocean, where the submarine imploded, and Canada and the US were the closest countries. Additionally, the UK and France were likely involved, and gave more news coverage to the submarine, because two of the passengers were British, and one was French.

I can confirm that UK news did cover the migrant boat crisis, too. Which occurred off the coast of Greece. No idea if France did, but I suspect there would have been some coverage, because Greece is in Europe.

I actually heard about the Greek coastguard migrant boat sinking before the Oceangate disaster (which I first heard about on Tumblr, not the news).

From what I've heard, news in Spain (which also borders the Mediterranean, where Greece is), reported more on the migrant boat sinking. I would assume Greece would be the same.

Did the Greek government not do enough to save the migrants? Definitely. Was a lot of that because they were poor migrants? Almost certainly. But to ignore geography when it comes to dealing with news, just...

People care more about things that happen around them. That's not wrong, per se. In fact, it might be a good idea if people stopped trying to care about every event happening all over the globe all the damn time.

Remember when farmers in India were on strike and everyone was going 'How could you not know about this! Why isn't the news in Western Europe/North America talking about this! If you didn't know about this, this means you don't really care about poor people!' when actually most of us, including the people screaming about how everyone else who didn't know or every news station that didn't report on it didn't care, were actually in continents thousands of miles away, dealing with their own shit, including the mistreatment of their own countries poor people?

The OP of this post is in Chicago. I'm not surprised that people in his country didn't care as much about the Greek coastguard sinking a migrant ship. When they focus on the issues of migrants/asylum seekers, they probably focus on things like ICE keeping kids in cages and deporting people from the US to Mexico. And why shouldn't they? That's where they're more likely to cause some change.

And I can assure you I care more about issues my country, like a place housing children who have managed to get to the UK but have nowhere to go being told that they can't have fun decorations around the place for the fucking children who are in a strange place with no family than I do about events in Greece. Like I'm sorry, but one is what the government is doing in my country. Where I live. Where I can vote and hope for change, where I could potentially protest if I was able to. And the other is in a country I have zero connection to.

Activism achieves more if you work on smaller, local issues, than trying to solve all the problems all over the world.

Sad but true.

[du-hjarta-skulblaka]

I'm irritated by the whole titanic thing immeasurably for the core reasons of A. Absolutly disgusting abuse of wealth, power and nepotism, B. Taking all the media attention away from HUNDREDS DEAD UNDER GREEK COASTGUARD WATCH, but also C. THE TITANIC WRECKAGE SHOULD BE LEGALLY PROTECTED. It should be a crime to just govpoke around there without the proper permission and safety checks, precisely because its a fucking graveyard! People go there and die! It's the underwater equivalent of Everest, the only difference is you are almost guaranteed to litter it with your corpse.

The whole combination is that you have this discourse over wether ot not it is ethical to feel no sympathy over the hubris of absurd wealth inequality, while ignoring desperate people dying, all in service to piling more bones on our own history. It's infuriating

[rmjagonshi]

In For A Penny, In For A Pound - Chp 3

On AO3

Amidst the giggling and affectionate name calling, the toe fish were baked and shredded. The evening was spent eating bland fish smothered with cheese and re-hydrated guacamole. Ford had dug through their cupboards and pulled out a box of chipackers and powdered sugar. They’d used some leftover butter and water to make a crude frosting and had a desert of hobo cookies. Two folding deck chairs were pushed together, an empty bucket used as a table in the small space. The bowl of frosting sat between them, forgotten, as they watched the stars and listened to the sounds of the ocean. With no light pollution from the city, the sky lit up with millions upon billions of stars, all twinkling more brilliant than any light show Stan had ever seen. Even living in Gravity Falls, far off the beaten path, the skies were nothing like they were out on the ocean. Ford pointed out what stars and constellations and galaxies he could remember; holding Stan’s hand and helping him trace the patterns in the night sky.

