#intellectual high jack

[infinitysisters]

“The first thing to notice is that the student in the video pretends to be asking for the teacher's opinion but is in fact probing to find out if his teacher has the right opinion. That is, he's trying to find out if his teacher is part of "the people" or an "enemy of the people."

Bc of the power dynamic (the student is alone, particularly), he's unlikely to be able to initiate a struggle session, though he could deliver "criticism," in line with Mao Zedong Thought by accusing his teacher of being out of step with "the people's standpoint" on the issue.

His opener, though, where he pretends to be interested in the teacher's take or opinion is actually a test as to whether or not criticism needs to be delivered for having a wrong opinion. In other settings, it's the basis for shunning and even outright struggle sessions.

Struggle sessions were a form of psychosocial torture used by Maoist activists to humiliate and shame people who had the wrong opinions, trying to force them into conformity or into a process of thought reform ("ideological remolding"). Alternatively, it would just destroy them.

It's crucial to understand that this video opens with the student probing to find grounds to initiate criticism and struggle against the teacher. Had this gone differently, it's possible the teacher would face MANY students going after him later bringing vicious criticism.

You will find that with Maoist activism, the style is often to seem to probe what you think as a justification to rain opprobrium (struggle) down on you if you don't think what they want. It's very Hundred Flowers: let people speak so you can crush ideological enemies.

The Hundred Flowers Campaign (baihua qifang) was a time in the late 1950s when Mao encouraged free speech against his regime for a while then rounded up everyone who outed themselves as an "enemy" and sent them to be reeducated or die in the countryside (gulag).

The next thing to notice from the video is that the student hasn't formed his opinion about JK Rowling on the basis of any facts. It's what other people are saying. He's in the "outer circle" of the cult, like most people. He's locked in socially and emotionally ONLY.

You can tell this is the case for three reasons:

1) He presents it as such, lacking any substantive evidence;

2) He doesn't actually agree with the people's standpoint perfectly himself but defers to it;

3) He cannot articulate (intellectualize) WHY she's "transphobic."

If he were intellectually committed in addition to socially and emotionally locked ("inner school" of the cult), he would have been able to spout off any number of BS rationalizations for how Rowling is "transphobic" by stating the reality of sex. He can't, though.

This is important to recognize when it happens because people in the "outer school" of a cult are the most rescuable, as we see by the end of the video. They believe it because their social and emotional identities depend on it (so, hijacked psychosocial valuation schema).

A psychosocial valuation schema, by the way, is a method by which people evaluate themselves as good people (psycho-) or good members of a community (social). It's a fascinating subject, but Maoist "unity" through criticism and struggle (peer pressure) hijacks it, as seen here.

In short, the student is perceiving that if he has the wrong opinion about Rowling, he'll be a bad "community member" (ally), which means he's probably a bad person, worthy of shame, guilt, and exclusion, demanding he "do better." This dynamic is crucial to the cult brainwashing.

The teacher skillfully picks apart that this "outer school" cult member student doesn't know why he believes what he believes and forces him to think for himself, breaking him free from the Maoist psychosocial valuation schema for the duration of the exercise.

The next thing to observe is that the student later confesses to the fact that he personally sees nothing wrong with the statement but can see how others would find it problematic. That is, the psycho- part is breaking away from the -social part of the evaluation schema.

What he's expressing there is actually that he has adopted "the people's standpoint," as Mao called it. Wokes would call it "positionality" or "the standpoint of the oppressed" (yes, for those who know, "standpoint epistemology"). He knows he's supposed to see the world that way.

Psychologically for the student, this is the most dangerous and most important moment, and kudos to the teacher for effecting the deprogramming well. The reason is because the Maoist brainwashing program of "self-criticism" depends on the psycho- and -social being out of step.

The guilt and shame cycles in Maoist brainwashing, together with "leniency" or "love bombing" when people uphold the "people's standpoint" and criticism and struggle when they don't, are most powerful when the psycho- and -social parts disagree, not when they align.

The dynamic is to make the target feel like they're the only person who doubts "the people's standpoint." The student, in the wrong setting, would immediately feel alienated, alone, and ashamed that he knows "the people's standpoint" but secretly disagrees with it. This is key.

Maoism as a psychosocial brainwashing phenomenon requires "milieu control," such that the social group around you all publicly seems to perfectly hold to "the people's standpoint" so that each person believes they're the only one who thinks it's probably bogus.

In that state, you will "self-criticize" because you think something must be wrong with you. Indoctrination is external criticism. Conversion is self-criticism. Now note Robin DiAngelo saying "antiracism" is a lifelong commitment to self-reflection, self-critique, and activism.

In the end, the teacher breaks through, and the students sees not just that he was relying on "the people's standpoint" (psychosocial valuation) instead of his own critical thinking, and the teacher gives him space to feel accepting of "feeling like an idiot." That's very good.

In the Maoist environment, so with Woke teachers, the "people's standpoint" is pushed from the top, the interrogated "student" is urged to confess his sinful private doubts with increasing sincerity, and the social environment reinforces it all (to avoid their own struggle).

After breaking people down psychosocially this way and getting them to half-adopt and fully profess "the people's standpoint," the process enters another phase, xuexi, which means "study." That is, "outer school" cultists are pushed to become "inner school" cultists.

The point of "study" is to lead psychosocially locked people into intellectual rationalization, where the student would have been able to rattle off a litany of robotic-sounding theory (thought-terminating cliches and rationalizations) for how Rowling IS "transphobic."

That not only keeps them hermetically sealed (iykyk) in the cult, making deprogramming FAR harder and rarer, it also creates a demonstration for "outer school" members who can be convinced that their beliefs have intellectual foundations they just don't understand yet.”

- James Lindsay

[quickestgold]

For angsty requests: marriage on the rocks with jack abbot, contemplating divorce?

Say Something: Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Synopsis: A decade of falling in and out of love has turned you and Jack from lovers to strangers. But when a difficult case hits too close to home, you might finally be calling time of death on your marriage.

Warnings: Reader and Jack are both vets/doctors; Canon-typical graphic depictions of trauma/injuries; mentions of missing limbs, blood, war, ptsd, GSWs, patient death, divorce, rooftops;

Word count: 4k+

A/n: Slowly working through my requests, sorry for the long wait! But thanks so much for sending this in! Can't wait to hear your thoughts! Ngl kind of broke my heart with this one ♡

I will hold your hand. I will grow with you. I will change with you. Every day, in love and in life.

Ten years.

In and out of love. Always by each other's side. Two sides of the same coin. Combat medics. Doctors. Lovers. Friends. In that order.

But lately, a new reality has settled between you.

Strangers.

You share a bed and a space. A home. You've grown through laughter and pain. Know the other's darkness and heartache intrinsically.

Jack is the person you would survive any war with. He's your person. And you're his. Your passion runs deep, intellectually and emotionally.

You've been through hell together, but you always made it back. You used to laugh a lot, coping through humor. Most alive in high-stakes, emotionally demanding work.

You spent most of your careers overseas. Never shying away from the hard places. Always trying to help.

You can be unpredictable, the ends forever justifying the means. Walking the thin line between control and recklessness. Even for Jack's standards and he isn't exactly a man of protocol.

But sometimes you scare him. Your complete disregard for your own safety, always putting him first. The irony of course being, that he does the same for you. But before you, he never experienced a partnership like it. No one ever made him feel that whole. Completed him in a way, he can't ever find the words for.

So he made you a promise. To hold you. To grow with you. And to change with you.

Every day.

And you said yes...

But over the years, the line between your personal and your professional life has almost completely blurred.

You barely see each other outside of work. Everything feels mechanical. There's only faint traces of intimacy. Of tenderness. Just two people who've known each other for a long time. Who are slowly growing apart. Changing without the other. Not realizing they're going in separate directions.

In your heart you know it's no ones fault. No infidelity. No drama.

Just... silence.

Your shift wasn't exactly quiet before this case. But this injury, this patient, throws you off your game.

You never crack. The new interns thought Dr. Abbot was the stoic, quietly observant, fuck-standard-of-care, ED-cowboy.

Before they met you.

Unafraid to contest decisions from the higher-ups, demonstrating fearlessness in times of crisis, fudging paperwork for the sake of the patient. Always treating the person, not the protocol.

Dr. Walsh, Emery, your best friend and twisted sister in arms, always challenges you.

Your "other" person. The Cristina to your Meredith.

On occasion, she kicks Jack out of his own bed, when you need to reflect on a particularly bad case, or sometimes just to wind down with shitty reality TV. Jack would curse under his breath, but ultimately make room for the two of you. Always respecting your strong bond.

You went through residency together. Watched others drop out under the pressure. But you were never in competition, except maybe the odd healthy one.

Where she practices medicine by the book, you often improvise. But your dynamic works.

She knows you. Truly.

So when she steps into the trauma room, her words slice through the air like a sharp scalpel. The tension has built up slowly over the last two hours you've spent working on a man, who got his leg blown off handling faulty fireworks.

You're pressing into his chest, trying to force life back into his body, one beat at a time.

"Fuck no." Emery approaches the table, ready to shove you aside. "You should not be running this."

"This is not the time for you to tell me what to do, Dr. Walsh." You counter, your movements focused.

Jack is beside you, watching every step closely. His eyes flicker to Walsh's, you pretend you don't see them exchanging a look.

Your priority is the patient on your table.

Assess. Stabilize. Move upstairs.

"Third unit's in." Jesse states.

"Okay, pulse check." You order, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.

Emery presses her fingers against the patient's pulse points. "No femoral. No carotid." The words make your heart drop and for a second it feels like it's you hooked up to the monitor, the flatline mirroring your failure.

You resume compressions. "We had a pulse after three packed cells", exhaling deeply with each push. "We need to get him up asap, Em." Em. Not Emery. Not Dr. Walsh. Your professional exterior clearly cracked wide open, ribs spread apart.

"We need a pulse to go to the OR. You know this." Emery hovers next to you now. You can feel her breath against your damp skin.

Jack doesn't say anything, but you get the feeling he's with Emery. His arms are crossed, his weight shifting from one leg to the other, worry written across his features. His own trauma pulling at the seams. But he doesn't let it in. He's focused on you, watching you touch your belly in a nervous tic.

The realization that this is a battle you're going to lose, dizzies you. You take a step back, hands slightly trembling, as Javadi takes over compressions. A million techniques and procedures flash through your mind.

A lifetime worth of training. Of knowledge. But nothing makes sense. Your brain starts to short-circuit.

Focus on the medicine.

"I could try a REBOA?" Santos suggests, stressing the word with dangerous confidence.

"Would that work?" Javadi cuts in, panting.

You don't look, but you feel Jack shaking his head softly, with a resigned sadness.

"Dr. Abbot, step back." Emery grabs your elbow, forceful.

You shove her with the same attitude, turning your attention back to the patient. "He's right on the edge..."

"Dr. Abbot." Emery moves to the other Abbot, willing him to say something.

Jack nods, silently reaching for your hand. The cold sensation on your clammy skin startles you. You pull your hand away, sharply. Nearly throwing him off balance.

You stare at them incredulous, their betrayal like a sharp stabbing pain in your back.

When did they team up? Against you, nonetheless.

"It's not Jack!" Emery yells without thinking, but she fears it's the only thing that can pull you back to the surface.

The flatline echoes in the distance, but you don't wait for them to call time of death.

Your mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. Gloves are ripped off with a snap, before you flee the scene. Not ready to face the consequences of your defeat.

After finishing the rest of his shift, Jack enters the home you've built together. The curtains are drawn. The lights dim. No familiar smell coming from the kitchen.

He paces through the empty hallway before he finds you in the ensuite bathroom, still washing today's trauma off. Scrubbing. Until your hands are sore. Then scrubbing some more.

"I’m not trying to fight with you." His voice is low and soft.

"Then don’t." You scoff. "Don’t take her side. She wasn’t there."

"No." Jack shakes his head in acknowledgement. "But she means well." He surprises himself by siding with his supposed mortal enemy.

"She always does this. Acting like she needs to fix me."

"Surgeons." Jack offers playfully, but you don't bite.

"I'm not her fucking patient."

Jack reaches for your hand, attempting to pull you out of your spiral.

"Fuck off." You snap. Too harshly.

"Hey." His eyes sharpen. "I can't talk to you like this."

"Yeah? That's kind of the point."

"Last I checked, this means something." He grabs your hand, bringing the delicate ring on your finger into vision. You snatch your hand away.

"The piece of metal that binds you to me? Without it you'd have run for the hills ages ago." This conversation is starting to feel more and more like a losing battle in itself. It's like you're right back in that trauma room. Fighting for someone’s future. Though this isn't quite as tangible.

Why didn't med school prepare you for this?

Jack huffs a humorless laugh. "Every day. In love and in life." He breaks eye contact. "Even when you resent me."

"No. Don't do this. You don't get to tell me, I resent you for choosing you. For years, I let you act like I'm doing this selflessly. A noble sacrifice in the name of love. Like it was your fault-"

"We both know it was." Jack's words rip through the air like a bullet. Tearing straight through your heart. Leaving you breathless, unable to speak. The air constricting, like there's a tube down your throat.

"Don't pretend it wasn't. I was sent home. You could've stayed. But you didn't and you've hated me since." There's a brutally honest edge to his confession that feels like someone's sliced you open, vultures waiting to feast on your organs.

You process for a few beats, before rediscovering your voice. Shock slowly replaced by anger.

"Don't ever say that to me again." You cross your arms, hiding your trembling hands in the safety of your embrace, the hurt palpable. "I did that for you." You say quietly, painfully aware of the throbbing ache in your chest.

