#it’s like such a time capsule of old internet like all the good and all the bad

[hopelesscalico]

Spacehey.... I wanna use it more but like. Despite all the users it feels SO barren and the forum/community aspect just feels like it doesn't exist. I have an account on there but god at that point I might as well just use a WYSIWYG website builder and post into the void.

I joined a couple groups but no one does anything in themmm at least old forums had ACTION

THIS IS MY BIGGEST ISSUE WITH SPACEHEY ToT i used it religiously for a period of a few months but there just reeeeeeally isn’t enough of an active userbase on there to make it feel like people are engaging with anything you post … it might just be me having grown up on algorithmic forms of social media but man how am i even supposed to find people to talk to on there??? you can’t really get anyone but your friends to engage with anything u post unless u get like a smash hit blog post but even then the blog page is soooooo crazy and unmoderated… idk idk

[zarla-s]

I was cleaning up some broken links on my old silly Pokemon fansite, the Neglected Pokemon Lovers Unite (NPLU), and I realized that it has now been open for 25 years. TWENTY. FIVE. YEARS. That is an ASTONISHING amount of time for a site to stay open! Even if the last substantial update was like back in 2009 lol. The world around it has changed so much, but I think it's still valuable as a time capsule of a certain time on the internet. I wrote up a new essay about it on the site and did some general clean-up here and there.

Anyway to that end, since so much of the fic and art there is so old, I decided to compare Radic's oldest form to his newest! Radic was always a human boy but I just couldn't draw humans at the time so I made him a furry lol. Eventually I figured it out.

I also thought it'd be a neat challenge to mimic my own style back when it was really wonky and bad. And it was! It was kind of fun actually. I don't have too many shots of Radic from back then (it was hard to get art on the internet in the late 90's-early 00's), but I do have a few - hugging Kitsune, two old kiribans if you want to compare. I had a lot more old shots of Parasects though to reference unsurprisingly, they were very triangular lol. I think I did a pretty good job of matching what my art used to look like. I had a clear see-through Gameboy back in the day if you can't tell what Radic is holding lol.

("Isn't Radic the faceless avatar of your gamer self as depicted in Handplates-" yes, but Pokemon!Radic is the only one that actually became his own character, all the rest are shells)

If you do go poking around the NPLU, please keep in mind that almost everything there is very old and most of the fic and art is pretty bad (and shockingly violent). Plz do not judge me! My younger self was a cringey weeb but she was trying very hard. :<

[patreon]

[cherrygirlystuff]

Welcome to Neon Nostalgia – Your New Obsession with the Grungy, Lo-Fi Sounds of the 2000s Indie Scene!

Hey, babe! 🌸 If you’re anything like me, you’ve got a soft spot for the gritty, raw vibes of the 2000s indie music scene. You know the one – where every mixtape felt like a secret message, vinyl was more than just a collector’s item, and band posters were basically sacred art. Whether you were the queen of the local indie shows or just loved getting lost in the lo-fi sounds, I’ve got the perfect blog for you: Neon Nostalgia. Get ready to dive into a world dedicated to everything we adore about the 2000s indie scene – from mixtapes to vinyl art, and those iconic band posters that still make our hearts skip a beat. 🎧✨

Why Neon Nostalgia? 🌟

First things first, let’s talk about why Neon Nostalgia is about to become your new fave hangout spot on the internet. This blog isn’t just about looking back – it’s about celebrating everything that made the 2000s indie scene so unforgettable. It’s a space where you can relive the magic, discover hidden gems, and connect with other music lovers who feel the same way. Whether you’re here for the mixtapes, the art, or just the vibes, Neon Nostalgia is all about keeping the spirit of indie alive and thriving.

Mixtapes: The Ultimate Love Letter 🎶

Remember when making a mixtape was basically the highest form of flattery? Those carefully curated playlists were more than just a collection of songs – they were love letters, friendship bracelets, and time capsules all rolled into one. At Neon Nostalgia, we’re all about bringing back that mixtape magic.

1. Curated Mixtapes for Every Mood 💌

Neon Nostalgia features specially curated mixtapes that capture the essence of the 2000s indie scene. Whether you’re in the mood for something moody and introspective or want to dance like nobody’s watching, there’s a mixtape for that. And the best part? Each mixtape comes with a little backstory, so you can really feel the vibes that inspired it.

2. Make Your Own Mixtape Challenge 🎧

Feeling inspired? Why not take on the Neon Nostalgia Mixtape Challenge? It’s all about putting together your own playlist that tells a story – whether it’s about love, heartbreak, or just your favorite summer memories. Share it with the community, and who knows? You might just find your new music soulmate.

Vinyl Art: Where Music Meets Masterpiece 🎨

If you’re a vinyl lover, you know that it’s not just about the sound – it’s about the experience. There’s something so satisfying about holding a record in your hands, admiring the cover art, and letting the needle drop onto the vinyl. Neon Nostalgia takes that experience to the next level with its dedication to vinyl art.

1. Iconic Vinyl Covers of the 2000s 🎵

Neon Nostalgia has a whole section dedicated to the most iconic vinyl covers of the 2000s indie scene. From the minimalist beauty of The Strokes’ Is This It to the dreamy artwork of In Rainbows by Radiohead, these covers weren’t just packaging – they were works of art that perfectly captured the spirit of the music.

2. DIY Vinyl Art Projects 🖌️

Feeling crafty? Neon Nostalgia’s got you covered with DIY vinyl art projects. Whether you want to create your own album cover, repurpose an old record into something new, or just get inspired by the creativity of others, this is the perfect place to unleash your inner artist.

Band Posters: The Art of the Indie Scene 🖼️

Let’s be real – our walls were never the same after we discovered band posters. They were more than just decorations; they were statements, identities, and windows into a world where music was everything. Neon Nostalgia knows the power of a good band poster and celebrates it with style.

1. The Best Band Posters of the 2000s 🎸

Neon Nostalgia features a collection of the best band posters from the 2000s indie scene. Whether it’s the bold, graphic designs of Yeah Yeah Yeahs, the dreamy, abstract posters for Animal Collective, or the gritty, DIY aesthetic of Arctic Monkeys, each poster tells its own story.

2. How to Create Your Own Band Poster 🎨

Ever dreamed of making your own band poster? Neon Nostalgia has tips and tricks for creating your own poster, whether you’re a graphic design pro or just starting out. It’s all about capturing the energy and vibe of the music you love in a way that’s totally you.

Final Thoughts, Gorgeous: Let’s Keep the Indie Spirit Alive!

So there you have it, babe – Neon Nostalgia is your new go-to for everything related to the grungy, lo-fi sounds of the 2000s indie scene. Whether you’re here for the mixtapes, the vinyl art, or the band posters, it’s all about celebrating a time when music was raw, real, and totally unforgettable.

And the best part? Neon Nostalgia isn’t just about looking back – it’s about keeping that indie spirit alive. It’s about connecting with other music lovers, discovering new favorites, and maybe even making some art of your own. So whether you’re reminiscing about your first indie show or just discovering the magic of the 2000s for the first time, Neon Nostalgia is here to keep the vibes going strong.

Are you as obsessed with the 2000s indie scene as I am? Let’s chat in the comments about your favorite bands, mixtapes, and everything else that makes Neon Nostalgia so special! 💕

[starlightswordfight]

"jeremy if this is another hc post I'm going to kill you" bad news

castaway nonsense PART TWO

– schnauz is deathly afraid of water. it unsettles him deeply, largely because of past experience. do you SEE his treasure catalogue entry for the blue paint?? who "swims out" for the "last time" in a swimming pool???? someone fucking DIED

– on a slightly similar note, he laughs when he's nervous!

– he is Perpetually Nervous

– I think molly would REALLY like the evil skeleton wizard memes that have taken over my brain for the past several years. "not me being evil shadow skull" and no one knows what the fuck she's talking about

– molly writes fanfiction

– will let people borrow her camera if you ask nicely

– speaking of molly. her and patch and dash should be best friends forever. same home planet and they all do stupid shit. jin is also involved and they're the voice of reason

– dash has a lot of fidget toys. on him at all times

– wears those jackets where it's just an anime character wrapped around them all the way all bizarre like. he doesn't think it's a good design by any means it's just really funny

– frisé's favorite instrument is the didgeridoo

– also she's intersex. I can do whatever I want

– hitting frisé with the singing/humming/tapping on stuff as stims beam

– construction work is super fucking loud so I think corgwin just would not be bothered by sudden/incredible noise anymore. it just reads as background stuff to him! that or he like genuinely isn't picking up on some of it at all, it doesn't register. frequent tinnitus haver. he might be going deaf

– corgwin is tumblr famous. the pikmin universe tumblr equivalent anyway. inspired by the headcanon generator that told us in the pikmin server I'm in that charlie lit a school on fire and got away with it and that the rescue corps killed princess diana

– think about it. he'd share fun building facts. niche internet micro celebrity and everybody loves him

– lapi is also tumblr famous

– he likes frolicking around outside For Enrichment but he also does it in the rain and sometimes comes home sick

– guilty of making sketchbooks into renderbooks and taking several years to complete them. "but it has to be perfect" That Is The Devil Talking

– horatio is not immune to the fog

– he has a VERY specific skillset. like. like stupid specific. the guy is the most proficient xylophonist you've ever met but he can't cook. knows how aeronautics works but his phone call game is BAD. give him an old movie from decades back and he can tell you what it is and who acted in it and exactly where he was when he first saw it, easily. if you ask him for directions anywhere he'll crumble and die

– he wrote his ID badge like that. it was fully and completely on purpose. horatio thinks it's funny as hell

– françois really likes bugs! sees them all the time in his work even if his studies are flora centric. while on pnf-404 he probably talks about it a LOT with dalmo. botany/environmental science major who minored in entomology

– I just do not think he'd be afraid of them and that is beautiful. he allows nothing to dissuade him. he has pet spiders it is wonderful

– OKAY YOU KNOW THOSE THINGS YOU CAN GET AT THE KENNEDY SPACE CENTER AND IN OTHER PLACES WHERE IT'S LIKE ROCK SAMPLES FROM FOREIGN SPACE BODIES?? AM I INSANE??? in the little capsules and shit ????? yeah kit has those

– astrophysics lover. adores space science. worked at a planetarium before meeting osa. I don't remember if this contradicts the established lore and I am too tired to go back and check so if im wrong you can pelt me with stones and tomato

– osa lets him ramble on about it but in all honesty he does not know what the fuck kit is talking about half the time ever. ever

– vice versa! osa also has a huge nerd thing and it's world history. which makes sense for an archaeologist. I don't mean modern history either I mean ANCIENT

– fawks would unironically endorse the idea of a cybertruck but it never comes to fruition because everyone says it's stupid and he feels insulted and he gives up and sulks about it

– but he'd specialize. I know he would. he gets specific with it. good for him! my money is on prehistoric archaeology, stuff back before written text, and language, and any history that could be recorded with the power of words. which is why travelling to pnf-404 was so fucking important to him, he's been trying to construct something that would fill in the gaps of that lost starfolk history and this WAS the exact sort of thing that he was looking for

– technically they're doing geoarchaeology together. yes that's a subfield

– he is a tech bro and everybody thinks this is stupid and dumb also

– chewy

[cyberbun]

An anon asked me what my top 10 favorite anime are and I agonized over this question for months but I think I have an answer. Then I accidentally published this without finishing it so I have to write it again

In no particular order:

Gatchaman Crowds (2013) and it's second season Insight (2015):

Hands down, my favorite anime of all time. As a fan of the superhero genre this has to be the best deconstruction/reconstruction of it I've seen in terms of how it reevaluates the concept of heroism in a digital society and how well it handles its themes of futurism along with personal identity and construction of the self in virtual environments. It is a series with a central thesis about the inherent goodness of humanity expressed through the language of superheroes and social media, and it's one of those stories that really gets the way people engage with the internet in a way that other similar sci-fi stories about fully online societies fail to do even to this day.

