#magical memory loss

[whumpshaped]

Hypnotic music box!

- @oliversrarebooks

tw gaslighting, hypnosis, magic whump, tiny whump, lady whump, captivity, memory loss

The song filled her mind and body as she kept spinning, keeping completely still for her owner’s enjoyment. She was a perfect little ballerina, her master’s favourite, never stumbling and never ever disappointing them.

Her dress was as pretty and perfect as the body it served to accentuate, with a soft face and shiny hair to match. A work of art, her master had called her. A masterpiece.

The music was gentle as it wrapped around her, settling deep in the creases of her mechanical body and soothing her every worry. She let herself be carried around and around, her glassy eyes fixed on something invisible. Her master was in the room with her, she noted distantly. She could only ever catch glimpses of them, but it was enough to motivate her to do well.

She would always do well. She was perfect, a product of her owner’s genius.

“The battery in your music box is running out,” Master said one day. “I’ll get new ones soon.”

She didn’t doubt it. She was grateful to be informed ahead of time, that way she didn’t panic when her little personal carousel started slowing, and eventually came to a complete halt. She stayed motionless, staring out into the empty room with the last remnants of the song playing only in her mind.

Her owner must’ve been at the store by now, getting the new batteries so they could continue to enjoy her dance. She only had to be patient for a few more minutes, at most an hour.

The stillness was unnerving. She almost felt like her arms were getting tired in this demanding pose, even though she knew that was quite impossible. Dolls didn’t get tired. And while her master was a particularly skilled tinkerer to have created something as lifelike as her, they would’ve had no reason to make her susceptible to exhaustion. That would’ve been cruel, given her purpose.

Still, the feeling continued to spread. Her joints started aching, her mechanical muscles were burning, and despite her best efforts, she eventually had to lower her arms. It felt sacrilegious to do that while the music box was open… but there wasn’t any music now, nor an audience to dance for. Maybe it was okay. Maybe she could treat this unusual circumstance as if the box had been closed.

It kept bugging her, though; the bone-deep exhaustion that suddenly plagued her now that she was off duty. And what were all these new worries? Why did she feel so anxious? Was she shaking from fatigue or nerves?

Why was she shaking at all?

She glanced towards the empty room again, suddenly seized by an overwhelming desire to crawl out of her box and explore. Her whole body protested as she carefully crossed the threshold into the outside, walking along the table with a sense of odd familiarity. It felt as if she had gone on walks like this before, even though she had no recollection of anything but the box.

She didn’t make it far. She crumpled to the ground in pain, curling up in an attempt to soothe her aching joints. Everything hurt. Nothing had ever hurt before, not since her owner had created her.

Oh, lying down like this would definitely put a few wrinkles in her pretty dress. Bad, bad, she was being a bad doll.

‘What a bad doll you’ve been.’

‘I’m not a doll! Stop calling me that, stop– what are you doing? You can’t lock me in there!’

‘But I can. Dolls belong in boxes, after all.’

The hallucination made her sit bolt upright, eyes wide and full of terror. What was that? Where did that come from? She hugged her knees close to her chest, barely understanding why she was suddenly crying.

The box seemed scary now that she was out. It seemed like nothing but a prison instead of a home.

She stared down at her realistically painted legs, blinking at the level of detail she had never noticed before. She couldn’t help it. She gently scraped against the layer, consumed with a desire to see the paint flake off, to see her metallic endoskeleton underneath… But it hurt, and all she found was a layer of flesh with blood bubbling to the surface.

It couldn’t be.

She was a doll.

She was just a doll.

‘I’m not a doll!’

She buried her face in her hands, taking quick, shallow breaths. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t real. None of it was real. She had to get back into the box. She had to get back and dance and look pretty. She had to be perfect, she had to be nothing but a beloved object.

The door opened and she flinched, scrambling to her feet and promptly falling again. She was so tired. She was so scared. She had to get back to the box before her owner realised what a bad doll she had been.