"Yeah? I never fucking asked you to."

This isn't Jack. But something within him's snapped. He fears if he doesn't lay it all out on the table now, there's no chance of recovery.

Soon you'll be the one calling time of death on your marriage.

You stare at him, suddenly realizing you've exhausted all options. There's nothing more you can do. You gave it your best.

You really fucking tried.

"I wanted this. I wanted you. But I'm... tired." You hesitate. "Maybe it's time we stop trying."

Jack is silent, already anticipating where you're going, knowing you saying the words out loud will break him.

You search his eyes, only to find your own grief reflected back at you.

"People get divorced, Jack. All the time."

The weight of your words crushes him, compressing his lungs. The force on his body leaving him momentarily paralyzed.

He just blinks at you, his expression illegible.

Your eyes are locked on his, willing him to say something.

Back in control of his muscles, Jack moves to his side of the bed, silently grabbing his pillow and heading towards the door.

You furrow your brows. "What are you doing?"

"What's it look like I'm doing?" Jack answers, an unexpected resignation in his voice.

You groan. "I'll sleep on the couch. You stay."

Jack says your name like he's breaking the news of someone's passing to their loved ones. Crushed by a new reality, even if they're in denial.

"Are you serious?" You ask, blocking the doorway with an unwavering confidence that is usually reserved for emergencies.

Maybe this is one.

"Yeah, I'm serious. Move." His words are composed and determined, like he's not speaking as your husband, but your attending.

"You know you'll get no sleep on that thing. You'll be fucked tomorrow-" You try to reason.

"I don't need you to protect me!" He yells, too loud. The shrill tone taking you aback, making your heart race like someone's calling a code. "Stop treating me like I'm broken."

You grimace, your hand instinctively finds your belly again, your nails digging tightly into your battleworn skin.

Jack immediately retreats. "I- I'm sorry-"

Shouting is the one thing you don't do. You fight. You argue. You walk away. But you don't let anger boil over to the point of raising your voices at the other. Your therapist finds it healthy. But you both know it's from a combination of your PTSD triggers and shared trauma.

"Do me a fucking favor and sleep in our bed." You hiss, ripping the pillow from his hands and throwing it back onto the bed.

Before the next wave of pain hits you, you disappear into the bathroom to splash water on your flushed face.

Jack stands still for a moment, instant regret shooting through him. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his palms.

He calls out for you again, softer.

"I'm leaving! Fuck." You stumble back into the room, face wet, eyes burning. You find him looking up at you with a sadness you've only seen once before. Your heart palpitates with sorrow. Each skipped beat a reminder of all the loss and heartbreak.

"Please." He gestures at the duvet, gently touching the empty space next to him. "Stay."

In a moment of vulnerability, you truly see your husband in front of you. Your person.

With familiar effortlessness you kneel down in front of him, your hands resting gently on his tensed thighs.

A glimpse of what was. Intimate and tender.

Your hands find his prosthetic, sliding it off with practiced ease, slowly working it out of the socket.

"You're not broken."

Your words wrap around his heart, loving and earnest, like your hands massaging his leg.

You linger in his space, staring directly into his soul. Your eyes expressing more than every language in the world.

"You're whole."

Jack’s thumb instinctively caresses your cheek. The kind of closeness you both crave deeply, but haven't found in each other in far too long.

You both slide onto the bed, silently staring up at the ceiling.

Jack turns to look at you, before softly placing his palm on your abdomen.

"Is that really what you want?" He whispers into the darkness, afraid to hear your answer.

The silence hangs heavy with the words unsaid.

You notice the awful ringing in your ears first.

It's so fucking loud.

At the same time, you can't hear anything at all. Your brain is too slow to catch up.

Jack, the other medic in your unit, - and secret fling - just handed you a cheap beer. You were eating burnt food. As usual, when you were in charge of dinner.

Why are you on the ground?

Sharp objects pierce your sunburnt skin. A cocktail of sand and ash forces its way inside your mouth and nostrils, making you gag. You gasp for air, willing the dust around you to disperse.

But a cloud of darkness blinds you. Fiery sparks and flashes shooting through the air without direction.

Then it hits you, like a second wave of explosives.

Your unit was ambushed.

Where's Jack?

You stumble to your feet, desperately looking for something to hold onto. To steady you. Rough hands suddenly grab at you, pulling you behind metal walls for cover.

Your sergeant. Shouting at you like there's no tomorrow, but you can't make out what.

He's violently shaking your shoulders, then just as quickly, he's somewhere else. You drop back against the wall with a harsh thud.

It takes all of your energy to let your head fall to one side. When you spot him. Just out of the corner of your eye.

Jack.

On the ground.

Gasping, breathing erratically, staring up at the sky, like he's waiting to become a part of it.

For a second you let your eyes dart to where he's looking.

A beautiful, peaceful sight. The world above you, blissfully unaware of the atrocities going on below.

Something brings you back. A distorted sound.

A low, agonizing cry. You don't know where it's coming from, until your eyes shoot back to Jack.

Still on the ground.

Fuck. You're trained for this.

Why is he not moving? Why aren't you?

Your eyes scan his body, your medical instincts taking over like muscle memory. Assessing.

Your gaze lands on his torso. There's no obvious trauma, your eyes move lower, towards his hips, his pelvis, down to his legs.

Then you see it. The massive gash below his right knee.

You don't think. You just react.

Don't even register your seargent shouting at you again. Your legs carrying you to Jack's side, dropping to your knees beside him.

Not as his partner, not his girlfriend.

There's barely a trace of the woman he's grown to love, only the professional, hardened combat medic.

With one goal.

Assess, stabilize, evacuate.

Your hands move on autopilot, tightening a tourniquet just below his knee. Desperate to stop the-

To stop the love of your life from bleeding out!!

Your professional demeanor cracks, your eyes suddenly dart to Jack's. His are already on you. Holding onto you like you're the anchor tying him to this life.

The tourniquet holds. Your hands find his face. Desperate to comfort him in any way you can.

You can't speak. Neither does Jack.

And you still cannot hear a thing.

Not even when muffled thuds go off. You don't acknowledge your team readying their guns. Your only focus is Jack.

Then you feel it. Not the impact, but the warm liquid instantly soaking your uniform.

Your eyes flicker to your abdomen. It doesn't register immediately.

Though when it does, the world suddenly regains volume. The sound almost deafening.

Fuck.

No Man's Land.

But it doesn't matter. Only one thing does.

Protect Jack.

You throw your body over his, shielding him from whatever's coming.

You can feel his ragged breaths against your neck, your blood leaking into his uniform. Flooding him with your warmth, while your skin grows cold.

If this is goodbye, there’s no one you’d rather be with.

Minutes pass.

The dust settles. The sounds slow. But unfortunately, so does your breathing.

It takes all of your energy to lift your head just enough to find Jack's eyes underneath you. Looking up at you with a sadness you hope to God you'll never see again.

He's scared to death. Though not for himself.

You give him a brave smile to reassure him, before dropping onto your back.

There's too much blood.

Jack's. Yours. It's all one.

If you go, he’ll follow. And vice versa.

Without wasting a second, one of Jack's arms pulls you closer, throwing his hand over your wound. Gathering all of his remaining strength to apply pressure.

To protect you.

The world around you starts to fade. Your team moves around you frantically.

But you and Jack, just lie there, still, holding each other.

Until darkness takes you.

You wake to an empty bed, made perfectly, like it wasn't slept in. You stumble into the kitchen to find your coffee and go-bag ready on the counter, the habitual gesture making you smile, before the sadness rushes back in.

Is that really what you want?

Then you notice the stick-it note attached to the fridge.

We should talk to someone.

Vague as ever.

A therapist? A lawyer? God?

A jarring ding pulls you out of your head.

You open the door swiftly, being greeted with an iced oat latte and your favorite pastries from the coffee shop across the street. A cheap attempt at a peace offering.

"Have we calmed down or are we still pouting?" Walsh's sarcastic tone echoes through the hallway.

You attempt to slam the door shut, but she beats you to it, quickly wedging her foot into the frame. You roll your eyes, hard, before making your way back into your living room. Satisfied, she accepts the invitation and follows you in.

"It wasn't your place to get involved." You state, serious, crossing your arms and sinking into your corner of the couch.

Walsh sets the coffee down next to you before placing the pastries on the bottom shelf of your fridge. Her movements are familiar, like she's done this a thousand times.

With a groan she sits down on the other end of the couch, your eyes tracking her.

"Someone had to say it." She states nonchalantly, sipping her own latte.

Sure no one else would've dared. But…

"It was still fucked up."

She sighs deeply, leaning forward to shove the cup closer to you, like the ice can melt away the betrayal. "I'm sorry."

You nod, reluctantly taking a sip of your coffee.

"I suggested a divorce." You blurt out.

Emery almost chokes on her drink, eyes wide. "You what?"

God. Her reaction somehow makes it worse.

"I just don't see a way of moving forward, Em. Something needs to change."

Emery nods.

"We were happier once, weren't we?" You ask, like a child seeking reassurance from a parent.

"I don't know." Walsh answers truthfully. "But you were sadder before him."

"Do you think I smother him?"

Emery leans in, taking your hand. "You saved each other. In more ways than one." She gives you a squeeze. "Maybe you forgot that being married is more than sharing a home."

Though you usually work night shifts now, you've agreed to take a day one, your and Jack's shifts only slightly overlapping.

Preparing for the madness to come, you find yourself on the roof of PTMC to watch the world come alive before your eyes. The first rays of sunshine spreading warmth across your skin against the cold of the night.

This is where Jack comes to process particularly bad cases. It means something to him. So it does to you too.

It didn't surprise you that Jack proposed on a roof. Not this one. He's not that morbid. It was your first apartment. But without any grand gesture. No fairy lights, cozy blankets or candlelight dinner.

It was simple.

Just two people, in love.

To be fair there was a blanket. One. And he wrapped you both in it, while you were watching the stars above. Or at least you were. Jack was gazing at something far more mesmerizing. His future flashing before his eyes, like a shooting star.

Everything that's truly ever mattered, leaning into him. Seeking comfort in the darkness, finding it in his warmth. And he in yours.

“Marry me.” He whispered it with a confidence like he already knew what you were going to say.

You only just notice you stepped under the railing, a little too close to the edge. But somehow, you get the appeal. Of how being this close to certain death makes you feel weirdly alive.

The door creaks open, you don't have to turn around to know who it is. You can hear it in his footsteps.

"I'm in your spot." You state, beating Jack to it.

"I hate it when you do this." He mutters under his breath, approaching slowly.

"Ditto." You counter with a smirk, turning your head slightly to shoot him a glance.

"If you lose balance, you go over... that’s it."

"Don’t be so dramatic." You sigh theatrically.

He shifts his weight and groans, arms clinging onto the railing. Your eyes flicker to him, as he rests his head.

Your brows furrow. "You okay?"

He lifts his head just enough to look at you. "Are you?"

You can't help but smile. He returns it with a grin, announcing his dry humor is about to make a guest appearance. "Aim for the bay, otherwise you’ll hit the roof and end up on my table."

You laugh, like you haven't in years. A reminder of before.

He huffs. "But I hope you know, if you jump, I’ll hate you forever."

"I thought you already did." You say it as a joke, but it hits a nerve. Jack's face grows serious.

You turn to fully face him. "I know it wasn't you. Yesterday. With Em."

"Yeah." He mouths, understanding. "But it took you back." A statement, not a question.

"I felt it." Your eyes begin to sting with a familiar burn. "The pain, the fear... the thought of losing you-"

"I swear we were friends." Jack interrupts, unable to shake his thoughts. You tilt your head in confusion. "Before all this. Before the pitt, the tours, coming back."

You listen, even though it really fucking hurts. Because it's true.

"Before we were lovers. Before we became strangers." He sighs deeply. “I don’t recognize us. We never run away from the hard stuff.”

A realization suddenly hits you. "I think I changed. And so did you. But we didn't.”

Your inhales deepen, both of you now breathing in perfect harmony.

Jack leans closer, tilting his head to make sure his words reach your soul. "I want this. This life. With you. I'll never stop wanting it. Even if you choose to walk away."

"I don't..." Jack's face drops, you quickly elaborate. "I don't want to leave you, Jack. My worst fear is a life without you."

Jack exhales like he wasn't breathing until now, sadness, grief and heartbreak visibly leaving his body.

You lean in too. "What if we find new ways to share it?"

Years of unresolved sadness finally come to light. Beautifully mirrored by the rising sun. Another chapter.

A new beginning.

Jack reaches for your hand. Only this time you don't pull away. You stay. And let Jack hold you. Like he promised. Like you both did.

Every day.

© quickestgold, 2025.

Taglist: @mayabbot @sus-styles @clarasmoon @ezraphalitis @ncsls0515 @melancholyy-hill lmk if you want to be added! ☼

[sassy-pistachy]

PRE SEASON 2 RECAP (spoilers for the end of TMA and TMAGP's Season 2 trailer)

We're so close to be back! I have SO MANY Important questions that are gnawing at my mind... It's a long post so, keep reading to join my meltdown :D I want to know your thoughts!

-Where are SAM and the ARCHIVIST?

