#if this kind of number seems even vaguely plausible to you

[tanadrin]

Saw someone claim in a comments section that something like 25% of Louisiana’s GDP comes from prison labor. Which would be insane if it was true. They must be running the most technologically advanced prisons in the country. They’re using prison labor to build microchips or some shit while everybody else is still using it to make license plates.

[stupidlittlespirit]

Rating: SFW (later chapters will be NSFW) Type: Long form, multi-chapter, Stanford Pines x Reader Tags: Mutual pining, no pronouns used, teasing, a special appearance from Stan, mentions of the kids, housekeeper!Reader, tw: my horrible jokes. Word count: 5,729 My other works: here on tumblr and here on Ao3! Ch.2 here

In which a simple expedition with Ford goes increasingly sideways and you learn more than enough about thermodynamics to last you a lifetime.

A/N: This has been quite an undertaking to produce. I created this fic as somewhat of a universe in which base a number of my post-portal!Ford one-shots etc in, and that meant I had to lay a lot of groundwork in it. I wanted to have a setting where I didn't need to keep giving background on what the Reader's role is and how/why they feel a certain way in every fic, and to also offer a kind of timeline that could be explored through future works. Because of that, in this fic there will be vague allusions to some small events happening to set us up for the current day and if people are interested in reading more about those events in full detail then I'd really love to explore them properly with you guys.

Just as an aside - Reader will mention they don't have a father in a throwaway line. It can be taken as just a joke or as literal. Up to you.

Anyway, most of this fic is already completed and I'll be posting a new chapter every couple of days or so. You can wait to read it all in one go or enjoy it in chapters. There will be roughly 5 in total. Enjoy!

Sometimes, in life, things align so perfectly that a person can't stop themselves from considering the possibility of cosmic interference.

Deities. The universe. Some other unseen, all powerful entity of murky origin. All of their existences seem far more plausible when events in one's life fall effortlessly into place and line up to give them the exact thing they've always wanted.

Today is one of those days.

You're busy chopping onions when the planets orient themselves for you.

The broad kitchen knife in your hand knocks rhythmically against the oak board underneath it with every slice you make and the little ribbons of milk-white flesh stack neatly between blade and vegetable, but your attention is, quite irresponsibly, elsewhere.

You really ought to be keeping track of your fingers but you're far too preoccupied with gazing out of the bay window in front of you to really care all that much. The thing is huge; its frame is rimmed with rich mahogany and it has one broad, square pane sitting in the centre, beset by two more, slimmer, rectangular pieces. It drinks in the waning daylight outside and on sunnier evenings, the pretty little stained panels that skirt the tops of each one glow a rich blue, showing off the depictions of constellations inside, like someone has captured part of the night sky and trapped it within the glass for their own private amusement.

Today, the clouds block the sun and the cerulean glass is dull, but you don’t mind too much. You’re not making use of the window to admire the art, lovely as it may be. You’re far more focused on what’s taking place on the lawn, beyond the bounds of the warm interior of the house.

Out on the well-kept grass, two figures are vigorously working out. Well, one is. The other looks like he’d rather keel over and die than spend another second out there, but he’s doing his best all the same and that’s what matters, you suppose.

Steam rises from Ford’s figure as he pauses in his work to help his nephew grip a mid-sized dumbbell correctly. It curls off and around his body like smoke, rising from its sweaty source and wafting into the unseasonably cool air. His cheeks are pink, likely both from exertion and the chill in the weather, and the colour blooms all the way across his face, stretching far enough to even tickle the tips of his ears.

He looks gorgeous.

Dressed in all-black, he’s wearing a short sleeve t-shirt and sweats, paired with dirty blue trainers. Where the skin of his throat and arms should be exposed, however, they’re instead wrapped up tight in what you presume to be some kind of fancy thermal shirt. You’ve never seen him wear anything that shows off his skin, yet somehow the way it clings to the curves of his biceps and forearms is even more revealing than seeing them bare.

Granted, this isn't the first time you've spied on one of his workout sessions like this (in almost exactly the same way), but every time he shows up, it feels like you've been blessed by the Heavens.

Ford, for what it’s worth, hasn’t noticed anything untoward. Not as far as you’re aware, anyway. He’s usually too lost in whatever he’s doing to pay you much mind and if he does catch your presence in the window, you’re always quick to make yourself look busy.

Ford works out four times a week, like clockwork, on the front lawn of the house he shares with his brother. He doesn't always have his nephew with him (Dipper clearly only ever wants to do his best for his great-uncle, however exercise is hardly the kid's forte and you can't say you blame him), which means that oftentimes you get the absolute pleasure of observing a clueless Ford lift weights and stretch his quads for sixty minutes whilst you break from your other chores to prepare them all dinner.

You've been working for the Pines’ for the better part of a year now and getting hired had been a complete accident:

Upon moving to Gravity Falls eighteen months ago and landing the first job you had come across in the local paper (an underpaid, exhausting waitressing gig at the local diner) you’d run into the kids one afternoon on a rare day off.

Mabel had almost smashed your ankle to bits after she and her brother had lost control of their overstuffed trolley and once they had finished their litany of apologies, you’d taken note of the cart’s contents: primarily filled with sugar riddled snacks and items with so little nutritional value that you’d been astounded they’d been legal to sell, neither one of the kids appeared to know how they were going to lug all their so-called food home or what they were going to make for dinner.

Without much else to do, you’d volunteered to lend a hand. They had explained their task: “Grunkle Stan says his back hurts too much to waste time in the store these days and he promised that if we helped, he’d make Grunkle Ford teach us how to drive so we can do it even faster!” Mabel had enthusiastically informed you, eyes bright and metaphorical tail bushy, and despite your confusion over the concept of a ‘Grunkle’, the idea of two apparently-just-turned fourteen year olds at the wheel had been less than thrilling.

Some gentle sweet talking had convinced them to swap out some of their items for things a little more suitable and you’d carried their bags back on a short walk to the house where you’d met the infamous Stan lounging on its porch, his feet up on some empty crates.

At Mabel’s excited introduction of you and her retelling of your recipe ideas, Stan had given you a once over before he’d asked how you felt about replacing the kids as dinner gofer. As it turned out, sending two hyperactive children out to get groceries every week had apparently (shockingly) not been working out too well for the older brothers, and one offer of help had turned into several paid offers.

After only a few short weeks of assisting them, you’d been offered a full time position as housekeeper. The decision to take them up on it had been easy; waitressing barely covered the bills for your decrepit little cabin on the outskirts of town and spending hours every day walking the same five metre route to and from the kitchen six days a week was monotonous enough that you’d been considering moving on anyway.

You’d jumped at the chance.

Technically, your job here is to help with the household tasks that Stan is too lazy to do and that Ford is too busy researching or gallivanting around in the forest to take on, but more often than not, you’re stuck doing whatever little thing Stan thinks up so that he can, as he puts it: ‘enjoy his retirement, sweetheart’. The work extends to any little chore they might need help with, and when the kids head home for summer and Ford and Stan set sail for a few months again, it falls to you to keep the place standing until they return.

Hence why you’re slaving away in their roomy kitchen this evening, gazing out at Ford like you’re some kind of yearning protagonist in a classic romance novel and turning over several thoughts in your mind that you’re sure would get you fired if you revealed them in detail to anyone else. You exhale softly as you watch him show Dipper how to correctly pull off a bicep curl, his arm flexing beneath his shirt.

Behind you, at the dinner table, Stan pauses where he's rustling through his daily newspaper at a leisurely pace and his chair creaks as he shifts in it. “Keep sighing like that and you’ll fog the windows up before he’s finished.”

You start, having completely forgotten his presence, and narrowly you swerve the kitchen knife to avoid chopping off the tip of your index finger. “Jesus, Stan!” you huff. “I almost cut my hand off! They should put a bell on you.”

Stan laughs under his breath. “Oh, they’ve tried, trust me,” he mutters darkly. “Besides, that’s what you get for not paying attention.”

“I am paying attention,” you lie. “I was just…. Thinking.”

“About what?” Stan asks, in a way that suggests he already knows. He probably does.

Stan is the only other person besides yourself who’s aware of your affection for Ford.

The crush had started small, blossoming slowly over time into something more significant, and Stan had worked it out before you’d even caught it yourself.

For all his faults, the guy is as perceptive as they come and admittedly, he’s a lot of fun in his own right. He’s cantankerous and rough around the edges, and yet he’s got a heart of gold that he hides deep underneath his gaudy chains and string vests. At first, he’d been grumpy and standoffish about your presence, despite being the one to hire you in the first place, but as time has gone by and you’ve proven yourself to be competent at both the work and at giving as good you get, he’s dropped his guard and dragged you into his jokes and games.

Although he’s less than thrilled about your private sentiments towards his brother, he's charming in his own special way and he only ever uses it to rag on you when he’s feeling mean. To the best of your knowledge, he hasn’t said a word to anyone else about it. Stan is an ass, but he’s not cruel.

And while you’re not going to divulge your most intimate thoughts to him, you’ll always rise to a little back and forth with him. He seems to enjoy having a verbal sparring partner.

“How old did you say your brother was again?” You ask with feigned innocence, glancing over your shoulder at him.

“What?” Stan grunts, folding the top of his paper down enough to glower at you over it.

“I said, remind me how old your brother is again,” you repeat, turning your attention back to watching Ford lean down to stretch his hamstrings again. It looks like he’s cooling down for the day now which means he’ll be doing static stretches for the next ten minutes, and every time he does so you’re treated to a wonderful view of his ass.

“Same age as me,” Stan says, and at your silence he tacks on: “We’re twins,” like you’re an idiot.

“So….?”

“He’s sixty-two, genius.”

“Huh,” you mutter quietly. “Interesting….”

It's hard to remember when Ford is so agile and active, and for all your interest in him, you've never actually asked his age. Sixty-two is perfectly doable though, in every conceivable sense of the word…..

Stan rustles his paper again. “If you’re thinkin’ about what I think you’re thinkin’ about, and I know you are, don’t even think about it.”

You snort. He has such a way with words.

"I told you last time, stay away from him. He's...." Stan pauses, as though he intends to say something else but thinks better of it. "He's old enough to be your father."

“I don’t have a father,” you say absentmindedly.

It’s Stan’s turn to snort now. “Y’know, that makes a lot of sense, actually.”

You tear your gaze away from Ford’s routine to flip Stan the bird, sticking your tongue out for good measure before you reach for the glass mixing bowl to your right. Now that your evening matinee is ending, you really ought to get a move on with dinner.

“Anyway, I didn’t hire you to gawp at my brother like he’s a piece of meat on the discount shelf,” Stan grouches. “You’re s’posed to be cooking.”

“I'm not gawping, I just happen to be facing the same way that he's doing all his stuff in,” you say defensively, before adding in a muttered: “Besides, he definitely wouldn’t be on the discount shelf.”

“Uh huh,” Stan says, clearly not believing a word.

Rather than defend your actions, you focus on your work: Tonight's dinner is wild mushroom pie. You've only made it once before but it's nice and filling, and you're supposed to be helping everyone eat better. Bad diets run in the family apparently (although where Ford is concerned, he just as often skips meals altogether some days) and so far, they've all been amenable to trying something new. The kids had been reluctant to test out vegetables at first but after a few valiant efforts to make them as palatable as possible they'd come round.

A lot of the work is already done; a pot of stock is simmering away on the hob, the onions from earlier are ready to be tossed into the slowly-warming frying pan and a red, ceramic pie dish is neatly lined with pastry and ready to go whenever you need it. For now, the next task is to prepare the star ingredient: Wild mushrooms.

You’ll be the first to admit, quite happily, that you're not the most outdoorsy of people and you're going to cheat a little bit on the ‘wild’ requirements. You'd picked up a packet of the things last weekend at the supermarket with the intention of doing one thing or another with them, and it does say on the label that they're wild, so you'll let yourself off on that one. Although, knowing Gravity Falls you're really hoping that ‘wild’ isn't a play on words and they turn out to be some kind of feral man-eating fungi. You're not in the mood to be hunted down by a hungry creature today.

Leaving your pots and pans to simmer, you check in the pantry for the little box only to come up empty handed. There's no sign of it anywhere in there, not even when you rummage around right at the back, and you call out to Stan in confusion: “Have you seen the mushrooms I brought back last week?”

“The ones in the brown container?” Stan asks.

“Yeah….”

“Mabel fed ‘em to Waddles last night,” he says, and when you stick your head around the pantry door to stare at him in disbelief, he shrugs without looking up. “What was I supposed to do, tell her no?”

You know what he means; She’s upstairs right now giving the damn pig a manicure makeover with your old (and apparently animal safe) nail polishes because you hadn’t had it in you to deny her them when she’d been upset about her own limited supplies.

It’s extraordinarily hard to refuse Mabel anything and you can appreciate the difficulty, but still.

“Stan, I told you what I was planning to cook tonight!” You groan, kicking the pantry door shut. “How am I supposed to make a mushroom pie with no mushrooms?”

You can’t exactly nip to the store today either. Every single shop in town is shut. The news this morning had warned of a major storm blowing in and informed everyone that they best stay at home lest they keep an inflatable raft in their back pocket, and no one sells those outdated things anymore. Too many accidental indoor deployments, apparently.

According to Ford, this place is susceptible to irrational weather spells and the increasingly aggressive changes in pressure and temperature that have spawned with global warming have only made them more volatile. Last summer there had been a spate of hailstorms that had puked up football-sized pieces of ice and smashed the windscreen of your car to pieces. You’re still sore about that one….

“What am I supposed to do?” You lament, sparing a miserable glance at the half-done recipe on the stove.

From behind you, a deep voice makes you jump: “Is something wrong?”

You almost leap out of your skin, swivelling on the spot to find the source hovering in the doorway of the kitchen.

Both brothers have the ability to be supernaturally quiet when they want to be. While Stan uses his subtlety less often, Ford skulks around like a well practised alley cat a lot of the time and he frequently scares the shit out of you. He must have finished his routine and crept back inside unannounced.