“Oh… The battery ran out sooner than I thought…” Her master walked over to the table, and their presence held none of the usual gentleness that always put her at ease. She felt nothing but the dread of a prey animal, trapped and about to be killed. “How unfortunate. I need to fix this box, this is the second time in only a few months.”

Second? In a few months? No… She had never had the box stop before.

“What’s going on?” she asked, startled by her own voice. She didn’t know she had a voice box. Was it a voice box? Or was it her voice, natural and painfully alive?

“Shh, it’s alright.” They quickly inserted the batteries into the bottom of the box, then set it down on the table again. “Come on. In you go.”

“No! No, I want– I want you to explain! Why am I bleeding? What’s going on?”

“You’re bleeding? Oh, my. What a mess.” They flipped a switch and the song started back up, and she didn’t know why she covered her ears. She just knew she had to, it was crucial that she did, it was the most important thing in the world that she blocked out the song completely.

“Just tell me what’s going on!” she cried, shrieking when her owner pinned her down against the desk, securing her limbs with clear tape. “No, stop, stop it! Please! I don’t understand, I don’t understand!”

“Shh… Calm down, sweet… It’s alright…” They winced when they saw the wound above her knee, swiftly grabbing some ointment and a cotton swab to treat it. She struggled against the makeshift restraints, unable to stop the music from infiltrating her mind any longer. “Oh, what a bad doll you’ve been again…”

“I’m not a doll!”

Her captor gave her a pitying look, gently dabbing the injured area and making her cry harder with the sting of it. “It’s going to be alright.”

The empty box continued playing the music, and she felt her anger slowly give way to resignation. Her struggles became weaker before they ceased entirely, and her pain dissipated before she was even freed from the clear tape. She wasn’t tired anymore. She wasn’t hurting.

“There you are,” they murmured. “My most perfect little creation. My little ballerina.”

New clothes were brought out for her, and she lay completely still as her owner changed out the old ones. She was placed back in the box, where the song was the loudest, and she let it wash over her. It was so heavy, like a comforting blanket.

“Get into position for me, won’t you?” She raised her arms and tried to mimic the grace of a real dancer, making her master smile. “Perfect. My little mechanical doll. My toy box dancer. What a little wonder I’ve created.”

The song filled her mind and body as she kept spinning, keeping completely still for her owner’s enjoyment. She was a perfect little ballerina, her master’s favourite, never stumbling and never ever disappointing them.

[favvn]

At the risk of being a contrarian (because I have browsed the tag, I've seen the complaints), The Deadly Years isn't entirely out of character for Jim Kirk. It's just that we get to see him at his worst again.

Back in season 1, the Conscience of the King shows that he will pull rank on both Spock and McCoy--the two people on the entire ship that Kirk allows himself to be closest to--to keep them out of his life and to shut down their concerns for his well-being. Kirk is not sick or inhibited by anything in this episode (other than haunted by his past). His decision to use the Enterprise to transport the acting troupe doesn't delay a mission or risk lives outside of the Enterprise, although it does inadvertently endanger one member of his crew (Lt. Riley). In other words, he acts selfishly in this episode and lashes out towards those who want to help, much like he does in The Deadly Years.

Earlier in the season, The Galileo Seven shows that Kirk will reassert his authority as captain to put off completing a mission to deliver emergency medical supplies to Makus III and aid a colony overrun by a plague because he has "standing orders" to investigate quasars. This mission is ordered by Galactic High Commissioner Ferris, which the Enterprise is transporting to oversee the supply transfer. Ferris himself later states that he outranks Kirk and can cite regulation to support his taking command of the ship to complete the mission once Kirk makes it clear he intends to take 2 full days to locate and retrieve the Galileo's crew rather than use those days to get to Makus III. This situation is interesting in that it shows how Kirk can respond negatively to those holding authority over him, especially when those same people question his decisions. Ferris is technically correct when he argues that the Galileo did not need to be launched to begin with, given how Kirk would rather trade the life of a colony for the lives of seven crew members.