The first season's almost naive optimism is then thoroughly torn apart by the second's darker, more introspective tone, which makes the entire show play out like a series of political essays arguing back and forth with the backdrop of colorful superhero action. What makes it particularly good, though, is how it handles this darkening of the narrative, as it asks tough, incisive questions of its own story and still comes out parading genuine optimism about the future of its world and ours.

Because, at its core, it's a superhero story about how everyone has the capacity to be a hero and better themselves and each other. It's a truly transformative experience and, while a lot of its themes can seem... tragically over-optimistic, its datedness almost makes it feel like a time capsule of a time where we were at the cusp of using mass internet penetration to better ourselves as a society, and perhaps remains a reminder of how these technologies may still have the potential to make us all into heroes. Also Rui is a hot gender black hole and I want to be them so badly.

Samurai Flamenco (2014)

In a lot of ways, Samurai Flamenco is sort of the anti-Gatchaman Crowds; it's a straight deconstruction of the tokusatsu genre that's less interested in analyzing the role of superheroes in a society and more about using its own genre to examine the ways fiction allows us to project ourselves as something greater than what we are, while also commenting on said genre's iterations over its history; so ultimately it comes across as both a tribute to it and a deep examination of what exactly makes its fans tick.It is also bat fuck insane and I can't tell you a single thing that happens in it because it goes places. Watching this as it aired was an incredible experience.

Slam Dunk (1993-1994)

The best sports anime ever made. Dead serious. Not only is this a love letter to the game of basketball as a whole that manages to capture the intensity and adrenaline of every single thought that goes through the head of a player in the final minutes of a game, it is also a touching love story with one of the most compelling central casts of characters I've ever seen.

The anime was largely inferior to the manga for a long time on account of it being left unfinished, while the manga remains largely remembered for having one of the most bittersweet endings ever put to page; an equal parts tragic and triumphant culmination of the main character's journey from delinquent layabout to passionate athletic prodigy. Then, last year, we finally got one of the best looking anime films I've seen in my life adapting the final volume of the manga while also expanding the backstory of one of the secondary protagonists of the series.

Part of my love for this series is highly personal. I grew up watching this on TV back in the old country, and seeing it finally be finished after 20 odd years brought me to tears. A lot of it might be outdated by now, but there is yet to be a single anime I am so comfortable watching over and over and over again. I will go to the grave singing its praises.

Soul Eater (2008)

It's Soul Eater, you know Soul Eater. Probably the single most stylish show I've ever seen, visually; and to me still at the peak of the shonen genre as a whole. It's got both some of the best action ever put to animation and some of the most engaging core casts of characters I've seen despite how small its ensemble is. If it seems like I have less to say about it than others in the list it's mainly because it's already popular enough I don't feel like I can contribute much to the conversation; everyone likes Soul Eater. You like Soul Eater. Explaining why Soul Eater is good is like explaining why it is good to eat. Every time I watch Crona's episodes I cry a lot.

RahXephon (2002)

Talking about RahXephon is difficult because conversations surrounding it are usually centered around its relationship to Evangelion; and this is partially because it is, in many ways, a response to it and a reformulation of a lot of the questions that it asked about its story. This is not wholly unfounded, as director Yutaka Izubuchi is a longtime friend and collaborator of Anno's who did do some work in Evangelion prior to this, so the influence is definitely there. For a lot of people, this was rebuild before rebuild. I personally prefer the adage "Evangelion on antidepressants".

I do, however, overall feel this is unfortunate, because taken outside that context, RahXephon is one of the most complex and deeply layered reconstructions of the mecha genre I've ever experienced, with a beautiful score and haunting visual design propping up a story that's equal parts impenetrable as it is deeply layered; made up of so many small character arcs woven into each other completely seamlessly that you always feel like you're watching but a tiny fragment of a large tapestry of stories coming together into a single complete whole. It makes the world of the anime feel simultaneously small and huge, which fits the melancholic post-post-apocalypse visual aesthetic of the narrative It's one of my favorites not because of what happens in it, but because it is one of the most enriching experiences I've had with an anime or any other form of visual storytelling; I always feel like rewatching it makes me take something new away from it that I didn't notice before.

Ergo Proxy (2006)

Part of me has to admit I like Ergo Proxy less as a story and more as an aesthetic. If I had to put a name on how it feels to watch this show it'd definitely be "contemplative"; it's a slow going, compounded puzzle of a narrative which at times borders on self-indulgence with how many layers of things happening at once you're keeping up with. To give you an idea; the seemingly random text crawls during the opening of the show are key pieces of understanding what exactly the plot is by the end of the story. Peel away those layers, and you get a much simpler narrative than it might first appear, with one of my favorite one-sentence summaries: "what if three different Ends of the World crashed into each other at once".

While that seems reductive, one of the things that makes Ergo Proxy feel rewarding to watch, then rewatch to fully understand, is how it does ultimately completely nail the landing with the story it's trying to tell, despite having a complete non-ending that somehow manages to feel satisfying all the same. It's a story that explores themes of identity and human nature through the genre of ecological horror with one of the most stylish depictions of a bleak, dead world I've ever seen put in any narrative. So long as you're okay with a story that doesn't give you a full sense of narrative closure and one where a single watching won't give you all the pieces of the story, it is one of the most rewarding experiences to go back and pick apart, in my opinion. Like a puzzle, you will be left wanting to put all the pieces together by the end.

Ouran High School Host Club (2006)

Don't fucking look at me like that. I watched Ouran at an impressionable age and now I'm bigender. It has a place in my bunny heart. It is foundational to the person I grew up to become.

Cardcaptor Sakura

I watched this dubbed into Spanish back when I was young, and admittedly I don't remember 60% of it, but that doesn't mean I don't think fondly back on it moreso than any other show I ever saw back when I was a child, and one that I've had a lot of joy in going back to it as I've grown older.

I don't have as much to say about it as I do some other shows, and like with Soul Eater, it feels like everything there is to be said about it has already been said elsewhere and better; it is one of the foundational texts for the modern magical girl genre, it is one of the most beautifully animated and designed shows I've ever seen, and the best at keeping the distinct house styles CLAMP is recognizeable for intact in animation as far as I'm concerned. It's my personal choice for what other people would call a "comfort" show; but I do not wish to diminish the story or reduce it to an aesthetic the way a lot of people do for shows like this, considering just how strong the character dynamics and their progression throughout the story are, and the wealth of emotional depth that can be found in just about everyone's arcs.

While the overarching plot and the world of the story aren't as interesting as some other shows of its type, its strengths lies in how it uses that as a solid foundation through which to explore a distinct aspect of the human condition through each of its characters - love, grief, loneliness, devotion to another and many others.

Kekkai Sensen (2015)

This is one of those cases where I feel like I'm going to repeat myself. Take everything I said about Soul Eater, put it here. It is stylish, it's got a strong central cast of characters that are all equally fun and contribute the same amount to the narrative. It's got some of the most intense, lovingly rendered large-scale action scenes I've seen, along with some of my favorite small, touching narratives; thanks to one of the best urban fantasy settings ever put together.

The first season's storyline is a blend of manga chapters with an anime-original plot, while the second season mostly adapts the manga much more closely so it doesn't come together as tightly as the first does, but it is more of the best show of its type of the past decade as far as I'm concerned; and nothing takes away just how incredibly tight that first season feels, even if the final episode was months late and had to go double length while the animation melted a little. And yet, it all comes together beautifully in the end.

Angel Beats

What a surprise this show was. I'll always feel a little bittersweet about it, due to the circumstances that led me to see it, but I'm forever grateful I did. Angel Beats' greatest strength is the way that it disarms the viewer by presenting a fun, albeit somewhat dark supernatural comedy about kids in the afterlife, letting one get comfortable with the silliness of the world before really taking the "children in the afterlife" premise to its logical conclusion: This is a story about death, trauma, tragedy, and moving on- Quite literally, in this case- from the things that weigh us down.

I make no hyperbole when I say that this show has the single strongest emotional climax I've ever experienced, and every time I watch it again I am moved to tears, sometimes more than last. I can't say much, since a lot of what makes this show fun is experiencing it, and realizing the depth of the world along with our point of view character; but the biggest endorsement of it I can give is how gracefully and tactfully it deals with complicated subjects such as abuse, disability and addiction in stories where you know how they all end, and yet give you a satisfying emotional conclusion while also keeping the mood balanced between cheerful when it has to be and heartbreaking, with the latter becoming more and more common by the end of the story.

It's a story about growing up, as much as it is a story about dying. It knows the tragedy of its premise and it chooses to ask the viewer to find joy in the time they have with its cast - a beautiful metaphor for life itself woven deeply into the narrative and never once stated out loud. We know where this story is going, but we're here now, so we might as well have a little fun along the way. That is ultimately what youth is about.