He gives you an apologetic smile, holding one hand up to ease your fear. “Apologies,” he laughs under his breath. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Ford is still dressed in his workout clothes, his thick, wavy hair roguishly dishevelled and slightly damp at the temples, and he looks just as lovely up close as he had done from the window. Perhaps even lovelier.

You swallow thickly, your brain short circuiting at the sight of him. “Uh, yes?” You say, though it's more of a question than an answer.

Ford looks at you expectantly, evidently waiting for you to expand on your problem, and Stan smirks at your lack of grace.

You shake your head minutely, desperately pulling yourself together and hoping he'll assume your speechless state is just because he's made you jump and not because your heart is climbing up your throat.

“I'm making pie,” you say, jerking your thumb over at the pots. “And someone,” You pause to fix Stan with an annoyed look and he rolls his eyes. “Let Mabel feed them all to Waddles, and…. I don’t have a back up plan.”

You feel a little stupid admitting it aloud.

Ford hums thoughtfully, heavy brows creasing together as he leans against the doorframe.

“That's quite the conundrum….” He says, frowning at the flagstone tiles under your feet.

His dark eyes flicker back and forth quickly, and you can tell he's trying to think up a solution.

After a long pause, he snaps his fingers and speaks up again: “You know, I did stumble across a nice little patch of mushrooms not far from here about a month ago. We could take a walk up there and grab some, if you'd like?”

“In the forest?” You ask, brows raised.

“Where else?” Ford grins, and you feel your stomach fill with butterflies. “They're edible, of course, I've tested them myself.”

“Are you telling me you ate random mushrooms you found on the ground, Doctor Pines?” You ask, mildly appalled. “They could have killed you.”

Ford waves a hand dismissively. “Unlikely. My travels have given me something of an iron stomach. It takes more than a Death Cap to put me down these days.”

At the mention of ‘travels’, you perk up a bit.

Ford's history is more than a little murky to you. In the time you’ve been working for the family, you’ve only heard second-hand snippets or passing mentions of his alleged escapades. The kids have let slip to you several times about his adventures and, despite initially assuming they'd been making things up for fun, the stories had eventually begun to seem a little too consistent to simply be make-believe.

One evening, when the kids had been safely tucked up in bed and Ford had been locked away in his study, you’d brought the subject up to Stan over a nightcap on the porch.

Stan had sighed, lit a cigar, and sworn you to secrecy before giving you a rough outline of his brother’s complex background: his outstandingly impressive academic history, their less-than-ideal family rift and some kind of accident that had sent Ford careening into, quite literally, another dimension. Stan hadn’t gone into excessive detail, and you hadn’t pushed despite desperately wanting to, but by his own admission he had felt that if you were to be working around them then you’d be better off at least having some idea of their strange history.

And strange it is.

You yourself have only lived in Gravity Falls for the better part of eighteen months and becoming accustomed to the weirdness of this place has been unusually easy. Residents take the bizarre in such casual stride that you’re more likely to stick out should you make a fuss about it all and after a while, seeing the odd oddity around had quickly become the norm.

At Stan’s vague reveal of his brother’s disappearance and, as everyone else calls them, his travels, the notion had been surprisingly easy to fathom in the context of such an already weird place. Utterly incredible, yet somehow very in line with this town.

Ford has never brought it up to you himself beyond a rare, fleeting mention, but you’re aware that he’s apparently spent significant time in places that other people might only dream of.

You’re sure he knows of your vague awareness but you know better than to poke around in other people’s sore wounds without permission.

Stan had warned that neither he nor his brother were predisposed to telling everyone and anyone about his time away and you can’t really blame them. From what you know (and can imagine), it can’t have been all fun and games.

“I think he’s got, like, PTSD or somethin’,” Stan had said that night, sounding genuinely heartbroken about it. “So don’t go sniffing around him, alright? He’s…. It’s difficult. Everyone’s been through a lot. Maybe we’ll tell you about it properly one day.”

You understand, of course. Whatever has gone on in their lives is clearly significant and you’re still an outsider. A year is no time at all in the grand scheme of things and they’re a tightly-knit, protective family. They’ve no reason to fill you in on their traumatic family history just because you help around the house and you’ve no right to know it, but you’re willing to earn their trust and if the stories come with it, then so be it.

Although slow to start, things have been going well so far and you’re closer than ever with them, so every titbit Ford drops has you on tenterhooks immediately.

“Besides,” Ford says, still on the subject of his thrilling mushroom discoveries, “their lack of toxicity isn’t even the most exciting part!” He adjusts his glasses and you can tell he's gearing up into scientist-mode.

Behind you, Stan sighs, long-suffering.

“I thought they tasted significantly more intense than a regular mushroom, so once I’d confirmed that they were safe for general human consumption, I asked Dipper to try them. He reported them to be, in his words, 'beefy'. Now, Umami is the most commonly associated flavour with regard to mushrooms because of naturally occurring glutamate, but monosodium glutamate, which would deepen the flavour even more and fall in line with mine and Dipper's taste tests, isn't, and I doubt the gnomes are out there spraying crops with MSG. They haven't the tools for that, I've checked. Anyway, I asked Mabel to try them and she said they tasted, quote, ‘like chocolate stirred by puppies and angels’,”

Here, Ford pauses to laugh fondly before he goes on:

“Which is most certainly not a common flavour of mushroom. So my hypothesis is that they change taste based on whoever touches them and I've been meaning to test them again, seeing as we ate the first batch before I could record the findings properly. We'd be killing two birds with one stone, really.”

You have to fight back a smile. The way he lights up when he talks about his stupid fucking mushrooms is beyond cute and you always enjoy watching him get passionate about his projects, especially when he veers off course on silly tangents that he deems relevant.

But Ford has never asked you to accompany him before which makes this event all the more alluring. It's a privilege to be invited along and as much as you want to jump at the chance, you do have one worry:

“What about the storm?”

At the table, Stan pushes his chair back with a screech and stands up. “Exactly. TV said it's gonna be a bad one and I'm not paying for another newspaper ad if you kill our housekeeper just because you wanna show off again.”

Ford sputters. “I'm not showing off, Stanley! This is about science!”

It should be worrying that his main concern is his pride over your potential death-by-negligence, but the way the top of his ears turn red at his brother's accusation overrules your concern. He's disgustingly adorable when he gets embarrassed.

Dipper chooses that exact moment to trot past his great uncle's side and into the kitchen, giving you a bright, exhausted smile. He’s shed his workout gear for a t-shirt and a fresh pair of sweats, and his hair is slightly damp. “Dinner smells good,” he yawns. “I'm starving. I got ten whole reps in today, right, Grunkle Ford?” He looks especially proud about it.

Ford shucks off his ire to give his nephew a warm smile. “That you did, my boy. Up two compared to last week, by my calculations. You're going to be giving me a run for my money before the summer is over.”

Dipper rubs the back of his neck, bashful, but the way he's beaming betrays his excitement. “I wouldn't go that far….”

“Nice work, dude,” you grin, offering a hand out for a high five.

He takes the bait and slaps your palm with his before fetching himself a soda. “So, how long ‘til dinner?”

You wince inwardly. He'll be hungry enough to eat a horse by now and you can't let him subsist on snacks after all the exercise he's done today. It won't help him build the muscle you know he so desperately wants if all he eats are chips, dips and sodas.

“You better stock up on snacks tonight, kid,” Stan chuckles as he reaches for his own bag of chips that he already has open the table top. “Somebody forgot to get ingredients.”

You shoot Stan a venomous look and at Dipper's disappointed little ‘wait, what?’, you turn back to Ford. Storm be damned, the idea of letting down a child makes you feel worse than getting stuck in a downpour ever could, and you know you'll regret it but what other choice do you have? You've done stupider things for less.

“You're sure the patch isn't far from here?” You ask Ford, giving in with a sigh. “And we'll beat the storm?”

Ford beams at your change of heart, and that, combined with the knowledge of a well-fed charge, instantly makes your agreement worth it. His moods vary like the wind sometimes and you’re always eager to see him happy because you know that it means he’ll spend more time talking to you.

“We'll be in and out in under an hour, you have my word,” he assures you. “I know that place like the back of my hand.”

You sigh again. “Fine. I'll go with you to get the mushrooms.”

Dipper slips back out of the kitchen. Usually, you're sure he'd inquire about your task and ask to come along, but it seems he really is thoroughly exhausted from his gym session and he takes an early leave. Poor kid.

Ford nods, pleased. “Give me a moment to shower and change. I'll put together some supplies and then we can leave.”

“Sure,” you smile. “And thank you, Doctor Pines. I appreciate the help.”

Ford grins, giving you a nod, and then he’s following his nephew out of the kitchen, sweeping down the hallway to sort out his things.

You make use of the spare time to tidy up a little and lower the gas on the stock as low as it will go, then take the pan off the heat. If Ford means what he says about getting in and out quickly, you might have a chance at saving the rest of the prep and it would be a shame to have to start everything over again.

You clean up your workstation and make sure everything is safely put aside before taking a seat at the table to wait.

It's then that you realise Stan is watching you closely. He’s smirking, and it always makes you a little nervous when he wears that mischievous look.

“What?” You ask him hesitantly.

“You can just call him Ford, y’know,” Stan says, slumping back in his chair and looking amused. “Pretty sure he wouldn’t mind….”

You roll your eyes, shrugging one shoulder. “Not this again. I told you before, he's never asked me to call him anything else. I did the same for you when I first started, didn't I?”

“Yeah, and I told you to stop because you made me sound like my old man,” Stan gripes through a mouthful of potato chips.

“Exactly, and that's your prerogative,” you say, a little defensively.

You're telling the truth; Ford hasn’t ever asked you to call him something less formal, even if you might like to try the taste of something more intimate on your tongue. “Ford has earned his title, I’m not going to take it away from him.”

Stan snorts. “Oh, I bet he loves that.”

“What?”

“You, stroking his ego and running around after him like a lost puppy,” Stan says, amused.

“First of all, I run around for everyone in this house like a lost puppy, it's literally my job,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Secondly, I’m not stroking his ego. The guy’s smart and he’s got an armful for doctorates. I’m just…. Acknowledging that.”

“Uh huh,” Stan says, sceptical.

“What now?” You huff.

“Nothing.”

“Stan,” you say sternly. “Don’t play coy, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Oh come on,” he says, trying and failing to keep the smirk off of his face. “Could you be any more obvious? You're worse than Dipper was when he came back after all that time, hanging off his every word and getting all googly-eyed over him like the sun shines out of his ass.”

“I don’t-“

“‘Yes Doctor Pines, no Doctor Pines’,” Stan simpers, putting on a poor imitation of your voice. “Take me out to the woods and experiment on me, Doctor Pines!’”

You can feel your face heat up. “You're such an asshole sometimes, you know that? And he isn’t experimenting on me, he asked me to help hi-”

“Show me your magic mushroo -“

Someone clears their throat in the kitchen doorway and both you and Stan whip your heads around to follow the source of the noise. Much to your horror, Ford is waiting for you, clad in jeans and a trademark red turtleneck along with a pair of filthy hiking boots. There's a sizable backpack slung over one of his broad shoulders and he doesn’t look very amused at his brother's antics.

“Are you done?” He asks, levelling Stan with a searing look.

Stan opens his mouth, still grinning, and Ford cuts him off instantly. “Actually forget that, I know you’re not,” he says. “You never are.”

Then he turns his attention to you.

You’re trying very hard not to melt into a humiliated puddle on the floor and under his gaze you feel yourself slip just a little further down into your seat.

His gaze softens somewhat, almost sympathetic, and he gestures vaguely towards the front door down the hall. “If you're not too busy being harassed, I'm ready to set off,” he says.

You really rather wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole right now, but alas, you do need those stupid mushrooms…..

“Sure,” you say faintly, scrambling up from your seat.

Ford heads off towards the foyer and you try to compose yourself with a deep breath before you follow him, glancing back to stick your tongue out at Stan again.

Stanley laughs at your awkwardness and as you hurriedly trot towards the hall, he pretends to fan himself dramatically.

“Three bags full, Doctor Pines,” Stan grins, and then you're shutting the kitchen door on him before you put your job on the line with the insult you're lining up in your head.

Stan thinks he's endlessly funny when it comes to winding you up over Ford and if you show how much he gets under your skin with it, he'll only get worse. You think he might be doing it in the hopes of putting you off his brother, but he’ll need to try a lot harder than that.

Instead of encouraging him, you follow in Ford's footsteps down the short, oak panelled hallway until you reach the front door.

Ford has already donned his reliable tan trench coat, patiently waiting for you to pull your own jacket and boots on. So much of the town is woven between the forest that you practically live in hiking shoes these days and it doesn't take you long to be readily dressed and warm.

Once you’re sorted, Ford swings the heavy oak front door open. A well-timed gust of cool wind blusters in as he does so, ruffling your clothes and hair, and instantly you realise the weather is much more intimidating when face to face with it.

It's incredibly dull out here. In the short time that Ford and Dipper have ended their routine and you've packed your things up, the sky has gotten impossibly darker. The winds must have herded more clouds overhead than you’d realised and the light has faded so much that you'd be forgiven for assuming it to be almost night time. When you check your watch, however, it still reads barely 6PM.

Ford must catch the concern on your face because he picks up on your worry straight away. “It's just overcast,” he reassures you. “I’ve seen plenty of storms like this in the time I’ve lived here. We'll have enough time to make it there and back before it gets too dark, and I brought torches as a precaution.”

That makes you feel a little better, at least. You know he’s an experienced outdoorsman and he’d probably be able to find his way around here blindfolded and hogtied. If you have to go out in risky weather with anyone, Ford is your best bet.

With the stride of a uniquely confident man, Ford steps out into the evening with a sharp breath inward and a contented sigh, taking in the awaiting scent of petrichor. He holds the door open for you with one hand and gestures for you to follow with the other, offering you a rakish grin.

“Shall we?”

And when he smiles at you like that, what choice do you have?

A/N: Yay! You made it to the end!

So firstly, I'm so��sorry it's taken me so long to post another work! These take a bit of time for me to write because I tend to write the entire work in one go from start to finish before I begin posting and I've also been unwell/busy, so it took a backseat for a bit but here we are!