It seems both are currently in the PRIMELINE (as the Season 2 Trailer Transcript says), aka TMA's original universe. We all assumed it got rid of the Fears after TMA's finale, but the Transcript says "sounds of unsettling not-quite human things can be heard". So… it’s not as clear as we thought. Was Jon and Martin’s sacrifice for nothing? :( Also, it seems they don’t come out together. If you read the transcripts, the Epilogue describes Sam exiting the rift in “London’s Exclusion Zone” without mentioning the Archivist. Then the Season 2 Trailer describes the Archivist exiting the rift without mentioning Sam…

-THE ROYAL SOCIETY, THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE, THE OIAR and STARKWALL

THE ROYAL SOCIETY is an organisation of High Achieving Intellectuals (like Robert Boyle and Robert Hooke), researching alchemy (among other things), and erasing dangerous knowledge when needed through executing Protocols. 

At some point, some alchemists founded THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE to research Alchemy together, as “they had reached the limit of what they could achieve alone”. Their end goal was completing the Millenium Ritual in the year 2000, but they were stopped.

The OIAR “manages the bad guys”. There’s opposite forces (both benevolent and not) in the world, and the OIAR monitores them to keep the balance. The Response Department used to work with STARKWALL and executed at least one Protocol that we know of:

The Institute got destroyed by Starkwall in 1999, under the orders of the OIAR's Response Department and William Price, who ran the department. At some point after this, Starkwall and the OIAR ceased working together, and the Response Department disappeared.

-List of executed PROTOCOLS (that we know so far)

-1666: The Great Fire of London

Procedure: FIRE

Executed by: The Royal Society

Trying to stop: The bubonic plague?

-Around 1684: Newton’s Laboratory

Procedure: FIRE

Executed by: The Royal Society

Trying to stop: Newton’s research on Alchemy and experiments on Arbor Philosophorum Perfecta

-1999: The Magnus Institute

Procedure: FIRE

Executed by: Starkwall, under OIAR's orders

Trying to stop: The Institute’s research on Alchemy? The “Millenium Ritual”, planned to happen in the year 2000, attempting “Universal Transmutation”

-2016: Hilltop Centre branch of Oxford Peoples Trust?

Procedure: FIRE

Executed by: Starkwall

Trying to stop: Something like a ritual

The 2016 Fire at Hilltop apparently happens after the OIAR and Starkwall cease relations. So... WHO ordered that Protocol?

-Why is CELIA in this universe??

After TMA's finale, its easy to understand why Jon, Martin and Jonah get pulled through the Rift at Hilltop and spit somewhere else. But WHY CELIA?

Also, how long has it been since they arrived? Alice says the text to speech started 1 year ago, and Celia says her son Jack is around 1 year old. But she also says she had "a couple of wild years after she moved here" before having Jack...

-FR3-d1 (or Freddie), The Incidents and Voyeurism

Who records the Incidents? Whatever it is, it has access through many types of technology. But I find more interesting asking, who's listening to the OIAR staff? We spy the lives of the OIAR workers through the podcast. In TMA, they explained the "voyeurism" of the listeners through The Web. It was The Web, through the tape recorders, who wanted to spy and listen to the characters. We listened to whatever The Web was interested in. Whose intentions are we listening through now?

And what triggers the text to speech? At first, I thought only the "text to speech" incidents were "supernatural" in nature, similar to TMA's "only records on magnetic tape". But Lena says to Gwen in ep13 "whatever horrible case you read, it happened". So if ALL incidents are "real", what makes the text to speech ones different?

Previous | Next

[sam24]

Metal Arm Cupid

Summary: Bucky didn't know what to expect in the 21st century. But he definitely didn't expect cute girls to barge into meeting rooms and beat people up.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

*****

Bucky made no attempt to stifle his yawn as he pretended to listen to the debrief (that was looking more like an argument to him) that was going on way too long for his liking, earning a sharp glare from Steve, but Bucky could tell that deep down, Steve wanted to hightail outta there too.

“Stop taking all the credit, Josh. I was the one who stabbed him. You just sat there and watched like an obese cow.”

Josh (Bucky thought his name was Jack until now) scoffed. “That’s Agent 16 to you, Avery.”

“It’s actually Avril, you little-”

“Agents, you better stop this instantly.” Fury narrowed his eyes at the bickering partners.

“Stop embarrassing me in front of the Avengers, Evelyn, and let me do the talking. Clearly you can’t because of those oversized donkey teeth of yours.” Josh paid no heed to Fury.

The girl (Avril?) gasped and her hand instinctively flew to cover her mouth. “Why you-”

“Okay, that’s enough.” A dangerously calm voice rang through the room.

All eyes flew towards Natasha, you looked like she was going to murder the next person who opened their mouth.

“This is why I don’t go on missions with sensitive baby agents.” She muttered in Russian.

Bucky cracked a smile.

“How come no one listens to me?” Fury grumbled.

“Probably because you aren’t a trained assassin with 20 different weapons hidden on your body, and I bet you also don’t know 5 different ways to kill someone with an oven mitt.” Clint whispered in Fury’s ear.

“It doesn’t matter who stabbed who, it matters what happened in the end. And in the end, I was the one you saved your ungrateful asses, so you can stop arguing like toddlers now.” Natasha growled.

Her eyes narrowed specifically at Josh.

Nobody spoke. Probably because no sane person wanted a bullet from Natasha’s gun in their head.

“You seriously couldn’t have done that 20 minutes ago?”

Of course, though, Tony Stark was far from sane.

“Shut up, Tony.” At least 5 different people said at the same time.

Josh cleared his throat, recovering from his mini paralysis stroke.

“No offense, but-”

Before Josh could get himself killed, loud voices outside of the door made everyone turn.

Honestly, they all probably would’ve turned even to watch a fly so they could ignore Josh’s excuses.

“Miss, I can’t let you-”

“I really don’t care, so move. Now.”

Bruce immediately sat up. “Is that Ace?”

“Oh, thank god.” Tony let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “I’m so bored right now, maybe she’ll make this actually interesting.”

Even though Bucky’s stay at the compound started recently, he had heard plenty of stories about you, the infamous ‘Ace’. To what he’d heard, you worked at the lab with Bruce and Tony, like a daughter to them both. You were an ‘intellectual sage’ (described by Barton), hence the nickname, Ace.

“I said, MOVE!”

“Banner, what is the meaning of this?” Fury ordered.

Bruce furrowed his eyebrows and completely ignored him. “What in the world is she doing?”

“Banner!”

“I SAID MOVE, DAMNIT.” A loud thud followed closely and the door was flung open so hard it practically ripped off of its hinges.

“Lord have mercy.” Bruce buried his face into his hands as you barged into the room, pulling along a terrified looking girl behind you.

Bucky’s eyebrows raised with interest as he took in your purple highlights, Converse High-Tops, and Gravity Falls shirt peeking out from under your lab coat.

“Look, missy, in case you haven’t noticed, this is a private meeting. I’m going to give you 5 seconds to leave before I have you escorted out instantly.” Fury demanded.

“Yeah, that’s cool, Patchy the Pirate, just give me a minute.” You weren’t even looking at Fury as you scanned the room.

“Ha! Patchy the Pirate! Laura’s gonna love this!” Clint smacked his hand on the table and leaned his chair back (and almost fell backwards if Steve didn’t catch it, but that’s not the point).

Fury looked like he was seriously contemplating life as you still didn’t spare him a glance, and your narrowed hawk eyes landed on someone behind Bucky.

He followed your gaze to meet Josh, who had raised two fingers in the air cockily to greet you and the girl behind you.

“Josh, you mother fucker.”

And before Steve could say ‘language!’ (yes, Bucky had caught on pretty quickly after Tony would say it every other sentence), you had crossed the room in what felt like just two strides and socked Josh right in the jaw.

The room erupted in chaos.

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Steve was up on his feet in a millisecond, his Captain America side taking over.

“That’s it, honey! Do it again!” Tony cheered.

“Is this some kind of Midgardian greeting that I have not yet been informed of?”

“Someone tell me what the hell is going on in my own meeting!”

“That was the best thing I’ve seen in my whole life.” Avril grinned.

Natasha didn’t say anything, but her face clearly said ‘girl, me too’.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.” Sam chuckled from next to Bucky.

“Same.” Bucky muttered under his breath.

“Whoa hold up, did you just agree with me??”

“Shut up, pigeon brain.”

“Excu-”

The only thing that stopped Sam and Bucky’s cat fight was another punch to Josh’s precious face, this time right in the nose.

Bruce tried to reason with you from across the whole ass room, practically shouting over all the commotion as Steve tried to pull you away from Josh.

“Ace, sweetheart, why don’t you talk it out instead of going straight to violence? Doesn’t that sound like a better idea?”

“Sounds great, Bruce, but that’s not an option anymore!” You shouted back over your shoulder.

“Look, champ, it’s not right to randomly punch people like that!” Steve was still trying to pry you away from Josh.

“Look, Pops,” You mocked. “It’s also not right to cheat on your girlfriend with some random chick you ran into at a bar!”

Everything stopped.

Except Josh’s struggling from your grasp.

“He cheated on you?” Tony broke the silence, looking like he was going to blast Josh into outer space. “Wait, when were you guys even together? And why in the goddamn world would you date that guy?”

“Not me, dimwit, her.” You point your free hand that was not gripped on Josh’s collar at the girl behind you, looking ready to sprint out of there when all eyes landed on her.

“Just leave it, ma moitié, it’s not worth it.” She said quietly, her words coated in a thick french accent.

Bucky recognized her as the nice agent who gave him a coffee last week after Sam ‘accidentally’ knocked over Bucky’s.

“Just leave it? Absolutely not, hun!”

“Listen to her, Ace.” Bruce pleaded.

“No! This sleazy bastard cheated on my best friend! No fucking way! Literally, who the hell would cheat on a cute french girl?”

“Ace, violence isn’t the right way to-”

“Excuse me?” Josh’s voice rang out, sounding like someone was holding his nose closed shut. “Can someone get me an ice pack?”

You whipped around towards him.

“You. Want. An. Ice pack.” You restated, shooting daggers- no, 7 inch sharp kitchen knives at him.

“My nose hurts.” Josh rolled his eyes. “Y’know, after you turned all Crazy Psycho Lady on me and broke it.”

“You know what?” Your smile dripped with bitterness and sarcasm. “How about I punch it again so it’ll go numb and it won’t hurt anymore?”

You reached your arm backwards to land another punch, but Steve rushed to grab you again, and the chaos resumed.

Tony was instructing you to “kick Steve in the balls and resume beating the shit out of Josh”, while Bruce was very strongly vetoing the idea.

Sam and Clint, meanwhile, were placing bets on how much the medical bill was gonna be.

Suddenly, Bruce rushed over to Bucky.

“Look, man, you gotta help me.”

Bucky looked at Bruce with wide eyes. “Me?”

“Yeah! If you tell her to stop, she would in a heartbeat!”

“Why?” Bucky knew where this was going.

“Because of your metal arm!”

Bucky’s heart sank. Of course you were scared of it. Everyone was. They thought it made him a monster.

So did he.

Even though he was so, so grateful to Shuri for trying to help him feel like a new person with a new arm that wasn’t associated with HYDRA, that bloody ruthless murderer that they made him into never seemed to leave.

He would always be him.

No matter how hard he tried, the memories followed him like a lost puppy, attacking at night when he was trying to sleep.

No matter how hard he tried, he could never shake off the imprint HYDRA had left on him.

No matter how hard he tried or how much Steve told him otherwise, Bucky was still a monster.

A cruel, cold-hearted, evil monster who killed the innocent.

Who killed innocent men, women, and children who didn’t deserve to be killed.

He was the one who deserved to be killed.

“She’s absolutely obsessed with it!”

Bucky choked on his spit.

“Wha-w-what?”

“She adores it.” Bruce rushed. “She says it’s, and I quote, the most beautiful and extraordinary thing to ever be made in history.”

Okay, so apparently Bucky did not know where that was going.

“Still not convinced?” Bruce groaned. “She thinks it’s the most amazing thing in the galaxy. She says it’s the ‘peak of engineering’. You can ask Tony if you still don’t believe me.”

Tony wasn’t extremely fond of Bucky, and neither was Bucky of him, so he decided to take Bruce’s word for it, no matter how much it shocked him.

She likes my arm?

Just because she likes your arm doesn’t mean she likes you, idiot.

“Uh, okay? So, um, what do I do?”

“Tell her to stop!” Bruce lightly shoved Bucky forward when he slowly got up out of his seat.

Bucky hesitantly took a step forward, his mind still trying to process everything.

Bucky maneuvered around Steve, tapping you - who was still out to get it for Josh- on the shoulder after a moment of hesitation.

“Bruce, I already told you, it’s too late-” You spun out of Steve’s grip, but your mouth dropped open when you realized it was not Bruce.

You stared at Bucky with wide eyes. But not out of fear.

Out of adoration.

He was struck with a sudden flash of nostalgia of how his mom looked at him when he gave her a card for Mother’s Day when he was 6.

"Oh, Jamie, I love it.” She had said as she read it with a soft smile.

And that same smile was on your face. “Um, hi there.”

He smiled back.

But not one of those fake smiles he put on to make Steve happy. An actual genuine smile.

And it felt good.

You smoothed out your coat, taking in a breath. “Can I help you?”

Steve stared at the two of you, a grin spreading onto his face.

“I’m not surprised. Those psychos are perfect for each other.” Josh rolled his eyes.

Neither of you heard him.

“Hi, I’m Bucky.”

“She knows.” Tony groaned.

“Shut up, Tony.” Your eyes never left Bucky’s. “Hi Bucky.”

He saw your eyes light up as they made their way to look at his metal arm.

Bruce cleared his throat loudly.