I realize TOS is inconsistent about background details with how Starfleet operates owing to its standalone story structure, and this instance of "standing orders" is yet another case of that structure hindering the world building. While Kirk doesn't follow the Prime Directive even at the best of times (best of times being the absence of a cult. I'll grant him that exception), he will ignore a high galactic commissioner to follow "standing orders" all of a sudden because, at his core, Kirk doesn't want to follow orders. He's the captain. He's supposed to be the one in charge. If he's a perfectionist (his guilt at losing crew members during missions to the point of Spock having to console him, although this also comes from his survivor's guilt from Tarsus IV), it wouldn't surprise me a bit if he has control issues alongside it. In other words, for all the good Kirk tries to do and strives to do, he is still just as capable of acting selfishly and in his own best interests, and he has done so since the start of the series.

More to the point of The Deadly Years, aging is not always painless or graceful. We get to see Kirk starting to forget recent events and commands (forgetting recent events and conversations is one of the first symptoms of Alzheimer's disease) to the point that he is an active risk to the safety of the crew. Of course, he will be in denial about it, to the point of anger and deflection. It's a painful thing to reckon with, to live in a body that doesn't work like you know it should, and to have others place judgments onto you for it because they're in perfect health. Not everyone can accept that with grace. This doesn't make Kirk out-of-character. It makes him human.

[cripplecharacters]

Really sorry if this is worded badly sidbcxidkj I'm writing a magic system where using magic comes at the cost of memories and I wasn't 100% sure if it was ok? I have a lot of memory-weirdness mostly caused by chronic pain and dissociation, which partially inspired it (ie pushing oneself too hard causing deterioration of memory) but. again, just wanted to make sure there was anything I needed to be careful of? (I know this falls under "based on own experiences stuff" so apologies, but amnesia/brain fog/etc is a really broad thing so I wanted to check)

Hello beautiful asker!

Yes, it falls under that little cathartic/based on your own experience umbrella. And you're good anon, no need to apologize <3

Hope you have fun writing your story!

~ Mod Virus 🌸

[ashintheairlikesnow]

To the Depths of the Sea

Bones in the Ocean Masterlist

CW: I don’t know, man. Siren commits a murder? This is out of order, timewise, but it's what wanted to be written, so...

-

His name was different, then.

It was not a clumsy tongue against the roof of a small mouth, flat teeth and full lips mouthing animal grunts without melody. Back then, his name was a lyric, a new line in the sirens' endless, ancient song. 

His very being was a scale of perfect pitch. Sirens sang together, notes dancing up and down that mortal mouths and lungs could never recreate. He and his mother and his sisters sang in harmonies, children of the goddess of moon and tides, the wild water-woman who could turn a calm sea to turbulent waves in an instant. 

He was born, at some point long ago. Borne by his mother, with his sisters huddled around her to be a dozen midwives, while the moon shone on the rock and the goddess watched. Born, yes, but he did not age, his wounds healed, he did not die.

Time shifted around him, like it did for all of the gods’ children.

The waves slapped the sand, sirens sang on rocks, and ships came and brought the men who heard their song. The men who steered their ships, unseeing and smiling, into the reefs to shred them apart, so that their bodies could be given to the sirens, and after that to the sea.

The ships changed, with time. The clothing the sailors they tore into wore changed, the style of shoe, the weight or shape of a sword and finally of the strange rifles. All these things changed.

The sirens didn’t.

They remained the same.

The siren boy had been sunbathing on the beach that day, eyes closed. The heat of the day lay over his brown skin like the humans’ heavy blankets, lulling him into a dreamless doze. Somewhere nearby, his sisters sang for their supper, having seen a ship hovering at the horizon.

But the siren boy was not alone. He was not the only one on the island to hear the song.