[wmarximoff]

skeleton in the closet | w. maximoff

|spooktober collection|

summary: life married to Wanda Maximoff is as simple as it gets, and everything is as it should be. but old skeletons in the closet comes to light in your hometown, where the two of you lived during your teenage years, when the body of Pietro Maximoff, Wanda's twin brother, is found after nearly twenty years of being missing.

warnings (18+): dark!reader, dark!Wanda, explicit description of stabbing, explicit description of blood, explicit description of dead body, manipulation, explicit description of physical violence, allusions to homophobia.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 8k

A/N: and we're finally on spooktober, guys! seriously, i'm really excited for the fics to come this month. so, to get a sense of what our vibe's gonna be like from now on, i think this story is a good starting point (but remember that if dark things aren't exactly your cup of tea, you don't need to read this)

|main masterlist| |spooktober masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

The autumnal chills made the lapels of your coat rustle against your chest. The transition to the cold climate began to gradually slip through the daily life, and the dark nights came to establish their veil into the beautiful celestial vault dazzles. Leaves taking on earthy tones fell from the trees like sand spilled over desert dunes. The birds returned south in flocks. It was October, as so many others had been and so many more would be. Soon it would be time to pick pumpkins and try to find god knows where a cloak for Billy's sorcerer costume.

As you unlocked the hardwood door dyed a deep pearly white color, entering your small family capsule, cloistered in the depths of a quiet neighborhood, turning with your right wrist clockwise twice at a broken one hundred and eighty degree angle, you found your nose greeted by an enticing aroma of food fresh from the oven, which in response had your stomach churning like a wild buffalo inside your abdomen.

The long rainy morning and the even lengthier gray afternoon had worn you down as a member of the working class, it’s true – your spine leaning against the hard back of the swivel chair, blinking slowly with your bright, demanding eyes, intent on your own words, wondering about your work displayed on the thin monitor sprinkled in its frame by notes on small yellow pieces of paper. Acting as if the internet and blogging hadn't incited an unrestrained crash in your job market.

That typical office job worthy of a big-city journalist's career (articles, write articles for the Daily Bugle, thank J. Jonah Jameson so the mustachioed bastard gives you a raise) that at the end of the day goes back to their residential neighborhood that didn't feel like it should exist in the bowels of New York, to sit in a leather armchair and open a cold beer with a hard click. But at that time of year, beer could well be switched for a steaming mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows and cinnamon swimming in the thickly sweetened brew.

You, however, still within your archetypal office journalist, only craved for a few silent minutes in your wife's arms in search of some comfort in your soul, because your marriage was not bankrupt as your profession made it seem as it was. Wanda still loved you as much as she had almost two decades ago, and you could only breathe if your wife gave you permission to do so. Everything seemed to be as it always should be.

You then hung your keys right next to the door, rotating both your shoulders out of the dark linen coat Wanda had told you once made you look like a stern, sexy college professor, playing with the authority worthy of a title you didn't really hold; it was your wife who did it, after all, and she allowed you to steal that coat tucked on her hanger because she said it looked better on you anyway – even though you only knew that something frugally possessive about Wanda liked to see you in her clothes, exhaling the soft floral effluvia of her perfume as if to mark her territory on your body.

Your breath still gave indications of warm, full-bodied coffee, a trace of that busy afternoon that needed some sort of stimulant—a drink from a plastic cup with your name written on the side in black marker pen; this one that, earlier that day, had been placed next to a framed picture of your family on your desk, next to a “Best Mom Ever” mug in bold letters with a handful of colored pens inside just to your left, close to your elbow.

With placid strides deferred to the wooden floor, imbued with an unpretentiousness when within the walls of your own house, you then set off with your wife's coat folded over the length of your right forearm raised to the height of your ribs, pressed against the length of your abdomen, hanging there as if to emulate the pose of a waiter in a suit at a fancy restaurant.

Upon entering the living room, however, seated on a light cream fabric sofa, you were faced with only the tops of two small heads that lavished thick locks of dark brown hair – a pair of little boys glazed over in artificial colors, your twin sons born ten years and eleven months ago.

They didn't agree on much with each other very often, from time to time fighting over toys as the ontology of having a sibling demands, but they were always close to each other's shoulders at the end of the day, just like they did inside the womb they shared for a whole nine months. A few feet in front of you, a thin television, securely screwed to the wall, flashed some action cartoon you were not very familiar with.

And you smiled with quiet lips and walked to the back of the sofa, where you lowered your spine and, without a word, placed a warm kiss on top of each of the two vanilla-scented chestnut-colored heads, receiving in response a series of dull whining – the protestor of the day, however, as it had always been, was Tommy and not Billy.

“Well, hello to you too, little dude.”

“Mom!” grumbled the little boy with eyes the same color as yours, in a slurred tone that actually sounded annoyed, craning his neck as if you'd stuck gum in his hair, “C’mon, I'm too old for this!”

"Oh, I'm sorry Tom, I almost forgot you're a big boy now that you're ten. My mistake, really,” you crooned in an air of laughter before smiling at the grumpy young boy, who squinted his eyes at you and frowned with his sparse dark brows.

“I am! I don't need to be treated like a baby all the time anymore!”       

“‘Course you are, kid, I didn't say anything to the contrary. You're practically an adult now, what the heck.”

He had a fine chin and a gently upturned nose speckled with freckles like the stars spaced across the night sky. However, as boyish he was, his temper was just so solemnly contrary to his affable teddy bear with a bow tie appearance, an explosive den of undisputed bravery. Your gaze then decided to settle on the figure of Billy, always so much more serene and courteous when opposed to his energetic brother, who was offered a smart smile on your part, narrowing your eyes and raising both of your eyebrows towards him.

“And what about you, bud,” you questioned him without bothering to betray the mockery in your tone, “Are you too old to get a kiss on the head from your mom too?”

“I'm not,” he winked, scrunching a flash of skin over his little nose in a totally, genetically Wanda way, “I like it when you kiss me on the head, mom.”

“See, Tommy,” you turned your chin towards the other twin's freckles, “Billy is ten too and he still likes to get a kiss on the head. It doesn't hurt to like it, you know. You can be tough and still like your mom, just for a change.”

The other boy, in an embarrassed guinea pig squeak, traced the path between your face and Billy's before nurturing his twisted lips into a silly little pout; the stubborn Maximoff gene played out so much more in Tommy than it did in his brother, who hadn't gotten much more from your wife's family tree than the firm, sharp bone structure of his cheekbones and his soon to be smooth jawbone.

“Fine,” Thomas grumbled crookedly in a quick desistance, “You can still kiss me mom, geez.”

“Fine,” you said then, “Because I wasn't going to stop doing it anyway,” and Billy chuckled softly as it was that you turned your face to deposit a new, quick, wet little kiss on Tommy's rosy cheek, smacking your lips against his soft skin.

“Don't think you'll get rid of my kisses anytime soon, mister.”

Leaving the living room then with an impish smile well warped in the commission of your lips, you were directed by the smell of roast chicken that had covered the house like a sheet of flavors, and with slow steps, you let yourself walk across the matte floor in toward the kitchen, to the sacred source of the aroma of fresh-baked food.

You passed a spacious hallway with pale walls, whose faces, interspersed with casual, well-appointed furniture, held photographs of pivotal moments for that family of four (everyone sporting delightful, pearly-beautiful smiles with spasms of hearty glee, say cheese Tommy, look over here Billy, no Y/n, you can't take a picture grimacing for our Christmas card, a break for a round of lively laughter, stop it, Y/n!).

Wanda cherished them with all her heart, as for while she herself was just a lonely child, the walls of the house she lived in were all foreboding and empty, like an excruciating scream in a dark room.

There were no ugly itchy Christmas sweaters or big, fed up Thanksgiving dinners in the family album of Erik Lehnsherr, a high-profile political figure in a well-buttoned jacket and an golden watch screwed to his firm wrist, and Magda Maximoff, a dreary housewife soaked in wine and draped in expensive pearls, a couple married for sheer convenience — no pictures of their own set of twin children, none of the gritty boy or even the always so quiet little girl unwrapping some of their birthday presents by the fireplace, toys bought carelessly with unimportant cash deducted from an unlimited credit card.

But already in the life of an adult, married woman, a mother, that household you two formed together was like a being of its own, as alive as it could be.

A being of pipe bones, brick skin and a happy family heart, who breathed through impromptu Saturday breakfasts and old movie nights snuggled on the couch surrounded by buttered popcorn and cups of iced cinnamon apple tea. The kind of home that is familiar without any hesitation. A generally imposing house, but not enough to be challenging.

So, as you entered the airy white-walled kitchen, an cozy countenance expressed itself through the soberly relaxed muscles of your face, and you couldn't help but evoke a tender smile at what you saw before you – after all it was her, it would always be her.

Wanda had her back to you, her long fire-flaming hair falling over her porcelain shoulders and halfway up her spine like a high forest fire, ready to incinerate you too. It gave off a lovely scent of wild strawberries interspersed with glossy locks that you were fond of sticking your nose in and sniffing that eclectic scent every night before bed.

“Yes, I…I understand. I do, I swear I do.”

It wasn't until the sound of her low voice, in a watery tone that pretends she's not about to burst into tears, that you realized that Wanda's phone was being pressed against the shell of her right ear, a distant green gaze scrutinizing the wet dark of the sink drain. A curious brow of yours rose to your forehead as she faced the raw words in an uncharacteristically Wanda tone, afforded with her deck of cards congruent with dreary answers fitting only in very unfortunate situations.

“I'll try to get there as soon as possible. I'll– I'll talk to Y/n. We'll be there early in the morning. Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow,” Wanda turned on her heel, shimmering with emerald eyes at you, who was caught in her sight like a deer in the bright headlights of a car on the dark road – she frowned, her rosy lips curled intemperately.

Ah, there you are, Wanda said with her eyes in a dull green like the slime that grows on a tiny rock in front of a profuse lake. Something happened and I need you here with me.

“No, I– I know this is a priority,” she sighed a breath of warm air, deflating her chest from under a fresh-blood-colored cashmere cardigan, “I know. I do. I'll be there as soon as possible, father. Don't worry.”

Silence engulfed all four walls of the kitchen as the call then came to an end, though neither of the two parties has properly bid farewell to the other. It was an emergency, your startled senses heightened. Erik would never call if it wasn't an emergency.

A tremor along the length of your spine from the back of your neck alerted you that something was wrong. Saliva choked in Wanda's throat, and she lowered her smartphone to then laid it facedown against the stone kitchen island. She looked at you. You looked at her.

The blood flowing through your veins cooled down at the incognito facet that expressed itself through the dull face of your so gorgeous wife, who had her brown eyebrows curled in a calliginous way and an opaque veil clouding her jade-colored gaze, gauging pale shades of awestruck green to her hollow irises – terror climbing the length of your esophagus, her hands fluttering through the auburn length of her long hair before initiating the fidget act with her own pale fingertips, the two of you sharing a brooding pose, which exhaled a scent of anguish through the kitchen environment.