Secondly, as I posted at the start, this is going to be a small series and will start as a decently sized multi-chapter fic. There will be smut and I already have most of it written. Your patience will be rewarded!

Please consider supporting me on ao3 also :)

[wingdingery]

ohhhh i always have requests! quite fond of lil drabble ideas: bruce teaching dick to dance and (years later when they’re together) they recreating some of their first dances, slade being the one to gift dick his first leather jacket that he still regularly wears, An Event Occurs and in the aftermath dick realizes how irreplaceable he is to bruce and just how much bruce both loves him and needs him, bruce and dick’s undercover aliases that keep getting more and more romantic over the years

In Dick’s experience, returning to his apartment after a week away and finding a mysterious box on the coffee table that was definitely not there when he left is, usually, not actually a big deal.

He’s still careful—the little Batman that lives in the back of his head would never give him a moment of peace if he wasn’t—but he’s just very aware of the fact that, nine times out of ten, the not-so-little Batman is the one breaking in and leaving little treats for him to find later, because Bruce is deathly allergic to seeing people’s reactions to his gifts in real-time.

Dick runs through the standard checks, but nothing sounds or smells off, and nothing pings as suspicious on infrared or the particulate detector. He steps closer to inspect the box. It’s rectangular, all white, and generally unremarkable except for the fact that he didn’t put it there.

Carefully, he lifts the lid. He’s expecting some kind of gear—it wouldn’t be the first time a new suit or toys showed up unannounced.

What he finds is a leather moto jacket.

He gently lifts it out of the box and stares at it, bemused. It’s very nice—genuine Italian leather by the feel of it, black with silver hardware and diagonal pockets in the shape of a V, and just his size. There’s no note of any kind, but when he sniffs the leather, he also gets a whiff of maple and gun oil—and that feels like a signature in and of itself.

Dick pulls out his phone, dials in the number from memory, and sinks into the couch as it rings. 

“Happy birthday,” Slade says when he picks up, voice low and rumbling.

Dick suppresses a smile. “You’re late.”

“I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

“You really wanna know the answer to that?”

Dick bites the inside of his cheek and fiddles with the zipper of the jacket. They’ve been getting along all right ever since they’d been forced to team up on the cruise ship from hell, but still, a little plausible deniability goes a long way, between them. “How long ‘til I find out on my own?”

“Now that depends,” Slade says, drawing out the words. “You still talking to Rose?”

Dick blinks. “You were visiting Rose?”

“Something like that.”

“She shut the door in your face,” Dick guesses.

Slade grunts. “We can meet not at her apartment.”

“And she’s moving?”

“And she’s moving.” Slade doesn’t sound particularly annoyed about it, but then again, finding people who don’t want to be found is basically his job. Dick makes a mental note to see if Rose wants a hand making her dad’s life harder.

“So why the jacket?” Dick says, running his hand over the leather. It really is nice. He wonders where Slade got it, and whether it was paid for in money or blood. He probably doesn’t want to know.

“You complained I made you ruin yours,” Slade says. “Reckon we’re square now.”

Dick raises his eyebrows, even though Slade can’t see it. “I don’t remember doing that, but if I did, it had to have been, what… seven years ago? At least?”

“I’ve got a long memory.” It sounds vaguely like a threat, in Slade’s voice, but the jacket itself seems far from one, so Dick lets it pass.

“If you’re trying to make up for that,” Dick says, “then you’re really late.”

“You’d’ve thrown it straight in the trash if I ever tried before.”

“I could still do that.”

“You won’t.”

“Well, now I have to.”

Slade scoffs. “Go ahead. Would be a waste of perfectly good leather, though.”

The desire for knowledge wins out. “Where’d you get it?”

“Made it.”

Dick pauses, uncertain he’d heard correctly. When Slade doesn’t elaborate, though, Dick echoes, uncertainly, “Made it?”

“Wintergreen helped some.”

Dick opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Made it?

“Who exactly did you think made my first few costumes?” Slade says, sounding amused. “Not all of us have your daddy’s resources.”

It’s one thing for Slade to have bought him something; Dick can explain that away as just a whim—an act of opportunity, as it were. But Slade spending the time and energy to make it himself?

That’s premeditation.

“This isn’t a birthday gift.”

“I said happy birthday, didn’t I?”

“This isn’t just a birthday gift,” Dick presses.

Slade doesn’t respond, and Dick lets the silence stretch far past the point of discomfort. Still, neither of them hangs up. Slade may be a stubborn asshole, but Dick has been trained in the art of silence-offs by the most frustratingly stoic of them all.

Dick smooths out the collar of the jacket and straightens out the arms while he waits. Now that he’s looking closer, he can tell the seams aren’t the tidy stitches of a lifelong craftsman, but it’s impressive work, all the same. Work that must have taken a hell of a lot of effort. 

Finally, Slade breaks the rhythm of quiet breathing. “Whatever it is,” he says, “it’s yours now. Throw it in the trash if you want. Or don’t. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

It has everything to do with Slade, but the fact that Slade is insisting so hard that it doesn’t is both a little funny and extremely sad. Dick can recognize a fear of rejection when he hears it. 

Dick puts a hand on top of the jacket. “It doesn’t really make sense to give me this,” he says, “if you’re never going to see me wear it.”

Slade is silent for a moment, but not as long as before. “I’ve got time,” he says, slowly, like he’s leaving space for Dick to cut him off between one word and the next. “Two weeks from now.”

“Two weeks,” Dick agrees. “I assume you don’t need the address.”

“Think I’ve got it.” Slade’s voice is dry, but lacking its usual knife-sharp edge. “See you soon, kid.”

He hangs up before Dick can respond. 

Dick smiles anyway. “See you soon.”

----

Footnote: RIP Dick's expensive jacket (this is $300 in 80s money)

[definitelynotplanetfall]

How do other countries do history education?

I know I'm doing the cringe thing but Americans are basically not taught about israel in school, at all. If it comes up it'll likely be in the context of literature class, not history.

Do you split up history classes over multiple years? Because the thing about history class is that it's just mostly a huge number of raw facts to remember. It's not like math where if you know certain procedures you can re-derive things you've forgotten; pretty much any such proposed rule of history is likely to be bunk.

So if you take the number of years of history you have to teach times the detail level you're aiming for times the size of the region you're trying to study, you have an estimate (in vague terms, I don't think you can necessarily get an objective number but you can certainly do simple mathematical reasoning on vague variables) for Total History Facts. And then depending on the age of your students and pedagogical methods and probably other factors, you have a Maximum Facts Per Year. You can use these values to determine the level of detail that allows you to cover your desired subject matter within a school year. If this level of detail is unacceptably low, make the full history education take more years and solve for the detail level again.

And someone - teachers, standards writers, textbook writers, whoever - consistently sets the target detail level such that it's impossible for a given US history class to get past the civil war, or they realize they're going too slow and do a really slipshod tour of the events most pertinent to any understanding of the modern world after a really detail-heavy examination of the differences between the 13 colonies. World history is even worse, I don't even remember how far we got because everyone's brain was leaking out their ears by the end but we absolutely did not make it to the present day. World History was the only class where I failed the AP exam, because it's world fucking history dumbass, you can't teach all of it in a year!

And then, of course, when you get to your next history class they just start over from the beginning at a higher level of detail that also peters out around the Civil War, so you never actually learn anything about the 20th century.

So the options are

a) it's actually exactly like this everywhere. (plausible tbh. there is simply a lot of history.)

b) american students are uniquely lazy and stupid. (seems pretty unlikely, and also the failure is pretty consistent - you could argue that even if student ability is the limiting factor, if it happens this reliably it's educators' responsibility to just make the curriculum easier)

c) american educators are uniquely incompetent. (this is less of a judgement against teachers than it sounds like, it could be that they are ordered to do things in a way that sucks by higher ups and there is no mechanism to inform the decisionmakers that anything is wrong. I don't know if the education system is uniquely dysfunctional but it certainly is dysfunctional at all.)

d) some kind of fucking conspiracy or something. (This doesn't seem likely because who could possibly benefit from this particular problem that wouldn't benefit even more from schools dispensing explicit propaganda about events in the 20th century.)

This feels like a really obvious problem with a really obvious solution (more history classes, less total facts per class), everyone who has taken or taught a history class experiences this, and afaict this is not just a mistake that new history teachers make that they calibrate for after teaching for a while. This is EVERYONE'S experience of history classes in the US, it's kind of an open secret, and pretty much nobody ever fucking does anything about it or even mentions it as a thing it might be possible or desirable to do things about.

[thesinglesjukebox]

LISA - "ROCKSTAR"

We're generally okay with this sort of rock-ism...

[6.44]

Kat Stevens: Like when there was a wasp trapped behind the radiator in the office and my colleague threw her shoe at it (complimentary). [8]

Leah Isobel: Equal parts delightful and boring, "Rockstar" distinguishes itself from LISA's previous solo material by having ideas, or at least the semblance of them: the switches between celestial melody and skittering momentum, the blunt sexuality of the post-chorus, and the critique embedded in the chorus' "teach me Japanese" bit all point to a real personality. But its blockbuster soundscape and paucity of structural interest -- that chorus is worn out by the third repetition -- squeeze out the more interesting parts. It's a La Croix song, with just a hint of flavor beneath all the empty fizz. [5]

Jonathan Bradley: “‘Lisa, can you teach me Japanese?’/I said ‘hai, hai’” is such an ostentatiously silly lyric, especially for one that recurs that many times, but it helps lighten a song that could otherwise be too self-serious in its stunting. LISA's got a likeable charisma, but she doesn’t fit imperious well, which is perhaps why her royal fanfare comes in the form of a mere Tame Impala sample. Likewise, that sample drops in just before the harsh pinging production threatens to become alienating. A pose of indomitability that is fortunate not to be as uncompromising as it imagines itself to be. [7]

Taylor Alatorre: The self-orientalizing doesn't land as hard as it should because it aims a bit too broadly -- after two decades of hallyu, it's more plausible that an oblivious fan would mistake Lisa for being Korean than Japanese. Hip hop is built on hyperbole, but the low-hanging "all look same" punchline represents a missed opportunity to foreground her status as the only Thai member of a flagship K-pop group. CL, while lacking such status, seemed to have more fun with her version of this trick on "Hello Bitches," zipping from Macau to Kakao to sake with breathless irreverence. But "Rockstar" is more stylishly produced than "Hello Bitches" was, with a refurbished griminess built of interlocking machine parts. If the end result is to evoke the kind of amalgamated cyber-Asia that forms the backbone of Bullet Train and Elon's Twitter feed, that isn't the worst possible thing; at least it gives the joke a proper setting. [6]

Will Adams: Much like a lesser known Rihanna single of a similar title, "Rockstar" is an endearing game of play-pretend that doesn't take itself too seriously. Do I believe LISA is actually a rock star? No. Do I believe she's having fun? Oh yeah. [7]

Ian Mathers: It didn't fuck me up when I saw people roughly my age noting that kids these days will sometimes refer to "taping" shows without understanding why we call it that, or that they don't recognize what the save icon is a picture of. But I did get a bit of a jolt listening to this and realizing that "rockstar" as a term is probably as referent-less these days as "dialing" a phone number is (and that's without getting into the precipitous and not wholly unwelcome decline of calling people). That doesn't mean the use of "rockstar" feels inappropriate here at all; for the length of "Rockstar" LISA certainly feels like one in the modern sense, even as the song doesn't even vaguely gesture towards the music genre that used to inform the term. But who cares? It kinda bangs. [7]

Nortey Dowuona: James Essien, a Ghanaian songwriter who cowrote "Hurt People" for Belizeian-Trinidadian pop singer Kamal., is one of the three co-writers (along with Delacey of "Drama Queen" and Lucy Healey of "imtyn"  by Grace Enger), alongside producers Ryan Tedder and Sam Homaee. These have nothing to do with the light faux Tame Impala drums that play for two bars, but I'd rather mention all of that than anything that happens in this song. [3]

Katherine St. Asaph: I don't know how I feel about Ryan Tedder being brat. [6]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: Perhaps the most obnoxious piece of music I've heard this year. [9]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[queensectonia]

is it this one? i'm sorry to have... offended (?) you? i wasn't specifically thinking of you when i made it though, i don't think. i wrote that a while ago.

the intention was not to discourage people from calling elfilis/elfilin they/them though or to insult they/them (and be extension it/its) characters though. it was to say that i don't see a problem with calling them something other than they/them and respecting other people's interps too. kinda like if someone hc'd a male character as a tgirl. i might not agree, but i would respect it. gender hcs should for fictional characters should be a pretty chill thing imo.

again, i'm sorry if you didn't like it or if i hurt you. if you spotted some legitimate issues with it, do tell me! but for now i stand by my points. i really hope we can sort things out since i don't quite like being called a horrible person.

hey man, nowhere in my post did i call you a horrible person. i said some of your reasoning was transphobic, which is a trap anyone can fall into, because unwittingly repeating unfortunate rhetoric is very much not a moral judgement.

and i wasn't offended by your post, because it's a sentiment i pretty much agree entirely with, just couched in some kind of silly reasoning and a broad misunderstanding of what people are actually complaining about.

most of the folk saying things like this aren't complaining about people using different pronouns for established characters (elfilis, in this case) in their own headcanon. as it was stated in my post, we're frustrated about people straight up misgendering elfilis on a universal basis.

this is an extremely widespread and specific problem with characters whose pronouns are they/them, or god forbid it/its. look at any given character whose pronouns are they/them and you will see countless people in the english-speaking sphere flat-out refusing to gender them correctly. for just a couple examples, look no further than frisk undertale + kris deltarune, the gems from houseki no kuni, and yes, indeed, elfilis. this is such an ingrained and common problem where people just innately reject the possibility of a character using they/them pronouns, let alone the idea that they might be nonbinary in any way, and because of it, you get people constantly misgendering these characters and bending over backwards to justify themselves: "oh, well, you know, this character just doesn't seem like a they/them... it was never stated directly... i'm just more comfortable using he or she..."

it's a longstanding, observable issue. elfilis, predictably, doesn't escape it either, and thus you have rafts of the english-speaking fanbase ignoring this character's proper form of address.

and elfilis' pronouns are in fact canonically they/them and it/its, by the way. this is part of the transphobic reasoning i was referring to: in both real life and regarding fictional characters, it is transphobe standby number one to insist and insist and insist and sealion into infinity that there's ~plausible deniability~ on they/them pronouns. it's used because we haven't met this character! we were never told for certain that this character uses they/them! it's for literary ambiguity! they/them are plural pronouns so it's the text referring to multiple people!

i mean this in the kindest possible way: you are just incorrect here, on multiple points. there is absolutely nothing ambiguous about elfilis' pronouns. multiple times, elfilis is strictly, directly referred to with they/it, where elfilin is referred to with he/him. the game is not being ~vague~ here, it is presenting you with plain information. the game not telling us elfilis' precise, discrete gender identity is not the same as the game not telling us elfilis' pronouns. elfilis is referred to with neutral pronouns in every language except for the ones that literally don't have neutral pronouns.