His eyes snapped open when he heard the softest crush of footsteps on underbrush. An animal, he told himself, even as he pushed himself up on his elbows, turned to see, half-hidden in the shadows just back from the beach, a human man staring back at him.

The human man’s hair was tangled and dirtied, hanging in clumps over his face. Mud had dried on his face and his shirt was worn nearly to shreds. He must have survived a past wreck, somehow slipped through the sirens’ fingers. Been here since then, wandering the island. He must have somehow held out against the siren song’s pull.

The man’s mouth moved.

He was whispering, but the siren was too far to hear him, leaning against a palm tree’s heavy, narrow trunk to stay upright. There was something wrong with one of his legs, the pants were torn but nothing was there beneath the tear.

The siren got slowly to his feet, tipping his head to one side. His curly black hair shifted, shadowing his own eyes as he moved soundlessly over the burning sand, where driftwood bits of broken ships lay in dried, bleached lines around him, their companions the scattered bones of the sirens’ meals.

Human voices, so flat and featureless, disgusted him.

But the eating would be good, and then the man's foul flat voice would stop interrupting the melodies.

“Monsters,” The man was whispering, but the siren didn’t know this word. He didn’t know any of their words. He knew what those throats tasted like, though, beneath his teeth. “Th-this island is made of monsters… You’re not a boy-... y-you’re not-”

The siren took one step, and then another. Each step sank his foot slightly into sand, brushed against shell and stick, rock, bone, and wood. Each movement a hypnotic sway, and he licked at his dry lips as his mouth watered for the meal.

His sisters’ song was all around them, and yet the man didn’t fall to it.

Their eyes met, then. The man’s were a faded blue, like the sky when the sun nearly bleached out all its colors with no clouds to subdue its power. His skin was like dried animal hides, wrinkled and tough. All bones and sinew, no real meat for the eating.

It didn’t matter.

All men were meals.

“They-... they said there was gold here.” The human’s whining voice, like a child, grated on the siren. Some foul mockery of the beautiful way the sirens spoke to each other, all out of tune, off-key. Not a song at all. This man’s name would be like the harsh screech of the birds the sirens ate during starving times, when there was nothing else. 

There was no song in this man.

“There… isn’t any gold, is there?” The man’s voice tipped upwards, but the siren ignored it. He was so close he could smell the man, human odor of sweat and blood and something rotten where his leg used to be. The man was trembling, voice and body shaking together. He closed his eyes, slowly, and lifted his chin as if offering himself for the taking. Even so, his lips still moved in pointless speech. “It was a-a trick, a lie-... there was no gold here…”

The siren was on him.

He took him down onto his back, the underbrush soft beneath them. A flock of birds took flight with their cries an echo of the siren’s own triumphant song, one that buried itself in blood. A hundred teeth sharper than a shark’s tore out his throat, devoured skin and muscle, picked clean bones. The siren’s melody as it rejoiced in the meal was a sharp thing, rending apart the man’s soul and sending it to be held by the ocean, like all men who died to sirens and the sea.

His prey never fought him.

But it whispered, once more, with dead sightless eyes and unmoving lips, monster.

The siren woke.

He was not in the sun-warmed sand or roaming the island he had always known, his sisters and mother beside him. He was in a cool pool of pointless water hemmed in on all sides by stone, the high windows mocking him with the world he could not escape. The dream was already fading, and the memories of who he had been, more than a century ago, faded with it.

He lost himself, every time he woke.

He found himself only in sleep.

Areyto rolled aimlessly onto his back, staring up at the ceiling whie he floated in the water. He could feel the tingle of the power in the marks the magicians made, each decade, that kept him captive to his master’s whims. He could feel how the marks drained his memories away, the ones he could see in dreams but that were lost to him after. He floated there feeling his sisters fade to little more than shadows, a thought he'd had once. Maybe never real at all.