Stories of Greek and Roman gods and heroes gave way to reminiscing and inside jokes. Ford regaled him with tales of his inter-dimensional travels and Stan retorted with his own sordid history of crime and punishment, and his own experience with the paranormal creatures in Gravity Falls. Though it hadn’t been as detailed or as scientific as Ford’s, Stan had tried keeping a journal of his own to keep track of everything he had learned about physics, and all the weird stuff he’d encountered. He’d been on first name basis with some of the gnomes and manitaurs, part of the reason they had run to the mystery shack when things got hairy at the end of the summer. They were both flopped on deck, a giggling mess by the time either one thought to go to bed. It was fucking magical.

Stan’s heart was light when he curled up into his freshly cleaned sheets. Not even the memories beginning to prickle at the edges of his mind could ruin his night.

“Hey, not to push, but we really are getting’ low on supplies. Think well be alright fer another week or so. Wouldn’t give it much more than that. But it’s up to you.” It wasn’t completely a lie. They were getting low. The ship’s storage could only hold two, maybe three months’ worth of food and water tablets before they had to start stacking cans in the bathroom.

“Yeah. We can hit port. The ‘toe-fish’ as you call them really aren’t that strange. They act like any other species of Atlantic cod, aside from their odd appearance. I think I have enough data to document them. We can head for Ireland starting tomorrow.” Ford had already pulled off his sweater to change and was now hunched over his bunk, straightening the sheets. Stan’s eyes traveled over the scars and ink that littered his brother’s back and arms. He felt his gut tighten and his hands hitched with the desire to reach out and touch them. It had been a long few months before Ford was ready to show Stan the damage the past thirty years had done. Stan knew they were there, knew where each one had come from, but it didn’t make seeing them any easier. Sure, Stan had his own fair share of scars, but they were few and far between compared to his brother.

Stan bit his lip to hold back saying something that really didn’t need to be said. Not at this point. He let his mind drift as he watched the muscles of Ford’s back shift and slide under the raised scars and burns. He was still amazed at how much stronger Ford was. Gone was the lanky teen from their youth. Gone was the scrawny researcher he’d caught a glimpse of that late January day. Ford was muscular, but not overly buff. Lean, like a runner. Legs able to sprint a mile with little effort and arms that could throw a punch to match Stan’s own. It was kinda hot. Intrusive thoughts prodded at Stan’s mind, but he shook his head to get rid of them. Not now. Not ever, but really not now.

Ford turned, picking up the discarded tank he slept in, and caught Stan’s eye. Stan turned his head, staring at the wall to give his brother privacy. “Sorry. I didn’t mean…I just…thinkin’s all. Didn’t mean ta stare.”

“No, Stan. It’s fine. I…it helps…sometimes…for you to see them. Helps me be more comfortable in my own skin.” Ford rolled his knuckles and flexed his fingers as he spoke. He smiled and held up his hand, fingers spread. “Of course, you’ve always helped me feel comfortable about myself.” Stan chuckled, giving his brother a shy smile. But it was getting too touchy feely for his tastes. Any way too intimate.

“Yeah. If you’re gonna be made fun of, it’s gonna be about your nerd personality, not how ya look. Besides, can’t be a badass pirate without the badass scars to go with it.” Ford had pulled on his shirt and sat on the now perfectly straightened sheets.

“Stanley, we aren’t pirates.”

“Yes we are.”

“No, we aren’t.”

“Yes, Poindexter, we are. We were in international waters, and took control of the abandoned Iceland research buoy without permission. Ergo. Pirates.” Ford had reworked the buoy’s internal system to act as a satellite sonar beacon. It was bobbing about two miles from their ship. They’d go and pick it up before they headed to port the next day.

“I…” But Ford didn’t really have a response. While the buoy hadn’t been active, it was still Icelandic property. Technically, they had stolen it. Technically, Stan was right. They were pirates. “Shut up, Knucklehead.”