“Wanda,” there was an exchange of apprehensive looks between you and her, “Wanda, honey, what's wrong? What’s going on? Did... did something happen...? Erik... is your father all right?”

“Y/n...”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out and so Wanda tried to collapse her peach lips again, to swallow the lump tied to her vocal cords. One look was enough for you to know that in Wanda's chest was an atrocious disease known as dread.

And your first instinct in the face of your wife's frightened figure was to slash through the kitchen like lightning, to shelter her haggard body against your own welcoming torso when her muscles chose to disassemble, like an ancient millenary structure that comes to the ground. It was like catching a rag doll in a free fall.

“Hey, hey, it's alright, sweetheart,” you whispered against her red hair, “Alright, alright, I'm here. I’m here with you, Wanda,” and then, a long kiss was bestowed on the pale skin of her right temple, near the last strand of a dark eyebrow.

“Y/n, they found it,” she sobbed in a whimpering murmur against the warm skin of your neck, her hands crawling like a pair of spiders up the fabric on the back of your blouse, “T-they, they found it...”

“They found what, Wanda?” you asked her mutely against her earlobe, “Who found what, baby? What’s going on?”

“A hiker in the woods,” your wife mussed in a thread of a pleading voice, “The police, they… they found Pietro's body... they found him... they found him...”

There was something eerie about Wanda's choked speech – something ominous, not of this world. And something in you flickered – your jawbone knocked, your sharp gaze blazing a stubborn roar of hopeless fear as your stomach dropped. Pietro, of course. Pietro’s body.

Pietro Maximoff, the prodigy athlete, the golden boy on the football team, the apple of his father's eye. The better twin. The missing twin, now earning the title of the twin found underground, the dead twin, the murdered twin.

The glow that always, always so unjustly overshadowed Wanda's charms. The boy this bitter couple had planned to have, the only child they could brag about, while Wanda had slipped out of the womb clinging to Pietro's neck, a particularly uninvited outsider to Erik who never stopped being more than that; more than the thing who came clinging to the boy he wanted to have, a nasty bonus.

Both your palms were sweaty against the back of her cardigan when you held Wanda tighter, the soft clothing leaving a feeling as rough as sandpaper against the tips of your so cautious fingers. You had to be there for her. You had to pull yourself together at that moment. Even if that shouldn't happen. Even if that's not how things were supposed to be.

“I–it's gonna be okay,” your voice no longer sounded like your own, it curled in an irresolute tone, your throat wavering in haste – and you masticated at your lower lip, your heart thudding against your ribcage in distress and the shrillest sensation of fear.

“It's gonna be okay, honey. It's gonna be okay. I’m here. Everything's gonna be okay.”

You kissed her strawberry head cork, your lips dry and your back sweating inside your thick blouse. Your skin turned cold against the warm of Wanda's hot tears. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not seventeen years later. Within that profuse forest, deep in the woods that surrounded the small town frame, no one should ever find anything in that unfathomable grave that you covered with pounds of soft earth when you were just eighteen years old.

ᗢ

“Why do we have to visit grandpa anyways?” whimpered Tommy, in that typical slurred intonation of a tantrum child who is frustrated at being annoyed, “It's not even Christmas yet!”

You were speechless for a few seconds, cluttering with the crimped bone of your jaw, holding up a tightly folded red shirt that you intended to stuff into Billy's blue backpack, through the open zipper like a hungry mouth for changes of clean clothes, so he could get dressed for the weekend.

It was a second taken to think of a wide range of explanations that there was no elucidation to be said in a way that a childish cognition could fully digest, understanding all the nuances carried in its broad meanings.

A second passed, almost taking up the shape of full minutes, until you turned your gaze towards the scowling little boy that was Tommy, who, with an observant ember sparking through the intrinsic color of his clever, harmless irises, stared at you in expectant anticipation for the resolution of his sly doubt.

He, after all, was your son, one of them. A boy to whom you owed explanations of the greatest mysteries that made up the universe just because a few years ago you and Wanda both wanted him to exist.

“Well, honey, you see, it's...” but the words, the correct ones, didn't come out of your mouth, which was left open like a big black hole lacking light, “It's... it's very important to your mama that we're going there tomorrow, Tommy. She needs it.”

“But why?” as his brother lulled him, however, it was Billy's turn to express the doubts that were hovering in his little head, who was in charge of the mission of folding a handful of pants and shirts.

“Yeah mom, why?” claimed Tommy one more time.

“Grandpa's house is weird,” Billy sustained, “It’s so big and smells like a dentist's office and old people. I don't like it there.”

“Well,” you made an unnatural sound that was a mockery of laughter, like a low battery toy, “Your grandpa is old, isn't he…? Don't ever tell him I said that.”

It was the extremes of the moderate hour of eight-thirty at night when you, with your twin children dressed in pajamas at your heels, found yourself in the softness of the boys' shared room – because they, always so united as in a only entity, would never be able to fall asleep in separate rooms, alone and dispersed in two dark corners, which was why there were then two empty guest rooms gathering dust within your house.

Clothed in their cotton pajamas strewn with tiny prints of colorful dinosaurs (red, green and blue too), the pair of little boys were by your side while you took care to pack their bags, willingly volunteering to do so when in front of Wanda's swollen, exhausted eyes, who had retreated to the master bedroom after a lifeless dinner that had surely troubled the two children's spirits.

Two pairs of little eyes then flickered towards your damp face. Just two curious children (your curious children) looking for an answer to their question before Wanda's only relative of whom they had empirical knowledge, the only one alive and yet so far away, whom they had not seen for a certain period of time, but that had sent them new toys the month before this one, on their birthday. You came out on a lame sigh, the coming headache brushing hot on a hard muscle at the back of your neck.

“Look, guys, I'm gonna be honest with you,” you uttered, tucking your knees into your comfy cotton sweatpants to sit on the edge of Billy's bed, putting the folded shirt aside.

“I know it can be a little… um, uncomfortable… to go to grandpa's house sometimes. Trust me, I... I really do. But we need to go there because... well, something serious has happened, and that's why grandpa needs mama there. You guys remember what I told you about mama's brother, right? Her twin brother, just like you two are.”

“Uncle P?” Tommy took the lead in the round of questions, taking a comfortable seat right next to your right elbow, “He left when you and mama were in high school. She said he’s far away from here. That makes her sad sometimes.”

“Yes, he… he's gone,” you bowed your head in a mechanical, hard motion, the words rancid against the face of your tongue, “Your uncle was… he was indeed far away from here, you know? But it turns out... that he was found recently. The cops found him, but… it wasn't in a good way, boys.”

“What happened to him, mom?”

Billy's eyes pointed upward towards your gloomy face, as a complement to his doubt; the little dark brow furrowed in demand for a congruent resolution to his brooding inquiry. You turned your chin at an angle towards your left collarbone to answer him.

“Well, Bill, your uncle, he…” there was a pause on your part, a long silence held in your throat, “He's not alive anymore, kid. Do you understand what that means? He... he's not coming back. Pietro will never come back.”

The boys looked at each other and, with a rehearsed action, cast a sorrowful glare on you – a look that didn't quite understand the real implications of what you'd said to them, but did it well enough to get the idea that it was something bad, something sad enough to mobilize the adults who always seemed to be in control of everything. To make mama cry even when she was the one who nursed them on blue days, brushing the tears away from their cheeks with her thumbs.

“And mama,” Billy said in a tiny voice, so befitting his sad little eyes, “Is she sad?”

“She is,” you cordially splayed your left hand on the small expanse of his knee, where your fingers began a series of affable, unconscious caresses.

“She's very sad, Bill. So we need to do this for her. We need to stand by her side in this moment of sadness and take good care of her when she needs us to. Because now she has to say goodbye to him. For real this time. And goodbyes are big, sad feelings that are very difficult to deal with, even if it's someone as strong as mama. Even more a goodbye like that. Can you do this for her, boys? She’ll be so much happier if you guys do this for her.”

“We can,” Tommy stated, ever so sure of his own words, “We can do this for mama.”

“Yes,” Billy supported his brother, “We gonna do it, mom.”

“Right,” you smiled small, just lifting the corner of your lips, “Thanks, guys, really. This will mean a lot to her. Now come here, come here,” when you offered each boy an arm, the two soon tried to snuggle against your chest, their ears brushing against both of your collarbones.

“It's gonna be okay, did you hear me? We'll get through this. We’ll get through this as a family, as we always do.”

At least, that's what you hoped would happen. As if everything wasn't absolutely out of control. As if you weren't an asshole for lying to your own kids.

ᗢ

Had flown across the sky only a few sluggish minutes since the dawn of the opaque day, enveloping the longitudinal expanses of the outskirts of Westview, then, in a vague aura of homely appearance – thus offering, to the parochial naked eye, a shifting nuance between pastel shades of salmon colors that were soon taken over by the autumnal gray of the heavy clouds, which served as the prelude to a frosty October morning (the first signs of a coming cold temperature already settling, like a disease, through the crooked bowels of the ominous city). Wanda made sure Billy and Tommy were dressed up in thick coats in the backseat.

The sun was clumsy in the midst of the gloomy sky, like a silvery child hiding behind its mother's skirt, and at the foundation of the sky's vault, a long magenta band of sun spread to the horizon, hoisting towards the day, even though it was a particularly gloomy morning.

You had just left New York State behind, and so the reddish-hued family car found itself wandering through the conglomeration of roads that made up New Jersey, just a handful of miles from the nondescript town of Westview.

“Are we there yet? I’m hungry,” asked Tommy from the backseat, his voice coming over your shoulder.

“We're almost there, baby,” Wanda replied in a slightly dry voice, her gaze always looking straight ahead, at the road that unfolded in front of the fender of the car, “Just hang in there a little longer, okay?”

“Okay…”

You looked at her sideways for half a second of bottled oxygen in your throat. Your right hand then wandered over the derailleur that stood between the two seats at the front of the car, to give a cordial squeeze on your wife's left thigh, which was tucked into dark jeans. In grim silence, Wanda held your fingers extensions between her palms – her wedding band felt cool against your skin.

Out of the corner of your sharp eye, your left hand screwed into the outline of the steering wheel, you captured the smudged image of a rudimentary green-painted board made from logs; population 3,892, “WELCOME TO WESTVIEW – HOME: IS WHERE YOU MAKE IT”. You once spray-painted that sign because you were a stupid teenager who had a stupid idea. Nobody ever knew that you did it.

Little Westview was still the same as before, always so classic and timeless. But there was something there, like an ominous specter lurking around corners and behind the fogged up windows, that had made your heart crumple inside your anxious chest and your body curl up like a tortoise does in its shell, unconsciously going further into the faux leather seat.