Moonlight shone, diffused by the windows so much his goddess could not have heard him, no matter how he cried to her. Areyto had long since stopped crying, anyway.

What use was pleading if no one could hear you, and those who could would only mock you and take yet another part of you away?

Like his name.

The magic made sure he couldn’t remember it.

Come.

His master’s command came like an oil slick in the water, slithering slime over his bared skin and pushing him from the water. He shook himself and went, step by step, to the door that was already being unlocked to allow him to leave - but only to go where he was ordered, only to do whatever vile thing his master demanded. The butler on the other side looked through him, saw something else. Saw whatever the master wanted him to see.

As the siren moved through this endless hell, the moon that had shone on him where he slept in the pool shifted behind a cloud. The goddess left him, and his half-formed prayers. It was all lost, everything that did not belong to Guilford Wentworth was gone.

Come, Areyto.

Not his name.

But the name he had been given, and must answer to. The name layered over the song, the lyric he had once been. The piece of the harmony that had belonged to him, just on the tip of his tongue, never coming together.

The melody of his identity had been stolen, replaced with the flat human syllables he went by now. A shrieking off note, a sharp staccato. His master had stolen his name, as surely as he had stolen Areyto’s life.

As surely as Areyto would steal it back.

However small his master had made him, his teeth were still sharp, and his claws were still keen to tear human skin apart. The marks would fade, if he could only keep them from being remade yet again. The power that held him here would crack apart beneath his fury, if the human magician would help him. Her voice held the edge of a song even in flat human words.

Areyto didn’t understand it, yet, but he knew what the song meant even if he didn’t know the melodies.

Hope.

-

Taglist: @grizzlie70 @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @theelvishcowgirl @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump  @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam @mj-or-say10 @apokolyps @wildfaewhump @shrimpwritings @there-will-always-be-blood @latenightcupsofcoffee @angelsproject

[rainsongdean]

ANYA JENKINS & RUPERT GILES | BTVS

—"and i feel compelled to take some vengeance on you!" "ow! god, no wonder i'm leaving you!"

[bunnieswithknives]

For the Hostage Rowan au, how do the resets affect humans? Cause there’s a lot more stuff that can make you forget things then just Soul Rot, and magic probably makes that list longer. Cause I’m imagining the longer he stays, the more his mind tries to adjust by also trying to reset(unhealthy coping mechanism or maybe in this scenario it would be the most healthy option). Like have you ever not been able to fully trust your own memory? That’s what I’m thinking happens except a little more extreme, and he doesn’t notice that until he realizes that he almost forgot his own name and had begun calling himself the name that the others had called him(I’d like to say Red but he’s no longer wearing anything prominently red, maybe David forgot his name was Rowan like that one HC just kept calling him that or they call him that because of his hair and “We can’t just call you Colorful Guy, that’s that crayon guy”(Creative Brendon)). 

Knowing something is happening and knowing how to stop it are two different things. He can’t write anything down permanently and even if he could, what if he already forgot something, his sisters, his age, his parents, how could he trust himself to remember that when he almost forgot his own name. I imagine it like that one Spider David scene where he’s like “oh ok” and the next “wait a second!/Stop that!” except instead of just yelling at David he’s also yelling at himself for forgetting, and it just keeps happening, no matter what he does. Cause he can keep reminding himself of facts but he can never get rid of the doubt that he’s forgetting something (example: “My name is Rowan; I have two sisters, Samantha and Sophie- wait do I have two sisters? What if it’s three?! Do I have another sibling!? Do I have a brother!? Did I forget someone! What if that’s not their names! What if that’s not my name-wait no it is, my name is Rowan! Or is it? Dammit David!”), your mind can be your best ally or your worst enemy, and unfortunately for Rowan, it doesn’t seem to want to work with him. And when Red and the puppets do escape like in the au post-canon, he might be very disoriented and never really fully trust himself with that without someone(probably Sammy) constantly reminding and affirming him of things and therapy, lots and lots of therapy.