“HA! I’ll get the cloth from port and sew up a nice pirate flag! Unless ya want ta string up our shirts like we did before?”

“No. And you are NOT raising a pirate flag. Do you have any idea what would happen if we ran into the coastguard?”

“Which coastguard?”

“Any! It’s bad enough that I’ve got a criminal record the length of the Mississippi, thanks to you, and you are legally deceased. We don’t need anymore legal trouble.” Ford had curled up under the three blankets he insisted on having to keep warm. Stan, being the human furnace he was, was fine with just a sheet most nights. Hot and cold, the two of them.

“Get some sleep, Stan. We’ll set out tomorrow.”

“Night, Sixer.”

Stan and Ford drifted off with the slow rocking of the boat and the gentle sounds of the ocean waves.

Stan stretched out his spine, letting his back ease into the soft mattress. The boat rocking back and forth with the smallest of motions. He felt warm. The sheet around him growing softer and heavier. He could hear music. Light and unobtrusive. A lullaby. Wait. There were words. Someone was singing? Stan blinked open his eyes to be greeted by a smiling stuffed rabbit. It was tiny and hung on a string above his bed with four other tiny stuffed toys. A mobile. His mom was singing, off somewhere else. But it was okay. She was near. Stan turned his head to see the grey fluff of his brother’s head. Ford was sleeping soundly with six fingers wrapped around Stan’s arm. Stan rolled to his side, facing his brother. With light touches so as not to wake him, he traced Ford’s features. Fingers running over each closed eyelid, trailing back to trace over the curves of his ears. Over Ford’s hairline and eyebrows. Down the bridge of his nose and over the pink parted lips.

Ford’s lips puckered as Stan traced them with his thumb. Ford mumbled, chapped lips catching on Stan’s skin. His eyes blinked open, lashes fluttering. Bright blue eyes stared blearily back at Stan as a sleepy smile spread over his lips. He gently kisses the thumb resting against his lips and nuzzles against Stan’s open palm.

“Morning.” He breathes against the callused skin. Stan grins.

“Morning, Sixer. How’d ya sleep?”

“Mhn. Good. Still tired.” Ford closed his eyes again, pulling the covers up to his neck and pushing his face further into the pillow.

“Heh. We don’t hafta get up. Nothing we gotta get done right now.” Eh, that wasn’t true. But who was paying attention out here? They could enjoy a late morning if they wanted.

Ford hummed, frowning. “Cold.”

Stan chuckled, holding the blanket up. “Well then, get yourself over here, nerd. I’ll keep ya warm.”

Ford shuffled across the space between them and wrapped his arms around Stan’s torso, burying his face in the soft grey hairs that blanketed Stan’s chest. He hummed in delight, resting his forehead on Stan’s clavicle. His body fit perfectly along Stan’s, hips chest pressed into Stan’s soft gut and hips settling against Stan’s thighs. Stan hummed at the feeling of Ford’s soft cock sliding against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. He ran a hand over Ford’s bare side and back. Callused hands sliding over scarred skin to trace along the pudge of a hip, the top of a thigh. Ford squeaked when Stan gripped one ass cheek in his hand and squeezed. Dexterous fingers followed the line of it, up and down, each pass getting closer and closer to Ford’s tight puckered hole. The tip of his index finger pressed against the ring of muscle and worked to ease the tension.

“Stan.” Heavy breaths ghosted over Stan’s chest. He could feel Ford relaxing for him. The ring of muscle contracting and loosening around his fingertip. He circled the ring from the center outward. A slight press and his finger was enveloped in heat. A muffled whine echoed in the room. Stan pressed a grin into Ford’s hairline, still working his finger passed the first ring. It was dry. He wasn’t going to get far, he wasn’t trying to, but it was the best way to get Ford worked up. Light touch, teasing, just fingering the inner ring. Six fingers clutched Stan’s hips, kneading the flesh. Ford was mewling before long. His hips rocking against Stan’s thigh. He was hard, or getting there. He was panting now, hands traveling south to squeeze Stan’s ass.

