#the answer to the question asked in the article's title is ''yes''

[andersunmenschlich]

A Vanishing Post

There was a Tumblr post containing a video of two interviews done by the same interviewer, one with someone from Hamas, the other with someone from Israel.

I reblogged this post and saved it as a draft because I intended to add a transcript (and summary).

The post disappeared from my drafts. I went to the blog where I'd seen it, and it wasn't there either. I couldn't remember any other usernames. I couldn't remember the interviewer's name or the names of the people they were interviewing.

I'm a stubborn cuss, however, and I pummeled Google until it turned up the video I remembered.

The interviewer was a man named Marc Lamont Hill, the host of Al Jazeera English's current affairs program Up Front. The person from Hamas was Osama Hamdan, the senior spokesperson for Hamas, and the person from Israel was Danny Ayalon, Israel's former deputy foreign minister and former foreign policy advisor to Netanyahu. The date was October 13, 2023.

A Brief Summary

Hamas shot rockets from Gaza into Israel, then attacked multiple places on foot, killing people and taking hostages. Israel cut off Gaza's food, water, electricity, etc., and started bombing it.

Interviewer: Hamas, why did you attack civilians?

Hamas: Civilians, non-civilians, potayto, potahto. They're invaders who have been stealing our land and lives, killing our men and women and children, for 75 years.

Interviewer: How can you attack Israel when you know the retaliation will kill innocent Palestinians?

Hamas: Israel is always killing innocent Palestinians no matter what we do. They kill us if we're violent. They kill us if we're peaceful. And no one in the world cares. We might as well at least try to resist.

Interviewer: Israel, why are you hurting and killing everyone in Gaza, civilians included?

Israel: It's Hamas's fault—they won't surrender and they won't let the civilians leave. So we're going to keep hurting and killing those civilians until Hamas either surrenders or lets the civilians leave. This is all Hamas's fault. Look what they're making us do!

Interviewer: Hurting and killing civilians is bad.

Israel: Yes, but it's not our fault! We're not bad! The whole world is on our side because we're in the right here! Hamas is bad! They're making us kill innocent Palestinians! .

full transcript below readmore

Hill On October 7th, Hamas launched a barrage of rockets from Gaza, followed by a coordinated incursion into Israel by Hamas fighters. Scores of unarmed civilians were killed and many taken hostage. In response to the attack, Israeli prime minister Netanyahu swore, quote, "a mighty vengeance" against the group.

Israel has since retaliated with a complete siege of Gaza, launching air strikes that razed entire districts, killing hundreds and injuring thousands in the Palestinian enclave.

On today's show we'll delve deep into the conflict. Coming up in the second half of the show, we'll speak to the former deputy foreign minister for Israel and former foreign policy advisor to Netanyahu, Danny Ayalon. With us first is senior spokesperson for Hamas, Osama Hamdan.

[cut, show title]

Hill Osama Hamdan, senior spokesperson for Hamas, thank you so much for joining me on Up Front.

Hamdan Thank you.

Hill On October 7th, Hamas launched an attack when they launched thousands of rockets into Israel. Militants entered the country and took scores of civilians hostage, including women, children, and the elderly.

While the right of resistance is absolutely secured for all occupied people under international law, the use of force is not unlimited, and targeting civilians and taking hostages are war crimes.

How can you justify attacking civilian targets?

Hamdan Well, thank you for having me. First of all, I have to say that this is the story from the Israeli side, which is not really true. I have to turn you to Oren Ziv, who is an Israeli journalist. He was today in Kfar Aza settlement, and he said there is no evidence that Hamas slaughtered children.

I'm sorry that the Israeli government is using that to commit its crimes in Gaza.

So this is the first part of the answer: we have also some Israelis who are telling this has not happened, and it's used—it's a story, a fake story, used to kill more Palestinians. But this is the, the other part—

Hill But the question was "how do you justify attacking civilian targets?" That was the actual question. One second, nono, the question was "how can you justify attacking civilian targets."

Hamdan You are asking the wrong question.

Hill No, no, no; the question was "how can you justify attacking civilian targets."

Hamdan You are asking—you are asking the wrong question.

Hill We may disagree on what the right question is, but I do want—I would like you to answer this question. How do you justify attacking civilian targets?

Hamdan But this is a wrong question. This is a wrong question, and I'm not going to the same game of the Israelis.

Hill I'm asking a very clear question about civilians. Let—let me ask a very direct question: have any civilians been killed?

Hamdan Well, I don't know exactly, because this is what is told by the Israelis. What I'm telling you is that for this Israeli government—

Hill You—you just cited Oren Ziv: he says civilians were killed.

Hamdan No, he didn't say—he said, "no evidence that children were slaughtered."

Hill [incoherent sound]

Hamdan I don't—I don't—

Hill He said—he said, "dozens of bodies of Israelis murdered in their homes."

Hamdan Excuse me!

Hill Those were his words.

Hamdan You are—you are wasting the time. It's your time. It's not my time. You are wasting the time.

Hill All right, let's pause for a moment, sir. My question is, if you find out that civilians have been killed, would you consider that justified or would you consider that unjustified?

Hamdan There is—three hundred children have been killed today in Gaza by the Israelis. Two hundred women have been killed today, by the Israelis, in Gaza. One thousand two hundred children were injured. One thousand women were injured today, just today and yesterday, in Gaza.

You are asking me the wrong question. You have to ask about what is happening in Gaza, which is under the siege for the last seventeen years, which is under the offensive Israeli attack for the last four days.

You keep asking about the Israelis: why don't you ask about the Palestinians?

Hill So, so that's a—that's a fair—

Hamdan Can I understand that you don't care about the Palestinians?

Hill Sir, sir, sir, that's a, that is a fair question, that—

Hamdan Excuse me! I have to continue. You are asking about the Israelis. You don't ask about the Palestinians. No one cares about the Palestinians. This is the story: the story is the occupation. 75 years of occupation for the Palestinians. We have to talk about the occupation and how the Palestinians are looking to—for this occupation, and how can we make an end for this occupation.

This is the story! It's not the story about what you are asking about.

Hill Okay, I—I, I understand your perspective. To be clear, after this interview I will be interviewing a representative of the Israeli military, and I will be asking him about Israel's war crimes.

I absolutely acknowledge that Israel has committed war crimes. In fact, I have written a book with a whole chapter about Gaza and the war crimes that have been committed against Gaza there, so please do not suggest to me that I do not take this issue seriously. However—

Hamdan Thank—thank you—

Hill However, let me finish, I—I allowed you to finish—

Hamdan —thank you for clarifying that—

Hill —yeah, so, so now—

Hamdan —thank you for clarifying that, but I also—

Hill —now that—sir, sir—

Hamdan —you can't compare—

Hill —sir, I—I'm not comparing anything, but—

Hamdan Okay.