(even french has a well-known and accepted neuter pronoun these days, but our good friends (derogatory) l'Académie française refuse to ratify it so NoE didn't use it in the localisation.)

additionally, kirby is not referred to with gender-neutral pronouns. i assume you're referring to japanese here, in which case you've been misinformed by a common misconception spread by people who don't speak japanese. kirby is never gendered at all in japanese. it's not "kirby is canonically non-binary in japan!" or "kirby is canonically they/them in japan!", kirby is canonically nothing in japan. they go out of their way to not mention it. depending on your translation standards, japanese doesn't even have "they/them" as a singular pronoun. i explained this in my post here, and there's an additional post i made on the topic regarding a slightly different version of this fandom misconception here.

anyway, tl;dr, no-one is complaining about people giving elfilis different pronouns in headcanons and AUs. we're complaining about the exhaustingly common phenomenon of people forgetting how to be normal about gender when a character uses they/them.

[girderednerve]

haha evading timer by using... a laptop

sometimes i think my job makes me a worse person. i don't think this is particularly unique to my field—in fact i think a lot of it very pointedly isn't, it's a product of the wage relation—but i am a public librarian, which is generally understood to be a laudable profession unless you are a fascist who hates libraries (growing numbers of these!), so maybe it feels jarring. i am a children's librarian, which means that the area which i manage is often used by tired parents for a sort of respite care; they bring their children and then ignore them. the children play with the toys we have out and the parents watch videos on their phones. i don't begrudge anyone this in particular. childcare is very expensive and childrearing seems to me unimaginably exhausting. the library is free. i understand the process here and i do not bear anyone physically involved in the situation any ill-will over it. i feel a lot of rage & resentment about the social circumstances. increasingly it is harder to hang on to my understanding of the moral valences of these situations because i am left awkwardly trying to decide how or if to intervene to enforce the library's rules (i wrote the rules, so they are 'please do not run [because you are too young to look where you are going, there are several things to trip over, and that is a crawling infant]', 'please do not hit one another', and 'please be a little quieter, because other families are also trying to use the library'); the penalties for not complying are that i am sad, but in practice i am often sad, and then sad & annoyed, and then just annoyed. i lose my grounding because i am crouching on the floor to pick up toys that someone else's kid dumped out, and they are not trying even vaguely to help me, i guess because they assume that this is a reasonable library service? that we will give their children toys & then clean up after them? and it does not feel like a library service to me, and so i am annoyed. it diminishes my sense of compassion. i don't like this in myself. there is a need & no other obvious avenue to fill it: is it reasonable for me to be irritated? not especially!

the other thing that seems to happen to people, including me, who work in a public library is that the public library is a great good—we are all very loud about how libraries are vital Third Spaces, they are Free, they are Bastions of Socialism, they are a throwback to the Good Times of Actual Social Infrastructure, &c. &c., whether one accepts these claims or not they are omnipresent in libraryland—and also one is constantly at the library, so one's prosocial impulses get refracted into one's work. but the library is not a bastion of anything in particular (socially awkward white women?) and it is fundamentally a very limited avenue for any kind of social change. i know there's a lot of theory out there about radical librarianship but most of that stuff is just tenured academic librarians blowing smoke, even when it's plausibly helpful. it is substantially more difficult to try to beat a public library which is beholden to a stodgy board of trustees into anything other than a convenience for the upper middle class than it is to write a book about the epistemological limits of LCSH. i mean, i assume, having done neither; one is also substantially more worthwhile. instead you see a wave of shiny short-lived initatives which try to respond to a wide variety of social needs—libraries circulate hotspots, do widely publicized outreaches, offer one-off expungement clinics, have staff carry narcan (this was a hornet's nest, not, i think, entirely for good reason). but what is a library? what can a library do? many things which are deeply worth doing. but it can't be a transformative political project & a public institution in the united states at the same time.

maybe i am just tired, though! maybe this is just because i had to sign a loyalty oath swearing to uphold the values of the US constitution when i got my first librarian job (standard in the state of florida for all public employment). i still get a deep sense of fulfillment out of being good at my job, and i do think i am very good at some parts of it; mostly i am interrogating myself, or reminding myself. the limits are sharp.

[enbyleighlines]

Leigh plays Tellius prt 30

It's time for the epilogue of part 3!! I really love the concept behind this map so much. That glowing number up at the top right of the screen, going up with every kill... It's so ominous. And I love that the game kind of misleads the player by making the victory condition "rout enemy" even though that's not actually possible. It just adds so much tension, and allows for a genuine surprise for first-time players.

It wasn't long before the map was over. Since I didn't have to worry about attacking Pelleas with Soren, I just kind of took my time, focusing more on defense than offense. And before I knew it, it was time for this climatic scene!

I do think it's a bit odd that Mist also seemingly has a deep connection to the medallion. Does that just come from her having grown up with it always nearby? But that wouldn't explain why Elena and Mist are both able to touch the medallion in the first place. I don't know where I read it, but I think someone headcanoned that Elena actually has heron blood, which... idk. It might be possible? Perhaps she is even related to Altina somehow? Her hair is rather purplish rather than pure blue... Except obviously the heron blood never manifested in a brand with either Elena nor Mist.

I'm unsure how plausible this all is, but it is interesting to think about.

Savage, Tibarn, but entirely fair.

I love how Ike is just always himself. No matter the situation, he can't help but be his usual nonchalant, rude, no-nonsense self.

THERE SHE IS!!!!

Gosh, she's so intimidating, but in a really enjoyable way. I also love the feather motif. Both Ashera and Yune seem to really like birds, huh? I do kind of have to wonder why, though. Why did the writers choose birds to play such a large role in the story (at least thematically)?

RANULF!!! Ugh, I cannot get enough of Ranulf in cutscenes. I know I've gushed about it before, but he is too cute. I love the delivery of the lines, the subtle twitches of his ears to indicate his mood, the way his movements are all vaguely feline... They did such a great job with the cutscenes in this game. They're such a vast improvement over the ones in PoR.

This is such a minor detail, but I love how Ike gently strokes this laguz's head. Because despite all of his stoicism, rough edges, and blunt honesty, Ike is a person who cares deeply about the people around him. You really get to see that in this moment.

And that's that for Radiant Dawn part 3! I am sad that it's over, but I'm eager to choose and train up my units for endgame.

[parieha-aaa]

the point in being a jujutsu sorcerer wasn't survival . survival had never once been the goal , as far as the higher ups were concerned . they were monsters , curses themselves , hunting children in japan for their abilities only to train them enough to get by for a while . . . but never training them to live . instructors , like masamichi yaga , were the ones bending the strict cycle of endless suffering , trying to lessen the weight on the shoulders of children . that's what they were ; children in a war , a spiritual war that had no end in sight . if it wasn't so sobering of a realization , it would have made suguru feel outraged . students aren't just names on a page , numbers in a calculation for the most profitable outcome . they were alive , they all were alive . yu , nanami , shoko , himself , satoru . . . they weren't just names on some disposable pages . . . ! ( disgusting . to forget that was disgusting , a neon red sign that there was something fundamentally wrong in tokyo tech . & if they didn't leave . . . they'd be consumed by the lifestyle . reduced , only as useful as their bodies were against the curses . this world . . . was so out of balance . god only knew why . ) there were reasons why people never saw a retired jujutsu sorcerer . they didn't exist . and suguru's most valuable thing , more valuable than anything else in the world . . . was in his hands . his best friend . so stubborn , fragile , although it didn't look that way , & a little cracked in places . . . but still so inarguably vital . worth the work , worth being saved , worth every bit of blood toji involuntarily bled out of him . if satoru wasn't leaving , then neither was he .

no , satoru never needed something like protection , god knows infinity did the bulk of that just fine . . . but maybe it was just selfishness at the end of the day . yeah , that seemed more plausible : selfishness . a little different now ? . . . suguru would agree . something inside of the both of them had changed , and there was no rebuilding it to what it had once been . it was here they stopped playing childish adventures , slapped awake with violence from the real world , losing their colorful dreams to fear . a very real , striking fear .

❝   leave without you , huh . . . ? kind of cruel , but it's a good idea . one is more likely to escape than two . . . . considering . . . . if you make it on time , I'll buy you something sweet to have . . . if you're late by even five minutes , i'll be the one eating it .    ❞ ( the threat is vague , a playful and childish threat over things that didn't even matter . just to see if he can make satoru smile properly . please smile . )

so much like a cautionary tale having its pages bent and dog - eared how easily gojou'd hand himself over, poured out like mush into the right hand, all bark &. all bite gummed down ( history has its way of turning over like an odometer, names and dates and massacres all stacked up in haphazard rows from years spent learning what'd been the tried &. true signage of the impervious, the carefully raised ── but he hated tradition, and mixed up the dates of when the last six eyes holder'd gotten his head cleaved for crap like this : the arrogance to drop infinity, or the stupidity to think it'd save him from everything. ) his throat worked around nothing, not a thought fit to wrap his voice around with his eyes dropping deadened, mild &. quiet in the way they'd found a temporarily place to rest, flickering on suguru's face.

and what a weird premonition, an idea snapping consciousness back through the dull ache at gojou's temples that another version of this story'd have had his body picked apart &. preserved, prayed over and ribbon - wrapped like gift shop talismans, finger - stained with an equal amount of reverence whether his heart was stone cold or still pumping, working around the territory toji'd claimed, and not a pair of hands existed that he'd rather have jar up his eyes than the one holding his wrist steady ── anchoring . the only chain gojou realized he wanted. ❝ . . . y'know, i think i'm a little different now, too. ❞ maybe you'll see, be real impressed. happy that suguru's words from last spring had left its mark, stirred his brain, made him think of things in a different way. he'd pulled suguru's hand closer by the steady grip on his, knocking his cheek against the palm, taking while he could, while things were already weird &. splintered ( while the excuse was dangling conveniently within reach. ) ❝ you should go first. when you wake up. pack up whatever you're gonna keep, and i'll meet you. ❞

[astriiformes]

One thing I did NOT realize was going to make me extremely emotional as the second Critical Role campaign draws to a close here is that it’s once again driving home to me how surreal it feels to have Caduceus, confirmed aro/ace protagonist, as one of the main cast members -- and what it says about my relationship with fiction and representation that I get to enjoy the close of this story with so much less apprehension than usual.

Because like. The thing about finales is. They often pull romantic relationships out at the last minute in a way that I really struggle with. “Pair the spares” is a very real thing, and even when stories are better told than that, it is super, super common for a relationship that was well-developed but previously platonic to swing romantic really fast at the end of a story -- because that’s what happens in a happy ending, right? That’s what people are supposed to want, isn’t it?

And yeah, there have absolutely been stories I’ve followed where a main character or two -- or sometimes, though rarely, even more -- that I like a lot has stayed romantically unaffiliated all the way through, but the other thing, the thing where of course they end up in romantic relationship by the end, that’s how it’s supposed to go, happens so dang often that I just... expect it. I go into finales assuming it’s going to happen, with this vague sense of dread that by the time this story ends, there isn’t going to be anyone plausibly like me in it -- which is an awful feeling in general, but made far, far worse by the fact that I know the reason it happens is because people think it’s better, and happier, and more complete for that to be How Stories End -- without people like me in them

It also seems especially common for it to happen in stories that have other queer representation in them -- I don’t know why, exactly, but I do know that all the examples I can think of that have left me feeling the most utterly gut-punched have all been ones that other friends of mine have actually been thrilled over, because there are characters like them in it..... but no one like me. And of course I’m absolutely still happy when they get to have that! It makes me happy too! But it has also left me with this awful feeling that I have to wait my turn to be represented in stories, after everyone else gets it, and be willing to smile and congratulate all these other people even while personally feeling like I’ve had the rug pulled out from under me, over and over again.

So it’s a lot for me to have this story -- which I love! which many of my friends love! which is important to a number of people I know because of all the other kinds of representation in it! -- and get to look at it in this totally different way, where I already know for sure, without that vague dread that I always get when stories I love end, for the very first time in my life, that I will get to be included in the end of this one. I’ve never had that kind of guarantee, and I’ve never realized how much of a weight off my shoulders it is to know already “Someone like you is going to be a part of this happy ending”

Which. Goddamn. Saying that feels good would be an understatement.

[hepalien]

Shrunkyclunks (Modern Bucky/Cap Steve) Fic Rec

Hate Sex & Hair Protocol by @maddiewritesstucky - Mature, 1.8k

SHIELD Agent Bucky, UST, Enemies to Lovers (in Steve’s head), Humor

They’re all full of shit, Steve decides.

His team don’t have a clue what they’re talking about, running their mouths about the way he and Bucky look at each other; the tension that seems to be at a constant near-snapping point between them.

'It’s called annoyance' Steve wants to yell in each of their faces, loud and one by one. It’s the pain of having to exist every day in close proximity with someone who drives you out of your fucking mind.

---

In which Steve discovers that ire and desire may just exist side by side in his brain.