“So, um, Ace. The arm has been giving me a bit of trouble recently. I was wondering if you could maybe take a look at it?” Bucky glanced at Bruce before looking back at you.

“He means now.” Bruce added.

You looked like you were going to faint out of excitement.

“Y-yeah, of course.”

Bruce let out a loud sigh of relief.

“Um, actually.” Bucky started.

Bruce’s head shot up and started mouthing something to Bucky - probably something along the lines of ‘No! Get her out of here before she kills him!’- but he was busy looking at you.

“Maybe you wanna grab a coffee first?”

[speakyn]

Random facts about the Daltons

- Joe was born in Kansas (The Uncles Daltons)

- The brothers are capable of reading(Averell a bit less good than the others) (Ma Dalton)

- Their father died because he used dynamite to break open safes (Ma Dalton)

- Ma's nickname for Joe is 'Joey' (Ma Dalton)

- For William it's 'Willy' (Ma Dalton)

- Ma Dalton frequently got Dad Dalton out of jail before the brothers were born (Ma Dalton)

- Ma eventually got her own restaurant (Ma Dalton)

- The brothers have an uncle called Marcel who's the black sheep of the family, as he is the only one who's actually a good guy (Marcel Dalton)

- When Dad Dalton was once locked up, Ma hid a snake in the sheriff's bed (Kid Lucky or Oklahoma Jim)

- William's lucky number is 27 (Lone Riders)

- Jack can write, but makes spelling mistakes (Lone Riders)

- Ma seems to like/tolerate Luke, even though he always sends her sons to jail (Ma Dalton/The Uncles Daltons/Lone Riders)

- Joe is capable of doing origami (Marcel Dalton)

- The Daltons have been in jail for at least 28 times (The Uncles Daltons)

- Jack is the most intellectual (A Cowboy in High Cotton)

[sarkos]

The group, described as a fringe group of radical Berkeley pseudo-intellectuals, is believed to be behind the double homicide of a wealthy Pennsylvania couple, two knife attacks on a landlord in California and the shootout in Vermont that left one member dead.Four alleged members of the group are already in custody on murder charges while three are on the run, including Jack Amadeus “Ziz” LaSota, 34, who goes by she/her pronouns and is the group’s apparent leader. Some of the members have worked at the tech giant Google, and many have advocated for veganism and identify as transgender. Along the way, the group is believed to have bought a tugboat in Alaska under a plan to live on it to avoid high rents in northern California. The tugboat, part of the group’s “Rationalist Fleet”, now sits half-submerged near Pillar Point Harbor near San Jose. Much of what is known about the Zizians’ philosophy is gleaned from online postings in which LaSota wondered what would happen to society if it were stripped of morality through “evil people ganging up to kill off good people” or if the group’s goals “ultimately required sociopathy”. In one instance, according to an article in SFGate published earlier in February, LaSota faked her death. An obituary posted online mentioned a boating accident and spoke of LaSota “loving adventure, friends and family, music, blueberries, biking, computer games and animals”. But an analysis of interviews and online postings published by the Associated Press on Friday revealed how the group of young computer scientists appeared to have become increasingly violent.

Killings across three states shine spotlight on cultlike ‘Zizian’ group | US crime | The Guardian

[th3-0bjectivist]

My visit to the NASCAR Hall of Fame (Charlotte, NC - JUN 29 2024)

Every year for a few years now, I try to do an Independence Day post where I walk around a few cemeteries and snap some cool photos. But this is an election year, and I'm concerned that I'm going to have to soft-block some political zealot high on their own farts that will leave intellectual gems in the comments like 'Drumpf IZ Hitler!' or 'down with left-cucks in 24!'. So instead, I'm going to share some pictures that I took at the NASCAR Hall of Fame in Charlotte, and you can leave all the unrelated jabbering political frivolity that you'd like in the comments section.

For the record, I'm not into NASCAR at all. I haven't watched a full single race in my lifetime, and I tend to associate it with rednecks driving in circles. Which, to my chagrin, I was dead wrong in my interpretation on. Well, except for the redneck part. There's a hell of a lot more to these beautiful cars than I thought. My visit to this specialized museum was a delicate mix of history, art and science lessons!

The first thing I learned is that although these cars look fully assembled from the outside, they have nearly all the standard parts taken out (the radio, the average driver wheel, the headlights, etc.) and the bodies are composed of a flat sheet of durable metal. These days the car panels, which are composite materials like plastic coated with fibreglass, are then painted over to make a colorful, and often very corporate piece of art that is ready to drive at breakneck speeds. This all makes the modified car as light and agile as possible on the speedway.

In the U.S. south, where I reside these days, stock car racing's roots took hold from prohibition. Stock car racing wasn't just about competition; it was about taking your very fast car and running moonshine and illegally imported booze to different regions around Appalachia. Getting away from highway patrol meant stripping your car of excessive weight and parts, allowing for maximum maneuverability around hairpin turns and extreme acceleration up and down steep hills… all while a 1000-pound barrel of booze was strapped down in the back seat.

This is a picture I snapped inside the Hall of Honor, and that man is Richard 'the King' Petty. As a non-NASCAR fan, his face is the face I most associate with NASCAR, as his signature moustache, glasses and hat stand out to me as a truly memorable and iconic driver. But it’s not just the driver that participates. In NASCAR, your team is composed of a chief, who spots opportunities from television monitors and signals the driver through radio to execute specific moves to win the race, all while managing the rest of the team.

The pit crew consists of mechanics, a jackman (runs around the car with a heavy jack to raise the automobile during a maintenance pit stop), a cut-off valve attendant for refuelling, and a driver attendant who helps the driver get in and out of the car. It doesn't just take an individual driver, but a full team to assist the driver in winning the race. Drivers have suffered concussions, bone fractures, severe burns, whiplash, traumatic bodily injuries and death. Talk about bleeding for your craft!

And now for some art! Pictured above is a full-scale clay model of a Next Gen Ford Mustang. These days, clay models of racing cars are developed from digital designs and used to capture approvals from companies to lay down a final design for a race-worthy automobile. Once you pack a V-8 engine into one of these babies and recreate it out of a steel tube frame, you've got a vehicle that can reach speeds above 200 miles per hour.

Here's my pops, Dave, who I took to this museum as a birthday present. He's a NASCAR freak, and this little excursion to the Hall of Fame actually made him cry for a beat as he recalled decades worth of memories of racers, historic moments, and images of historic back-to-back victories for drivers and their teams.

Every car has the potential to be a race car. It just takes some weight-loss surgery or a good initial design, some driver safety features, and a colorful skin to make the whole thing faster, more agile, and more appealing to the eye. I have to say I never expected to absorb so much from the NASCAR HoF. I was grateful for my visit and wanted to share a portion of what I learned to Tumblr as a fun little sidebar.

I hope you enjoyed this post. And rest assured, you will never see another NASCAR post on my page ever again… y'know, unless it’s a meme or something!

Happy 4th,

th3-0bjectivist (Luke)

[ADDENDUM (07/05/2024): Tumblr ryanthedemiboy pointed out to me in the comments that the third paragraph in this post probably needed some modifications regarding the actual description of the panels, which I originally and ignorantly described as an ‘outer metal hull’. While this might have been the case with older NASCAR vehicles, in modern times the panels are at best ‘metal-skinned’, if that, and manufactured from carbon fibre. Also, older NASCAR vehicles were painted and repainted, but ever since the early 2000’s these vehicles are simply wrapped in a vinyl skin. Thank you for your insight ryanthedemiboy, I will ‘stay in my lane’ so to speak in the future and give these topics, that are alien to me, the research they deserve before I post!]

[possiblystancest]

YESSS sub ford is so good, i wanna see that man humiliated six ways from sunday, and i'm sure stan does too

YOU GET ME NONNY-

He holds himself in too high of regards- arrogance blinds his vision and actions.

Perhaps someone should be the one making the decisions for him if he's going to be acting like this~

It starts small, nudging him with a sharp elbow when he speaks before he's spoken to - conditioning him to the point where he would be a bit hesitant to boast/give his criticism until he looks back at Stan/whoever and they give him a nod to speak

Then, some more additions. Perhaps he makes a mess of the living room while tinkering at the tv to access more "intellectual stations". Of course, that won't do. So, he's made to clean his mess, while Stan finds some scrambled porn station (with two dude which coincidentally look like him and Ford going at it) so poor Ford has to clean while sporting a raging hard on and he'll only get "help" once that room is spick and span😎

Turns out Ford can clean really good when the prospect of sex is put on the table. How greedy/naughty of him. To leave the cleaning to Stan while he had always been fully capable.

That means that Ford is not rewarded with sex. Nope instead Stan points to his thigh (rather generous) and tells Ford he'll get off this way or not at all.

Ofc Ford could just sulk off and jack off in his room. But, in the last few weeks, that conditioning and sublet sub pushing has Ford practically thanking Stan for letting him hump his thigh.

Stan just hums, enjoying those little nosies that Ford is producing as he rides his thigh feverishly.

He runs his hands through Ford's hair, giving a soft tug to the roots and chuckles when he feels Ford's body jerk, then go limp as he cums in his pants and all over Stan's thigh~♡

Then, Stan guides Ford's hand to his crotch, palming his errection and looks at Ford.

"You can say thank you by helping me out now, sweetheart."

[night-raven-tattler]

Tatter, my dearest <3

How are you, sweetie?

I was thinking: What are your favorite hc for your favorite twst characters? Or do you have some extremely specific idea of someone like "yeah, Floyd definitely never open jars, he just break them"?

-🌙

Hello 🌙! The Tattler is, as always, tattling. Life is busy as always, she supposes, as it's supposed to be for all students. His secret blog is steadily approaching quite an impressive milestone, and they're contemplating possible celebration methods.

Alas, there is no rest for the wicked, and so the Night Raven Tattler Investigative Team has come across a very interesting array of information...

Miscellaneous observations made by the Night Raven Tattlers

Warnings: none

By opening the document, you agree to Mx Tattly's terms of source confidentiality.

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Ace and Deuce share a lot of mannerisms, but Ace tends to gesticulate upwards to make himself look more confident and badass while Deuce tends to gesticulate downwards and keeps his hands close to his body to not seem too threatening

While Vil usually reffers to his father as "dad", he occasionally calls him "daddy" over the phone and Eric gets very sentimental over it

Jamil had a very well hidden chuuni/cringey nerd phase

Sebek is hard of hearing since he has some hearing loss in his left ear

Jack knows how to crochet

Grim's purrs sound like firewood crackling

Axe body sprays and similar body sprays are forbidden from the Savanaclaw dorm due to the students' sensitive sense of smell

Grim photobombs every picture you take. Every. Single. Picture.

Kalim has a lot of inside pockets sewn inside his cardigan, and all of them are filled with pretty rocks

Before laundry day, Jamil goes with Kalim to Octavinelle and gives all the rocks in Kalim's cardigan to Jade, who in turn gives him some mushrooms to cook

Every two weeks, Octavinelle and Scarabia students gather in the courtyard and hold random debates, proving that their intellectual rivarly runs beyond class time

The statue of the King of the Underworld never gets wet during the rain

Riddle was a heart suit student when he was first sorted into Heartslabyul

Rook has a collection of vintage dolls that resemble Vil's appearance, and their eyes move everytime someone passes by them

Ace, Cater and Vil give the Prefect some hand me downs from time to time

Heartslabyul holds the Prefect in very high regards, and it's the dorm that treats them the nicest out of all of them

『••✎••』

[paperbackpanic]

WHAT CREEPS ARE AUTISTIC? + SUPPORT LEVELS

A/n: this are the pastas I personally think are autistic and why because I am autistic and I'll pass down the autism.

ATTENTION: Most of these don't have relation to my other headcanons, is just for good fun. The only one that really applies to my other headcanons is Jane. Cody and Toby can be implied but not really mentioned

Jane: I'm projecting

Cody (xvirus): because I said so

Hoodie/Brian: Because he's literally me

Toby: Because he already has ADHD and tourettes so he might as well get the whole pack

Bloody Painter: I'm projecting²

Sally: Because autism is coquette and she's too

Eyeless Jack: Because why not?

These are the autism support levels

This is not set in stone, levels can fluctuate during the week/month based on how stressed the autistic person is or how well therapy/treatment is going. A person can also be between 2 levels, I myself am between level 1 and 2, because of my high masking. I have great social difficultys but can do day to day activities (mostly) fine, although on paper I'm level 1. Support levels can also be defined by concomitant disabilities, specially if they're intellectual (down syndrome, learning delay, etc)

Ok so now to the actual reasons

Jane: She's literally the embodiment of autism in afab people lmao. Her straightforward way of speaking, black and white thinking and strong sense of justice and difficulty forming connections are all very autistic traits. She's level 1 of support, 2 on bad days

Cody: High interest in microbiology = hyper focus + special interest. Bedsides I don't see him as "social" he prefers to be alone which could be either esquizoid personality disorder, autism or both. I'll go with both. He doesn't understand humans neither really like to be with them. They're level 2 (almost 3) support

Toby: Many psychological Disorders are accompanied with others, much like a pay one get three deal, tourettes, ADHD and autism are pretty common together. It is not always that "social difficultys" are tied to shyness or isolation, it can also be pushyness and a hyper personality much like Toby's personality. He's level 1

Hoodie/Brian: In my head he's schizophrenic AND autistic. Which really makes his paranoia worse, autism already make you hear things people filter out (like electricity) this together with auditory hallucinations makes him have really bad meltdowns. He's level 3 of support but with all the bullshit he's been through he's forcing himself to be level 1, he don't manage it very well so he acts like a level 2

Bloody Painter: isn't really specified why he's bullied in the og as far as I remember and many autistic folks are bullied for no reason. His passion for painting and drawing can be seen as an hyper focus /special interest. Also his hate from loud places and crowds can be because of sensory overload. Helen also has a personality similar to mine when I was younger so why not haha. He's level 2 of support

Sally: Is pretty rare that girls are diagnosed with autism below the age of 16. So I'll give a little representation here. Her love for pink and typically girly things to the point of looking like a stereotype can be read as her special interest. Autistic girls are often more naive than the average girl of the same age, which more often than not leads to abuse/bullying, so one more point there. Not much else besides the "I want her to be autistic because I wish I was diagnosed much younger". She's level 1 support.