“Shh. It’s alright. I gotcha.” Stan pressed a kiss to Ford’s temple. Pulling his finger free, he pushed against Ford’s shoulder to roll him onto his back. He placed a quick kiss against Ford’s lips, a soft nip along his jawline, before sucking a trail down Ford’s neck. Lips and tongue danced over pecks, pausing to give each nipple attention. Ford watched him with half-lidded eyes, gasping and wanting. Stan circled each rosy bud with his tongue, nipping at the sensitive flesh and rolling it between his gums.

“Stanley! Uh, huh, uh!”

“Heh, whatcha want, Sixer? Whatcha want yer brother ta do for ya? Just name it.” Stan purred into Ford’s abdomen. He mouthed a line down to Ford’s navel. “Hm? What is it?” He darted is tongue in and out of Ford’s navel, tracing the outer circle. “What do you need?”

“Stan, please!”

He grinned.

He leaned back, just enough to kneel on the bed and get a good look at Ford. Writhing and wanton and aching. Ford was hard and leaking. Prick straining and twitching; the head pulsing. Stan wrapped a hand around the shaft and Ford’s hips came off the mattress with a scream.

“This what you want? Need yer bro to take care of ya? Just ask me, Sixer.”

But no answer came. He looked up, expecting to see Ford red faced and shy. instead, Ford’s face was cloudy and distorted, like one of Mabel’s drawings had gotten wet and all the colors had run together. An answer came then, distant and muffled, coming through water.

“St-n”.

“Wha’, Sixer, what’s wrong?”

“Sta-, pl-se. I’m -orr-. Ple--, don- -o…”

What the hell was going on? They were just getting started. Ford was aching to go, wasn’t he? But...no. Ford wasn’t under him anymore. Least, not the one he was expecting. The sculpted body he’d been worshiping was gone. The form under him, beside him, drifting away from him, was child-like. A kid. Ford was younger now. Ford was just a kid. Scared and crying. Was it him? Was Ford crying because of him? But Ford had wanted it...didn't he?

Oh God.

What if Ford hadn't wanted it? Was he just placating Stan? Was that why Ford was going away? Was that why he was crying?

“Please. I’m so sorry...don’t…” Ford voice grew clearer, even as he drifted further and further away.

“Ford. Hey! What’s wrong? Hey! Sixer! Talk ta me!”

Stan was losing him. Ford had known about Stan's dream. Had figured out Stan had gotten off to it, even though he tried not to. Ford had cleaned his sheets, of course he knew. Genius man he was. He was going away now because he knew Stan was disgusting. Stan didn't even know why he wanted this. But it didn't matter. It was going to end now. He'd do anything to keep Ford with him. He'd never jerk-off again. He'd castrate himself. He'd do whatever Ford wanted if he'd only just stay.

"Ford! I'm sorry. I won’t do it again. I promise. I don't know why it happened the first time, but I swear, never again!"

Ford's voice was getting louder and more desperate. He was pleading. But why? Stan had stopped. He was so far away now. Why was Ford still asking him to stop?

"Don't leave!"

But Stan wasn't leaving. He wasn't moving. Then...Ford wasn't trying to leave. Something was making him.

"FORD!"

“Please…don’t…NO!”

Stan was awake and out of bed before he’d even had the chance to make a conscious decision or even realize he was asleep. His heart hammering in his chest and eyes scanning the room for any signs of danger. Survival skills ingrained and hard learned from his tie on the streets kicking into high gear. His blurred vision fell on the struggling lump across the small space on the second bunk.

“STAN!”