(Sorry I saw the question + AU and couldn’t stop thinking about it, sorry for the rambling) -J

One of the main differences between director Red and hostage Red is how they're integrated into the house. Director Red is kept an outside observer for the most part, while hostage Red is directly living with the puppets. At first, it would be a lot of crying and breakdowns, but after a while, I think he straight up forgets he didn't always live there. He still wants to see his family again, but it becomes a lot less urgent, and he talking about them like he's just forgotten to reach out in a while, though he will occasionally make omnious mentions wishing he could see them.

When they do eventually get him home, he's still convinced the whole thing is a lesson, which he plays along with for a while, until he finally just breaks down and begs for them to stop pretending to be his family. He's so convinced that it's fake and going to be ripped away from him at any second that he just wants to get it over with.

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whump Prompt #1262

Anon asked:

Oddly specific, but prompts for a character who is a sentient doll? (Whumpee) He's human sized, powered by magic. He also has no emotions or memories of his past life, however he has lived for 3000+ years and still doesn't understand human emotions.

However, Caretaker has romantic feelings for him.

I can give it a go:

Maybe he can easily hurt someones feelings without realising it - however he has gotten better in time. Maybe the caretaker is the one who doesn't take it all as bad faith/the whumpee being mean, and refuses to give up on him. So when the doll begins to break, they're the one to try and help. However this pisses off the other characters.

^ "Why are you trying so hard? He's an asshole." | "He's an asshole, but still one of us."

^ "He's not human." | "Does he have to be?"

I've been trying to think of ways your character could feel pain. Perhaps they have the physical attributes of an actual doll. Maybe they're stuffed with fluff, or maybe they have soft joints but wooden limbs etc. This makes things like 'surgery' complicated, as can they get infections? What about broken limbs, are they glued back on/together?

If they're powered by magic, is this a magic core or a spell that wears off? If it's a spell, maybe as it wears away the whumpee forgets more memories as each day passes. "Please. I don't want to forget. Not again."

As a bonus, I can imagine the whumpee being terrified of losing his memories, so he keeps a journal. This is where he keeps his feelings for the caretaker... so what happens when the caretaker finds it?

[jaxfromthatcircus]

@the-abstracted-strawberry | Hey Dad, I came to check on you. Is everything okay? *He looks up at Jax with worry.*

"...Do I look like?"

His voice has a tad of aggression in it.

[waxing-hiraethh]

Claudia Lowry // @inthe-echo

[just-an-enby-lemon]

Thinking about the complexities of a "losing your magic" story in a DnD (and similar) scenerio because what it means completly depends of your class. Because while not everyone is born with magic, everyone can have it.

How for a sorcerer losing their magic is genuinally about losing a part of themselfs, to suddently not being able to do something they always did. Losing your magic is like sudently losing a limb or one of your senses. And how besides being always theirs, their magic is ancestral how it can mean losing a connection with a part of their family history.

How for paladins is about morals. About breaking their vows whatever they are, dealing with the fact that they changed or maybe that morals were always way more complicated than they thought they were. (The Oathbreaker subclass changes things but I think it can work if Oathbreaker is one of the ways to embrace the emotional conflict that took your magic). Is almost phylosofical. Is the what makes Thor worthy?

How for druids, clerics and warlocks are different levels of losing a connection. For druids is with nature, with a force beyond their comprehension but that became a part of you for so long and who are you without this feeling? For warlocks is so many things, is losing a boss, a friend, is the price of freedom, is the loss of whatever you had with the sentient being that gave you powers. And for clerics is a mix, is about if their gods are feelings like nature or beings that talk to them, but whatever it is, for clerics, for clerics is a lack of faith. Is about what happens when you doubt your god, when you can't belive it or in it. Is also about what happens when your god doesn't belive in you.