Eyeless jack: He's the embodiment of sensory issues, bedsides I see him as pretty socially inept, not that he doesn't like to socialize, He just don't really know how (like me). Also I see his medical skills as being a side product of his Human body special interest. He's level 2 support

[sassy-pistachy]

(open for full size)

PRE SEASON 2 RECAP (spoilers for the end of TMA and TMAGP's Season 2 trailer)

1 day untill Season 2! (at least for the Patrons and the Bakers). Let's celebrate with some obsessive note-taking.

-Where are SAM and the ARCHIVIST?

It seems both are currently in the PRIMELINE, which I'm assuming means TMA's original universe. At least, The Archivist is, as the Season 2 Trailer Transcript says. We all assumed it got rid of the Fears after TMA's finale, but the Transcript says "sounds of unsettling not-quite human things can be heard". So… it’s not as clear as we thought. Was Jon and Martin’s sacrifice for nothing? :( Also, it seems they don’t come out together. If you read the transcripts, the Epilogue describes Sam exiting the rift in “London’s Exclusion Zone” without mentioning the Archivist. Then the Season 2 Trailer describes the Archivist exiting the rift without mentioning Sam…

-THE ROYAL SOCIETY, THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE, THE OIAR and STARKWALL

THE ROYAL SOCIETY is an organisation of High Achieving Intellectuals (like Robert Boyle and Robert Hooke), researching alchemy (among other things), and erasing dangerous knowledge when needed through executing Protocols. 

At some point, some alchemists founded THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE to research Alchemy together, as “they had reached the limit of what they could achieve alone”. Their end goal was completing the Millenium Ritual in the year 2000, but they were stopped.

The OIAR “manages the bad guys”. There’s opposite forces (both benevolent and not) in the world, and the OIAR monitores them to keep the balance. The Response Department used to work with STARKWALL and executed at least one Protocol that we know of:

The Institute got destroyed by Starkwall in 1999, under the orders of the OIAR's Response Department and William Price, who ran the department. At some point after this, Starkwall and the OIAR ceased working together, and the Response Department disappeared.

-List of executed PROTOCOLS (that we know so far) -1666: The Great Fire of London Procedure: FIRE Executed by: The Royal Society Trying to stop: The bubonic plague? -Around 1684: Newton’s Laboratory Procedure: FIRE Executed by: The Royal Society Trying to stop: Newton’s research on Alchemy and experiments on Arbor Philosophorum Perfecta -1999: The Magnus Institute Procedure: FIRE Executed by: Starkwall, under OIAR's orders Trying to stop: The Institute’s research on Alchemy? The “Millenium Ritual”, planned to happen in the year 2000, attempting “Universal Transmutation” -2016: Hilltop Centre branch of Oxford Peoples Trust? Procedure: FIRE Executed by: Starkwall Trying to stop: Something like a ritual

The 2016 Fire at Hilltop apparently happens after the OIAR and Starkwall cease relations. So... WHO ordered that Protocol?

-Why is CELIA in this universe??

After TMA's finale, its easy to understand why Jon, Martin and Jonah get pulled through the Rift at Hilltop and spit somewhere else. But WHY CELIA?

Also, how long has it been since they arrived? Alice says the text to speech started 1 year ago, and Celia says her son Jack is around 1 year old. But she also says she had "a couple of wild years after she moved here" before having Jack...

-FR3-d1 (or Freddie), The Incidents and Voyeurism

Who records the Incidents? Whatever it is, it has access through many types of technology. But I find more interesting asking, who's listening to the OIAR staff? We spy the lives of the OIAR workers through the podcast. In TMA, they explained the "voyeurism" of the listeners through The Web. It was The Web, through the tape recorders, who wanted to spy and listen to the characters. We listened to whatever The Web was interested in. Whose intentions are we listening through now?

And what triggers the text to speech? At first, I thought only the "text to speech" incidents were "supernatural" in nature, similar to TMA's "only records on magnetic tape". But Lena says to Gwen in ep13 "whatever horrible case you read, it happened". So if ALL incidents are "real", what makes the text to speech ones different?

Previous

[wordsonfirefanfiction]

Father's Day

“You know, I’m getting awfully tired of reading how my father bought me the election. I think of all the things I did – I was the one out there.”

“Well, he certainly made a big contribution. What do you think drove him?”

“Vanity.”

---

June 18th, 1961

Kennedy Compound

Hyannis Port, Massachusetts

Sitting on the porch outside the house, Jack leaned back in his seat and let himself relax He was visiting home for Father’s Day, taking the time away from the White House for the occasion. Though only in office a few months, it wasn’t an unusual thing for him to do. What was unusual was that the entire clan, or a large portion of it, hadn’t gathered this time.

It was a small gathering of himself, Jackie, Caroline, John Jr., his mother and his father. Not something that ever really happened. Breakfast had been a simple, small celebration of the day, honoring both himself and his father and put together by the children, Jackie and Rose. Dinner would be a more formal affair as it usually was. The Kennedys didn’t have family dinners that weren’t serious and intellectual, even with their children grown up and a new generation joining them.

Since it was the day it was and he had a little time to just think, he let his mind wander to his father and technically the reason they were there today at all.

While Joe Kennedy Sr. loved his children, he spent much of his energy pushing them to heights he wished he himself could reach. Once thinking he could run for president in 1940 himself, the then ambassador to Great Britain was often mentioned in the papers as one of the half-dozen men likely to win the Democratic nomination. Though vain, Joe was also practical and he knew that there was no way America was ready to elect a Catholic president and so his ambition rested on his eldest son, Joe Jr, raising him like the heir to a throne, knowing that the kingdom was to be his and accepting this role without question.

Jack, growing up in his brother’s shadow, had a different kind of relationship with their father. While their mother was aloof and often absent, someone who rarely touched her children, let alone hugged them, Joe was the opposite. Joe Sr. was the hugger, the giver of unconditional love. But, toward Jack, in large part because of his health, Joe Sr. also showed a softness and empathy he rarely revealed to anyone else.

Always willing to set aside his work when his sons needed him, Joe Sr was also a complex and dominating figure. He had an insatiable need not to just succeed but to best. He was a man laced with his own prejudices and hatreds, quick to blame any resistance on bias against Irish Catholics. Something he wove into his children’s minds, giving them an us-against-the mentality and adding a tribal quality to the already interdependent siblings.

For the first twenty-seven years of his life, Jack got the best his father had to offer while being sheltered from his laser-beam focus. He used his position as second son as an observation post to study and reflect, not just perform and respond, to investigate, fail, think and be. But, even with all this, he did his best to be his father’s son and to live up to his high expectations.

Joe was quite the present parent when he could be, the opposite of Rose, visiting the children’s schools, meeting with their teachers, arranging their visits with their grandparents and takin them all out to dinner on the cook’s night off. He was on top of their schedules, their school reports and their study habits. He was also often absent for months at a time himself.

The legendary Kennedy family dinners were more rare than they seemed and when Joe was at the head of the table, there was always lively interaction; asking questions about activities and current events, urging his children to make their opinions known. Rose, on the other hand, tended to drill facts and lecture on behavior. When neither were present, Joe Jr. took up the mantle.

By the 1930’s Joe Jr and Jack entered their teens and Joe’s molding of them began in earnest.

In school, Joe Jr was the poster child, handsome, smart, a sportsman. He was awarded the Harvard Trophy as the senior best, earning much pride from his father and a year abroad to go with it which Jack begged to accompany on him but was denied due to poor grades.

Jack’s school years were quite different. He was seen as the personification of fun, ready with witty remarks and taking nothing, including his school work too seriously. His father’s notes to him were generally encouraging if exasperated and he often expressed his concern to the headmaster. Though tempted to come down hard on his second son, his continued illnesses gave him pause and made him focus on finding out the causes and the possible cures. His main concern then became that Jack not think of himself as sickly. Something Jack didn’t find out until much later but did cause him to project an aura that everything was fine and to fight harder to at least look healthy despite how he felt.

One thing that stood out even years later from his school years was when Jack had organized a group of several students who called themselves “The Muckers” turning the words the headmaster used to describe troublemakers into a badge of honor. Their antics were harmless such as sneaking out to get a milkshake and things like that. But, when the headmaster discovered Jack’s ‘leadership abilities’ he immediately got in touch with Joe Sr, who put aide his current business to come to the school.

In the headmaster’s office, father and son listened to the headmaster recount the error of Jack’s ways, Joe Sr voicing his complete support of the school and agreeing that Jack was motivated by ‘conceit and childishness.’

After the meeting, when the headmaster left the room, Joe Sr leaned in and whispered that if it had been his group the name would have started with another letter and ‘you can be sure it wouldn’t have started with the letter M!”

In that moment, several concepts were portrayed to Jack. One that he was proud of Jack’s leadership and that the disgrace was in getting caught, another that one had to toe the line publicly and appear to behave, and most significant that Joe’s support was unconditional. Despite being disappointed, Jack didn’t doubt that his father would be there when push came to shove.

Though Joe Sr never demanded that his sons agree with him on everything, he did always expect them to be able to defend their position, something Jack found much easier than his brother. Joe Jr tended toward knee-jerk support of his father while Jack found himself countering them.

After Joe Jr enlisted in the Navy, Jack tried to follow suit and it was only with his father’s help that he was successful in the endeavor. Becoming a hero himself after the PT-109 incident, he was nursing injuries when his older brother was shot down and all their father’s ambitions fell to him.

Though having thought to become a writer or something along those lines, knowing that his older brother would handle the politics and climb his way to office, Jack found himself thrust into that role instead because, despite his relationship with his father, plans had shifted. Their relationship shifted as well.

He could still remember the dramatic call he had received from his father. It had been like being drafted because Joe Sr wanted – demanded – that his oldest son go into politics.

And it had led to where they were now. With Jack as President of the United States.

Though it hadn’t been what he had initially wanted or planned for, he supposed he should still feel thankful to his father that he had forced him into public service, even if he felt that he had done a lot of the work himself. He wouldn’t be one of the most powerful men in the world without him.

“Jack! Dinner is ready!”

The words brought him back to the present with a blink and he shifted immediately, not wanting to keep anyone waiting. Pulling a small box from is pocket, he climbed to his feet and made his way inside where everyone was already seated at the table.

His gaze moved across each of his family members – Jackie, Rose, Caroline, John Jr. – and then settled on his father for a long moment. “Happy Father’s Day. Thank you.” The words were simple and he didn’t make a big deal out of placing the box on the table next to his father’s plate before taking his own seat.

Joe Sr made no move to open the box, clearly planning to do so after the meal. Nor did he do more to acknowledge the words than nod once. Instead, he struck up a conversation in the normal manner, as if it were any other day. For the Kennedys, it was.

[thetalamhclisteach]

Anshobha is a Chuṛail, a form of demonical vengeful ghoul of an impure aspect, with backwards legs, a vile hog form and an ill temper. She expects the best of her son, going so far as to isolate him from what she considers bad influences (art teachers). She might have some deeper complex about denying any kind of artistic pursuits, but any suggestion to that might just make her bear boar claws and tusks.

Ivar the Boneful is a Lich, with his remains in life as a Víkingar sailing and raiding across the harsh shores of the North Sea having carried over beyond the grave. Unlike the others its not too clear if this old bag-of-bones is still pillaging coast-to-coast in the present, but legends still tell of his nightmarish host of formidable warriors waiting to strike at Niflheim once again.

Aoife is a Banshee, who by necessity is a horrific haunting singer that blows out any sound system as soon as she gets on stage. In her many years of death she is bitter, envious and resentful of her peers, always feeling slighted and passed-over as her days of fame (or infamy) drift out of public memory.

Raffie is a Zombie, rife with rot yet carrying up her corpse every night for school. While there are other HV High students who spend all too much time on the new-fangled Nethernet, this rotten girl is a notorious computer-hog at most downtown libraries. Despite her very niche fantasies and forum drama PTSD too early in death, her “bookworm” keeps her grades steady.

Hurtdog is a gross, putrid, abominable kind of Creepy resembling a ruined form of a a hotdog and a butcher. He’s based quite directly on the classic “Burgrr Entries” Creepypasta by Bogleech, serving only the most disgusting meals only truly fit for maggots. He seems to be very juvenile though, maybe this monster is hiding more than we know?

Gushmond and Styford are Zombies, but don’t let their stagnant decay fool you! The scoundrels are glad to get up in arms for whatever shady shin-dig business blows through town, but it looks like Jack saw their “professionalism” to be sorrowfully lacking.

I don’t think that most of these undead folks would realistically all be that amicable toward one another. Even still, as per the necessity of any vile fanartist, they must somehow all know and interact with one another.

Late game spoilers below!