“Hey, I’m here. It’s okay. Shh. It’s alright.” Stan knelt on the floor beside Ford’s bunk, voice low and soothing, or as soothing as his smoker’s voice could be. Bed springs screeched under the thrashing, covers tossed and tangled around arms and legs. Ford was panicking. The last time Stan had tried to wake him from a nightmare, Ford had damn near broken his jaw. His jaw throbbed with phantom pain at the memory. But this was a bad one. Stan reached his hand out, soft and deliberate, to curl around one of Ford’s flailing hands.

“Sixer! Ford, common. Wake up.”

Ford shot up with a snap. A fist swung at Stan’s head even as a second gripped his fingers hard enough Stan felt his bones creak. Stan ducked, head and shoulders hitting the mattress and dodging the swing by millimeters. His knees slipped on the smooth floor, and Stan found himself clinging to the bed sheets and Ford’s hand for support.

“Ford, Jeezus! It’s me!”

“Stan?! Oh, God. I’m sorry…I…” But the end of his statement was swallowed up by a heart-wrenching sob. Instead, he rolled off the bed, pushing Stan flat in the space between their bunks, and crawled into Stan’s arms. Stan found himself laying on the floor, ass naked, with his brother curled up tight to him. Ford had buried his face into Stan’s gut, chest in line with Stan’s hips. He was shaking. Splatters of water caught in the grey hairs to pool in his navel.

Stan carded his fingers through the sweat damp fluff of Ford's hair, rubbing his thumb over Ford's temple. Hushed and incoherent words tumbled from his mouth. Attempts to sooth, but not to pry. Ford would talk when he was ready. Maybe. Sometimes they didn't talk about their nightmares. Too much emotion all at once that neither one was ready to deal with. Neither one used to being able to lean on someone when they were having problems. They would get there, but after a lifetime of bottling up their emotions, it wasn't going to happen right away.

So, Ford may or may not talk to him about it. Which was all well and good because Stan was not really up to talking himself. It happened again. He'd dreamt about Ford again. And this time, he was complicit. He'd known it was Ford. Before, he was just enjoying a steamy dream about a hot guy. His subconscious had made it Ford. But this time...he knew. And he still did it. What did that say about him? That he would actually, knowingly...

Stan clenched his eyes closed and willed the memories to go away. Ford was calming down now. Harsh and heaving breath eased, tears all but dried. Ford's heart at slowed, no longer hammering its way through his chest. But he showed no signs of moving anytime soon. Stubbled cheek scratching against the soft skin of Stan's navel. The delicate flutter of an eyelash tangled with the fine hairs.

Stan felt chapped lips part against his skin as Ford sighed. His hand stalled in Ford's hair. He became acutely aware that he was still naked. When Ford shifted to ease the pressure on his back, Little Stan became aware of Ford's position. Little Stan was very interested in continuing where things had left off, even if they were imaginary. Stan was strongly against it, but Little Stan wasn't listening. Stan desperately tried to imagine McGucket in his swimsuit. Or that creepy hand witch. Something, hell anything to make his erection wilt. He felt it twitch, filling with blood and rising to meet the pressure and warmth above it. Stan wondered if he could shift, ease out from Ford's grasp just enough to let the cool air shock his system enough to stop this problem before it got any worse. Ford buried his face in Stan's navel, a deep inhale and shuttering breath heaved out if his lungs. Stan pulse flared. This was way too close to a memory he was trying very hard to ignore.    

How was Ford not feeling this? Stan wasn't really complaining, he didn't want Ford to notice, but he was still confused as to how he hadn't yet. Stan didn't want to brag, but he wasn't exactly small. He wasn't a monster by any means, but a respectable 9 inches was still big enough. Certainly, big enough for Ford to notice that it was pressing up into his chest. He could feel Ford breathing. Every breath brushed against his straining cock. Another deep and shuttering sigh and Stan's eyes crossed, toes curling. NOPE!

"Hey, Sixer. Ya wanna move this off the floor? My back is gonna be yelling at me if we lay here much longer."