Hill —please allow me to finish. My question for you is, "Is everyone living inside a settlement a legitimate military target for Hamas?"

Hamdan According to the international law, the settlers are not civilians.

Hill So, sir, again, human rights organizations have said the legal status of settlements under international humanitarian law does not negate the rights of the civilians living there.

The fact that a person lives in a settlement, whether legal or not, does not make him or her a legitimate military target.

So, in light of the fact that human rights organizations would argue that even if settlements are illegal the people living inside of them are still considered civilians, how do you see, moving forward, Hamas's vision of whether or not settlements are legitimate military targets?

Hamdan Well, uh, the "legitimate" thing which I believe in is that Palestine is our land.

Our people are living on our land, challenging the occupation for the last 75 years. On those 75 years, the women, the children were killed by the Israeli soldiers, the Israeli settlers. Their homeland was taken. They were replaced by Israelis who came from everywhere in the world. They talk different languages and they claim that this land is for them.

If you ask any one of them about the grave of his father, he will take you to Poland, or to Argentina.

But if you ask any Palestinian about the grave of his seventeenth grandfather, he will take you to some place in Palestine, showing you the graves, telling you, "This is where my seventeenth grandfather was buried"—or maybe before that.

We are in this land from the days of Jesus Christ! Don't ask me about those settlers and those soldiers who are killing my people every day, every time—and this is the fact which creates the resistance of the Palestinians. The Palestinians did not start the war.

Hill Let's talk about the Israeli response to the Hamas attack, which has been horrific.

Israel is bombing Gaza and has declared a complete siege. It's cut off food, fuel, and water from being admitted to over two million people. Thousands of Palestinians are going to die. One resident from Khan Yunis said, "This is a bloody war that is different from previous wars. What is going on right now is total annihilation."

We see this horrific response by the Israeli government—my question for you is, "Have the actions of Hamas over the past week made things worse for Palestinians on the ground?"

Hamdan The Israelis have done this before. They did that in 2014. They cut the electricity from Gaza, in 2014, for seventeen days. They cut the aid for the hospitals. In 2014, two thousand five hundred Palestinians were killed. In 2021, more than one thousand Palestinians were killed. No one remembers the numbers, because they are only Palestinians.

But I want to tell you, they were shocked by what had happened to their army. Eleven military points were attacked by the militants of Hamas. The soldiers were killed, or taken as war prisoners, and the Israelis were shocked. This is the main troops attacking Gaza for the last ten years: they fall down in a few hours. This is a shock! They want to get back the image of Israel army. They want to show everyone that Israel can destroy everyone—

Hill That's an interesting point, sir—

Hamdan —by the supervision of the American and the support of the—

Hill —that's, that's an important point you're making. You're saying that Israel sort of commits to a certain kind of response when it looks bad; that Israel responds disproportionately, and that Israel already wants to use this as a pretext for destroying the Palestinian people.

I'm saying, if you know that's going to happen, then how do you calculate the decision to launch an attack, knowing that a university is going to be bombed, knowing that power is going to be cut off, knowing that fuel's going to be cut off, knowing that people are going to die because of the Israeli response—if you know that, why do you still make the attack?

Particularly when the Palestinian people don't have a say in whether or not that's going to happen?

Hamdan This is a good question. You know, the fact that the Israelis are killing the Palestinians on all the ways, all the times.... For example, in West Bank, in the last ten months, more than five hundred Palestinians were killed.

Most of them were civilians. They were shot in the streets, just demonstrating peacefully against the Israeli troops!

The fact that everyone has to understand is that this occupation is killing the Palestinians all the time. He's not giving them any chance to have normal lives. He's not giving them the chance to be independent and to have their independent sovereign state—even after thirty years of signature of Oslo agreement, he's not implementing any international resolutions. He doesn't care about the international law.

So we are facing this fact: the Israelis are killing you if you are treating them peacefully or if you are resisting them.

At the end of the day, the occupation is still there. So it's better to resist than be slaughtered daily without even resisting the occupation.

Hill What was the goal of last week's actions? What was the immediate goal of last week's actions—what would you say the target or goal was?

Hamdan The goal is to make an end for the Israeli attacks against the Palestinians. To make an end for the Israeli attacks on Jerusalem, [place name I couldn't catch], in West Bank; taking over the lands and to lift the siege on Gaza.

The Israelis are planning for a long, long occupation on Palestine, and I think if they don't get the lesson from what has happened the last four days: this army will not protect them. Their violence will not protect them. Even if they were supported by the United States. If they want to be protected, they have to acknowledge the Palestinian rights and to implement the international resolutions which gave the Palestinian people their rights—without negotiations.

Those are rights. No one can negotiate our rights.

Hill Osama Hamdan, thank you so much for joining me on Up Front.

Hamdan Thank you.

[cut]

Hill We tried repeatedly to get an Israeli Army spokesperson on the show to respond to Hamas, but they canceled the scheduled interviews. For more on the developments in Gaza, we are joined by Israel's former deputy foreign minister and a former foreign policy advisor to Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, Danny Ayalon.

[cut, show title]

Hill Danny Ayalon, thank you so much for joining me on Up Front.

Ayalon My pleasure.

Hill Danny, last Saturday, the 7th, Hamas launched a devastating attack. Thousands of rockets were fired towards Israel, and hundreds of Hamas fighters crossed into the country. There are reports of horrific killings of Israeli civilians: a clear, clear violation of international law.

In response, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu threatened to turn the Gaza Strip into, quote, "rubble," and the government announced a, quote, "complete siege of the enclave."

Since then, we've seen mass bombing in Gaza, with reports that hundreds of civilians have been killed—and while the actions of Hamas are a clear, and I want to emphasize that, a clear violation of international law, isn't the collective punishment of all Gazans also, by definition, a war crime?

Ayalon Not really, because the situation is very clear.

You know, as you mentioned—rightly so—Hamas perpetrated an attack (which was a surprise attack, the IDF was caught unprepared), and they got a major victory for the first 24 hours: but who was this victory against? Babies and children and all families that were massacred in bed. The IDF was nowhere to be seen. When the IDF came back, now, they pushed them back into Gaza.

Now, the problem with Hamas is that they're committing a double war crime, because they are targeting only civilians, and they're using their own civilians, the poor Palestinians of Gaza, as human shields.