Stop interrupting my grinding series by @rohkeutta - Teen, 2.5k

Nurse Bucky, Wrong Number, Fluff, Humor

“I tried to call Sam,” Captain America says, bewildered. He’s sprinting like Usain Bolt and doesn’t sound even a little out of breath. Fucker. “Who’re you?”

“Someone who’s watching you live on TV,” Bucky tells him as the tiny patriotic figure on the screen takes the turns like he instructed. Bucky should probably be a lot more freaked out about this, but honestly? After a tour in the Middle East and six years as a nurse in New York, even this isn’t enough to ruffle him. One sees a lot of shit in the ER. “Also, you better hang up now, that thing is behind the next bend.”

“Uh, okay,” Captain America says. “Thanks?”

“Whatever,” Bucky says, disconnects the call and turns the TV off to get ready for his shift.

Save a Horse, Ride a Captain by @galwednesday - Teen, 2.7k

War Vet Bucky, Meet Cute, Fluff, Humor, Modern Howlies

Bucky tapped him on the shoulder, swaying back and forth a little as he waited for the man to turn around. “Hello,” he said, and then promptly forgot what else he was going to say, because this guy was fucking beautiful. “Wow. Good face.”

Two of the guy’s friends, a man wearing a suit that fit so well it had to be bespoke and a man with a cute little gap between his front teeth, started cracking up. The petite redhead sitting next to them cocked her head to the side and pulled her phone out of her handbag. Beautiful Face just looked kind of pained, so Bucky redirected. He was a gentleman. He could take a hint. No hitting on beautiful guys who were uncomfortable with that sort of thing, no matter how lickable their jawlines were.

“Hello,” he repeated, doing his best to mind his manners. “I’m very sorry to bother you. Can I have a piggy-back ride?”

You Make My Heart Skip A Beet by @musette22 - Teen, 3.8k

Chef Bucky, POV Outsider, Fluff, Humor

“I made soda bread.”

Steve lets out the 6’2” supersoldier equivalent of a squeak. “Oh, I love soda bread,” he says eagerly, rolling forward on the balls of his feet like he does when he gets excited. “My mom used to make it all the time when I was growing up.”

The tips of Barnes’s ears turn red, and he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “I know.”

more under the cut

Cafe Au Écoute by @littlesystems - Teen, 3.8k

Coffee Shop AU

No matter where Steve goes, there's always the chance that he'll overhear a conversation about himself - or rather, Captain America. This coffee shop is no different. The fact that he keeps eavesdropping well past the point of plausible deniability is another matter entirely.

#TweetMeDaddy by StarSpangled - Teen, 4.1k

SHIELD Employee Bucky, Misunderstandings, Crack, Humor

Coulson, for his part, stares up at Bucky with such a betrayed look of frozen horror that Natasha actually goes the extra step and presses another button, capturing the moment and airdropping the photograph to her phone for posterity. When he speaks, his voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. “Why…?” He swallows and starts again, trying for some semblance of normality. “...Why would you tweet something like that?!”

“If you must know, sir,” and somehow he manages to make ‘sir’ come out with the same inflection most people reserve for ‘motherfucking son of a bitch’, “it’s because I have a difficult time doing my job when my job involves monitoring the man with the best fucking ass in the United States of America.” He slowly lowers himself back into his seat until he’s at eye level, making extreme eye contact with Coulson until Coulson turns away to make mortified eye contact in Natasha’s general direction through the one-way glass. Natasha would take another picture, if she weren’t too busy catching Steve’s red-faced sputtering. “Sometimes, I vent to my Twitter followers. Sometimes, it’s about hot men with washboard abs. Can I go now, or do you need a graphic description of how I pleasure myself at night?”

at first chance i'd take the bed warmed by the body by @spacebuck - Explicit, 8.2k

YouTuber Bucky

This close, Steve can see exactly how beautiful his hands are. He’s never really noticed before, or at least he’s never really had a reason to notice, but the man’s hands are large, tanned like he works outside all day. There’s an endearing callus on the heel of one of his palms, and Steve can’t quite work out when calluses became endearing.

Steve pauses the video. Swallows hard. Casts his eyes around for anything that’ll keep his mind off the hands on his screen, off the words inked into those hands, the delicate shape of a bird’s wing, the curling edge of a vine.

He looks down. The name of the channel is right there, blaring the man’s name right into Steve’s brain until it feels like he’s known it all along.

Bucky Barnes.

OR: the one where Bucky's a youtuber who solves puzzles on camera, and steve's smitten and horny

Came with my cool (I dropped it) by @liionne - Teen, 9.2k

Yoga Instructor Bucky

"When you said I need to loosen up, I didn't think you meant literally."

"I meant it every way. Mentally, emotionally, and physically." Natasha says, and thrusts a yoga mat at him.

there once was a diamond by bloobeary - Teen, 11.3k

Fluff, Thanksgiving

"You," Becca seethes, and hits him with a wooden spoon. "Could have told me," Hits him again. "You were dating Captain America." Final hit, Bucky laughs. He supposes he deserves it, giving her no more information than the fact he was bringing his boyfriend to Thanksgiving dinner at her house and then showing up with Steve.

Salt by littleblackfox @thelittleblackfox - Mature, 12k

Bakery AU

The cinnamon roll is gone in four bites. Four indecent, jaw-unhinging bites, and Steve sucks the last traces of lemon and icing from his fingers with a low, throaty sound of satisfaction. He glances up at Bucky, who is leaning against the counter and watching him with avid fascination.

“Um…” Steve says around his index finger. There’s still a little icing on the bed of his fingernail, and he stops trying to work it off with his tongue.

“You know those movies where the girl eats an eclair or something, and it’s really, like, sexually charged?” Bucky asks.

Steve pulls his finger out of his mouth. He’s never seen that kind of movie, but the thought of Bucky eating an eclair is certainly… well, it lingers. “Uh?”

“Yeah, well that was the exact opposite.” Steve scowls, and Bucky cackles gleefully. “You are something else, Steve.”

Leg Day by Brokenpitchpipe - Explicit, 12.1k

Gym Thot Bucky

“So talk to him,” Sam says.

“I can’t,” Bucky groans. “I can’t, Sam, I. He just.” He fluffs his hair up and stares at Sam, distraught. “I want him to bench press me.”

“Okay, so it’s serious,” Sam interprets. “Got it."

(Or: The one where Sam is Bucky's long-suffering roommate, Bucky is a hot mess of a millennial, and Hot Steve spends far too much time on the Lat Pull-Down machine.)

Art Nouveau by voluptuous_panic - Explicit, 12.2k

Bartender Bucky, Tattooed & Pierced Bucky

Steve's on the worst date of his life. At least the bartender's cute.

much tattoo about nothing by @deisderium - Explicit, 14.5k

Tattoo Artist Bucky

Steve Rogers gets a lot of email requests, but never one like this: James Barnes wants to use his healing factor to practice tattoos.

Turns out tattoos give Steve boners.

No Wonder There's Panic in the Industry by sprinkle_of_cinnamon - Not Rated (I’d say Mature?), 20.5k

Stark Industries Intern Bucky, Team fic, Humor

In which Bucky Barnes and his BFF, Clint Barton, are NYU interns for Stark Media Group competing to be Pepper's favorite.

Or alternatively, the time Bucky assisted the P.A. team on the Steve Rogers piece and ended up (adopted) with a contact list full of Avengers.

Life of the Party by @aggressivewhenstartled - Explicit, 21.6k

Superhero Impersonator Bucky, Mistaken Identity

“You know, kids,” Steve heard from the backyard, “one of the most common threats a superhero has to face is inside an active volcano! We’re going to have to work on your evasion skills, so for the next five minutes, the floor is lava!” This was met by a sudden spike in both volume and pitch from the small children as they scrambled onto every raised surface they could find and immediately launched themselves right back off.

“I’ve never seen actual lava in my entire life,” Steve said, vaguely offended.

“You got a superhero impersonator for The Falcon’s niece’s birthday party,” Sam said, incredulous. “The Falcon, who is an actual superhero.”

Trust Enough by @geneticallydead - Explicit, 23.3k

Misunderstandings

“Saturday. Yeah, that’s good,” Steve says, and actually scuffs his shoe at the ground. Like a ridiculous shy superhero damsel. “Say eight? I live-“

“Yeah, big building with the A on it,” Bucky says, and can’t help a big stupid grin. Steve stares at him, looking a little dazed, and after their whole conversation it’s only now that Bucky’s brain catches up and realises Steve finds him quite attractive. So. Win for Bucky.

“Let me get your number,” Steve says finally, after they’ve stared stupidly at each other for about three hours, taking out his phone.

So they exchange numbers, and then Steve says he should go, and Bucky agrees, and they kind of stare at each other for a bit more, then Steve actually does go, but not before taking Bucky’s hand and squeezing it warmly in a way that makes Bucky want to shiver all over. Then Steve is gone, and Bucky is standing alone in the alley, grinning to himself.

Right up until the moment he remembers that Steve thinks Bucky is an escort he’s just hired.

Well fuck.

The Roommate by layersofart, Niitza - Teen, 28.6k

War Vet Bucky, Roommates AU, Humor, Fluff, Angst, Team fic

In which Steven G. Rogers, a.k.a. Captain America, gets a roommate. Who rapidly turns into his "roommate"—in the euphemistic sense of the word.

It takes SHIELD and the rest of the Avengers an absurd amount of time to notice.

Brooklyn Baby by sprinkle_of_cinnamon - Mature, 33.7k

Coffee Shop AU, Modern Howlies, Mistaken Identity, Team Fic

In which Bucky is just trying to live life and enjoy his unofficial official table at the obnoxiously hipster coffee shop but some guy named Steve stole his spot.

Or, the time that Bucky unintentionally befriended the Avengers and had no idea.

Never Talk to Strangers by mambo @whtaft - Teen, 40.4k

Grad Student Bucky, Slow Burn

Never Talk to Strangers: or; How a Forgotten Childhood Lesson Led Bucky Barnes to Appreciate Charlie Chaplin, Befriend an A.I., Slip on Soap Bubbles, Be Mistaken for a Succubus, and Try to Woo a Superhero.

Sinking Our Teeth In The Heart Of The Sun by fallendarlings @pressrestartwrites - Explicit, 102.8k

Single Dad Bucky, Kid Fic, Slow Burn, Domestic, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Steve has Autism

Bucky Barnes never intended to become a single father at 25. But life has always enjoyed kicking him while he's down and it's showing no signs of stopping. A chance meeting with a brick wall of a guy named Steve in the formula aisle of the grocery store leads to a friendship it seems like both of them need. If only Bucky could remember that's all they are- friends. If only Steve didn't slot into their lives so perfectly and look so good spoiling Bucky's daughter (and Bucky, despite his protests).

Oh, if only Steve didn't turn out to be Captain America.

Steve Rogers is wandering around a world that he doesn't fit into, fighting for a government that he doesn't trust, just because he doesn't know what to do with himself if he ever relaxes long enough to actually think about anything other than the next mission.

And then came Bucky Barnes and his newborn baby.

More recs

[crispychrissy]

Connected - Part 5

Summary: Y/N comes to and is met with a familiar face, and new things are found out about her past. Pairing: Eventual Bucky Barnes x Reader Word Count: 3632 Warnings: Angst, medical stuff, sassy reader, fluff, A/N: School is in full swing for me so my frequency of posting is going to slow down, but it won't stop completely, I promise. I already have the next chapter laid out and will start writing it as soon as I get some spare time. :) You can also follow this story & others on my Ao3 as well. The series was beta’d by the lovely @idjitmonkey and I hope you enjoy! Please send me an ask if you would like to be tagged in the series. :)

Series Masterlist – Marvel Masterlist

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

The surface under your back felt nothing like the thin stained mattress you’d been sleeping on for weeks, and the light coming from the room beyond your closed eyes was way too bright to be the solitary light bulb hanging in the middle of your cell. Cautiously, you took stock of your body and wiggled your toes, fingers, and slightly shifted your arms and legs. There was a blanket over your body, one you’d never been granted during your captivity, and you immediately opened your eyes.

Which was something you immediately regretted. The bright fluorescent lights stung your eyes, making them water before you closed them again. A soft groan escaped your lips, and shuffling next to you made you freeze.

“Y/N?”

The voice was male, and vaguely familiar somehow? Slowly you blinked your eyes open, glaring at the bright light directly above your bed, before turning your head to the left where the voice came from. You were obviously in a hospital room, but the most shocking part of your change of scenery was the presence of Steve Rogers sitting in a plastic chair next to your bed, a kind smile on his lips.

“Can you understand me?” he asked, eyes studying your face.

“Yeah,” you rasped, coughing at the dryness in your throat you hadn’t registered until now.

Steve reached forward and grabbed a cup of water with a straw in it off a rolling table near the end of your bed and brought it to your lips as you managed to sit up. “Slow sips.”

“Yeah, thanks, mom,” you sassed before taking a sip of water. It took a second for what you had said to register, and your eyes widened before you sheepishly looked up at him while taking another drink and swallowing. “Sorry.”

“S’okay, I can handle some sass,” Steve said with a soft laugh. “Do you need more water?”

You shook your head and he placed the cup on the nightstand next to you, within your reach. “What happened? Did the Army send the Avengers to get me out of there?”

Steve frowned, but quickly schooled his expression with a soft shake of his head. “Not quite. What do you remember?”

When you reached for your memories, you hissed and squeezed your eyes closed, reaching up to clutch your head. “I can’t…” All of your memories were jumbled and seemed to be playing all at once, like hundreds of people trying to tell you a story at the same time. The only thing you did notice was a quiet area of stillness off to one side of your mind, the pain pushing you away each time you tried to focus on it. It was unsettling, and you turned to look at the man sitting next to you. “Captain Rogers… what happened? Where am I?”

“You’re in an Army base in Syria, you’re safe here. And please, call me Steve,” he told you with a smile before straightening in his chair. “I know your thoughts may be scattered, but what’s the last thing you remember?”

The throbbing in your head wasn’t as intense the second time around, and you managed to lock onto a memory of walking through a city surrounded by sand, a camera in your hands. It gave you a starting point, and you slowly followed the thread connecting that moment to the next. Steve was patient while you sorted through what you remembered, each knot of events in the thread becoming more difficult to untangle and get past. Almost ten minutes later, you looked up at him, tears blurring your vision.