Ford said nothing. Just patted Stan's stomach and lifted himself onto his hands and knees. 'Wait. SHIT! NO! Don't do that. DON'T...' But it was too late. Ford's movements had brought him face to face with Little Stan. Little Stan was very happy with the arrangement.

It was dark. Completely dark below deck on the Stan O' War II. There was a chance Ford hadn't noticed. Please, please let him have missed it. But that little glimmer of hope died when Ford stopped dead. Stan couldn't see him, even if he didn't have his eyes closed, but he could fucking feel Ford's breath ghosting over the straining head. And he stayed there. He wouldn't move, get up. Wouldn't say anything. Stilted breaths enveloping Stan's prick in warmth, teasing with a promise that wasn't a promise and he didn’t want it anyway. He almost wished that ship would hit a rogue wave and knock them about. Ford took a breath to speak. Finally.

"I'm..." But that had been a mistake. Ford's lips had moved. He was a lot closer than either one had thought. Chapped lips just barely brushed Stan's leaking head. Stan's eyes bulged out of his sockets when he felt a sticky strand follow the movement of Ford's lips. NOPE!  

A foot connected with Ford's shoulder. Not a kick, but enough force to propel Ford up to his knees and as far away from Stan as they could get. Stan sat up and scooted back until his hands hit the curtain covering the doorway.

"SHIT! Sorry. It can't tell the difference between you and the busty babe I've been dreamin' about. Imma go piss, you sit. We'll talk if ya wanna when I get back." It was all said in one breath as Stan stood and backed out of their shared room. Stan felt his way to the bathroom and flicked on the light. He squinted through the brightness to the toilet, feeling a rush of deja vu as he flipped the seat up. His gut rolled, but it wasn't enough to come up this time. Instead, he braced one hand on the wall above the bowl while the other wrapped around his prick. He squeezed. He muffled a moan by biting the flesh of his upper arm. He didn’t bother trying to clear his mind this time. He couldn't, not with the real memory of...SHIT!

He pumped once, twice, hips following his fist. His mind blanked, body seizing. Sticky white jets splattered over his hand and the underside of the toilet seat. His jaw clamped down on the flesh of his arm to quiet his moans. He couldn't actually break skin without his teeth, but the bruising wasn't going to feel too great either. He felt his knees give out, and he sat awkwardly backwards on the toilet bowl, hunched over the small water tank. His chest heaved. Head spinning.

Stan was still in the shock and disbelief stage of grief. He hadn't had enough time to really comprehend what had just happened. He knows if he does sit with this, he may end up throwing himself off the boat. But he doesn't have to process this. He doesn't have to deal with this. He can shove it down and ignore it. Denial, denial, denial. But he and his subconscious were having a bit of a disagreement as to what was okay and NOT okay to think about. A little voice in the darkest and most depraved pit of his mind remind him that Ford hadn't pulled away. Ford hadn't reacted with disgust. Hadn't really reacted at all, as a matter of fact. Stan pile-drived that voice back to the rancid and perverse pit it crawled from.

But the thought was there now; he couldn't get rid of it. He'd been so close. Ford had been so close to...he'd...no. No. No way! It wasn't intentional. Ford was just as shocked as he was. He didn't pull away because his nerd brain had overloaded. He was just looking for comfort from whatever nightmare had spooked him and hadn't been expecting a hard dick in his face. And Stan had just left him there to deal with it on his own. What kind of brother was he? Stan chose not to answer that stupid question. Mainly because he wasn't ready to deal with the answer. It was fine! It was all fine. Stan's thoughts tumbling over themselves. It was best now to shove all that shit down and bury it under more and more layers of repression. A few tons of self-hate wouldn't hurt either. Just bury it where that shit won’t ever see the light of day again.

He didn't know how long he sat there, ass and thighs going numb balanced on the slim toilet bowl rim. He needed to get up, clean up and see how much Ford was freaking out. Shit! Ford was probably freaking out now. He had to explain. Though maybe the absolute truth in this case was a very shitty idea, but he could come up with a lie. He's good at that. Been doing it far longer than anything else in his life. But it was definitely time to go and figure out what hole Sixer was spinning himself into.