What Israel did gave them a fair warning, and I think this is the only way to do with them, is we told the Gazan people to clear the area temporarily so we can go and take Hamas out—and then, of course, they can come back.

So this, by definition, is not a war crime.

We understand the plight of the Palestinians. They deserve their dignity and everything else. But nothing justifies butchering families.

You know, this day, as you mentioned, the 7th of October, was the day that more Jews were killed in 24 hours than any other day since the Holocaust. So you see, I mean—

Hill Without—without question, respectfully, this is a devastating moment. An extraordinary act of violence that, again, is a violation of international law. But you said a couple of things that I want to push you on.

The idea of collective punishment is one of the things that we're talking about here.

Electricity has been cut. Power has been cut. Fuel has been cut. The Gazan people right now are being punished for the actions of Hamas. How is that not, by definition, collective punishment?

Ayalon Two things. First of all, Hamas has turned Gaza into an enemy state. So there is no law, nothing in international law, that compels a country you are in a war with, to supply them the electricity. Now, what do they use the electricity for?

Hill As, as—as an occupying power, international law does say that you have certain responsibilities by law... but before we get there, even if we—we'll hold it for a moment, the power thing—there are residential buildings being hit. There are hospitals being hit. This is a densely populated area. The idea of being able to run away or to escape or go to a safe area seems impossible.

Also, according to your own military representatives, you've abandoned the idea of knocking on roofs: that is to say, giving a warning, of dropping a non-explosive munition on buildings before people go.

So people aren't getting a warning, they have nowhere to go, residential buildings, schools, and hospitals are being hit.

How is this not, again, an act of collective punishment, and how is this not a target of civilians—unless, of course, you're regarding everybody in Gaza as an enemy combatant?

Ayalon Okay, well, I hear you, I hear you. But again, what we gave the population is a fair warning.

What would you do, you know, what would you do if—

Hill What—what, what was the fair warning? This—I just want to make sure we're on the same page here. Benjamin Netanyahu told everyone to leave the area. Where were they to go?

Ayalon Okay. Very, very—I mean, this was thought out. It's not something that we tell them, "Go to the beaches, go drown yourselves," God forbid, not at all. There is a huge expanse, almost endless space in the Sinai Desert just on the other side of Gaza.

The idea is—and this is not the first time it will be done—the idea is for them to leave over to the open areas where we and the international community will prepare the infrastructure. You know, ten cities with food and with water. You know what, just like for the refugees of Syria that fled the butchering of Assad a few years ago to Turkey. Turkey received two million of them. This is the idea.

Now, Egypt will have to play ball here, because once the population is out of sight, then we can go. You know what the Palast—what the, what Hamas did. You know, we—

Hill When the—you said, "the population out of sight," is that practically possible in such a densely populated area?

And, and forty—you have two million people in a densely populated enclave. Forty-seven percent of the inhabitants are children. Is it reasonable or plausible to think that all those people are going to relocate to this excluded area and be safe from a bombing attack? And again, the warn—we're saying there's warnings, but there are numerous reports on the ground that there are no warnings, that people are getting hit, that families have been killed from these attacks!

Ayalon I'll tell you in a practical manner what we should do and what we can do. Create, like in the past, in history, a humanitarian corridor. When there is a humanitarian corridor—and we have been discussing this with the United States—then we can guarantee, in this corridor, that nobody will get hurt.

Now, again I say there is a way to receive them all on the other side for temporary time in Sinai. Because, what did Hamas turn out on Gaza, Gaza—

Hill On the other side? Are we talking about—are you, are you saying, "the other side," they go to Egypt?

Ayalon Yes. Absolutely, absolutely, and Egypt will have to play ball because this is—human life is at stake, and if you are—

Hill [disbelieving laugh] But, but sir, human life is at stake because you're cutting off power, you're, you're shutting down hospitals, you're bombing residential buildings—

Right now, there is a hospital that does not have sufficient power. There is a hospital where people are literally going to die. And Israel's energy minister Israel Katz said, "No electrical switch will be turned on, no hydrant will be open, no fuel truck will enter until the Israeli abductees are returned home."

Now, the ICRC spokesperson Hisham Mhanna said that by cutting that power "hospitals are going to turn into graveyards."

This is not an ideologue. This is the International Committee of the Red Cross. They're saying that because of your country's actions—not the actions of Hamas, not the actions of Egypt, but because of Israel's actions—the hospitals are going to turn into graveyards.

How is that not a war crime? How is that defensible by any standard?

Ayalon First of all, the war crime, if anything, is Hamas. They are the ones. And I know exactly what you're talking about. Hamas does not allow—sometimes, when they can, they keep those civilians captive. They don't allow them to run away, because this is what they want.

Now, I know the area. And I suppose you're talking about the main hospital, which is the Shifa Hospital.

Hill Yep.

Ayalon The Shifa Hospital has been turned into a Hamas bunker. If Hamas wants to save them, they should just leave their arms, come out, and nothing will happen. But as long as they keep the Shifa Hospital, just like schools and kindergartens, as bunkers and they fight out from there, there is no law—there is no law in this universe that protects them. And this is what we're doing, and this is why the world is—

Hill Sir, sir! Sir, is there any independent reports—are there any intelligence reports that show that the Shifa Hospital is primarily a Hamas bunker and not an actual medical site?

Ayalon Yes, and you know—and you know what—

Hill W-where? Who? Where?

Ayalon A-and you know what, mark my words, and, and you can show it again, because I know it's recorded. When this war is over and we bring in the international press to Shifa and to all the bunkers, the underground tunnels that Hamas has created in Gaza—ask intelligence services of every country in the world, they know it—but anyway, what I'm saying is—

Hill No, no, no—just to be clear, for the audience's benefit, no intelligence service has claimed that. Not one government has claimed that the Shifa Hospital is a Hamas bunker. That is your claim, and I want to be very clear that that is your claim.

And you're saying that you don't have any reports, but that I should just trust you.

Ayalon No!

Hill Mark your words, trust you, and later on it'll be proven true.

Ayalon I'm telling you, everybody will see.

Hill Okay.

Ayalon After the war is over.

Hill Fair enough.

Ayalon Even—

Hill I have—I have to move on just in the interests of time, but I want to continue on the same vein, because the Secretary-General of the UN, António Guterres, said that he was deeply distressed by Israel's announcement of a siege on the Gaza Strip. He said that the humanitarian situation, quote, "will only deteriorate exponentially," and that crucial life-saving supplies, including fuel, food, and water must be allowed into Gaza.

So the UN is saying, "You must do this." You are saying you're not going to do this. How do you—

Ayalon No. We're not, we're not saying that.