It was as if every component structure of the city looked into the moving car, as if everything there knew what you had done. How guilty you were; your sin leaking from your pores, bristling your veins.

As the concrete and pylons of the gray, wet asphalt citadel burst before your eyes, magically trapped in an eternal vortex of the sixties, with its empty houses and dismal colonial-style shops surrounded by leafy trees of essence green taking on shades of orange, damp and dark, and its old-fashioned cinema that in its facade of red and blue in bright neon, announced the rerun of a horror movie in black and white.

The Halloween decorations began to appear more and more as the vehicle approached the center of town – a wicked witch in a purple dress flying on top of a broom, a bedsheet made into a ghost with two open holes for the eyes and one for the mouth, a handful of pumpkins with carved pointy teeth.

You clenched your jaw, a streak of sunlight barely crossing your forearm raised to brush a strand of hair out of your eye. It didn't take more than minutes for you to park your car in front of Wanda's old childhood home – the town was tiny, and the house stood triumphantly wider and larger than the other residences.

The cream-colored little house just around the corner caught your eye like a beacon in the dark, however; before your parents moved out of the country after you finished college, this is where you had lived with your family – the window of your old room always facing the street outside.

It was about a ten-minute drive straight down Ellis Avenue (Tommy already fidgeting to get out of the car, Billy saying he was sleepy, Wanda holding back so she wouldn't explode, you just wishing you'd get there soon). Still so early in the morning, the figure of Erik Lehnsherr, once the mayor of Westview, could already be found on his front porch – gray-striped jacket and cropped white hair, bordering on the pearly tone of old age. You turned off the car ignition.

“It's gonna be okay, Wands,” was a whisper on your part into a pair of dark green eyes that weren't quite staring at you, “I'm here with you. I’ll always be here for you, honey.”

“I know,” she sighed back, before taking her right hand to the doorknob and then opening the car door, “I know, baby. Thank you.”

Erik tucked both of his hands into the pockets of his linen pants, piercing eyes burning into your silhouette beneath a pair of bushy dark brows as you helped Billy to get out of the vehicle through the left door that opened like a long red wing towards the street. Sapphire irises, the grandfather of your children.

Clean, wealthy and downright cruel. A frown stripped away from his thin dead lips, which made him looked like a comic book villain – a puff of cocky unpleasantness. Bitter aroma of pompous whiskey on the lapels of his jacket. Your wife crossed the sidewalk, that green, well-trimmed lawn that carpeted the entrance to the house, and approached her own father with her head down.

“Good morning, father,” Wanda greeted him then in a tiny voice, a grim air leaking from her mouth, and she had been bringing Tommy's hand along with hers. With Billy you followed after them, stopping behind her right shoulder encircled by her dark coat.

“Wanda,” said the man in a scolding tone, always so sharp, which prompted a jolt of muscle memory from your wife, who shivered like a shy bunny inside her coat, “Boys.”

“H-hello, grandpa,” Billy tried first, his grip pressing hard against your hand that he held.

“Hi, grandpa,” came Tommy's voice then, though Erik's blue gaze wasn't aimed at the boy; but it did towards you. You swallowed the saliva behind your tongue in a long, sullen blink.

“G-good morning, Mr. Lehnsherr,” you whispered in a strained voice, performing a vaguely welcoming act, “How are you, sir?”

A second of icy silence pierced the front porch of the house, your coat rustling over your body. You brought Billy closer to your hip, his temple pressing against your ribcage in an attempt to warm the boy in front of the zephyrs that traversed the porch of the house stained in icy white paint. A car passed on the street. A dog started barking. The older man just turned his back on you, without offering you any syllables at all.

“Come in,” said Erik then, in a tone that in no way emulated a host, already walking his body back inside the open door, ever so used to giving orders and not receiving them, “It's cold out here.”

 It took you a long time to find any answers to the inhospitalities uttered by the father of your beloved redhaired wife. Wanda realized that there had been more than one (or even two) attempts on your part to speak out over the course of a few long, drawn-out seconds. Your eyes then migrated to the troubled look of the silent woman standing beside you, who nodded in agreement with the slightest movement of her head. Silently, always behind Wanda, you only entered the residence after your wife did.

ᗢ

The hallways of Westview High School were still the same ones you remembered in your memory, seeming preserved in time since the last time you set foot on that comfortable linoleum floor, in a teenage memory cloistered within the walls of your own cranium.

But you were an adult now, a self-assured, stable woman with a solid career and an established family. You wouldn't allow a pompous boy who exuded arrogance, that same troglodyte who always bumped his strong shoulder against yours, to trouble your spirits again.

The gym’s basketball court (a rectangular floor with baskets at each end) had been willingly granted by Monica Rambeau, the then-current principal of the school, always so efficient as she did since she was a young girl, to play a crucial role in the location where Pietro Maximoff’s memorial would be held – as in a ritual religious, a cult of an numinous god, as if one were about to light a candle and sacrifice a chicken on an altar to bring him back to the realm of the living beings.

He was still there, more alive now than dead than he had ever been before. It was like your own augur spirit slithering behind your shoulders, a past always ready to haunt you, to rip your soul out of your eyes if need be. Little by little, the small town seemed inclined to accept the unpalatable fact that the golden boy had indeed died, even though almost two decades had passed and the youth of today didn't even care about the name of the late teenage athlete who studied with their parents so many years ago.

It was easy to bring back the time that had been spent there, and everything you had ever experienced in that environment – the tin lockers were still bluish and you still remembered your own combination of numbers off the top of your head (turn to the side once, turn to the other twice, then turn to the other three times and the door magically opens, but needs a slam to open it fully).

Wanda had memorized that combination when you two started dating only to sneak there cute little notes in between classes.

Near a small stage set up in front of the sloping seats of the polished wooden bleachers, with a platform at its center as in a presidential campaign, was a huge glossy photograph of a young Pietro smiling sideways, forever preserved at that stage in his life, a broken chuckle at the corner of his fifties Hollywood heartthrob's lips, a cheap performance by a small-town James Dean, just another naughty bad boy.

It was, that photograph, taken just before he disappeared, because the boy had dyed his brown hair a platinum blonde just a month before he disappeared for good. The sight of him there depressed you to the extreme, even though the tight lump in the nerve endings of your stomach further pointed to the bitter taste of fear rising in your gut; it had been a while since that boy had stopped bothering you altogether, and bringing that guilt-ridden nervousness back was not doing your health any good.

You'd abandoned your demons and didn't want to worry about them, even though Pietro's sapphire-colored irises looked like two security cameras following you around the room, his lips seeming to twitch in horror-movie words only you could hear: I'll tell them, Y/n. I'll tell them all what you did to me. The autumn air felt heavyweight and dense when enclosed in such a spacious environment, and an icy thread was rising in your throat.

Groups swarmed the walls of the gym like a flock of flies, former classmates of yours, faces dizzyingly familiar, the entire battalion of retired teachers who used to hang out with you in your everyday life at that school, and half a dozen other of Erik's stuck-up acquaintances al dresses in wealthy coats so similar to his own. You shook a few hands and offered some unsympathetic smiles – always the same questions and always the same answers, after all, you were now part of the victim's family.

“Yes, yeah, I married Wanda”, “Yeah, his twin sister”, “Wanda is sad but we're doing our best to make it okay”, “No, I wasn't that close to him back then”, “He was a great guy, wasn't he?”. No, he wasn't.

Citizens in their late forties, all expressing sad faces, as if they were rehearsing for a play; the main role would win whoever convinced everybody that they were sadder than the others at the death of a boy that everyone pretended to like at the time because his father was the mayor. You watched it all so secluded, so far away, that play worthy of social etiquette to tragedy unfolding right under your eyelashes, while Wanda was with Erik and more people talking on the platform. Black always looked good on her.

You kept your eyes on the twin boys circling near the coffee table, a donut dusted with an icing sugar crust to each, just to keep their childish palates entertained, avoiding Pietro's gaze in that photo, preferring to pounce like a cat and sneaking between people's ankles, letting yourself fall into abandon, as long as you didn't see anyone and no one else could see you either.

“Man, that's really sad,” a voice had said over your right shoulder, and Darcy Lewis, a former classmate of you, always with long dark hair and round glasses, came to meet you carrying a disposable cup of warm coffee in her right hand.

She was always full of ghastly puns and some occasional movie reference exchanged between the times you paired up in sophomore chemistry class.

“Yeah, it's really sad,” you muttered in an artificial tone, “It's sad as fuck.”

“I mean, I always thought that the guy was a fucking idiot. He was an asshole, everybody knew he was an asshole,” she continued, just after taking a long swig from the steaming cup of coffee that she held at her jaw height.

“At the time I was even glad he was gone, I'm not gonna do like these hypocritical suckers here and pretend that I liked him because I truly didn’t. But I don't know, after all this time... he was just a kid, you know?”

The walls of your stomach clenched and ached in an icy brush. He was just a boy, really. In the end, he was just a boy. Something you discarded for the earth to digest and take away, but which in a run of bad luck, just came back to haunt you so many years later.

“I just… I thought he had run off with some girl when he realized he had no chance of getting into college or whatever. He looked like the kind of guy who would try his hand at life in L.A and then come back home old and crying. But damn, being actually murdered? What the fuck. That’s sick.”

She used a tone of indignant surprise to accentuate the last word you couldn't quite digest in your stomach, acrimony bile and distressing dread climbing up the muscles of your slimy mucus-covered throat. Nothing in you was intent on looking at the woman in the thick coat standing beside you, but your gaze even less yearned for Pietro's piercing irises.

“Just… this isn't one of those TV shows that always has a small-town mystery or some shit like that. This is real life, man. These things are not supposed to happen around here.”

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to swallow a gulp of icy air. Crossing the crowd, next to her big-handed father in expensive pants, Wanda's earnest gaze sought you out. And you didn't notice something opaque distorting the green of her irises, as far away as she was from you. But your former classmate noticed the exchange of glances with your wife, and another sip of coffee came for her to speak again.

“Damn, sorry,” Darcy mussed then, “You married his sister, didn't you? Shit, I completely forgot about that, Y/n. I'm sorry. I know this must be a difficult time for your family. For you, even.”

“It’s okay,” you shrugged into your own coat, “He and I weren't very close in high school, anyway,” and then, you finally looked at her, “But I know it’s just sad that he’s gone. I’m trying to keep it together for Wanda and our boys, but… it’s tough. Everything in this situation just sucks.”