Stan stood on shaky legs, tore a wad of toilet paper from the roll and wiped himself and the toilet seat down before washing his hands. He refused to look at his reflection. Hands dried and all evidence flushed away, Stan was about ready to flick off the light when he spotted a pair of Ford's boxers left tucked behind the door. Comets and planets and little UFO's. Considering how awkward this was gonna be, he should try and cover himself up. Ford had been fine with Stan sleeping nude, but that was in his own bed. Best to make this less awkward. Though, they were Ford's boxers. From today, yesterday? Would that just make it worse? Stan didn't bother mulling it over. He picked up the worn fabric and slipped them on before flicking off the light and stumbling his way through the darkness.  

Stan felt his way along the galley counter, shuffling through his shitty night vision to the far wall. He stubbed his toe a few times on the books scattered on the floor and nearly tore down the curtain when he collided with it. He lifted the curtain and stood in the doorway, hesitant. There was no way to disguise what he'd done. He'd been in the bathroom too long. Ford might be oblivious to many social cues, but it wasn't hard to put two and two together. But he couldn't stand there forever. Time to rip the band-aid off.

"Hey." His throat felt dry.

"Hey." came the reply in the darkness. His ears, sans hearing aid, could only tell him that Ford was off to his left. Ford's bunk was on the right.

Stan cleared his throat. "You, ah...ya wanna talk about it." Stan paused, then corrected himself. "Nightmare, I mean. Seemed pretty bad this time. Could hear ya even in my own dream." Not that he was going to talk about that. Nope. Nope, not that. Never that.

"Heh, at least you enjoyed yours." Ford sighed. Stan could hear shifting on the bunk and he could picture Ford picking at the sheets. "I don't...I shouldn't bother you with this." The bed creaked as Ford shifted to stand, but Stan wasn't having it.

"Hey, no. I'm here if you wanna talk. You ain't bothering me. You never bother me."

"Oh"

"Well, mostly. Nerd talk is still a bother, but not this. Not something this important."

"Stan."

"No, 'cuz it is. You said yerself, we need to stop pretending we don't have feelings." Stan felt his way to the bed, hands patting the sheets to find where Ford was sitting. Hands found one hairy knee and Stan worked his way onto the bed. "So, I'm here ta listen. If ya wanna talk, that is." They sat wrapped in silence and darkness, shoulders rubbing together every so often. Stan blinked, attempting to let his eyes adjust to the dark, but there wasn't enough ambient light to see by. It was all just oppressive blackness. He couldn't even see his own knees.

Ford didn't talk, and so the silence permeated the darkness around them. It pressed in on his mind, and without a distraction, it dug into the layers and layers of freshly laid repression and self-hate to unearth what had just happened. His mind had been given enough time to work through the denial and really get to the meat of it. It was starting to set in what had actually happened. A spike of guilt and despair beat down on his shoulders while revulsion and horror clashed with each other in his gut. There wasn't much in his stomach but bile, but he doesn't think that will matter much. He enjoyed it. That was the worst part. That was the worst part of all of this. He'd wanted it. For a brief moment, he'd wanted Ford to lick....

STOP! Don't. Just, don't. Screw it. It happened, now let it go.

God, he needed to get laid.

A weight slumped to his side shook Stan out of his thoughts. A voice spoke in a harsh whisper right next to his ear. "You were gone. You were gone and there wasn't anything I could do to bring you back." Oh. Stan blinked as Ford continued. "You...", there was a long pause while Ford collected himself. "You left. Told me I made you sick. That you didn't know why you brought me back. Said you wanted to travel without me. That I was holding you back." Oh and damn. Now he really felt like a pile of shit. Ford had woken up panicking over Stan calling it quits and Stan had gone and waved his dick in his face. Stan swallowed down the rising bile and self-revulsion to address Ford’s statements.