Hill He's saying "do it immediately." What I'm saying is, what you're—he's saying, "do it immediately."

Ayalon I got you. I'll tell you exactly what we're saying. I'm saying, we will do everything for the Gazan people, once—and now we demand immediate surrender, unconditional surrender of Hamas. If Hamas people come out with their hands up and clear their weapons, believe me, everything will be restored to Gaza. It is Hamas, in Hamas hands. If they care—

Hill Okay, now I understand. Thank you for clarifying that, sir. I think we're actually on the same page here. You're saying that once Hamas leaves, you'll grant the Gazan people food, shelter, fuel, electricity, hospitals, schooling. And if Hamas doesn't leave, then they'll continue to starve and die in hospitals.

You are defining for the international community, right now, collective punishment.

You're saying, "Until Hamas acts differently, the two million people in Gaza are going to be treated this way. And once Hamas acts differently, these two million people in Gaza will be treated better."

That is exactly what collective punishment is: you're holding them accountable for the actions of others; that is the definition, the textbook definition, of collective punishment, sir. Now, you—you may accept that that's what you want to do, but this is absolutely a contravention of international law.

Ayalon Well, I'll tell you exactly—no! Had we had no—if we had pushed them into the wall—we're not pushing them to the wall! We want to open a humanitarian corridor so they can leave. But if Hamas—

Hill So that who can leave? Citizens? You're saying civilians can leave, but only through the Rafah Border, correct?

Ayalon At this point, yes.

Hill So they can't—

Ayalon Because, where else—

Hill Your country! They can come into Israel!

Ayalon [big fake smile, long pause] I'm telling you one more thing I want to say—

Hill I-I want you to address that point—

Ayalon [another big smile]

Hill —don't just smile, sir, respectfully. You're saying—

Ayalon [smile vanishes] I'm not smiling!

Hill —they, you're making a corridor, they can go to Egypt—you're bombing them! You say you want to save them, but you—they can't come in.

Ayalon I—first of all, I'm not smiling. I'm crying in my heart. I'm crying in my heart for all the butchery of thousands of Israelis. Why do you think the world is with us? Why do you think the world is wise? All the international media was there.

So don't talk to me about collective punishment, don't talk to me about humanitarian—these are new rules of the game.

There is no coexistence with Hamas, which is worse than Isis, and we will not stop. We are allowing the population to leave. But if Hamas will surrender, there won't be any problem whatsoever.

Hill Danny Ayalon, thank you so much for joining me on Up Front.

Ayalon Pleasure.

Hill All right, that is our show. Up Front will be back next week.

[end cut, show title]

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

FYI artists and writers: some info regarding tumblr's new "third-party sharing" (aka selling your content to OpenAI and Midjourney)

You may have already seen the post by @staff regarding third-party sharing and how to opt out. You may have also already seen various news articles discussing the matter.

But here's a little further clarity re some questions I had, and you may too. Caveat: Not all of this is on official tumblr pages, so it's possible things may change.

(1) "I heard they already have access to my data and it doesn't really matter if I opt out"

From the 404 article:

A new FAQ section we reviewed is titled “What happens when you opt out?” states “If you opt out from the start, we will block crawlers from accessing your content by adding your site on a disallowed list. If you change your mind later, we also plan to update any partners about people who newly opt-out and ask that their content be removed from past sources and future training.”

So please, go click that opt-out button.

(2) Some future user: "I've been away from tumblr for months, and I just heard about all this. I didn't opt out before, so does it make a difference anymore?"

Another internal document shows that, on February 23, an employee asked in a staff-only thread, “Do we have assurances that if a user opts out of their data being shared with third parties that our existing data partners will be notified of such a change and remove their data?” Andrew Spittle, Automattic’s head of AI replied: “We will notify existing partners on a regular basis about anyone who's opted out since the last time we provided a list. I want this to be an ongoing process where we regularly advocate for past content to be excluded based on current preferences. We will ask that content be deleted and removed from any future training runs. I believe partners will honor this based on our conversations with them to this point. I don't think they gain much overall by retaining it.”

It should make a difference! Go click that button.

(3) "I opted out, but my art posts have been reblogged by so many people, and I don't know if they all opted out. What does that mean for my stuff?"

This answer is actually on the support page for the toggle:

This option will prevent your blog's content, even when reblogged, from being shared with our licensed network of content and research partners, including those that train AI models.

And some further clarification by the COO and a product manager:

zingring: A couple people from work have reached out to let me know that yes, it applies to reblogs of "don't scrape" content. If you opt out, your content is opted out, even in reblog form. cyle: yep, for reblogs, we're taking it so far as "if anybody in the reblog trail has opted out, all of the content in that reblog will be opted out", when a reblog could be scraped/shared.

So not only your reblogged posts, but anyone who contributed in a reblog (such as posts where someone has been inspired to draw fanart of the OP) will presumably be protected by your opt-out. (A good reason to opt out even if you yourself are not a creator.)

Furthermore, if you the OP were offline and didn't know about the opt-out, if someone contributed to a reblog and they are opted out, then your original work is also protected. (Which makes it very tempting to contribute "scrapeable content" now whenever I reblog from an abandoned/disused blog...)

(4) "What about deleted blogs? They can't opt out!"

I was told by someone (not official) that he read "deleted blogs are all opted-out by default". However, he didn't recall the source, and I can't find it, so I can't guarantee that info. If I get more details - like if/when tumblr puts up that FAQ as reported in the 404 article - I will add it here as soon as I can.

Edit, tumblr has updated their help page for the option to opt-out of third-party sharing! It now states:

The content which will not be shared with our licensed network of content and research partners, including those that train AI models, includes: • Posts and reblogs of posts from blogs who have enabled the "Prevent third-party sharing" option. • Posts and reblogs of posts from deleted blogs. • Posts and reblogs of posts from password-protected blogs. • Posts and reblogs of posts from explicit blogs. • Posts and reblogs of posts from suspended/deactivated blogs. • Private posts. • Drafts. • Messages. • Asks and submissions which have not been publicly posted. • Post+ subscriber-only posts. • Explicit posts.

So no need to worry about your old deleted blogs that still have reblogs floating around. *\o/*

But for your existing blogs, please use the opt out option. And a reminder of how to opt out, under the cut:

The opt-out toggle is in Blog Settings, and please note you need to do it for each one of your blogs / sideblogs.

On dashboard, the toggle is at https://www.tumblr.com/settings/blog/blogname [replace "blogname" as applicable] down by Visibility:

For mobile, you need the most recent update of the app. (Android version 33.4.1.100, iOs version 33.4.) Then go to your blog tab (the little person icon), and then the gear icon for Settings, then click Visibility.