“I remember taking pictures,” you said quietly, “but then I was… taken. These men thought I was with the Army trying to spy on them, tried to ransom me back. I told them I wasn’t… but they didn’t listen.” You swiped at your cheeks with the back of your hand, brushing the tears away. “They hurt me,” you looked down at the bandages on your arms, “and I kept… saying… something they didn’t like?”

“You did,” Steve confirmed, plucking a tissue from the box on the rolling table and passing it to you. “Do you remember what you said?”

Untangling the knot in this part of the thread took a few moments, and you were getting closer to that dark area, but the words rang loudly in your head and sent ice through your veins. “Oh my god, I said… Cap—er, Steve, I’m so sorry. Is that why you’re here? I don’t know him, I just… they wanted a soldier, so I kept saying the name of the strongest one I could think of.” Your eyes widened and you tried to backtrack. “I mean, I’m not saying you’re not strong or anything, but I was kinda delirious and I memorized his information back when I was in school and it was—”

“It’s okay, Y/N,” Steve interrupted you softly, trying to stifle his smile. “I didn’t take it personally. The Army didn’t find a connection between you and Bucky, and we figured you kept saying his name, rank, and service number like soldiers are trained to do when they’re under duress so you could get through the worst of it.”

You snorted. “After they started really torturing me, yeah, I said it because of that. At first, it was just out of snark to piss them off. They wanted a soldier, so I gave them one of the best I know.”

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “And I think Bucky will be kinda proud of that.” The color must have drained from your face, and Steve was instantly alert. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Is he here?” you blurted out, unsure if you were ready to know the answer, let alone what answer you’d prefer.

“He is,” Steve said, still alert but more waiting for your reaction rather than responding to your distress.

“Oh,” you whispered, picking at the fabric of the blanket on your lap. “Is… is he mad?”

Steve frowned, his eyebrows pinching together. You knew there had to be more of the story based on his expression, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to know what else happened. “Why would he be mad?”

“I used his information, his name… he was kidnapped, tortured, and brainwashed by Hydra for decades.” You scoffed, shaking your head. “I’m just a photographer that was at the wrong place at the wrong time and got taken for a few weeks. Not even close to what he went through.”

“Y/N,” Steve said softly, reaching out to gently place his hand over yours, stopping your fidgeting and making you look up at him, “Bucky’s glad he gave you strength when you were in need. There’s just… other things that happened.”

Dread settled over your mind like a frozen blanket. “What? What did I do?”

“Don’t jump ahead of yourself, just think back. What’s the last thing you remember?” Steve asked.

The further you tried to progress on the thread of memories, the closer you got to the dark area, and the harder the knots in the thread became to untangle. The memories were mostly of violence, knives and fists marring your skin narrated by whispered words of Sergeant Barnes’ name. The last knot in the thread before the dark area was an odd memory, and it filled you with a kind of unsettling warmth you’d never experienced before.

“I remember one of the men, he was... digging a knife into my leg, I remember it hurt so bad, felt like it was on fire. He was saying stuff to me, like how he wanted to,” you cleared your throat, “keep me as a pet soldier, like how Hydra had one. I don’t… my whole body felt like I had been electrocuted, everything was tingling and there was this flash of images in my head. Then I felt warm all over, and the last thing I remember before everything went black was grabbing the hilt of the knife where it was sticking out of my leg.” Your eyes widened in horror and you stared at Steve, tears blurring your vision. “What did I do? Please, I need to know.”

Steve scrubbed a hand down his face and sat back in his chair. “I’m not going to lie to you, Y/N. We, or at least some of the smartest people I know, think you may have somehow connected to Bucky… psychically. The trauma of being tortured and held prisoner might have activated a dormant mutant or enhanced ability.”

“What?” you whispered. “I’m… what?” The sheer thought of you having some kind of powers like that was ridiculous, and you had to force yourself to not laugh. “That makes no sense.”

“It took us a bit to figure out, but Dr. Austin thinks that because you were in a desperate situation, your abilities manifested to save your life, and allowed your mind to link to someone you’d been thinking about, regardless of distance.” Steve took a deep breath and exhaled slowly out of his nose. “A lot of the science and technical side of it is way beyond my range of understanding, but basically she thinks that since your power was new and born out of a survival instinct, it didn’t know when or even how to break the link between you and him. Bucky’s consciousness and memories, whether it was due to his own enhanced abilities or his previous trauma being so intense, began to take over your mind.”

“So… Sergeant Barnes… possessed me?” you asked. The explanation sounded plausible, however improbable, but seeing as how there were now space aliens and wizards on Earth, nothing really sounded impossible nowadays. “Is that why I have no memory until I woke up a few minutes ago? How long was I… how long did he have control over me?”

Steve raised his hands to calm you, obviously sensing or maybe even hearing your heartbeat begin to gallop wildly in your chest. “Bucky wasn’t controlling you, Y/N. He didn’t ‘possess you’,” Steve made air quotes with his fingers, “in the way you’re thinking. Your mind was suppressed and his mind was feeding you his memories only. You were experiencing them as if you were Bucky. He wasn’t controlling what you were doing; the similar reactions you had to things he’d experienced were due to those memories and the PTSD that came from them.”

You blinked a few times, your mouth slightly open. Theoretically it made sense, but it felt like Steve was describing some kind of science fiction movie to you, not explaining something that had happened to you. “I’m so confused.”

Steve chuckled. “Yeah, I was too. It’s a lot to take in. To simplify it and use Bucky’s words, you were essentially trapped in some kind of virtual reality in your mind, living out his past memories, and you couldn’t take off the headset. You have no memory of what occurred after you linked with Bucky because his memories were providing the knowledge you needed… your brain didn’t make its own.”

Even though Steve was doing a good job explaining things, you knew there had to be something he wasn’t telling you; you could always tell when people were dancing around a truth they were avoiding. You looked down at your lap and began to rub the blanket between your fingers again, ignoring how the fabric had begun to pill due to the friction. “Did I kill someone?”

Steve was silent for a few seconds before he heaved a heavy sigh. “Yes. The four men that were holding you captive. Based on how they were killed, we think you used information from Bucky’s memories and training to kill them.”

“I didn’t hurt anyone else, did I?” you asked quietly. While the idea of killing anyone made your stomach clench and sent bile rising in the back of your throat, your captors were far from innocent, and if it made you a bad person to not feel too much sympathy for those men, then so be it.

“No, not that we know of,” Steve said. “According to the Army rescue team that was sent to investigate the store—good thinking with the Morse code, by the way—they found you sitting calmly in the corner of the room you must have been kept in. Bucky seems to think that, if you were going off of his memories and instincts while he was the Winter Soldier, you were likely waiting for a Hydra extraction team. It’s what he would have done after the, uhhh, the targets were eliminated. Lieutenant Weasley, the leader of that Army rescue squad, said the moment he told you the mission was over, you dropped unconscious, just like how Bucky was conditioned to do as well.”

As Steve was talking, you were trying to reach into your mind, trying to pull anything from the dark spaces in your memories. Each time you tried, you were only met with a black canvas where memories should have been, throbbing in your head, and silence… no fragments or flashes of any kind of recollection of the events Steve was explaining. Ignoring the increasing pain behind your eyes, you tried to reach back further, and an odd flash of a memory you didn’t recognize assaulted your mind’s eye.

“Did you...” You stopped abruptly, eyebrows furrowing as you tried to make sense of what you just saw. “Did you used to feed stray cats on the fire escape of an apartment? One of the cats… an orange named Rusty? Named him after—”

“One of the guys that worked with Bucky down at the docks,” Steve finished for you, his voice light with disbelief. “How did you know that?”

You lifted your head and locked watery eyes on Steve. “I… don’t know.” You winced, grabbing your head, the throbbing and sharp pain starting to compound and intensify. “Ah, I can’t—”

“It’s okay,” Steve soothed as he stood up, helping you lie back down before pulling the blanket up to your chest, almost tucking you in. “Get some rest. Don’t hurt yourself trying to remember things, you’ll get there.”

The urge to fight being babied welled up in your body, but the mental strain and resulting exhaustion had finally caught up with you. You made a weak unhappy noise of protest, which Steve chuckled at, before you allowed yourself to drift off into a much more peaceful darkness than the one plaguing your memories.

***

Steve rejoined Bucky, Tony, and Dr. Austin in one of the conference rooms down the hallway from the doctor’s office, and rehashed what little information he’d gathered from his conversation with Y/N. The confusion and gaps in memories they expected, but when Steve mentioned her comment about the stray cat he used to feed, Bucky’s eyes went wide.

“That’s impossible,” Bucky breathed out, shaking his head and trying not to squeeze the life out of the leather chair he had his hands braced against. “That was back in… what, ‘38? A few years after your mom died? You and I were the only people living in that place, Steve. Even my ma didn’t know about those cats.”

“Well, Y/N was able to recall your memories and training in order to kill her captors, it makes sense that she might have seen or absorbed other memories at the same time without knowing.” Dr. Austin leaned her elbow against the conference table and rubbed her forehead. “The mental strain of Sergeant Barnes’ memories on top of these abilities being new to her… she might not know how to separate things, or her memories are jumbled with yours.”

“You said the link was broken, right, doc?” Tony asked, tapping away on one of his Stark tablets, murmuring things to FRIDAY once in a while under his breath. “Buckinator over here isn’t feeding our Sarah Connor any more memories?”

Bucky scowled and he winced when he heard the leather of the chair begin to rip under his metal fingertips. “I wasn’t sent to kill her, asshole,” he grumbled.

Tony looked at Bucky over the top of his tablet and blinked in disbelief. “Barnes got a pop culture reference. Did you all hear that? FRIDAY, make a note in my calendar. I think we need to petition Ellis for a new national holiday.”

“Tony,” Steve sighed, ignoring the subsequent rambling about press releases coming from Tony in favor of looking over at the doctor. “Dr. Austin, they aren’t linked anymore, right?”

“No, I confirmed with brain scans on both Y/N and Sergeant Barnes. Their level of brain activity is back to baseline, or at least, whatever baseline should be for a super soldier and a new psychic.” Dr. Austin pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, staring off in the distance.

Steve had seen this look before in both Tony and Bruce when they were trying to figure out something in their head, or trying to piece together clues, and knew it could last for a while. “Doctor?” Steve prodded her gently.

“Oh,” Dr. Austin said, starting slightly, giving Steve an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, I was just thinking… I have an acquaintance I may be able to reach out to. Psychic abilities and how to control them are quite out of my wheelhouse, medical studies can only get us so far. I worked with this professor and his team a few times in the past on classified projects when I was freelancing, and he might be able to offer some advice.”

“Anything that could help,” Steve said with a nod, his eyes tracking Dr. Austin as she excused herself from the room, her cell phone already in her hand. Steve looked over at Bucky, seeing the same defeated expression he’d worn on his face for months after he’d broken free of Hydra. “Buck, you gotta quit blaming yourself.”

“Why do people think doing or not doing something in their head is as easy as flipping a damn switch?” Bucky growled angrily, making Steve’s head jerk back at the sudden aggression. Bucky’s face relaxed and he grunted softly, dropping into the chair he was just squeezing. “Sorry.”

“S’okay, I get it,” Steve murmured, “it’s been a long day. How are you feeling anyways?”

“Physically? Fine. The hunger’s gone and I’m not exhausted anymore. Mentally?” Bucky snorted, ducking his chin. “How would you feel if someone accidentally linked minds with you and your brain made them relive you going into the ice over and over again? Or made them relive you getting sick a bunch when you were a kid?”

Steve sat down in the seat next to Bucky and sighed. “I would hate it, but it was an accident, Buck. Nothing you could have done to prevent it.”

“Doesn’t make him any less stupid for running into Y/N’s room alone like that,” Tony said, suddenly standing behind the two men. “You’re lucky I had my suit’s gauntlet wristwatch on me and pulled you back. Touching her could have killed you. Killed you both.”

Bucky knew it was a longshot, and the helplessness he felt knowing Y/N was stuck inside his memories spurred him into action. After being Hydra’s pawn for decades, he made a vow to never feel that helpless again if he could. “Yeah, well, it didn’t. I thought that if she was reliving my memories, then seeing me could snap her out of it. Like… waking her up from a nightmare.”

“Like a glitch in the Matrix. Smart,” Tony said the word like it physically pained him, “I guess.”

“Whether we agree about Bucky’s methods or not, it worked. The Army is going to want to debrief Y/N when she wakes up, but based on what I’ve gathered, she doesn’t have any memories of actually killing her captors. Her recollection ends moments after one of the guys stabbed her in the leg with a knife.”

“Probably the same guy who got the bladed uppercut that was found in the room she was being held in,” Bucky mused, recalling the photos in the file they were given. “Good riddance. Who knows what they would have done to her if she hadn’t killed them.”

The three men sat in silence for several long moments, each going over varying degrees of horrible scenarios which could have played out instead. Dr. Austin’s voice drifted in from the hallway, steadily getting louder as she approached the conference room again, drawing each of their attentions to the doorway.

“... thank you again, Charles. I’ll let you know the next time I’m back in New York,” she said with a smile before lowering her phone and tapping the screen to end the call. Dr. Austin raised a brow at the distressed and pensive looks spread across Tony, Steve, and Bucky’s faces, but decided not to ask.

“Any news from your friend, Doc?” Tony spoke up first.

“Yes,” Dr. Austin replied, tucking her cell phone into her white coat. “He confirmed that Y/N is in fact a mutant, but there’s something else.”

When Dr. Austin didn’t continue immediately, Tony flailed his arms up in the air. “Well? Were you pausing for dramatic effect or something?”

Dr. Austin rolled her eyes and ignored Tony’s outburst. “He was able to do a non-invasive read of her mind.” When all three men opened their mouths at once, Dr. Austin raised her hands, stopping them from whatever protests they were going to make. “Gentlemen, I assure you, the professor is an expert and powerful psychic himself, he knows what he’s doing. He told me that someone has manipulated her memories.”