Trenchlady is a Starry-built security robot while Phlegethon is a hideously tortured Scary who resembles a bloodied tree-man. Echoing Elvirus’s soul-powered engine fuel technology that he’d hope would get him back topside, this menacing machine leeches energy off of its host, with the confines of a good old save coffin now being little more than a corpse battery. Hopefully Alice and the gang crack him out of that living nightmare before the ship explosion… Also Phlegethon, being a Scary, is a reference to the Husks of Ultrakill.

Bhaya is a Yamaduta, being true to his status additionally as he is one of Death’s Reapers, entrusted by the principle being of the Underworld with delivering swift justice. Despite this terrifying truth, he is very well mannered and amicable, having quite the creative wardrobe unlike most Reapers. Let it be known however that whenever he’s in town, there will be nothing left between him and his target.

Here is the full lineup of these undead scum when they were once among the living, specifically around the time of their death. They all lived lives defined either by struggle or tragedy, and their deaths would serve to reflect these unfortunate existences. Anshobha was an aspiring artist and intellectual, killed by a state attempting to genocide its own people. Ivar the Boneless committed atrocities for the sake of plunder and glory, only for his legacy to only be remembered in shame. Aoife was a failed musician who’s terrible personality led to her being ostracized from her whole family, dying forgotten and alone. Raffie never had a chance to be anything, with Death’s mercy being swift. “Hurtdog” was a victim of illegal child labor practices under false documents, sacrificed to a mechanism of profit far beyond him. Gushmond and Styford were honest working class men, dying only because of the negligence toward their dangerous working conditions. “Phlegethon” was a poor lonely soul who couldn’t bear to live another day longer, the forest would grant him no freedom. Bhaya was the victim of novel scientific horrors wrought by mankind, yet even still his demise was ultimately the fault of the old yet human follies of corporate mismanagement and fraud.

[edwad]

holy fuck why do marxists (or whatever you call yourself) always interpret that criticism as calling people "stupid"? i do not think people who fail to understand extremely long and complex and abstract texts are stupid, that's your (rather crypto-ableist) labeling. i said i myself have trouble grasping it, are you calling me stupid for that? furthermore you are not a normie, i think you know very well you spend many orders of magnitude more time on this than "the masses" ever will (1/?)

also you guys love the "random guerrilas read marx so that means everyone can become a marx scholar" line which is implicitly (or sometimes explicitly, because people will add a "so they obviously know better than those ivory tower academics") anti-intellectual because i guess you think marx scholars who spend their entire lives studying marx are just jacking off most of that time since someone with high school literacy can do just as well as them on top of working a full time job (2/?)

finally, has it ever occurred to you that i'm speaking from experience? i know people who have tried reading capital and get overwhelmed by stuff that's routine to me (e.g. reading a primary text from two centuries ago) as someone who, i agree, doesn't have all that much training. yes, they can overcome that barrier, but as you demonstrate that takes an amount of time and dedication that few will elect. and i know these people, i don't think they're "stupid", you called them that (3/3)

also, i want to add, i think calling people who don't have the kind of knowledge or intellectual skills that are very rarely acquired outside of formal training "stupid" is what's elitist. i commend you on being one of those exceptions, but don't beat on people who haven't done the same (4/4)

you've just sent me all this simply because you made the claim that marxism can't mobilize the masses which it very obviously historically has. you're wrong and trying to move the goalposts now as if im the one claiming that being politically activated means having to engage with "extremely long and complex and abstract texts". but im not saying random guerrillas are all marx scholars. in fact i explicitly denied that this level of engagement is necessary (or even desireable!) for political actors in these movements. and now you're trying to spin this as if im somehow being both anti-intellectual and crypto-ableist and all sorts of other wild things just so you can try to land some sort of blow to avoid facing the fact that marxism has indeed mobilized lots of "average" people, many of them without access to formal education. i also never called anybody stupid but you've somehow managed to get extremely worked up about something i never said!

[chil-aglia]

𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 |ROTTMNT| (Leo X Male OC)

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭

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

Swift and quiet, the motto of a ninja. Blend in with the crowds, don’t be discovered. Adriaen kept these in mind, but Donnie on the other end was the opposite, sure he wore his purple hoodie to blend in with the humans, but he was also making a scene, creepily watching the humans before zipping on over to the next crowd he sees.

Adriaen groans, shaking his head lightly as he observed the building. April’s school.

Without drawing much attention to himself, he followed after Donatello, who snuck his way into the building as well, laughing to himself mirthfully, he always did dream of going to a normal high school.

”Donnie, can you stop and just act normal?” Adriaen hissed at him in a hushed whisper, managing to grab him by the sleeve and pull him back as he almost crashed into a group of jocks. ”I am being normal! See, totally normal.” He proudly claims, moving around and checking over people's shoulders to stare at their phones, obviously earning some wary gazes towards him.

”Oh for the love of…!” Adriaen grumbled, grabbing Donnie once more and leading him to the computer lab room. He knew that’s where April had to be, considering she told everyone her schedule in the group chat. Donnie climbed up to the ceilings, using the lights to climb around as Adriaen just walked in. The teacher was sleeping in his chair, and the students were all preoccupied by their work to notice someone else entering the room.

Adriaen spots April who stared at her computer in both boredom and concentration. Adriaen gazed up to see Donnie quickly throwing three ninja stars, all three striking at the desk with each word saying, "I'm here!".

“Psst April."

April looked up in bewilderment before she widens her eyes when Donnie slipped off the ceiling lights and falls down, but he managed to land into one of the chairs. Adriaen quickly made his way over, “Sorry, Donnie here got too excited.” He apologised, giving the purple masked turtle a scolding look. April smiled at the two, gesturing for Adriaen to take a seat, but he shook his head gently, preferring to stand as he leaned against the desk.

“Hi guys. Thanks for coming." April whispered lightly, the last part more directed to Donnie, “No probbles. I love this place.” He grins before spinning around and standing up to observe the other students, taking a whiff of the air.

”Smells like learning and puberty. So, what do you need help with?” 

He sits back down on the chair and eyed April who was putting some sort of coding into the computer, “My computer science project. Just need you to check the code to make sure I haven’t missed anything." She informs, moving out the way as Donatello got in front of the computer and started typing.

April turned her gaze to Adriaen, confused. “Why are you here Adriaen? Not that I’m complaining. But I didn’t know you were a computer nerd.” She muses lightly at the last part of her sentence. Adriaen stuffed his hands into his pockets on his black hoodie.

”Raph didn’t trust Donnie on going alone to a human school, so he asked me to come with and keep an eye on him.”

”Which is completely unreasonable. I don’t need a babysitter.” Donnie huffed, puffing his chest out confidently, Adriaen crossed his arms and eyed the mutant turtle.

”You almost collided with a bunch of jocks earlier. Had to be dragged away from peeking over the shoulders of other students and fell down from the ceiling.”

”All true, but I was fine and nothing bad happened.”

Yeah, cause I was there to prevent anything from happening. Well except the last part, but the teacher is a deep sleeper apparently and the students are all occupied with their own work.

Donnie exhaled and turned to April briefly, "You don’t know how lucky you are to be in school, April. Surrounded by true intellectuals. Scholars after my own heart, resplendent in gorgeous purple satin jackets—Wait! What?!" Donnie began to list off the good qualities of school before getting distracted by purple jackets.

Adriaen blinked and looked over to see an area in the classroom that had a sign that read ‘Dragons Only’. Two other students were hung up by their underwear on the cardboard box pillars.

What the...?

“Purple satin jackets? The shimmering sheen, the exquisite violet hue, the silkiness of the fabric! It has everything I love, and even things I didn’t know I loved yet—“

Adriaen lightly flicked Donnie in the back of his head, snapping him out of his trance as he drooled a bit. “Donnie, if you drool in here, something’s gonna short circuit." April advised with Adriaen nodding in agreement with her.

”That and you look like a weirdo if you’re drooling over a couple of jackets.”

Donnie shakes his head to focus back on the present, "They must be the kings and queens of high school." He smiles eagerly at the three students who seemed to be running some sort of VR experiment. “The Purple Dragons Tech Club? Yeah, if by kings and queens you mean stuck up jerks, who think they’re smarter than everyone else." April rolls her eyes at the group, “There’s a group like that for techy people?” Adriaen mumbled under his breath.

He always thought that sort of stereotype was for jocks and preppy people.

"Oh, that’s what I was hoping you’d say!" Donnie squeals, spinning happily in the chair which Adriaen had to grab hold onto to stop Donatello from flying off. Adriaen gazed back at the Purple Dragons club when he heard what sounded like fearful yelling. He saw one of them with the VR headset fell down, yelling something about dogs attacking him. 

The other two members, an asian girl and a larger dark-skinned man, laugh before doing some kind of strange high five. "Oh, my gosh, did you see that?!" Donnie gasps in awe, to which April and Adriaen couldn’t help but give the other a brief glance of uncertainty and inscrutableness.

"What? That whack high five?"

”What about it?”

Donnie chuckled and shook his head at the two, “Nay, fair April and Adriaen. A secret five, evocative of the golden ratios of the cosmos. Superior minds, glorious jackets. Guys I’m joining this club." Donnie exclaims before swaying himself closer to the tech club.

“You're what now?"

”Donnie, wait—“

Adriaen was too late once Donnie entered the Purple Dragons area before he made himself known. "Greetings, tech enthusiasts. I’d like to introduce you to the newest member of your club. Wait for it. Here he comes. It's me." Donnie introduces himself dramatically, as the only female of the club was busy trying to take the VR headset off the other guy who screamed earlier.

However, upon noticing Donnie she stopped and let go of the headset, letting it slap back against the other member who winced and fell back.

"Uh huh. April, that’s your name, right?" 

“You've known me since kindergarten, Kendra."

Kendra. Okay, so that’s her name. Noted.

"Uh huh. Who’s this guy and why does he look like mold? Actually, why do both of these guys have weird, coloured skin?” Kendra questioned, noticing Adriaen hanging out in the back, leaning against the desk. April sighs before going about to introduce everyone to each other. “Jeremy, Jason, Kendra, these are my friends, Adriaen and Don—“ She was rudely cut off by Donnie who stepped in front of her.

“Othello Von Ryan! Maker. Coder. Artisan. I am ready to join your esteem collective.” Donnie exclaims, giving them a false alias as he eagerly went over and started feeling the jacket that Kendra was wearing.

”And with regard to purple jackets I am a medium.”

Kendra clearly annoyed steps onto Donnie’s foot, making the mutant turtle yelp and jump back, hopping on one foot for a minute out of pain.

Well that was to be expected really.

"Sorry Von Ryan, but to join this group, you gotta bring something to the table, so, buh bye."

Donnie smirks before he suddenly pulls out his tech-bō. "Prepare to be Von Ryan'd!" He announces, pointing his staff towards the three members who marvel at it. 

"Wow! It’s the granddaddy of all multi tools!"

Kendra huffs and pushes it away, still not fully convinced, “Okay. It’s not bad. What else ya got?" She praised briefly before asking to see more. April rolls her eyes and crosses her arms together, "Come on. You don’t have to impress these fools.” She stated the obvious, Adriaen walking over to Donnie and placing a hand on his shoulder.

”Donnie, did you forget that we can’t be joining human clubs?”

Donnie chuckled and gently shoved Adriaen’s hand off his shoulder, “That’s what people say when they don’t have anything impressive. Like this!" He smirks in pride, pushing a button on the side of his goggles. Adriaen stepped back, knowing that the button that was pressed was a signal for Donnie to activate his battle shells back at lair.

It didn’t take long before the tech arrived through the window, even pushing Kendra out the way making her fall over. "Sweet! So how did these things communicate? Is it a microwave transceiver?" The larger male member asks, observing all the tech, Kendra had stood back up to also observe.

“With class C encryption protocol." Donnie informs, not even noticing how everyone else in the classroom stopped what they were doing and stared in shock at the advanced technology.

"Oh. My. Fave! I know Class C inside and out."

Kendra pulls back Jeremy, scoffing. "Can the bromance. Von Ryan…” She announces, pointing over at Donatello who stared at her in puzzlement.

”You’re in.”

Oh great.

He noticed how Jase was silently smiling and jumping up and down delightful at their new member. “Quit smiling Jase. You’re still low man on the totem pole." Kendra snapped before forcibly removing Jase’s jacket and throws it to Donnie, the fabric landing on his outstretch arm.

Instantly the latter became ecstatic and immediately puts it on.

“Yes! Be honest, you two. Do I look fantastic or superbly fantastic?"

April stared with a deadpan look, as did Adriaen. "You look like you dropped a juice box in the laundry." She replied, Adriaen giving a soft hum, “Yeah, what she said.” He added before shaking his head and grabbing Donnie by the back of the jacket.

”Come on, let’s go home.”

”What? But what about my new club?!”

Adriaen rolled his eyes, dragging him away. “You can survive time away from it.” He added, pausing when Kendra suddenly called out to them, but her stare was directed at Adriaen.

”You’re not interested in joining? All you have to do is show us whatever tech you got.”

Adriaen looked back before taking out his phone, sarcastically waving it in his hand. 

“This is all the tech I got. Besides, purple isn’t my colour.” 

With that he leaves the room, dragging a whining Donnie behind him as they made it to the sewers. After some walking in the direction of home, Donnie’s demeanour changed from pouty to cool, calm and collected once arriving home.

The two made their way to the others who were each doing their own activities. Raph was living a weight, Leo reading his comics and Mikey balancing himself on his skateboard. "Oh, hey guys. What’s the haps?” Donnie cooly greeted his brothers, Raph being the first to glance in his direction, but no one seemed to comment on the obvious new jacket that Donnie refused to take off.