Again, if you have a sideblog, go back to the blog tab, switch to it, and go to settings again. Repeat as necessary.

If you do not have access to the newest version of the app for whatever reason, you can also log into tumblr in your mobile browser. Same URL as per desktop above, same location.

Note you do not need to change settings in both desktop and the app, just one is fine.

I hope this helps!

[chuunai]

NEED BSD MEN HEADCANONS WITH THEM EXPERIENCING BABY FEVER FOR THE FIRST TIME

like they see a baby on social media being cute or something like that and they're just like "oh....I??? want one?????"

I’ve been waiting for this one >_<

✧˚ · . BSD men with baby fever - dazai osamu, chuuya nakahara, tachihara michizou, tetcho suehiro, sigma

summary ⋆ ★ mentions of pregnancy, babies babies babies, fluff, established relationship (dating reader), SFW with implied NSFW.

Dazai Osamu:

Dazai would only get baby fever if you two had been together for a while. That he trusts you with his being and heart. He’s lost so many others in the span of a few years, he doesn’t want to lose you too. Or a baby. A family is something that’s unknown to him. The closest thing he had to one was with Ango and Odasaku, but look how that ended up.

But when that video of a baby crawling over to her mama and papa came up on his social media feed one day, something in his mind just seemed to focus on ‘baby baby baby’. At the Agency, all he could think about was his future baby. The dark curls they’d inherit, and your lips and eyes. Kunikida could smack him for all he cared, but Dazai was the one with a girlfriend. And at home, one could say it got even more embarrassing there. Online shopping carts would magically start having baby clothes in them, and a music playlist with the title of ‘lullabies for future baby dazai <3’ appeared as well.

Of course, you ask why it’s popping up. Instead of being smart and playfully brushing it off, the fever grows to a whole new degree where he gets down on his knees in front of you and begs for a baby. He just wants a family of his own. Is it so much to ask for? Someone he’ll love unconditionally and that they’ll love him back. And wouldn’t it be the ultimate gift of your love? Something that came from the both of you and your shared efforts?

By the miracle of his persuasive words (and even more persuasive cock), you had agreed. Dazai could hardly wait for night nowadays where he’d try to stuff a baby into you. His baby. A family with you. The fever isn’t giving up, and a positive pregnancy test is his only hopeful sign of recovering.

Chuuya Nakahara

Chuuya gets baby fever very quick. It’s not his fault that he gets attached so early on in the relationship. You just complete him—the empty side where he questions everything. An answer to his purpose in life. You’re a goddess in his eyes, and he worships the ground you walk on. He also enjoys talking about you and showing you off. It’d be more impressive if he could show off a baby in your belly, though.

He blames it all on his subordinates. The fuckers are young—like him—and irresponsible. The Port Mafia is a soul’s last resort, and so one loses all sense of purpose and dignity. That leads to pregnancies, occasionally. The fathers are also usually part of the Mafia, and so when Chuuya saw the expecting parents walking around, he couldn’t help but think of you. Belly swollen with his seed, tits heavy with milk to nourish his child. He was a goner day one of the fever. The following weeks are discreetly spent reading articles about parenting, looking at cute videos of families and staring at your stomach a whole lot more now.

He tries to indirectly ask about your feelings on the topic when you’re both sleepily intoxicated on a Sunday. Snuggling up to you on the couch while his tired voice asks if you thought you two would be good parents. One hand rested absentmindedly on your stomach, kneading it slowly while you smiled and said yes. Of course, it didn’t mean you wanted one now or anything, but in the moment it sure seemed like you had said that you wanted his baby now.

That’s probably how you two ended up under the sheets, too drunk to remember protection as he prayed for a baby to be conceived. A pillow under your hips while his rolled against yours endlessly until his cum painted your cervix and walls white. He doesn’t pull out either, nor do you push him off. Deep down, he knows you want the same too. A mini-Nakahara.

Tachihara Michizou

He’s a mix of Dazai and Chuuya. He’ll get baby fever quickly after you start dating because he’s known you for so long. You two had been on the streets together for a while and joined the Hunting Dogs together. You’re his family, and he’s yours. It’s always been just you and him forever. Tachihara needs that security in order to even think about a baby of his own.

When he does, it’s when Atsushi randomly gave him a stroller with a baby in it. Tachihara had no clue on what to do when it started crying and Gin teased him for it, but damn did it look kinda similar to you and him. Then that pesky thought entered his mind after work as he tried to get it out. You’re both only nineteen, for Christ’s sake! And you haven’t even been dating for a year! Tachihara’s not going to ask you for one until you’re at least twenty-three together and still happy.

But lord, four years is a painful waiting time. But he knows you’re worth it. That the future baby is worth it. He’ll try and subtly to have you get baby fever too by going to parks more often where parents are fussing over their kids and he’ll make a comment about how you baby him like that and that your offspring will like him better. You don’t seem too convinced, but he’ll change that. Just like how he’s changing both of your future for the better.

His dreams consist of you and him raising a family in the peaceful countryside where no one will ever threaten you again. No crime or tragedy, just you and him. His biological family may all either be dead or hating him, but that doesn’t matter. You’re his family, and you love him.

Tetcho Suehiro

Tetcho doesn’t even know he has baby fever. All he knows is that he’s dating you—his heavenly angel. Everything in his life is good and normal. He has a job he deeply cherishes and loves, friends, and a civilian fiancée. The only thing he wishes for is to keep you happy and content with life and your relationship. A baby’s not on his mind for a while. Why would it? He’s got everything he needs.

But that one encounter with a child he saved from a criminal had him questioning it. The way it thanked him and hugged him got his fatherly side up and running. He thought it was just sweet of the kid to do so. Not that he wanted one of his own. Though his brain was different; insistent and pleading whenever he took you out on that one date and saw you help escort a lost child back to their parents. Tetcho’s a blunt honest individual, if you ask him something, he will most likely say the truth.

So when you see his adoring gaze at you, you ask him if he was okay and he just replies that he wants a baby too. One more thing to add to his life. You’re already engaged, he’s devoted to you forever more. He’ll take such good care of you and the baby. Money’s not an issue, and your relationship is stable and healthy. Isn’t it the best time for a baby?

He still doesn’t see it as baby fever when you tell him it. It’s just natural, right? Reproduction. He’d be a good father, he thinks. And he’ll tell you that until you give in and allow him to be a daddy-to-be.