Bucky blinked. “Well, yeah… isn’t that what happened when she accidentally linked with me? We already know this.”

“No, not recent memories,” Dr. Austin explained. “Her entire childhood has been wiped and rewritten.”

***

Connected Tags: @ginger-swag-rapunzel @that-one-gay-girl @fanofalltheficsx @joseyrw @lana-writes-04 @gia-25 @klanceiscannon14 @ahahafudge @genderfluid-ho

[that-stone-butch]

Hi can I ask for some general advice? I’m femme and single and every day that I don’t have a lovely butch in a leather jacket smooching me is another day wasted. I just want a older butch to call me sweetheart, change my oil, and roll us a joint while I make them dinner while wearing a pretty dress so when I bend over they can see I’m not wearing anything underneath! Is that so much to ask!! Where are they?? How do I flirt with butches when my friend turns into Silly Putty around hot women?

Or, more specially, how would YOU like a femme to approach you/ask you out/express interest? Granted, most of it is online at the beginning, cause there aren’t very many if any queer spaces in my area that are open, and even then they were 97% gay men anyway. I’m very much a bottom and a sub so being the one to break the ice and get the ball rolling is very strange and difficult for me, but I also know that a lot of butches can be shy at first so I gotta Just Do It. Help me Jasper, you’re my only hope….. to get laid.

I'M your only hope? oh NO! i'll do my best! obviously i'm not every butch but i'll do my best to bring my perspective into this. i've never participated in hookups and casual sex, all of my flirting experiences have been geared towards building a relationship. but for the most part, i'd wager the 'showing someone you're interested' credits transfer. on that note, if anyone has input on more casual experiences, i genuinely invite them to add on to this post.

okay so it seems like we should separate the advice into online flirting, and irl flirting. let's start with online.

it's always better to make a good first impression rather than come on too strong, in my experience. start with a compliment, keep it light and respectful. in general, i find that the best compliments are things that someone *chose*. as someone who gets constant online 'compliments' (spoiler alert it's actually catcalling), i'm NEVER flattered when someone opens with talking about my body. 'your jawline is incredible' isn't the ice breaker it sounds like; maybe i'm self-conscious about my jawline! you don't know, you're literally introducing yourself with this. like so many people compare me to men and male actors, and they think i'm going to take it as a compliment? the very POINT of opening with a compliment is that you DON'T know what people do and don't like about themselves. maybe you like tall girls, but just because you do doesn't mean the person you're interested in is proud of the fact they're tall. ESPECIALLY in trans and gnc spaces, you just don't know what relationship strangers are going to have with their own bodies, and opening with that is just going to display a level of entitlement that is a bit of a turn-off, personally. so compliment people on things they chose, like their attire or aesthetic or tastes. it's really flattering to hear someone say 'hey, i also like that thing you *chose* to make part of your whole deal.' from there it might be the case that someone likes and enjoys hearing compliments about things they didn't necessarily choose, but you really should test the waters first.

additionally, compliments like this break the ice because it's also a thing you would say to a friend? it's my experience that good relationships always grow from good friendships. even if your conversations don't end up in a relationship, or casual sex or whatever, you can still end up with a friend which is a great thing (butch/femme friendships are something we don't talk about a whole lot as a community, because we focus a LOT on sex, but they're life-changing like my femme friends make my fucking day). it can be difficult online to make your intentions known; you don't have the subtext, body language, all the things that help you further communicate your intentions in person. that's why, online, it's good to make your intentions known after you've built up a good rapport with someone. strike up conversation, find things in common, and after a little bit it's perfectly respectful and okay to tell someone you're interested in them. however, and i cannot stress this enough, do NOT be vague about your intentions online. at least in my case, it's very easy to misinterpret people over text. (who am i kidding, tumblr is the internet capital of people misinterpreting each other). be plain about your intentions. from there you might talk logistics, trade phone numbers (use encryption! use signal!), agree to focus on building a friendship together, part ways, etc. get to know people, ask them questions about themselves, show them you're engaged and interested.

i want to take a second here, especially for younger people reading this, just because someone is gay and/or you're into them doesn't mean you should be unsafe with your information. play it close to the chest, if you're going to meet up meet up in a neutral location. DON'T meet people from the internet in your home, or theirs. exchanging addresses is something to do well after you know you're in a safe situation. ALWAYS be ready to bail. be safe.

as for in-person, i'm sorry to say but in my experience you ARE likely going to have to make the first move. for a lot of butches (and femmes) being out and about is kind of a gender battleground. the LAST thing i want to do is make someone uncomfortable, especially as a masc woman. a misread signal can be dangerous. additionally, i want to say you should NEVER hit on someone who can't leave the situation. never hit on someone just doing their job (unless they're stating very clear intentions toward you from their position. it's sometimes okay to flirt *back* with people on the clock, but still give them space to back off) because you're putting them in a VERY uncomfortable situation.

in-person flirting for wlw is kind of fraught with some difficulty in that you need to signal that you're gay. for me, as a butch, if someone hits on me and they don't signal very hard that they're gay, i'm left wondering if they even knew i was a woman. i've had straight girls hit on me, it's the weirdest fucking thing. now, i'm not equating femme presentation with looking plausibly straight or whatever femmephobic brainrot is floating around out there, femmes ARE gnc and do so in a unique and beautiful way. but being wlw, especially what feels often like a 'gender outlaw,' you're often plagued with self-doubt. sometimes it's easier to believe you're misreading someone as gay and they were just being friendly (or just being friendly AND are gay, as i said earlier that happens and that's a GOOD thing).

i find, in person, it's a good idea to open with a compliment that specifically recognizes someone's butch presentation. if someone says 'i love your hair, by the way' i'm IMMEDIATELY in blush mode. it feels so good to be recognized when i'm out and about, when so many people just decide i'm a man to validate their own worldview, or think they have to compensate for my presentation, assure me no i'm pretty i look very feminine, to validate me as a woman. meeting someone in-person, that you're interested in, it's validating and refreshing to just be seen and shown that someone's interested in the way i'm putting a lot of effort into presenting.

that said, never push people. if you see someone at a coffee shop, campus diner, bookstore, etc. that you're interested in, as with online it's a good idea to aim to leave a good impression. chances are, you might see that person again. i'd rather have someone see me, flirt a little, and then approach me *again* the next time they see me, then go all-in intense the first time. obviously it's smart to play it by ear but if you feel like you're coming on too strong, it's a good idea to back up a little. but that's just me.

above all, remember to have fun with it! flirting is fun, and if you're trying to tactically align your flirting with someone too hard toward a relationship, it kind of loses a little something? i find it's usually a good idea to approach people with the genuine intention of making a connection, and seeing where that takes the two of you, rather than trying to *get* someone to reciprocate. keep it fun! keep it light!

i hope that helps! i'm sorry i don't have more experience, if anyone has something to add, they're welcome to!

[rionsanura]

Witcher Fic Lute PSA

Geralt should not get Jaskier thoughtful little presents of rosin, oil, or “polish” for his lute, unless you’re trying to induce a cheeky misunderstanding.

Lutes do not require rosin. Rosin is for bowed instruments, like violins. You shouldn’t oil a lute, especially if we’re positing a premodern lute, which were often sealed with oil-based varnish, because then you’d be basically applying a solvent to the varnish and ruining it. You probably also shouldn’t polish it, because lutes are made of extremely thin wood, which absorbs polish and gets dull again, and gradually gets duller and and duller and then you have a vaguely greasy wood that if it cracks will be really hard to glue together. And it will crack, because, as mentioned, it is extRemely thin.

(I cannot count the number of fics I’ve read in which Jaskier bravely and sacrificially uses his lute as a club, but not only would he Not Do That, it wouldn’t even help, because a lute is so heinously fragile it would crumple at even the untrained-combat-weak-bardic application to anything that contains a bone, like a human head, a monster wing, a dwarven shoulder, etc. They’re so delicate you’re not even supposed to lean them against anything or set them down, but put them in the case. If you absoLUTEly have to, put them string-side down, because the front is flat and less likely to crack. I’m not even going to get into the humidity issues lutes face, but just know, a lute is made entirely of things that warp, swell, shrink, unstick, crack, and break when the humidity changes, so. They’re not very durable.)

Better lute-related thoughtful presents:

Strings. These are made of gut, not wire. Yes, gut is intestinal fiber, usually from cow or pig, but I spy a monster-hunting opportunity here, since Geralt seems to have the opportunity to acquire an abundance of monster guts out of which to make strings, with specialist knowledge and technique he may well have, or be able to acquire. I don’t know. Maybe they’re magic.

Frets. These are also made of gut, and adjustably tied on the neck of a lute, instead of built in like on a guitar. More monster-bounty opportunity.

Pegs. This is more advanced, but still possible. If Geralt notices that Jaskier keeps having to stop and tune between songs or even during songs, a peg may be slipping. This can be temporarily and carefully ameliorated by applying a little bit of chalk to the slippy space, but that’s kind of a last resort and can cause its own problems. Better to have the peg replaced, which requires taking the whole thing to a luthier (the term now usually means someone who makes and repairs violins, violas, cellos, and basses, but it can also mean someone who makes and fixes guitars, lutes, rebecs, and other wooden bowed or plucked European instruments). This needs expert handling, because even the tiniest mismatch in size between the peg and the hole makes performance nearly impossible (unlike some other situations where we’re putting pegs in holes. These holes don’t stretch, honey). This is another reason you probably don’t want much oil near your lute; if any gets too far up the peg, it’ll take a lot of very careful work before you can ever tune it again.

Glue. This one is less plausible, but, again, lutes are extremely fragile, and prone to cracking. To fix the crack, you take it to the luthier who very carefully and with expert knowledge applies a particular kind of animal glue and braces the cracked surface or seam, probably with a vise and maybe a tape or splint. Jaskier has a Renaissance college degree in bardly studies, so I’m not counting it entirely out of the realm of possibility that he’d be able to do it himself, but despite my 11 years of music school acquaintances and numerous professional contacts, I don’t know any modern players who would ever think of attempting to fix a crack in their own instrument. However, this is another monster-hunting tie-in; maybe glue made from the collagen of a siren is particularly suited to instrumental applications?

Bonus: Voice Potion. This one’s not lute-related, but I don’t know any singer who doesn’t have a favorite concoction to drink when suffering from a respiratory issue, sore throat, swelling, or other vocal problem. I find honey-lemon tea rather drying myself, and prefer a licorice-ginger monstrosity, or the ever-popular Throat Coat tea. There’s even a line of actual, non-fantastical voice potions called Singer’s Saving Grace that I have found worthwhile on occasion, so it stands to reason that a world where potions are definitely a thing might have its own vocal health recipes. Maybe some even contain steroids for severe laryngitis. In any case, this seems like a good entry point for a very specific kind of hurt/comfort.

So that is some of the Witcher-applicable information I have acquired in my musical career, and if you want a nice short but fairly thorough guide to how people actually take care of lutes, this is pretty good.

[hinamoria]

Hitsuhina Week 2021 : Day 1

Hitsuhina Week 2021 : Day 1- Nickname / Hot and cold

Rating: K

Synopsis: Momo remembers the origin of her nickname: Bed wetter Momo

Word Count: 1801 words

Author’s Note: Hi everyone! My first participation at the Hitsuhina week is here. I hope you like it! I had fun writing it \(^.^)/

English isn’t my first language so excuse myself for any typos <3

----

“Shiro-chan!” Hinamori greeted cheerfully as she walked through the doors of the Tenth Division office. “We're going to eat yakitoris with Matsumoto-san and other lieutenants. Are you joining us? "

Hitsugaya, sitting at his desk, frowned at the famous nickname his childhood friend refused to forget, and declined the invitation.

"I have a lot of work to finish," he complained, putting an extra sheet of paper on the already tall pile of his desk. "Maybe next time," he added, afraid to upset his friend. "And Hinamori, for the umpteenth time, it's captain Hitsugaya."

"But Hitsugaya-kun, that nickname is perfect for you!" she replied, keeping her smile.

A perfect nickname from Hinamori's point of view. In harmony with the white and shiny hair like snow of her friend.

"Do you hear me calling you by your childhood nickname yet?” Sighed the captain.

Momo laughed lightly as she thought about it. "Bed Wetter Momo" was much less flattering than “Shiro chan”. Especially since it was referring to a single accident and therefore absolutely no more relevant today.

And yet, even though she wouldn’t like to be called that way again today, she still had a certain melancholy as she remembered the event where it’s from. Somehow, that night, Shiro-chan had for the first time given her a kind gesture.

It happened soon after arriving in Rukongai, when she was eight years old.

She still remembered the hustle and bustle, the lost people trying to get information about what was happening to them, and her in the middle desperately looking for her mom or her plush that she must have dropped something. It must be here. She remembered holding it during her last moments of life. So it couldn't be very far.

It was the end of her old life on Earth. Nowadays, it was just a vague memory. The faces of her biological family had gradually faded. She remembered that her mother had brown hair, often tied up in a bun. Momo may have subconsciously imitated her while growing up. But had she hazel eyes like her or were they a different color? She could no longer remember it.

A cholera epidemic had hit the country, killing thousands of people. Antibiotics did not exist at the time, so the chances of escaping it, especially for a child, were almost nil. Momo didn't end up in pain for long.

At the entrance to Rukongai, men and women dressed in black kimonos, whom she later knew as shinigamis, gave instructions to people around her. They were divided into groups. She was going to go to district number one, "Junrinan". She didn't know this place, but thought she heard the term "lucky" from a shinigami.

Looking back 100 years after, she understood how true it was. Especially after hearing Abarai-kun's stories.

Each person was taken to a different dwelling. Very little explanation was given. Sometimes locals sighed when they saw a new arrival, but others greeted them with a big smile. Her journey ended in front of a wooden house with a small earthen courtyard in front and two imposing shoji-style doors at the entrance.

A lady with gray hair tied in a bun opened the door and smiled at Momo.

"Is that the little new one?" She asked in a voice marked by time.

The shinigami nodded and left the area without another word. His behaviour may have seemed rude, but the little lady ignored it. Momo watched him go with slight fear, but returned her attention to the stranger who began to speak to him.