”Huh? Oh, oh this? I didn’t realize I had it on. This is my sweet new purple satin jacket.” Donnie calmly grins, walking past his brothers who continued doing their own thing.

"Yep.”

"Got it from being a bit of a tech wiz."

“That’s nice."

“Purple Dragons. Members only. No big deal.”

”Mm-hm.”

Donnie suddenly pointed at everyone in pride, “Well, you better grab some toast, fellas, 'cause you are all jelly!" He exclaims, taunting his brothers as he exits the atrium. Adriaen sighed and pulled down his hood, eyeing the brothers as he expected them all to be more annoyed about the jacket.

”Huh, you guys don’t actually care about the—“

Once they heard the door shut, they all yell in frustration. Causing Adriaen to impassively stare at their unnecessary reactions.

Ah I spoke too soon.

"The nerve of that guy!"

"Who brings something that beautiful into a place like this?"

“I would give up every red bandana to feel the silky smoothness of that purple satin on my skin."

Leo made his way over to Adriaen groaning loudly and leaning against the mutant turtle. “Adriaen why didn’t you get us an awesome jacket?” He lightly scolded, only for his crush to push him away for some personal space.

”Next time you can go along with Donnie then.”

”Ugh, but that’s boring.”

”Then don’t complain. Besides, it’s for techy people only.” Adriaen informs, crossing his arms as he made his way over a black beanbag, settling down in it, crossing one leg over the other and taking his phone out to scroll around on social media. ”You’re not going to remove your hoodie?” Leo tilted his head at him as Adriaen without looking up from his phone hums in reply before saying the next sentence without really much thinking about it.

”Take it off yourself if you so badly don’t want me wearing it.”

Leo of course felt his face turn red as he could feel the gears in his head malfunctioning, unable to say a proper sentence, he walks away instead in a robotic manner. Adriaen breathes out softly and leaned back into the beanbag, it was too comfortable that he could easily sleep in this. Taking this peace and quiet that he rarely gets, he closed his eyes.

A short nap won’t hurt…

-----

Seconds, turned into minutes and minutes turned into hours. The sun had set, and New York was met with the night life. No one had come to wake up Adriaen who had fallen asleep peacefully on the beanbag chair, his phone resting inside the pockets of his hoodie that he still wore from earlier this morning.

Adriaen himself was occupied with a dream. A dream that was so vivid.

He stood alone in a black room, looking around in puzzlement as he called out to anyone nearby. “Hello? Where is everyone? Leo…?” His voice bounced off the black walls, it was eerie and unsettling from how quiet it was.

What is this place? Why am I here alone?

He started walking around, maybe he could get a clue on his whereabouts if he kept moving. His eyes narrow ahead when he spots something in the distance. A white door with a sign above that read;

‘Who Are You?’

Adriaen felt his fingers twitch, as he stared at the unmoving door that seemed to be taunting him. 

Who am I? Wait…is this the answer to what I’ve been trying to find out about myself? 

His feet instantly walked over, but after a few seconds he noticed that the door wasn’t getting closer and he himself was getting further and further away.

No…come on, it’s right there! Move you stupid legs!

He started running but this time the door was moving further, and Adriaen was just stuck on the spot. He reached his hand out in hopes to reach for the handle of the white door, but he was awoken when someone was shaking him.

”…aen.”

”Adri…”

”Adriaen!”

Adriaen gasped and sat up sharply, panting as though he ran a marathon as he looked around with wide eyes, taking in his surroundings. He was in the lair; in the same beanbag he fell asleep in.

No black room.

No white door with creepy sign.

Just a dream…

He looked up to see Donnie was the one who shook him awake, he seemed a bit taken back when Adriaen woke up looking startled, but he reverted back to his usual self.

”Come on, those satin purple jerks stole my tech and now are stealing all kinds of technology.”

”…What now?”

Donnie didn’t have time to repeat all that as he grabs Adriaen’s arm and yanked him out the beanbag, dragging him along to the topside to meet up with April. By the time they did, Donnie filled him in on the situation.

Donnie remained inside the basket that was clipped onto the front of the bicycle that April was riding, Adriaen sat behind their human friend. "I...warned you about those guys!" April panted out, scolding Donnie who scoffed lightly, “You said they were full of themselves, not that they were criminal masterminds. So, in a small sense, this is entirely your fault." Donnie defended himself, as Adriaen raised his eyes at him.

"Seriously?”

”First of all, no. And second, what kind of criminal masterminds just rob electronic stores?" April added in, giving a brief glare at the tech savvy turtle before asking the real question that weighed on her mind.

"Maybe they just need equipment for a bigger job." Adriaen suggested, it sounds reasonable enough for a bunch of tech club students to do. “Like the one they were practicing on that VR simulator?  The Nakamura vault?" April asks to which Donnie groans in realisation upon hearing the familiar name.

"Aw, that’s a real company! Nakamura computer chips are in, like, every computer in the country! Let’s go."

April pedaled faster to reach the destination of the Nakamura facility. Luckily, they were close enough to the building that it didn’t take long to reach their final destination.

However, with no way inside and no doubt the Purple Dragons must be inside the building already thanks to Donatello’s tech, the trio were stuck outside. "How are we gonna get up there with no tech?" April inquired, looking around to get any ideas flowing to her head. Adriaen was also looking around, but nothing came to mind.

"Old school. Jazz hands!" Donnie announces, holding up a pair of metal claws that were used in ancient times for warriors to scale the walls.

“Wait, Donnie those aren’t going to help us—“

Adriaen’s words fell into deaf ears as Donnie jumps up onto the window but didn’t get far, slamming against the glass and sliding down.

“It’s glass Donnie, these claws are made for tougher terrain.”

"Come on, Plan B." April assured, grabbing Donnie by his foot and sliding him along the window, Adriaen running along beside her, the trio find a back door that didn’t seem to be locked, lucky for them, and ran in.

They were unfortunately met with staircase after staircase, but with pure determination they run up, all panting from exhaustion and legs aching, April briefly paused to check what floor they were at, only to see they were at the fifty-third floor.

“Oh, come on!"

”Keep moving April.” Adriaen encouraged, his mouth a little dry but he powered through it. Eventually the trio made it to the top floor, all panting to catch their breaths as Donnie growls lightly and pointed over at the Purple Dragons who were hacking away in the computer room.

"Okay, nerds, I want my stuff back!"

"I got the code! Let’s go!" Jeremy exclaims, making a break for it with the other two members, in an instant the two mutant turtles and April five chase. Donnie slipped when he tried to round a sharp turn, but thinking on his feet he grabs a roll of cable and throws it

“End of the line, buddy-o! April, Adriaen, heads up!"

April catches the cable holding onto one end and throwing the other end to Adriaen who easily catches it, he speeds up and managed to get ahead of Jase and Jeremy, holding up the wire as did April on her end and the two trip the hackers over.

Jase throws the laptop to Kendra, “The code!” Jeremy announces as Kendra caught it before it could hit the ground. 

"Got it!"

April, Adriaen and Donnie stood over Jase and Jeremy, tying them up together so they couldn’t escape. "Never betray…Othello Von Ryan! Grab the tech! I’ll tether myself to your jetpack!" Donnie instructed the three grabbing the tech off of Jeremy and Jase.

April was the one who wore the jet pack, much to her shock and dismay.

“Wait, what?!"

Kendra jumps out of the facility, Donnie and April follow with Donnie's jet pack shell on her back. Because there was only two tech that they took from the hackers from inside the building, Donnie grabbed Adriaen securely and held him close as he attached himself to April who screams as she tried to fly.

"How do you fly this thing?"

“Everyone’s got their own style. Just do what comes natural."

“What comes natural is not flying!"

Adriaen being the only one without tech and had to rely on Donatello to hold him or else he’d fall down from the sky, well…it was nerve wracking for anyone in his position.

”Donnie if you drop me, I promise you I’m going to haunt you forever.”

It honestly felt like a roller coaster, screaming as April loops around in the sky to pursue Kendra who seemed to be a natural. Kendra took shots at them with Donnie’s bō to fire them out the sky. The jetpack fired again and they flew straight at Kendra.

Due to the speed and April’s uncoordinated flying, the bō staff smashed right into Donnie's head. Adriaen naturally lowered his own head into his shell to avoid getting hit. Kendra blasted at them with the bō staff once more, laughing evilly and comes in close with the bō in mallet form and takes out April’s jetpack, sending her, Adriaen and Donnie plummeting into an alley.

The trio crash landed onto some trash to cushion their fall, but it still hurt none the less. Adriaen groans and poked his head out of his shell, rubbing his head as April sat up.

"I think I broke your jetpack."

Donnie stood up, seemingly unhurt and unfazed by the situation, the battle shell he wore had his mechanical arms springing out.

”No probbles, I go this!"

Kendra flies down slightly to them, grinning. "Not so fast, Von Ryan." She muses, typing away something in the computer she held. Managing to take control of the shell Donnie is wearing, the mechanical arms began attacking Donatello, gripping at his throat.

"Oh! Hey! No! Stop! Override! Override! Alpha Bootyyyshaker9000! Three Y's!" Donnie panicked, rolling around on the floor as Adriaen became alert and pounced onto battle shell, struggling momentarily to get it off Donnie’s back.

"Well, Von Ryan, looks like you’re out of luck. I’d love to spend all night beating you up with your own tech, but I’ve got a global bank to hack. Buh-bye." Kendra taunted, floating back up into the air to leave. Adriaen successfully managed to rip off the hacked battle shell, but it was still set on targeting Donnie who gulped and curled up slightly, hands on his head to protect himself since he was basically vulnerable in this state.

Adriaen naturally stood in front of a Donatello to protect him, even though he didn’t have his kama’s with him, he wasn’t going to let Donnie get hurt on his watch.

"Heads up, guys!" 

April managed to jump in with a wooden bat in her grasp, swinging the mechanical arms away before she battled with the tech as she rolled around on the floor with it.

Huh, okay then. Not sure where she got the bat but who am I to complain.

“Thanks April.” Adriaen sighs in relief that she pushed back the tech away from Donnie. "Those rotors! The reason I never wear a jacket is that I'm terrified it would get caught in them." Donnie proclaimed, keeping his gaze on the rotors that Kendra was flying up in.

"How ‘bout using a jacket to block those rotors?" April sassed out, to which Donnie hums and nods in agreement, “Exactly. Give me yours or Adriaen’s.” He held his hand out for either of them to put their jackets and hoodie in. “What? No!” Adriaen slapped his hand down, as April paused her fight with the battle shell, “Use your own jacket!" She hissed at him, reverting back to fighting against the hacked tech.

“Gah! You know, even though this whole thing was your fault, April, I guess it is up to me to solve it."

April once again paused her fight and glared lightly at Donnie, "Ooh, we're gonna have a talk." She grumbled at him, Adriaen sighed and walked over to April to help her out.

”Don’t bother. He’s too proud to admit that it’s his fault.”

He looks around and found an old rusty pipe, he picks it up and shrugs his shoulders as he goes ahead to smash at the tech that tried to choke out April. He was successful, but now he just hoped that Donnie wouldn’t get mad at him for destroying his tech.

"Fare thee well, my synthetic darling. I hardly knew ye, but parting is such sweet—“ 

Adriaen and April had enough of the dramatics from Donnie who had took off the Purple Dragons jacket, bunching it into a ball to throw.

"Just do it!”

The two order at Donnie who sighs but didn’t fight or argue back, "Okay." He sadly mumbled as he reels back his arm and throws the jacket at Kendra who laughs, unaware of the flying jacket coming at her until it was too late.

The jacket clogs Kendra’s rotors, sending her crashing back into the alley, dropping the computer that had the Nakamura code in it, she reached out for the device only for April to smash it with her foot. “Sorry, Kendra. Looks like your computer’s—wait for it. Wait for it…crashed! Bam! I should write for the news!" April taunted, proud of her Leo-like pun. Adriaen softly sighed at her, mostly just relieved that this was over, and they can head home.

Suddenly he was distracted when purple cloth came raining down over them, the fabric being of the purple jacket that was unmistakably ruined. Donnie stood in the middle of alleyway, looking up at the night sky as he held his hand out for the fabric pieces to fall into.

“Alas, a classic tale of a well meaning loner who just couldn’t fit in with a band of well dressed crooks."

April and Adriaen made their way over to him, the two putting their hands on Donnie’s shoulders.

“That’s okay, Donnie. You’ll always be in the April O’Neil Dorky Pals for Life Club. We also got one other member in it already. Ain’t that right Adriaen?”

”Heh, guess I wouldn’t mind joining this club.”

Donnie smiled at the two, exhaling to relieve any tension in his body. “Thanks guys." He mumbled quietly but also in appreciation.

"No matter how stupid you dress."

Adriaen snorted lightly at the last sentence from April, before he perked up when police sirens were inching closer to the alley they were in. "Hey, you wanna help me get this stuff back to the lair?" Donnie quickly begged the two, picking up one of his techs in his arms. April and Adriaen do the same, each grabbing a tech that was stolen from the lair and running off with it.

“I say yes to you way too often."

”Tell me about it.”

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

A/N: I APOLOGISE FOR ANY GRAMMAR MISTAKES THAT WERE MADE, I TYPE REALLY FAST AND OFTEN DON'T SEE THEM UNTIL I ACTUALLY PUBLISH THE CHAPTER.   

BOOM! Enjoy some Donnie and Adriaen content because I see them as being like best friends, since Adriaen is like the only one who sorta listens to Donnie whenever he goes on his usual rambles and whatnot.