Sigma

Sigma is also a goner day one. Coming from the Book has always made him feel out of place in the world. He has no mother, no father. No document of birth or a childhood He just came into being from words alone, and that makes him fascinated by you. He admires it, strangely enough. Your womb. The fact you could carry a baby just was stuck in his mind.

Your period is what first started his baby fever. When you first went through it shortly after your relationship began and he thought you were dying, you had to explain that you went through this every month unless you were pregnant. He offered to give you a baby, feeling bad for you. You of course said no, but he still has the offer up. He’s seen some pregnant patrons at the Casino, albeit rarely. Sigma wonders what you would look like carrying his baby. Letting him—a man not born quite like anyone else—do the honors of fathering your first child. Lord, he obsesses over it.

He has to sleep every night with his face buried in your stomach. When he falls asleep, he dreams of your future baby. It’s so bad for him. He needs to know he’s normal like everyone else. And nearly everybody can make a baby, right? If you really loved him, you’d let him try and make one with you too. To prove that yes, he’s human even if his origins are odd.

Sigma isn’t giving up. He’s a determined man with a goal in sight. He worked hard for everything he has in life right now, exhausting both his mind and body to the point of nearly insanity. A reward can be given to him, right? He’s heard Fyodor talk about God, and while he isn’t particularly religious himself, surely God will recognize his actions and give him a baby?

Here’s your meal everyone ! <3

Tags: @twst-om-lover, @xxcandlelightxx, @sinfulthoughtsposts

[mochinek0]

Daminette December: 24-Scandal

PREVIOUS: Headline

Marinette spotted Damian on campus and glared at him every chance she got. On the way to her last class, she felt herself being pulled behind a stair well.

"Who do you think you are?" She demanded.

"Your boyfriend, according to the headlines." The Wayne heir smirked.

"You were the one who opened your mouth and said you were!" Mari shouted, "I thought you were just….gonna make her go away-"

"I believe I accomplished that." He replied.

Marinette growled out of frustration, "I know I went to you for help, but I didn't expect….this! I was sure you would just keep me away from her with your glare alone."

Damian smirked.

'She had faith in my abilities to keep her safe when she could have done so herself. Though, I suspect, her standing up for herself would have caused an ever greater scene.'

"You chose me, did you not?" he pressed.

Marinette tenses up and looked away, but Damian caught the blush that spread to the tip of her ears.

"Why did you help anyways?" she questioned, "Honestly, I half expected you to push me away and tell me our business was over."

"You prefer honesty, do you not?" Damian asked.

"Yes!" Marinette replied, turning around.

"You do not lower your standards. You are fixated with your own goals in mind." He continued, "You are also very intelligent. It was wise of you to use my connections for help."

'I didn't know he was paying that much attention to me.'

"Say the word and Gabriel will lose all standing in the fashion community." Damian ranted on, "We can have the Daily Planet print out articles about his abomination of a model. I am positive Lois Lane and her husband can find anything negative about her."

Getting overwhelmed by his continued praises, Marinette grabbed Damian by the collar, and pulled him into a kiss. Mari flinched at the sudden contact of his hands on her waist, but when she realized she wasn't being pushed away, she relaxed into the kiss.

"I wasn't expecting a confession." Mari whispered.

"Tch." Damian blushed, not removing his hands.

She giggled, "I'm glad you see me for my personality and not my looks. I wouldn't mind giving dating a try, if it's with someone like you."

"I guess I'm not a liar then." Damian replied.

"No. You're not." Mari answered, as Damian initiated the next kiss.

Marinette looked at a news article. Paparazzi had managed to take a picture of her and Damian, together, on campus. The headlines read: Damian Wayne protective of his future Wife.

Her face flushed as she looked at the picture. Damian had pulled her behind him and tried to keep them from getting more pictures of her.

"What's the occasion?" Damian questioned, handing her a hot cup of coffee.

Marinette showed him the article. Damian grabbed her hand and kissed the ring on her left hand.

"Yes. I am." He agreed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her still eyeing the old article, and trying to hide her blush behind her mug.

"What, Habibiti?" Damian pressed.

"You know," she admitted, "when this article came out, I was sure you would leave me. I was sure I was causing problems in your life."

"Angel." He sighed.

"I never expected you to make that headline true." She smiled.

Damian smirked, before leaning over and kissing her.

"I am not a liar." He spoke.

Marinette thought back to the headlines from the last gala. They were just staring at each other, dancing, lost in their own world. The headlines was titled: New Wayne Soon?

She thought of the pregnancy test upstairs, in a black box with a red bow she was going to show him at dinner that night.

Mari smiled back, "No, you're not."

@maribat-calendar-events

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[writers-anonymous14]

Dad vs Father

-A article about a Father and a Dad

By anonymous

What is a father? You can look at birth documents or look at your own family tree to see what a father is. But truly, deep down. What is a father? Is he someone that braids your hair, or makes the money? Is he the one that comforts you when you endure a heartbreak? Or is he someone who scolds you for spilling water? Is he someone who loves you despite it all? Or is he someone you want to impress? Either way, each of these questions have a yes in the matter. A father is many things. He can be a cook, worker, partner, teacher, doctor, anything he sets his mind to. But what if I told you there were more than one names to call somebody a father? A father is someone who has a child. No matter who the child is. They could be a part of the LGBTQ+, they could be in the mental health hospital, they could be whoever they want to be. All the Father has to do is make the money and come home. The word Father is very flexible. It is used in religion, it is used in poems, and it is used in songs. (ex; Father Figure by George Micheal or “Father” as in a Priest.) I have given many men the title of Father because they were there. They are present in the household. They come, take off their boots, and put them near the door. They sit at the brittle table. The leg of the table is loose, making the table wonky. The Father will notice this and fix it. They will expect a thank you and praise because they worked a twelve-hour shift at the factory. The wife will hum a tune while washing dishes and Father has a beer in hand. The dog will yap, and he’ll yell at it to, “shut up.” The children would be going to bed and Father would be sighing. He would kiss his children goodnight and turn off the light. He won’t look back. He walks to his own corridors, takes off his suit jacket, washes himself and smokes. He won’t pass his cigarette to his wife, instead he’ll kiss her and go to bed. The wife would try to look pretty, but no. He’s focused on having another day. In this piece, I will demonstrate the difference between a Father and a dad.