“Right?” she scrutinized at you with her piercing, pale blue eyes under her glasses frame, looking at you with pity in her gaze, as if you weren’t just a guilty liar.

“He was an asshole, sure, but he... he was just a kid. I realize this now that I’ve grown up. It’s not fair, man, it’s not fair to him that it was like this. I wonder how scared he was at the end. Nobody… nobody deserves to die like this.”

It was like the last shovel of dirt in your own coffin. It was too much, just being there was too much for you. Your stomach dropped as you vomited a sweaty smile out of your lips. So you accepted, you just did – a pompous boy who exuded airs of arrogance still troubled your spirit, after all.

Because what you had done to him (your hands stained with still-warm blood and wet earth, your skin itching against the dewy tall grass in the middle of the night, the smell of iron and musky trees in the air) had scarred your carcass for the rest of your life. The latent guiltiness would never let your bones rest again in your life.

ᗢ

You hugged your thick coat made of black fabric to your body, even though you didn't feel the autumn chill at all. But you only knew that you had done it so that you could hide from the morbid eyes of the trees in the cemetery. The atmosphere of that place was horrible. The white headstone was beautiful, and that was just despondent. There was something sadistic about the fact that a funeral was such a beautiful thing – even more so when you were the reason that corpse lost its heartbeat.

Everything in a cemetery was miserable, of course, the stench of human putrefaction was intrinsic in the still life of that sacred ground; just a bunch of dead people and memories buried to the bottom, but the fact that this tombstone was so expensive and so exceedingly beautiful was the most distressing part of it all.

It meant that Erik wanted to give the best treatment to this thing that would be a memorial to his beloved son even in death. Your cloudy irises descended to that cluster of flowers placed on top of the closed casket of dark varnished wood, whose interior held only a handful of bones worn down by exposure to time and the animals of the forest. They were burying a bag of bones because of you.

Amidst a sea of bowed heads, hazy faces tucked into dark garments, all with shoulders pressed together like a wall founded in mourning, the deceased's father was the one who spoke the parting words, while Wanda stood beside you, each of you holding the hand of one of the twin boys the two of you had had. When she noticed the stress simmering up inside you, almost leaking out of your mouth, your brow furrowed, a hand of hers soon tried to reach for your fingers.

“Pietro was a good boy,” the heartbroken father had said then, “He really was. And someday he would be a great man, I know he would. I... I'm glad my beloved Magda isn't here to witness this. She wouldn't deserve to see our boy like that. See what they did to him.”

You thought you were going to throw up as memories began to pour through the blood coursing through your pallid veins, a den of unsettling affliction teasing you into a frenzy of unease. Between bushes and rocks, into the beech woods of the forest, swallowed up by the enormities of the shadows of the scrupulous pines, placed in wide profligate rows, you set out carrying those bones that were still wrapped in a capsule of flesh, veins, muscles and sinews.

The twigs on the forest floor twisted the flesh at her ankles and calves, but the vibrating epinephrine in your veins inhibited the burning sensation of a handful of tiny cuts slashing open in your skin. But still, you groaned in pain. But the pain you felt had not come from the abrasions and fissures denoted here or there in your epidermis – it had been the broken heart, which had begun to weaken you, chilling your bones and viscera.

Flowing reality flooded your bronchial tubes; there was fear emanating from the tears dispersed down the length of your face. Fear of losing your beloved Wanda Maximoff. Wanda, your support, your muse, your martyrdom, your passion. Lyrical, but somewhat tragic, like a Homeric tale. A famine that was supplied to you; an abstruse epic romance born of the core of two girls devoid of a primordial love. What would you do without her, and what wouldn't you do for her? Heaven and hell weren't extreme thresholds that would keep you from searching for the girl you were dating.

You dug a grave, the deepest of them, a hell hole. You dropped Pietro's inert body into that eternal darkness. And then you threw dirt on him until you couldn't see his platinum hair anymore. Your yelps echoing off trees, rocks, and tall grass. The sky was overcast and the weather tasted of blood and bitterness. And when you let go of the shovel you turned back to the young Wanda standing right behind you, her eyes empty, her clothes still smeared with the blood that spurted from her own twin's jugular.

“It's gonna be okay, baby,” you reassured her, your girlfriend, your future wife, the future mother of your kids, “It's gonna be okay, Wands. I'm here with you. No one will know. They’ll never know.”

“Promise me, Y/n?” she hummed through the trees, a shy, measured voice. Dark hair curled with streaks of heavy blood starting to clot at the ends. Your dirt-smeared right thumb stroked the sharp of her cheekbone.

“I promise, Wanda. I'll always protect you, okay? No one will ever know what you did, honey. Never.”

“I love you, Y/n," she confessed, eyes shining in a sparkle that shouldn't have been there, “I want you to be by my side my whole life. I want you to keep this secret with me. Just you and me. We'll be together forever, and no one will ever know what we did.”

“No one will ever know,” you huffed back, leaning in to kiss her in front of her brother's makeshift grave.

No one would ever know that Pietro came home one night when Erik was out and found you and Wanda exchanging some teenage kisses on the kitchen counter – her sitting there, you standing between her legs, your finger going south, almost touching what hadn't been touched yet.

Or how he looked a lot like a rabid animal when he knocked you to the ground, making you hit the back of your head with a hard thud. As on the floor, slumped like a rag doll, you turned your hips dorsally so that you were facing your attacker – your own legs unusable once he had sat on them with his full weight. The boy's stiff hands bound your wrists just above your head, his hot breath brushing your hairline, just to the top of your forehead.

His psychotic dim face was thin and rampant, shades of blue flickering across his homicidal irises, his animalistic mouth hooded by strands of an oncoming dark beard that would someday show on his firm chin. And then masculine fingers, experienced, strong from gripping heavy basketballs every day, pressed against the throbbing muscle in your throat.

“You,” Pietro yawned, but, on the whole, didn't seem to be full of his mental faculties to the point that he could speak without being haunted by occasional tantrums of shaking, “You’re fucking my sister?! You fucking weirdo! I’ll fucking kill you!”

You squinted your eyes, your vision slowly dimming as your brain was deprived of oxygen. And then a cavernous growl resounded through the gray walls of the amorphous kitchen, followed by a heavy thud. You opened your eyes. With both his legs tangled up in your own, Pietro was slumped to the left, oozing from an open wound in his neck, a pool of warm blood that only grew. Like a mouse, he agonized over rambling words, before being lulled by the coldness of death.

His strong chin was soaked in the thick reddish blood seeping out of his nostrils, out of his mouth, and out of that gaping gash in the skin, from within an artery, thick and dark, almost the color of wine. Blood that trickled down the boy's viripotent chin, then dripped in a sinuous red line across your puffy face beneath him. The collar of your shirt was soaked in the color of tomato sauce.

The sound of metal hitting the floor reached your ears. Wanda dropped the knife she had stuck inside her twin brother's neck. She fell to her knees, bare by the little black dress she wore. And, pushing Pietro's body off you, you just crawled up to her like a bloody animal after a violent slaughter. And you held her against your body. You just held her.

“Y/n,” she whispered under her breath, “Y/n... I... I'm... I'm scared, Y/n... I'm scared...”

Blood all over the kitchen floor, showing and where it shouldn't be – on the sleeves of your shirt and in Wanda's long dark hair, “No one will know,” you uttered against the shell of her ear, “Don't worry, honey, no one will ever know. I won't lose you, Wanda. No one will ever tear us apart.”

You might have thought differently in the years that followed if you had seen the smile she hid against your collarbone. If you only knew how much she disliked having her ankle chained to Pietro's glory even though she always passed for the sweet passive twin (after all, what kid would even want to be second choice?). If you only knew she hadn't just forgotten that her brother was coming home earlier that night.

If you only knew that years later, when you were finally there giving a dignified funeral for the body you two buried together, Wanda smiled the same way she did that night. After all, you were her wife now. You were the mother of her children. And you were the keeper of the biggest secret in her life, the only person who knew about the skeleton in her closet. It wouldn't make any difference to get rid of Pietro if she got you for life.

“I love you, I love you so, so much,” Wanda whispered in your ear then, that night when you slept in her father's guestroom, “And I'll never lose you, Y/n. Never. Thanks for making sure of that for me, baby.”

[eretzyisrael]

Hamas didn’t invade Israel on Oct. 7 for its amusement. The barbaric sneak attack is a part of the pogrom intended to wipe out the Jewish state. It was a crime against humanity, and not just because of its savagery. We would all be worse off if Israel ceased to exist. The same cannot be said for Islamic terrorists.

Israel’s contributions to the modern world are momentous. When not dodging bullets, rockets, and homicide bombers, Israelis have since 1948 developed:

Copaxone and Rebif, drugs that treat multiple sclerosis, and Exelon, which treats mild to moderate dementia in Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s patients.

The PillCam, “a minimally invasive ingestible camera in a capsule that allows visualization of the small bowel.”

The water desalination process.

The Sniffphone, “that can actually ‘sniff out’ diseases.”

And SpineAssist, “​​the first-ever spine robot” that has the “ability to provide real-time intraoperative navigation.”

The Weizmann Institute of Science in Rehovot, Israel, responsible for some of the inventions listed above, has also produced diabetes and flu vaccines, is using T-cells to treat damaged spines, and is a pioneer in industrial — and medical — uses nano materials. 

Other impactful Israeli products include drip irrigation, a revolutionary microprocessor called the 8088, the ​​NIR heart stent, voice-over-internet protocol, the ​​USB flash drive, the Waze navigation app, ReWalk, “a commercial bionic walking assistance system,” and “the first commercially viable firewall software.” 

Our own security has benefited from Israel’s labor and work ethic.

“Many Israeli innovations are present in upgrades to U.S. Air Force fighters and Army equipment,” says the international law firm Smith, Gambrell & Russell. One important advance in particular is the helmet-mounted display system for the new F-35 Joint Strike Fighter.

So we have a country of 9.23 million, mostly desert, that is only 75 years old, is “surrounded by enemies” and in a constant state of war, which has “no natural resources,” yet “produces more start-up companies on a per capita basis than large, peaceful, and stable nations and regions like Japan, China, India, Korea, Canada, and all of Europe.” It is the only nation outside of the U.S. that Warren Buffet invests in.

Have the Palestinians or Hamas, currently at war with Israel, done anything that compares to what the Israelis have achieved? More broadly, beyond the Allahista terrorist groups, what has Islam contributed to the modern world?

Not much.

Since 1901, Jews, who total 0.2% of the world’s population, have won 189 Nobel prizes for physics, medicine, chemistry and economics. Over that same period, Muslims, who make up nearly a quarter of the global population, have won four.