"Welcome my dear. What's your name? "

"Momo…" the child replied after a brief hesitation.

“Very well Momo. From today you will live here. Come home, I'll explain everything to you"

The lady held out her hand, which Momo took, and together they entered the girl's new home.

-------------

To say that the first few days in her new home were easy would have been a lie. Momo was missing her family. And she kept looking through the portal to see if her mother was going to cross the threshold and come to get her.

Her new grandmother was a sweet and warm woman. She gave Momo time to acclimatize without rushing her. She even offered her a small dog-shaped plush toy to replace her previous one. Momo appreciated the little attention and hugged the plush tightly against her at night.

However, living with Toshiro was more difficult. The little boy already had a strong character and did not seem delighted by the arrival of a new child in his home. He often spoke harshly to her, when he just wasn't ignoring her. Momo, luckily, didn't seem to take offense and came back to meet him all the more, determined to make him her new friend.

He didn't looked to be appreciated by the other children, who seemed afraid of his particular hair. Momo, on the other hand, was fascinated by their color and had repeatedly tried to touch them - usually receiving insults and yelling in return - which didn't stop her from doing it again a few days later. He reminded him of the old cat that resided in her neighbourhood on Earth. He had hissed on her each time she approached. But after a few months, he had accepted her affection. Toshiro would be the same, she could tell.

One night, about two weeks after her arrival, Momo had a terrible nightmare. The pain of her last moments on Earth came back to her. She heard her mom cry and pray, but she couldn't see her. She was terribly thirsty and hungry, but the nausea tugged at her so much that she couldn't take anything. It was the end. She felt death coming to seek her. When a new wave of pain pierced her body, Momo woke up abruptly, breathing heavy.

The pain was gone. But she still couldn't see anything. After a few seconds, a growl to her left signaled the presence of the white haired boy and reminded her where she was. Her grandmother must have been somewhere to her right. They used to stick their futons together and sleep three side by side.

She was safe, everything was fine.

Catching her breath, however, she noticed a new unusual detail. Her clothes looked wet.

She straightened up and inspected her bed with the palm of her hand. A stain of moisture permeated the futon, a small part of the blanket and the entire bottom of her kimono. She was taken aback for a few moments, then realized with dread that she had wet the bed!

It hadn't happened since she was three, how could she have done that now? She wondered ashamed.

Discreetly, she got out of the futon, holding her breath as she saw Toshiro move around in the futon right next to her. Luckily, he didn't seem to wake up.

Would Grandma be mad if she saw this? Was she going to be kicked out of the house? Who would want a messy child?

Trying to swallow back tears, Momo took the blanket and left the room discreetly.

With any luck, she would manage to hide her mistake and they would let her stay here.

First she needed clean clothes, then she would go and wash it all in the basin outside. As a final step, she would take care of the futon in the same way. And when asked tomorrow, she could pretend she spilled a glass of milk on the bed. If no one saw the stain, her excuse would be plausible.

After grabbing some new clothes, Momo went down the stairs of the house to go outside.

Luckily, the moon lit up the courtyard a little and allowed herself to orient without too much trouble. Momo found the basin and put the blanket in it. The cold water made the child shiver, who could now feel the tears running down her cheeks.

Looking back 100 years later, she realized how dumb she could have been to feel so bad for a trivial accident like this, but at this moment, the world was falling apart for her.

She changed, taking a little water to clean herself, then tossed the soiled clothes in the water as well. As she began to rub the whole thing vigorously, a voice startled her.

"What are you doing?” Toshiro surprised her from the doorway.

She turned in his direction, speechless. He kept his arms crossed against his chest, obviously waiting for an answer that took a particularly long time to arrive.

"I ..." stammered the little brunette. “I spilled a glass of milk?"

Her voice had risen in high pitch with a sobbing hiccup, making her assertion closer to questioning. Toshiro certainly wouldn't be fooled by the situation. He was young in appearance, but he was significantly older than her in age. And she realized her excuse was completely incoherent when said out loud.

But strangely, she heard neither reproach nor mockery from the boy who was looking at her seriously. On the contrary, his answer surprised her.

"I'm going to get your futon to have it cleaned too…" He said with a sigh.

And he disappeared for a good minute.

On his return, ditto, he remained silent. He helped her clean up and spread the ling. And when they returned to bed afterwards, he even gave her a bit of room in his own futon for Momo. The rest of the night ended without further accident.

The next day, she said with more confidence her story to her grandmother, who absolutely did not believe a word of it, but who accepted it nonetheless, afraid to embarrass her. When she went out to do some shopping, Momo turned to Toshiro who was finishing lunch.

"Thank you Hitsugaya-kun," Hinamori said in a small voice. "For keeping my secret."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied with his mouth full.

Then as he swallowed, he looked at the girl and let go with a smirk, "Bed Wetter Momo".

Momo froze in her seat upon hearing the new nickname.

"How did you call me?” She asked scandalized.

"You called me Shiro-chan a few days ago, remember? From today you will be "Bed wetter Momo" if you keep using that nickname ". He treated her, pretending to be interested in his bowl of rice. But the smirk he kept showing indicated the pride he felt right now in torturing her.

It was the start of a new friendship.

And he kept his word: he used that nickname for many years, and she kept on calling him Shiro-chan. It almost became a game between them.

And if today she was no longer "Bed wetter Momo", she treasured the memory of the first step Toshiro had taken towards her.

[crispyapplepies]

AkuRoku Defense pt 2

Axel and Roxas’s ship has had one of the most bizarre fandom journey’s i have ever come to witness. It has gone from being one of the most popular ships maybe ever, to being dead cancelled over a supposed age gap and I find that completely unfair, especially when it speaks to so many innocent people who emotionally depend on the ship, (yes innocent includes the spicy people because art literally is not a crime). So its time to defend it.

Brief Review on Nobodies vs Aging

First of all, l already explained in part 1 what the Nobodies Don’t Age thing means but I’ll go over it again briefly, since it can be confusing, though also many people seem to demand their hands be held rather than use their imaginations to understand. Even so, here’s the short version just for a review:

-A person in KH is made of a heart, body, and soul.

-The body reflects the heart in KH. (See: replica bodies taking on the appearance of the heart that’s inside them). 

-A nobody lacks a heart, making them just a body and soul. They’re advanced zombies of sorts.

Nobodies do not age because they have no heart for the body to reflect. This is why they won’t change until they form one. Change includes age

-Ergo, you can imagine any age you like for Axel to be nobodied, cuz he was frozen at that age and did not change for 10 years. Not until he met Roxas. 

We’ll come back to this again later.

Axel Loves Roxas Canonically

Second of all, Axel loves Roxas and you are allowed to interpret that as platonic, familial, or romantic, I don’t care as long as you’re not forcing that idea on others like the ship police. That said, people are allowed to explore how romantic this love potentially is. 

And what you might like to know is that the canon is even open to this. Axel’s love for Roxas is canonically expressed, and if you would like, you can even interpret that love as romantic. See below:

We are going to look at the japanese translation because AS ALWAYS good old SENA is here for the straights and erases the gay, like clockwork. 

In English, Axel says this:

Axel: I wanted to see Roxas. He...was the only one I liked... He made me feel...like I had a heart. It's kind of...funny... You make me feel...the same...

Axel’s line here in Japanese:

Axel: I wanted to see Roxas... I loved him. Being with him... it made me feel like I had a heart. I feel it from you, too... the same kind of....

You may notice that as romantic as the line “he made me feel like I had a heart” sounds, the original can be read as wAY gooier, specifically cuz of this word:

好き: "suki"

Now here’s the thing. Japanese is a pretty vague language which is why context is so important for these things, as well as what you say, and what you don’t say. 

“Suki” is a very key word here because it is often used in romantic confession scenes.

(I have no idea what this panel is from, I apologize lol) 

It CAN mean something casual, like “I love video games”, but considering Axel is saying this with his dying breath, I don’t think we should be treating it as some hyperbole. He is referring to a person and it is meaningful. However. It is still a word with plausible deniability. Japanese has several words for love, “ai” for example being one of the most inarguable means of referring to romantic love. So choosing “suki” still leaves room for the homophobes to disregard it as something not romantic. Which makes it objectively inconclusive. Here is the thing though… they specifically chose that word, suki, a word which IS so often used in a romantic context in many anime and manga. 

They also chose to use that word rather than something objectively platonic. Which means you also cannot conclude Axel did NOT mean it romantically. Given his devotion to Roxas, and the fact that they chose this word of all words for him to say… I’m personally going to assume it’s romantic. You are free not to interpret it that way. But I am because I am considering the fact that they did not choose something strictly platonic. 

(My translator friend actually freaked out when I showed her this, she’s translated and seen enough confession scenes to know what connotations that particular word comes with lol). 

If you’ve read my queer coding doc, you may recall I also go over how this is one of the most important tricks with queer coding. You write something that CAN be viewed as queer but with plausible deniability for straight people to ignore it. It’s a means of protecting oneself and the text from homophobic oppression. It is a legitimate practice. So even though it can be denied as a queer text, it can also very very well be viewed as a definite queer text. We are choosing to queer it here. It is not as explicit as it could be, but it is still very bold, suggestive coding considering the homophobic world we live in, and especially with KH2 being released in 2004. 

“But Age Gap!” (ughhhhh)

We’re back to this cuz I also finally have the Japanese version of that infamous page in the Day’s novel to look at.  

I hope you’ll forgive me if I get a little bit salty but I don’t like to repeat myself lol so I’m gonna try to keep this section short and to the point.

In this interview with Nomura, he expresses that nobodies do not age, and they exist as they were at the time of becoming a nobody. He then suggests Xemnas seems 30 ish.

Now I truly do not care to hold your hand through the process of thinking creatively because you should be using your own imagination, if you have one, to think critically and creatively about what this idea means.

Kingdom Hearts is a FANTASY game. Nobodies are a FANTASY concept. They can break ALL the rules about real life that you want them to. But I will go ahead and explain this for you even though I’ve already done it many times, in this very document even and in other meta posts.

The body reflects the heart. Nobodies are frozen as they are from the moment they are “born”, which is to say the moment they are created. Glorified zombies. They aren’t going to age unless they form a heart. Why does Xemnas look 30? He has a heart! Or he was formed 10 years after TerraNort defected. You tell me. Why did Ienzo age? I dunno, you tell me! Either he formed a heart and didn’t know it, (he’s passionate about his work, he loves Ansem the Wise, any number of things could’ve made him form a new heart), or he was nobodied later in life. Axel is frozen at whatever age he was when he was nobodied, all the while Ienzo could’ve been nobodied 10 years later. It’s a fantasy, and these are fantasy rules. That scenario can happen. YOU decide. Until the canon tells us for sure, your imaginations can run wild with explanations. Even if the canon does tell us, you can still imagine whatever you want for your own headcanons. Freedom is amazing, it’s salty and sweet. 

Now let’s talk about that annoying page in the Days novel people keep shoving in my face.

This one right here. The official english translation is this:

That’s not the worst translation I’ve seen them put out there. But let’s look closer at the Japanese:

 Here, Axel says he thinks Roxas is about 10 years separate from himself, but things like age don't exist for nobodies.

Already that’s making a lot more sense to me for nobodies since we are told nobodies do not age. As such Axel speaking like he is 10 years older would feels almost contradictory when he has no heart and cannot change. 

This wording is important. Recall me saying that Japanese is very vague so all of the context matters. No one is denying that 10 years passed between Birth By Sleep and Axel meeting Roxas. However. Nobodies don’t age.

(please dont make me explain that a third time in this essay alone)

The Japanese and English both express that age does not apply to nobodies, (as discussed above^^^^) and the Japanese furthers this with its wording. They have 10 years of separation between Axel being nobodied, and Roxas existing.  

Axel saying in English that Roxas is simply 10 years younger than himself is rather misleading considering the ambiguity of the original. I can’t fault the translators too much for not understanding this nobody concept so well because it is obviously confusing. However, I do not think Axel was saying Roxas is literally, in real life human somebody terms, 10 literal physical years younger than him. He is expressing that he became a nobody 10 years ago whereas this guy became a nobody very recently, and it shows with how little he can even function right now. A zombie who has been wandering around with no heart for 10 years meets a fresh zombie wandering around with no heart for 1 day. 

I know antis are gonna use it against us no matter what, but at least know that akuroku is not inherently pedophilia nor is it inherently an adult/minor ship.

In many of our headcanons, Axel was frozen at age 18 or 19, with Roxas being 16. Absolutely no one is required to view them with a big age gap because imagination is free and you literally have no right to police it, but also because the canon expresses these nobodies as beings outside of the realm of age. They do not operate under real life rules or somebody rules. Think of Steven Universe where Rose was thousands of years old but only “grew up” as a person when she fell in love with Greg, a human in his 20s-30s who asked her to consider other people’s feelings. Consider the mind of a nobody as a state of Neverland. You aren’t gonna age unless you step out of it and change. Mature. Isn’t it sad that Axel did not feel like he had a heart until Roxas? No wonder people ship it!

Coding is Obvious

Finally I wanna conclude on a simple thought. This interview right here? I’d be curious what the original Japanese actually says lol but the english translation of it says that romantic akuroku was not Nomura’s intent. 

Here’s the thing though. If you know anything about queer coding, you know that using romantic coding between 2 male characters is signaling something. It is not something you should ignore. It would not be there if the characters were meant to be viewed as objectively straight. And for something “unintentional”... there sure is a lot of coding at work here.

From Axel pinning Roxas down and asking him to come home in a very sexually suggestive pose,

to watching the sunset in sheer bliss together just enjoying the peace of reunion,

to watching the sunset together while talking about what LOVE is, specifICALLY romantic love,

To this. And I already told you what this was in Japanese.

I’m not saying Nomura lied…

But I am saying that a whole staff worked together to create these games, and it is very difficult for me to believe that no one thought to say “these characters appear to be romantic, let us change the scene to be more platonic” if the characters were not meant to be romantically suggestive. 

Tl;Dr I wanna live in the timeline where people let you ship akuroku lol