First Chapter here

Next Chapter here

[brightlight-dazzlingeyes]

where the sidewalk ends | pablo gavi

🎃 synopsis: Sofie meets an ex-hookup during a Halloween party. The full moon is high in the sky, the Summer they shared is now only a memory, and there are weirder things to worry about. warnings: alcohol consumption, smut, spooky themes, social media, fluff (Wc: 3k)

(this is a sequel to ibiza night fever, but can be read as standalone)

|the playlist|

“But all the magic I have known I've had to make myself.” ― Shel Silverstein, Where the Sidewalk Ends

It’s finally October, every melancholic girl's favorite time of the year. After a breakup and a much-needed Hot Girl Summer, what Sofie needed was a Sad Girl Autumn, and she’s been taking advantage of the season.

She started doing yoga and has been reading a lot more; you can confirm that by checking her Insta feed – she’s been filling it with intellectual aesthetic pics.

Strolls through the park, loud sighs, pumpkin spice drinks—anything that makes her look like the protagonist of a pretentious European indie film.

Tonight, though, is a special night. Tonight Sofie is a sexy Barbie Cowgirl, and she’s accompanied by Black Swan, Sleeping Beauty, and Carrie. Or, Chiara, Luisa and Becca, as they are known the rest of the year.

It’s Luisa’s annual Halloween party. It’s been a hit since the first edition and the first time Sofie will be attending it as a single lady.

If the last few months have taught her anything, it is how to be casual, or at least how to appear casual. Sofie was focused on having fun, holding her phone in one hand and a gin tonic drink in another. She scrolled through social media while taking another sip. She wasn't trying to arrive already drunk at the party, only to loosen up a bit.

She and her friends have already posted their outfits; half of them were already at the party. Sofie took a deep breath, put away her phone and walked out of the door.

chiaraaraujo

liked by rebeccaamorim and 307 others

i am so stressed out #natalieportman

oliviaaraujo amen sister ⤷chiaraaraujo 🦢 ⤷sofiemartins 🦢🦢🦢

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rebeccaamorim

liked by pedri and 752 others

its halloweeen happy birthday stephen king

sofiemartins uhh so i just googled stephen king birthday and... uh... ⤷rebeccaamorim nah i got it right, shut up ⤷pedri 😂😂

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sofiemartins

liked by pablogavi and 326 others

🦄💗

luisafernandes girl marry me chiaraaraujo gatinha 🖤

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luisafernandes

liked by chiaraaraujo and 956 others

i'm your favorite disney princess 🩷

francisca.cgomes tão lindaa rebeccaamorim u the love of my life. fr.

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When Sofie walks into the party, she gasps with excitement. The decor was straight out of a Halloween movie. A fog machine was filling the room with mist, cobwebs were hanging all over the place. Jack-o'-lanterns grinned from every nook and cranny, their flickering faces casting playful shadows, giving the whole scene a spooky, dimly lit charm.

It was clear Luisa had gone all in to make this party amazing.

And the guests really brought their A-game in the costume department. Among the crowd, there was a wickedly realistic zombie, a time-traveling Doctor Who, a whimsical unicorn with a shimmering horn and even a comically oversized banana. The variety was as entertaining as it was impressive.

Music was thumping from the speakers, mixing old-school Halloween hits with some current jams, setting the mood for the night.

Sofie's eyes locked onto a familiar face in the sea of costumes – it was Pedri, dressed like a pirate and laughing at something Rebecca said. He looked a bit different since she last saw him, sporting a cool beard that suited him perfectly.

Sofie wasn’t surprised to see the two chatting; Becca and Pedri have been in a complicated long-distance situationship since they met in Ibiza, in the summer. But seeing the football player at the party gave Sofie goosebumps, as she tried to forget her own antics in the Spanish island.

She goes on to greet the couple.

“Cool beard, you really committed to the theme, didn't you?” Sofie jokes about his costume and Pedri laughs. “What are you doing in town, anyway?”

They were in Lisbon, far away from Barcelona, where he should be. Sofie half asks because she worries about her friend ending up heartbroken, but she’s mostly scared that his answer might get herself in trouble.

“We had a game here last night. Figured we could stay for the party.” Pedri winks.

We. There it was, what Sofie was scared of.

“We?” She asks, anyway, even though she knows the answer.

Pedri then tilts his head to the other side of the room, pointing at something. Or someone. When Sofie looks, she’s met with a figure standing by the door, somebody wearing a Ghostface costume. She rolls her eyes and looks back at Becca.

“I’m getting a drink, have fun you two!” Sofie says.

“Don’t get lost!” Becca yells and Sofie gives her a thumbs-up and a nod, but the moment she turns away, the music swallows her up. Luisa's mansion was like a maze. Sofie knew she was in for a tough time trying to do what Becca had asked.

The music was blaring, making it feel like she'd stepped into a nightclub. There were chill-out rooms with people sprawled on fancy couches, a glittering dance floor with a DJ dropping beats, and dimly-lit hallways that seemed to lead to who-knows-where.

Sofie's search for a drink brought her to a bustling room, where she was comforted by another known face, Chiara. She was dressed as Black Swan and deep into a lively, tipsy, philosophical convo with a small group of friends.

Sofie couldn't resist joining the shenanigans. "Hey, Chiara," she chimed in, with a wide grin, “what are you guys talking about?”

Chiara turned her swan-like gaze toward Sofie, her theatrical makeup adding extra drama to her expression. "Oh, you know, the meaning of life, the universe, and why we all wear costumes on Halloween," she replied, her words accompanied by giggles from her friends.

Sofie grabbed a chair and got cozy, all set to dive into the amusing and philosophical banter.

But the conversation didn’t last long; A muffled scream suddenly pierced through the party chatter, instantly grabbing their attention. Sofie and Chiara exchanged a concerned look.

"Did you hear that?" Sofie asked, her eyes darting around the room.

Chiara nodded, her curiosity piqued. "Yeah, that sounded pretty real. We should check it out."

They both rose from their seats, leaving their group of friends momentarily and headed in the direction of the mysterious scream.

Sofie and Chiara followed the sound down a dimly lit corridor. The place was spooky, and their nerves were on edge, so they just froze, waiting to see what would happen next.

They exchanged nervous glances, ears perked up, hoping to catch any hint of what had caused that scream. The whole scene felt like something out of a suspense movie, and they were bracing themselves for a sinister revelation.

“Hey,” 

The girls screamed at the voice behind them, as they jumped in shock. With a hand on her chest, Sofie took a deep breath, looking back to the figure standing now in front of her. Ghostface.

He took off his mask in a hurry. It was Gavi, and he tried to show them there was no need to be scared.

“It’s just me…” Gavi says.

Sofie and Chiara breathed a collective sigh of relief. Sofie was particularly happy to see that it was Pablo, and for a moment, she considered giving him a hug. But that thought made her freeze in her tracks, and her mind drifted back to their time in Ibiza, and the nights they shared. They hadn't talked since then.

“Is everything okay?” Gavi asks, torn between wanting to laugh at their reaction and genuine concern.

“We just heard something weird,” Chiara begins to explain.

Then, out of nowhere, loud banging noises erupted from the same place they'd heard the scream. The sudden, unexpected noise sent a fresh wave of tension through the group.

Sofie, swallowing hard, spoke up. "So, we came here to check it out..."

Pablo, shaking his head with a sly grin, says, "I don't know, I'm not super into the idea of investigating 'bang' sounds." He shot Sofie a knowing look.

“Do you think that that's somebody having sex?” Sofie asks, almost relieved at the possibility, since she had not considered it.

Chiara doesn't buy the theory, it doesn't sound to her like somebody is having a good time. “But if it's something serious, we should at least make sure everyone's safe." She says.

Pablo relented with a sigh. "Alright, fine. Let's check it out. But stick close, and let's not turn this into a horror movie cliche, okay?" He jokes.

With cautious steps, they followed the sounds down the corridor until they reached a closed bedroom door. The weird rhythmic banging noises were definitely coming from inside, and a mix of curiosity and fear gripped them.

Gathering their courage, they exchanged one last glance before Gavi, the designated leader of the group, slowly turned the doorknob. The door creaked open, revealing the dark room on the other side. 

When they pushed the door open, they were in for a surprise – a room filled with Roomba vacuum cleaners gone rogue. The little bots were spinning around, bumping into furniture, and beeping like they were part of some bizarre dance routine. It was like a small-scale robot rebellion.

Gavi burst into a loud laugh, "Seems like the robots have picked Halloween for their big uprising, huh?"

“That’s why I don't trust robots…” Sofie says, tip-toeing closer to Pablo, trying to avoid the bots.

“What about the scream?” Chiara couldn't help but bring up the initial reason for their investigation.

The group tenses up once again, remembering what brought them here in the first place.

"It was me," came a voice from the corner of the room. Luisa was sitting down, carefully wrapping a band-aid around her toes. "One of these things nearly took my toe out, and I don't even know how to turn them off."

With everything finally making sense, the group gathered their efforts to grab the rogue Roombas. After some trial and error, they successfully managed to turn off the little vacuum cleaners and carefully piled them up in a closet. 

luisafernandes

liked by pedri and 873 others

thanks everybody who showed up. it was the best halloween party ever. my vacuum cleaners literally almost unalived me. i love all of my friends so so much. happy halloween!

rebeccaamorim what was that in the middle? ⤷sofiemartins don't even worry about it pablogavi 👻 chiaraaraujo maybe like. get a broom or something

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Pablo and Sofie stayed behind after hushing the girls back to the party. In the dimly lit bedroom, it was just the two of them. Pablo sat at the edge of the bed, and Sofie stood by the window. They both felt the urge to talk but weren't sure where to start or what to say. The unspoken tension loomed in the room.

Should they bring up Ibiza? Or should they pretend like nothing happened? They exchanged glances every now and then but mostly remained silent as they gathered their thoughts.

"It's pretty crowded out there..." Sofie says, her thoughts interrupted by the party noise.

Gavi cleared his throat, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, I know... This is better. I prefer being alone."

Sofie couldn't help but giggle,"Well, you're not entirely alone. I'm right here, you know."

Pablo met her gaze and said, "When I'm with you, it doesn't feel like there's anybody else in the room." Gavi's face flushed like a tomato, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head when he realized what he had just let slip. "Do you... um, understand what I'm saying?" he mumbled, his words stumbling out as he anxiously awaited Sofie's response.

“I feel the same way.” Sofie says, her words escaping before she could even fully process what she was saying.

A palpable tension hung in the air as they locked eyes. It felt like an unspoken challenge to see who would look away first. It was like a silent game of vulnerability chicken, and neither of them was ready to blink.

In an instant, Gavi was right in front of her, his hand gently resting on her hips. His eyes pleaded for permission. Sofie, taken aback by his bold move, simply nodded, her eyes fixed on his lips.

He kissed her hungrily and passionately. Their minds immediately turned into a total mess, as they both desperately tried to savor the moment while also trying to let each other know just how much they'd missed this.

Sofie instinctively placed one hand on his chest, while running her fingers through his soft hair with the other. Pablo deepened the kiss, taking his time exploring her mouth and playfully licking her bottom lip.

He carefully guided her to the bed, lowering himself onto her. Their lips finally parted, leaving them breathless and flushed.

They stared into each other’s eyes intently. They couldn’t wait anymore. The desire between them was so strong, neither of them could speak. They both just wanted each other, no more holding back. 

Sofie grabbed him tightly by the neck, pulling him closer. After gasping for air, Gavi brought his lips to her again, his hands moving down her sides and gripping her waist firmly.

She took off her shirt and Pablo gently pulled off her lacy pink bra.

“I missed them so much.” Gavi jokes, looking at her breasts. Sofie gives a playful slap on his arm.

“I missed you too.” She whispers in his ears. She can feel the goosebumps all over his body as she says that.

“Are we really doing this?” He asks, tenderly kissing her neck. He can’t seem to keep his mouth away from her body for too long. He knows they don’t have much time together, he’s going back to Barcelona in the morning.

“I want you so, so much.” Sofie answers in between whimpers, she’s already too lost in pleasure to consider the consequences of what she’s doing.

“But we have to be quiet.” Pablo looks at her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “If somebody hears us moaning, they might get worried for our safety.” He whispers. Sofie has to bite her lip to hold back a giggle.

“I can be quiet.” She promises.

Pablo enters her slowly, taking his time to enjoy every second of their reunion. They get lost in each other and it feels like their first time all over again.

She wraps her legs around him and digs her nails into his back, demanding more of him. His body starts rocking, slowly thrusting harder and faster until he loses control completely.

Their bodies move together easely. Sofie has to put a hand on her mouth to stop herself from crying his name out loud.

The sigh of her desperation is enough to drive him off the edge. He reaches down and starts massaging her clit, just like he knows she likes it. Pablo speeds up his pace, when he senses they’re both close to orgasm.

He collapses in her arms and Sofie holds him close as they reach their peak together.

They have their eyes closed and for a while the only thing on their mind is each other's heartbeat.

But then, Sofie feels her anxiety creeping in, and it is enough to break the magic surrounding them. "We should probably head back to the party," she whispers. To their ears, her words seemed louder than the music outside.

"Right," Pablo mumbles, eyes still closed, lingering in the moment for a little longer.

They quietly slipped out of the bedroom, making their way back to the party without exchanging another word. 

Even without speaking, as they get out of the bedroom, they share a sly, knowing look, hinting at the possibility of meeting again, without the need for words.

Sofie, without Gavi noticing, sneakily slipped a piece of paper with her phone number into his pocket.