If it seems as Islamic groups, Hamas and Hezbollah prominent among them, are more interested in spreading nihilism, committing atrocities, and destroying civilization than making the world a better place, well, then there’s a good reason for it. That is exactly what the heroes of an increasingly large number foolish Westerners are aiming for.

Meanwhile, Israelis see themselves “as having a role in the world to repair the world,” says Chemi Peres, managing partner and co-founder of the venture capital firm Pitango, chairman of the Peres Center for Peace and Innovation, and son of the late Israeli Prime Minister Shimon Peres.

“We call it tikkun olam, and here at the Peres Center we have a mission statement, which is to introduce innovation and new ideas and new technologies, not only for ourselves but to solve the problems of the world.”

Islam is part of that world, but too many of its adherents live to do just the opposite. 

— Written by the I&I Editorial Board

[skunkes]

You probably get this asked a lot but do you have any particular things you keep in mind when writing in your journal? I started recently and it's been great but I find that Only recapping my day gets to be a bit tedious (esp when I don't go outside much lol) so I was curious what you do to keep motivated with it ! Ur sticker layouts are always so cutes btw I'm very inspired by them ^_^💖

Yeah! I mainly journal for Memory Keeping as i have a weird obsession with wanting to keep track of anything/everything, so i just think of what future cheye would want to know, instead of just recapping day.

Makes me really sad bc in college all i had energy to write was like "ate x went to class went to mailroom went to class 2 had x for dinner 1 am now goodnight" and its like. What about. The whole rest of it!! What did u do who did you talk to when was it that you saw a raccoon irl for the first time!!! Were you stressing over assignments?? Which and why!!! I have 0 tangible, meaningful, memories of what happened now. Just sterile clinical ones. :(

I do track things consistently like my rating for the day, the time i woke up and the time i go to bed, what i ate, if i cried, along wit other personal stats (i like the numbers!). Sometimes I also dont Do anything in a day so i just focus on other things, like taking the opportunity to write about feelings a little bit, so future cheye Knows the state of mind i was in on a given day, or maybe talk about how I bought something and am excited to wear/use it

Not much happened today so I wrote about and included how my dad described the plot of to, and showed me, some scenes of The Untouchables 1987 today because a song always reminds him of that movie...

yesterday I wrote about how my sister and I are planning on trying some pillsbury cocoa rolls on thursday, since we couldn't today, and that I am Excited.

I don't know, its small things that I feel I'd appreciate in the future even if they seem silly or pointless right now...(and also good for keeping track of personal growth, as Im hoping I at one point get to pinpoint where my complaints about Not Wanting to Drive fade away from the entries. Ykwim?)

ITS KIND OF LIKE THAT ONE POST ON HERE...like "if you see this tag one delight from your day no matter how small". You ""force"" yourself to come up with something to pad the entry with, and I think it's small things like that that will be really telling of your time here, in the future ^_^ time capsule of the old you

like. Did you see something insanely funny? Did your best friend say something weird... Did the internet platforms you browse all rally over a war criminal dying... Is it still rainy and chilly like it was yesterday? Are you excited for your birthday even if its many months away... What series did you start rewatching? Did u get scared by a shadow while walking your dog...idk! Anything, everything

[highladyluck]

When I was in 8th grade- 13 years old- I collected all the weird stuff my friends and I were making into a book and gave them each a copy on the last day of school.

We were prolific- there were filk and other parodies, secret codes, daily quotes, in-jokes, the history & rules of the imaginary card game we invented based not-loosely-at-all on Magic: The Gathering, an entire fictional country, lots of doodles, and little blurbs about each of us.

I was up all night before the last day of school, scanning printouts of my friends’ work, formatting the table of contents and my own material in Greetings Workshop, stapling all ~40 pages together on each copy- but I never made a copy for myself.

I went to the wedding of a friend from that era of my life yesterday (it was lovely, my friend looked like a Disney Princess) and one of the 4 people who had gotten the Eighth Grade Humor Yearbook was there, 5-month-old son in tow, and bequeathed me his copy.

I’d forgotten so many details about that time in my life! One of my friends is now dating someone mentioned in passing in the book, and it was so fun to realize that and to point it out- look! You were here! You were a part of our lives this long ago! Welcome back!

Some of it is stunningly good, considering, and some of it makes me wince in embarrassment. I had a crush on one of the co-authors and the evidence of that is recorded too, peeking out in so many ways, in quotes and in-jokes and the subtextual choice of what material to include.

I’m glad I made this time capsule and I’m delighted it came back into my life. So much of my life from that time was recorded on the Internet forums, message boards, and personal websites that are lost to time; my childhood may have been logged, but the logs are mostly unreadable and unreachable. But this one survived, and I finally have a copy.

[oldschool-lolita-archive]

ur one of my inspirations fr and i really wanna get into web surfing and going through old defunct blogs but idk where to start xP sorry for anon im too shy lmaoo

Hiiii (no worries abt being anon, I left it on for a reason, I support all shy internet users).

First of all thank you for the compliment. I am very touched that I have managed to reach the hearts of others.

You are not alone in this! It can be an intimidating place to start especially if you are used to formats like pinterest or instagram where you only need to search and billions of results will appear. Tumblr is a pretty decent in-between bc it encourages you to link to the original source or provide some form of credit, but it also has its limits.

If it is specifically lolita blogs that you are looking for, I recommend doing a bit of searching on the EGL livejournal. Most lolitas have abandoned it in favour of newer platforms so it’s a good time capsule for lolita in the 2010s and late 2000s (sometimes earlier). I’m recommending it because the website layout is easy to understand, you don’t need to use the wayback machine AND it is in english!

The most obvious downside of EGL LJ is that sometimes photos will have been taken down because the free hosting websites of the time have either died or become greedy and hide everything behind a paywall. There is nothing you can do about this >:( grrrrr

(To be continued, my battery is about to die, check back later) 💀

- Sullen

[landwriter]

Ask Game: List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox for the last 10 people who liked or reblogged something from you! get to know your mutuals and followers :3c

help i missclicked the unfollow button before sending you this pls ignore that friend :')

Omg lmao I saw that and I was like, has he not been following me this whole time. was flattered to have finally made the cut 😂 Thank you for sending this, I just did it so I won't recirculate but any excuse to talk about things that bring me joy:

People! As a filthy extrovert living rurally I forget how much I love humanity until I find myself shopping and chatting with everyone who wants to (which, out here, is a lot!) Love shooting the shit while doing errands and it's always a culture shock grabbing stuff in cities now. What do you mean you don't make little jokes at each other!! There's something really affirming about the common openness/dependency on one another you get in the country, and it gives everyone a little bit of goodwill with people they would otherwise not especially like or even interact with. It's nice for the heart and good for a community.

Hot showers. Self explanatory but especially valued after tiring oneself out in the garden and having aches in all those muscles that only start existing near the age of 30

The way older people write emails. Setting up a tech help date with an elder friend and she told might if I'm coming by Thursday I might have to open the gate, which is often closed on Thursdays, and said she'll explain why when she sees me. Fascinating!! Another colleague adapted all his slang from the first two years of the internet's existence and hasn't changed it since. Every email from him is like an incredible time capsule.

Camp. Have rewatched Dead Boy Detectives' first episode a number of times now and the way Esther Finch's actress delivers her lines is an undiminished joy. People should check it out for that if nothing else tbh

Old friends. I just love the like, deranged and mindless craic you get with people you've known for years and years. I feel like you get to this point where you just make sounds at one another

[moose-muffin]

It’s been a while, but after a lot of mulling it over I have an announcement for you all.

When I turned 13 I remember being so excited because I could FINALLY legally download tumblr and this account was born, or well, a different account that I ended up losing access to when I made a new email so THEN this account was born HAHA.

I will always be grateful for the love and support this community has given me over the years. I mainly used this blog as a means to make friends and talk about tickling without being the fear of being judged and it did that for me. Thank you all for being so kind. I had a blast making up silly headcanons for characters I enjoyed and loved that I could share them with others who found them just as fun.

I think I’ve realized though that my interest in tickling is not entirely SFW. For a lot of my childhood I assumed I was ace (I still do believe I’m somewhere on the spectrum) but I do know that tickling as a form of intimacy is not just platonic. I want to be able to explore the more NSFW sides of the community. And it wouldn’t feel right doing it on this account. I know that my time in the SFW tickle community has taught me so much. I know that community isn’t strictly for minors, but I also realize a majority are. And I want to keep it a safe space, just as kink communities are safe spaces for people 18+. In no way am I saying this interest can’t be SFW for those who are 18+, that’s valid!! For me, that simply isn’t my reality.

I don’t plan on deleting this account. It can serve as a time capsule of the experiences and the love that this community has to offer. Plus people do interact with my old posts from time to time and they were written as SFW, and I don’t want to take it away because I remember trying to look for niche fandom tk content and often finding nothing, so hopefully they continue to bring people joy.

I’m sure I’ll run into some of you on the other side, I don’t think I’m going to advertise my new account here just yet (it also isn’t created at the moment either HAHA). I’m not sure if I will share it here at all, so please feel free to reach out if you want to stay connected, as long as you are over 18.

To any minors reading this, I want to say I know it can be frustrating and it can feel like you’re being purposefully excluded from something. Kink communities are a beautiful thing, but the reality is there are sexual encounters that occur in those communities. And there is an age of consent for a reason, and while it may be different in different places, I feel strongly that 18 is the age that makes sense. Once you’re an adult, you’d be welcomed into NSFW communities with open arms, but these aren’t just rule for the sake of control, they serve an important purpose. They’re for your safety and also the safety of everyone in the communities as well.

I’ve felt inspired to do this for a while by some of the accounts around me. If you’re someone who’s also moved accounts, most likely you helped me realize I wanted to do the same thing. Thank you for setting a positive example and showing that it’s ok when things change.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading! Tumblr is probably my favorite platform and a lot of that has to do with the kindness and also the setting and following of boundaries. Remember to read users intro posts before following and just because it’s the internet doesn’t mean you don’t need consent. (Minors cannot give consent for sexual encounters btw let’s not forget that please) Ok I think that’s about it. Remember to have fun and let yourself be weird and freaky. The world needs more freaks in all honesty. Fuck cringe culture too, do what makes you happy and take care of yourself and your friends. Good luck to each and every one of you!