“Ford. I’m not…I’m not going anywhere. I would be outta my mind ta want ta leave.” An uncommitted grunt was the only response. Stan sighed. “Stanford,” not a name Stan used often, “I spent thirty years trying ta get you back. All I’ve ever wanted was ta be out here with you. Nothing you could ever do, will make me want to be without you.” Stan leaned his head over, resting his lips atop Ford’s scalp. He could feel the tension drain from Ford’s body. They were pressed together, sharing the warmth and comfort of being close to one another. The bed was big enough, heck there were two beds, they didn’t have to. They were men. Pines men. But it felt nice. It felt really nice, and after the shit Stan was trying to pin down and bury, he was willing to indulge in a little nice. Even better when Ford started rocking from side to side.  

“Promise?”

“Always, Ford.”

“Even if I did something you hated?”

“You could never do something like that.”

“What about if I did something ‘unmanly’?”

“Well, when ya put it like that…” But there wasn’t really an end to that statement. Stan breathed a deep and rumbling chuckle over Ford’s hair, grinning at the responding laugh.  

"Stan..." Ford had placed a comforting hand on Stan's knee. Except it was dark, and that wasn't his knee, and his borrowed boxer shorts had ridden up his thighs. Six surprisingly soft fingers fluttered over the sensitive flesh of Stan's inner thigh for a brief moment before Stan linked his fingers with the offending appendage and lifted it to rest where it ought to be. Six fingers completely enclosed his as they rocked back and forth on the ocean waves.

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[pagan-mushroom]

Me seeing the time has passed for the oxygen to run out for the logitech controller silo tank:

[pagan-mushroom]

So, like many.. I've been INVESTED in this missing sub story. They have to around 12pm today, UK time to find it and save it. Now whilst there are human beings on board..

Please don't forget that a boat carrying 700 refugees sunk and before it did, the Greek coastguard saw it was in distress and did NOTHING. So far there are around 83 dead and 104 that have been rescued. The ship has a 350 capacity.

But no, rescue efforts are underway for a fucking silo tank with a window for five idiots. Honestly, they knew the risks. I don't have any sympathy for them.

I have sympathy for the migrants trying to get to a better life and drowning as the Greek coastguard WATCHED

[almostdefinitelydying]

I do actually wish they'd die tho. Just to be a monument to rich idiocy.

I don't care..

nobody lifted a finger when greek coastguard towed a ship so fast it capsized and killed 700 innocent people who's only crime was being born somewhere else.

But suddenly it's 5 rich people and we're ghouls for wanting them to die? Fuck entirely off and take your high horses with you.

I guarantee you the same people who get all pearl clutchy about this are the same people who whine about wanting revenge over Russia is bad and blood thirsty, even as they rape and mutilate people en mass in Ukraine.

This sanctimonious farse of pretend sensibility makes me sick.

The people who are like "why are you wishing death on these billionaires?!" are not understanding what is going on. It's one thing to wish death on people and it's another thing to have no sympathy for people who died in a situation they were cautioned heavily to not do.

I don't want anyone to die, to be truthful; but here are the facts:

That sub is 2 miles down in the ocean where the pressure is immense and the temperature is unbearable.

The Titanic wreckage is literally 111 years old. The Titanic is wasting away and any slight jarring on her will cause her to collapse in that space. This is not new news.

The safest way to experience the Titanic's wreckage is looking through archives OR going to the museum. I know it would be astounding to look at in person, but... no.

Most importantly, the wreckage is also a graveyard. People's bones disintegrated because of the pressure and salinity of the water, but the shoes, that were treated with tannic acid, remain. Anybody with common sense knows that you don't go an disturb and desecrate graveyards. You just don't.

So, no... I feel zero sympathy for those people who should've just been told "no" more often in their life.