For bards and mages is the loss of a skill. The bards might have the loss of their playing or voice but even if not, even if is just the magic that is gone, well they, just like the mages, studied hard to be abble to do magic. If for a sorcerer is like losing a limb, for them is like waking up in the morning and noticing your accent changed or that you don't speak a language you once did anymore, is trying to ride the same bicycle you used to go to work everyday and noticing you just doesn't know how.

[whumpshaped]

ITS TOTALLY FINE LMAO

NO ITS NOT. I REDID IT

tw magic whump, mind control, gaslighting, knives, memory loss, conditioning

“What are you talking about?” Whumper asked innocently, but Whumpee didn’t seem to buy it this time.

“Don’t give me that shit,” they hissed, never lowering the knife. “I know what you’re doing. I know you’re stealing my memories, I know it!”

“Stealing your– Whumpee, you’re scaring me.” They took a step closer, sending Whumpee into a panic.

“Stop there! Stop right fucking there! Don’t come any closer!”

“Sweetheart, put the knife down. It’s going to be okay.”

“No! No, let me go home! Let me go before I fucking kill you!”

Whumper sighed, taking another step towards them and putting a hand on Whumpee’s. They weren’t afraid of the knife, really. Whumpee was too far gone to inflict any harm on them. “Listen to me,” they said softly, and the phrase immediately flipped a switch in their victim’s head. Their eyes suddenly seemed more distant, and it was the easiest thing in the world to gently take the knife from their hand. “You’re safe with me, dear.”

“I…” Whumpee blinked, fighting the magic, fighting the conditioning. “I… n-no…”

“Yes, you are. You’re so safe here.” After putting the knife on the counter, Whumper drew them into a warm hug, pleased to feel Whumpee melt against them. “I’m sure these delusions will go away, sweetness. It’s going to be okay. I’m not here to hurt you.”

“B-but… But I…”

“Shh… You’re safe with me. I’ve kept you safe all these years, and I’ll continue to do so. You have nothing to fear.”

[shiraishi--kanade]

Honestly if we're having a discussion about ableism in pjsk, allow me to direct you to the one singular canonically disabled character who is treated the worst by both the fandom and the writers:

It's Kanade's father.

[badassbutterfly1987]

Sometimes I'll write a character as disabled (or queer or neurodivergent, etc.) because I think it will add an interesting layer to them or the setting. And sometimes it's just cathartic projection.

Me, having a lousy pain day:

Me, looking at the characters I like/am comfortable writing:

Me: "Alright, which of you bastards am I writing as disabled?"

[untitled-gem]

fionna and cake's contrasting themes of "life is boring and i wanna go on a mystical fantasy adventure... even if not forever" and "i'm being reminded of the worst time of my life and i'm overcome with guilt and humiliation of the things i did while in that state" is just so good ARGH i need this show right now i think

[mynamesnotdahlia]

With the magic alziemers thing

honestly with the way ice king was portrayed to have issues taking care of himself he couldve probably used a caretaker too

Ice King would've Definitely benefitted from it. He's noticeably a better person when he's around people and isn't able to handle being alone very well. He also, in the grand scheme of things, has a very disjointed routine, sometimes he will do things exactly as normal other times he is left obviously neglecting himself and going through periods where its much more obvious how he just cant care for himself. In my discussions for this au I mentioned that I put Ice King at about a 6 on the scale for Alzheimer's because his memory is severely impacted (See "I'm like a goldfish!" in Beyond the Grotto) as well as him struggling with his routine, and with finding meaning in objects (ex. him not recognizing the importance of things from when he was Simon like the newspapers Marcy showed him). The need for intensive care pops up right here and I think it would've really helped Ice King not be so depressed and dysfunctional. I would love to see someone recognize the need he has for this and try and step up and actually help the guy.

[grimsley-official]

Grimsley do you think Bisharp is why humans got the idea for knives

What kind of question is that, I…-

I’ve never thought about it.

Humans probably came up with the concept themselves…~? I don’t fucking know.