[bilbao-song]

question: what’s different about 90s-2005 nail polish and is it still usable? 

first of all thank you so much for asking bc this is like...the best non-elo-related question anyone could ever ask me tbh bc nail polish is my number one obsession after like, elo/music/records/70s things as a whole

anyway! YES basically any old nail polish is usable indefinitely if properly stored, and even if it gets gummy or like, totally dried out, it can still be rehydrated and used. there's actually a person i follow on instagram who purchased 1950s nail polish on ebay, rehydrated it, and wore it as one normally would, so tl;dr yeah basically any nail polish can last until it's used up!! some people are wary of various chemicals that were used in older nail polish so that's kind of a "use at ur own risk" type of thing (from what i understand the risks are pretty minor, but that's for each individual to decide), but for the eras i'm interested in, that's not as much of an issue in the first place. anyway, for the older ones i have, i use a really cheap nail polish thinner from sally beauty to bring them back to life as necessary. allegedly there are better things out there but this gets the job done for me :') i get a LOT of 90s-early 2000s nail polish secondhand, and another nice thing is that things like bacteria and fungi can't survive in nail polish, so even secondhand it's pretty safe to use. like...i would never buy and use someone else's crusty mascara but nail polish is not Like That

as for the other part of ur question it's mainly just my own weirdness lmao. it's kind of a multi-pronged thing for me, and this is going to get weirdly deep and a little bizarre but i'm monologuing so it's okay:

i love fashion in general but my own personal style includes nearly anything ranging from "today i am dressing like it's 1968" to "pinnacle of modern fashion." 60s/70s fashions and aesthetics are my favorite by far, but i do have my occasional 90s and y2k-era inspired moments

despite the fact that i am so so so overwhelmingly interested in the 60s and 70s aesthetic(s) for every day life, i have a weird fixation with 90s and early 2000s cosmetics in particular that is somehow, in an illogical way that makes sense pretty much exclusively to me (legitimately i don't even quite understand it myself!!!), an extension of my weird fascination with the early internet

not to be fake deep but the enduring nature of nail polish is just part of why i like it so much. it's like a bizarrely personal connection to the past bc i would be a little grossed out to use like, 30 year old lipstick? but i'll use any nail polish that's physically functional, and i just think it's neat to think that i could've just as easily used it when it was first produced and sold, had i like.......been alive and/or old enough to be buying things at the time. like, i have some nail polishes that my mom and grandma used throughout my early childhood that i still wear myself now (shoutout to revlon petalchrome [obviously not my photos but they're good lmao] which is possibly my favorite nail polish of all time), and i have some others that are older than i am and i just think that's interesting for whatever reason lmao. it's like a subtle lil time capsule

anyway revlon color zing spring 2000 (picture included below bc why not) and revlon colorchrome spring 2001 my beloved

[ussgallifrey]

Dagger Squad Headcanons | Part 7

ROBERT "BOB" FLOYD

Robert and his twin sister Melissa were children of the foster care system, going in when they were almost two years old. He has nearly no memory of his birth family.

They were shuffled between four houses and agencies before they were settled into the care of the Floyd family. They were officially adopted just after their sixth birthday.

100% was a Cub Scout, a Boy Scout, and an Eagle Scout.

His mom was a super involved den mother.

Joy-Anna Floyd - otherwise known as Josie, or more commonly Mama J to the neighborhood kids - is the quintessential Midwestern suburban mother. This woman would drop everything at a moment's notice for her kids or their friends.

Bob has a teddy bear from his birth mother tucked away in a box in the back of his closet that he sometimes opens up and holds. He likes to think he can still smell her perfume on it.

Likes his routines, sticks to them if at all possible. The timing of things is key - which really sucked for his sister when she missed her morning bathroom time by eight minutes.

6:15 at the bus stop, this kid was working through levels of Pokémon Blue while his fingers slowly began to freeze in the Midwestern winter temps.

His world from the ages of 7 to 15 were consumed by his game consoles. He really liked the old school systems - the Sega Genesis was where it was at.

He did little league for a few years before throwing his focus into hockey. His dad always says he could have made it into a college team if they hadn't relocated.

They lived in Minnesota up until Bob and his sister were 12, then they moved further west to Montana.

Melissa took the move better than him, by far. He had a hell of a time fitting in and making friends - becoming a real loner type by the time high school started.

Spent a lot of his summers working on his uncle's cattle ranch in Montana. He liked the work for the most part - being away from town and just kind of in-tune with everything around him for a little while.

Bob has a massive back tattoo. An angel sat on the ground with its wings curved around him, his foot on a compass directional face. It's a reminder to trust in himself and the path he is on, no matter what. It's his only tattoo and he doesn't like to show it off. If he flexes his arms/shoulders, it makes the angels wings appear to be unfurling and opening up.

He primarily wore contacts up until he enlisted. The glasses were a bit of a cultural change for him, to be honest.

Started playing guitar when he was nine. Picking up his uncle's long-neglected Gibson and just started strumming random chords on it during one of his summers at the ranch.

He's not good in terms of being on par with the greats, but he's probably the best self-taught musician out of the whole squad. His fingers move across the frets with a haunting speed.

He does not sing in front of anyone if he can help it. His voice is just fine and actually pretty rugged and handsome in a classic country artist sort of way, but he's too self conscious of his own tone to willingly break out into song around other people.

His favorite artists include Bob Dylan and Bob Seger. Though he takes a lot of inspiration from classic blues artists when it comes to playing - like Robert Johnson.

His favorite childhood food was peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

As much as he loves his mother and would do anything for her, she made way too many tuna casseroles growing up. So much so that he will not willingly eat tuna now as an adult.

Misses having his hair a little longer, around the ears.

His parents house back in Montana is basically a permanent time capsule to the pre-internet days of the 70s, 80s, and 90s. Hardwood paneling and carpet as far as the eye can see. His old room has been virtually untouched since he left home at 18. You will find all of his old sports trophies, TMNT posters, and classic Star Wars figurines still where he left them.

He really got into robotics and engineering around the time of his sophomore year in high school when the computer lab received it's first upgrade of new computers.

His mom figures he probably could have invented the iPhone if he hadn't gone and enlisted. Bob would thoroughly disagree.

Mr. and Mrs. Floyd are the types of parents who still bring up his school achievements as if he isn't currently an officer in the United States Navy. No, it's his third grade essay on nocturnal wildlife that gets brought up at Sunday dinner.

No one has been told the true origin of his callsign outside of his first squadron. Baby on Board, Barf on Backseat, Best of the Best, doesn't matter. He'll never tell.

His eyes can barely handle contact lenses after all this time and he sort of hates it.

Actually has a really filthy mouth, but he puts on the Midwestern charm and innocent phrases when he's out in public - especially in uniform. No, he saves that kind of talk for his partner and only his partner.

This man will dominate you at hacky sack.

His dad took him and his sister camping a lot when they were growing up. The really rugged kind of no-electricity, dig a hole in the ground to go, kind of camping. He feels most at home when he's surrounded by open wilderness.

Was a real 4-H, county fair kind of kid. Him and Melissa raised rabbits for a few years, a pig named Farley one year, and two American Quarter horses named Sunspot and Betty Lou.

He also did rodeo barrel racing for three years in high school.

Could tie knots blindfolded and in his sleep thanks to all the years he spent in the Scouts. Like the really obscure ones.

He will never drink alcohol unless he's actually on leave.

Has way too many mechanical pencils on hand as well as tri-colored pens he uses for note taking.

˚ ✧ more top gun headcanons ✧ ˚

[sapphire-weapon]

"ignore all observable evidence and say I'm right//ur wrong" is such a hypocritical and arrogant thing u could say

have u ever considered that the world is huge and everyone is entitled to their own diverse opinions? like if u genuinely think that by posting evidence here on anything and everything u consume is some ultimate fact or truth then uclearly are a self entitled asshole lmao

literally anyone can use evidence for a meta analysis. anyone. the only issue is is that they're all based off on different interpretations and opinions, something u clearly do not understand or are just arrogant enough to believe u know better than anyone else. ur just seeing the world through ur own lens my guy, so why don't u too fuck off and let people see it through theirs same way they want? ur a nobody in this fandom and the internet so that makes ur opinion irrelevant to begin with, same as anyone else and u clearly live in some old outdated time capsule so good on ya

anon's really fucking mad about having to live in an objective reality

this ask is made 20x funnier when you remember they got this mad because of a post about leon's hair color

[art-of-manliness]

Odds & Ends: December 8, 2023

The Bishop’s Wife. I watched this oft-overlooked Christmas movie (made in 1947) last week and really enjoyed it. A bishop struggling to build a new cathedral prays to God for help. God sends an angel named Dudley (played by the ever-suave Cary Grant) to help the bishop. However, Dudley’s attention turns towards helping the bishop’s neglected wife. Romantic tension and a Christmas transformation ensue. Ascent Chocolate Peanut Butter Whey Protein. Supplementing with whey protein is an easy way to make sure your body gets all the protein it needs, and I drink one whey protein shake each day. Ascent makes my favorite whey protein; it’s clean — no artificial sweeteners or flavors — and tastes good. I’ve always gotten the straight chocolate flavor, but recently discovered the chocolate peanut butter variety and am really digging it. Claus.com. I’ve been visiting Claus.com every Christmas since 1995, when I was a 12-year-old. It’s a virtual Santa Claus village that hasn’t changed at all in nearly 30 years. It’s all done with HTML. It’s like stepping into an internet time capsule. When I looked into who runs claus.com, it looks like it’s owned by Universal Enterprises, Inc., a mechanical contracting company in Ohio. I have so many questions. Why is a mechanical contracting company in Ohio running the oldest Santa Claus website on the web? Why have they kept the same design for 30 years? This is a Verge.com article waiting to happen. Thanks for the Christmas memories, Claus.com and Universal Enterprises.  The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt by Edmund Morris. I’ve read a lot of TR biographies. Edmund Morris’ The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt was the first one I read way back in 2006, and it’s still my favorite. The book is the first in Morris’ biographical trilogy on TR and covers Roosevelt’s life from his birth in 1858 to his ascent to the U.S. presidency after the assassination of William McKinley in 1901. It details TR’s inspiring transformation from a sickly child into a dynamic statesman, capturing his personal and political growth amidst the backdrop of American expansionism and reform. The rest of Morris’ trilogy is a must-read as well. Quote of the Week Some day, in years to come, you will be wrestling with the great temptation, or trembling under the great sorrow of your life. But the real struggle is here, now, in these quiet weeks. Now it is being decided whether, in the day of your supreme sorrow or temptation, you shall miserably fail or gloriously conquer. Character cannot be made except by a steady, long-continued process. ―Phillip Brooks The post Odds & Ends: December 8, 2023 appeared first on The Art of Manliness. http://dlvr.it/Szv2jd