What is a dad? You can look at movies or books for example, or maybe your own dad for this question. You could use Schmidt from New Girl, or your biology teacher from Freshman year. He had around two or twenty kids, depending on how many kids were in his class. He loved all of you equally, maybe not the kids that talked about him behind his back because they didn’t get how he could see the good in every child he taught. Either way, we have all met a dad. Whether they were fictional or very real. So, what is a dad? Is he someone who fights with people on the road because he claims, “it was their fault.” or is he someone who buys you ice cream when you get suspended from school? Is he someone who ignores you out of spite because you forgot to clean the dishes the night before or is he someone that kisses your forehead before you fall asleep? Is he nice or is he mean? There are no right or wrong answers to this, because we have our own definitions for what is a dad and what is a father. But I am here, to dissect every little movement and meaning behind the two. I have not given many men the title of dad. Not because they left too early or because they aren’t ready to be a dad. It is because I don't think they deserve it. From ages five through eight, I called my Father, dad. Well, because I was a child. I did not have a choice in that matter. But when I turned nine, I started to call him Father, because calling my Father dad had left a distaste in my mouth. I would only find out three years later why. (During this writing I will be calling my Father, The Father.) The Father never questioned me, and I was glad. Even though it made me feel something gross and my mind was asking me lingering questions. Such as, “why isn’t he asking us why? Does he know we changed? When will I call him dad again?” I have only two answers. One keeps me up at night. I know and understand many people grew up with a Father like mine. We all wanted a dad. A dad who stayed up just a little more to keep you laughing. A dad who made the dish soap extra bubbly and splashed you with water. A dad who was actually there. Dads will come home from a fifteen-hour shift, unlace their boots and jokingly complain to their children how stinky their feet are. He will place them by the door and stretch his tired bones, his wife would be cooking dinner, and he would kiss her neck, covering her giggles. The children will giggle and gag at the sight, the dad will laugh at this too. He will sit at the table, feeding his children and asking for a beer. He wouldn’t drink all of it, why would he? He has work in the morning. The dad praises his wife and notices the uncoordinated table. He’ll stay up that night fixing it. He won’t tell the family and expect to be worshipped, the table will never be mentioned again. He bathes the kids, knowing his wife spent all day cooking, cleaning, mothering. He grabs a chair he built, sits down while his children settle in bed, telling them a story in an animated voice to make them laugh. He’ll give them a big kiss and tell them something special like, “I’m proud of you,” or “I’m happy I’m your dad.” The dad will wash up and attack his wife with kisses and praises. All night he would hold her to his chest, already missing his family before he even leaves for work. That pretty much sums up a dad.

Now, what if we put the two together? How can we compare them? What makes them different from one another? Well, the differences may be easy to see and grasp, but how many ways can they be different? For once, dads are the ones who will be there at the end of the day. Whether that be you coming home from either your first or last day of school, or you coming home from your first ever job. Despite it all, a dad is there. A Father will be there at the end of the day if they have too or if they need to look good. In my life, I have met Fathers. Including my uncle. As much as he was ecstatic during my aunt's pregnancy, he was mainly excited to be known as a “dad.” He would put in all of social media accounts, post pictures of my cousin, and tell anyone who would listen. But, when reality came crashing down, and the moment he was handed a diaper, he started to distance himself and stopped wanting to be the dad he wanted to be. In order to have a child and do a great job at it, you can’t want it, you have to need it. No, I am not telling you that you should have to need a baby. Because obviously, having a literal baby is something very real and you should always want it. In the end, you wanted the baby, you didn’t exactly need it. So, no, that is not what was said. What I was saying is that just like a father and dad, the words need and want to have two meanings. If there is anything The Father taught me, it was the difference between the two. Wanting is above the surface. Let’s say you wanted a barbie at the ripe age of five. You wanted it, did you need it? No, of course not. Now, needing goes deeper. At fourteen, you took one of the biggest exams in your year. You need 85% or higher to pass whatever class. You need the grade; you can’t simply want it. Fatherhood is the same thing. If you want to be a good dad, you have to need it. Men who can live with themselves after not trying for at most a year with their child, just wanted the fact that they could be a dad. The men who know they need to be a good dad to the life of him and whoever is bringing into the world, will do a good job. These men will not live with themselves if they are not present in their child's life. A Father just wants to get this over with and do what he thinks is his, “job.” When in reality, his job is more than working shifts and putting food on the table. He also has kids who need a dad, not a Father. We all need a dad in our life, but sometimes the man we grow up with only wanted us, and didn’t need us.

To conclude what was just said, many men do not understand either world. Some choose not to; others simply don’t care. And that is alright. We must live with the fact that we have two people in our lives that are supposed to care and understand. While one doesn’t understand what he did to get here, and the other is wondering what you did to her body. Girls I grew up with had Fathers who hated and left. Other girls I know had a Father but they barely knew him, even though he was right down the hall. I wrote this with my own Father in mind. I would always wonder why he had to change, and why I had to change. He was never my dad; he was just someone who bosses me around and pointed fingers. The concept of the two worlds will never be easy to understand, because in the end, we can’t even find ourselves. Before anyone blames themself on who their parental figures were, think about it. Your parents had you, they wanted you, and now they don’t need you. Need and want, Father and dad, same thing to me. It is sad that most men do not realize they have to actually try and be a dad. Some think that it is easy, and that fatherhood will come easy to them. Flash forward to decades from now and they still think that their daughter's favorite movie is Frozen, and his son's favorite drink is apple juice. This pretty much sums up Fatherhood.

Thank you for reading, have a good night and send me prompts to write about!

[colorsunimaginable]

the spare // chapter seventy // death eater ! tom hiddleston oc x plus size ofc - voldemort wins au

story summary: 

While on a mission to avenge the death of her best friend, Ilvermorny graduate Melisa Alder finds herself in the middle of the fight to defeat Voldemort. Upon capture after the Dark Lord's triumph, she's being sold at an auction with other muggle borns and blood traitors. Her only hope is also her only bidder - the tall, dark, and handsome Thomus Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy's younger half-brother. Is he just another Death Eater or is he hiding more than just his face beneath the mask? Will she realize her true potential to be one of the resistance's greatest weapons?

*a Voldemort Wins AU with Tom Hiddleston cast as an OC x a plus size protagonist* *takes place in The Auction universe by Lovesbitca8*

words for this chapter: 5k warnings for this chapter: light fingering?

banners by @cafekitsune

MASTERLIST

Chapter Seventy:

January brings in a bitter cold front.

I show Thomus the Muggle magic of indoor heating known as the radiator. The sturdy metal contraptions try their best, but I still find myself layering my clothes and keeping the fire roaring in the living room anyway. My ass has been parked on the couch with the softest blankets in the house piled on top of me.

Thomus usually joins me in the evenings, and we'll either read together or put a movie on. During the day Thomus is in the office, typing away or dulling his quills for The Daily Prophet.

I don't really go out of my way to read any editions he leaves laying around. The few I flipped through had fun, exciting headlines like ZÜRICH UNDER SIEGE! and EXECUTIONS IN ZÜRICH: DARK LORD WELCOMES SWITZERLAND TO GREAT ORDER! Several articles spewed hateful rhetoric about Muggleborns and there was even an ad featuring Muggleborn repellent.

And so… yeah, I don't really need to consume so much negativity on a daily basis. It honestly would send me spiraling with that being my only access to the outside world.

I'm content staying in my own little delusion. Where I'm still in the dark about the details of the war raging around us, but I'm okay with that. The less I know, the less I'll stress. I can watch my silly little movies, make a never ending pot of leek and potato soup, and spend time with Thomus, who's the perfect distraction.

One morning during breakfast with Thomus, I realize it already has to be late January. Did he ever have that meeting with Voldemort?

I glance at him in time to see him scoop up the last bite of his oatmeal. I guess I could just ask him, right?

"Did you ever… have that meeting?" I ask, prompting his eyes to find mine. There are times where he's left the cottage, but it was usually to 'follow a lead', or so I was told. "With… "

He tilts his head, giving me a patient look.

"Um, the one that Yaxley mentioned the… Dark Lord would summon you for?" I finally get out. "From the New Years party."

"Right," he says, like he's expected this question somehow, and continues casually, "and you want to know what was said about you."

My face heats and my jaw drops, but I recover the reaction by immediately saying, "Yes." Then give him a sheepish smile. "Wouldn't you?"

He smiles in return, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "What do you want to know?"

I start with a question not totally unrelated to the meeting, but something I've been dying to ask. "Why are there so many articles written about me?"

Thomus raises his eyebrows and smirks. "I was wondering when you were going to ask about them," he says, then crosses his arms and shifts down in his seat. "And to answer your question, it's not exactly a secret that you, an American Muggleborn back to back Wandless Magic Tournament Champion, are the property of a Death Eater."

I roll my eyes. "That's quite the mouthful, isn't it?"

He narrows his own. "Are you trying to under value yourself?"

"No," I scoff, shrugging. "I'm just saying the title doesn't really matter."

"Of course your achievements matter -"

"Not really."

His eyebrows raise again, seeming in utter disbelief. "Darling, your achievements are utterly remarkable for a mudblood. You should be proud."

For a few long moments, there's only silence that follows his statement as I let the hurt of his words sink into my chest.

"My achievements don't matter when I'm being held prisoner for the crime of my blood," I say quietly. "If you take my 'remarkable' abilities out of the recipe, what's left? My worth is no greater or less than the other… mudbloods."

His eyebrows and mouth are pinched inward as he stares at me before slowly nodding. "I shouldn't have called you that and I apologize. I wasn't thinking."

I'm taken aback by his quick apology and I just nod. Somehow it feels reassuring.

"With or without magic," he says quietly. "You're still dangerous."

I know he doesn't mean it as a compliment, but I decide to treat it like one. Straightening my back and squaring my shoulders, I give him a false bravado smile. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

He gives a wry chuckle, glancing away and bouncing his leg.

"So what was it?" I press. "Either you bought me because you knew who I am and what I can do, or because you…" I trail off. My thought process had been confident, now I'm not so sure.

But he's looking at me, waiting for the rest. My eyes go to the table, how my fork sits on my plate.

"… just because you wanted to own me, and I don't think that makes very much sense." I peek at him to see he's looking out the frosted window.

"I haven't lied to you," he says pensively. "Yes, I knew who you were when I bought you, but it had little to do with my motivation."

He's definitely holding something back, especially because he's given me that answer before.

"And these articles about me warranted a summons from the Dark Lord?" I prod. "Why now? It's not like he didn't know I could do wandless magic. He saw it in my own head."

"I'm not sure he knew to what extent," he says slowly. "He doesn't take seriously Muggleborn achievements. But a few months ago someone leaked the status of your citizenship to the wizard news outlets in the states."

My expression slips to confusion. "But what about the one Skeeter wrote in May? Yeah, it's vague, but wouldn't that have told people where I was months ago? It's old news."

"Around here, yes, but remember in the states, The Daily Prophet isn't as popular," he says, and then mutters, "Especially now."

"Well, that's your own fault, isn't it?" I say. "You've even admitted to me it's straight up propaganda."

He lets out a long, heavy sigh and gives me a look that says he's well aware.

"Can you tell me a bit more about Skeeter's one?" I ask.

Thomus sits up, putting his crossed arms on the edge of the table. "Actually, I'd like you to tell me a bit more about it."

My eyebrows rise. "Why? I didn't write it."

"Neither did I."

"But you were quoted in it."

He rolls his eyes. "I gave her what she wanted to hear and, shockingly, she twisted my words." He tilts his head, looking me dead in the eyes now. "And what's your excuse?"

"For what?"

"Are you guilty of the crimes she accuses you of?" he asks.

I press my lips together, smiling as I shrug. "I want a lawyer."

He barks out a laugh. "What?"

"I will not perjure myself. I've seen how your courts work, I'd probably be sentenced to death just because of my blood status." I'm making light of it now, but when the mudblood hunt was sweeping through the Ministry, I was terrified.

He doesn't seem to find that as funny as I do. "Who did you impersonate?" he asks seriously, but there's an eagerness to his tone. Which to me says he's been wanting to ask this for a while.

I still smile at him. "Isn't it obvious?"

His eyes narrow. "Rita?" he says, incredulous.

I nod. "Yup."

"Why did you need to get into the Ministry that badly?" he asks.

"Had my reasons," I shrug.

He lets out a long frustrated breath as he sits back, dropping his arms. "I'm assuming one of those reasons has to do with why you were hiding out with Potter?"

I take a deep, slow breath, nervous to tell the simple truth. "Yes."

"… and with how Samantha died," he states. "The plaque."

I feel my pulse jumping wildly in my throat as I reply with the same answer. "Yes."

None of this information is really new, unless he's only now putting all the pieces together. But we're getting side-tracked.

"So Voldemort's concerned about me after all?" I press after he'd gone pensive again.

He tsks, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. "That's not how this works."

"Oh, come on," I whine, tilting my head and puckering my brows. "Are you really not gonna tell me what you talked about?" I might've even subconsciously pouted my lower lip.

From how he's gazing at me, for a moment I think he's finally going to open up… until he smirks.

"Do you really think batting your lashes and looking adorable will work?" he asks, thankfully amused and not insulted.

I press my lips together and sigh heavily through my nose, trying to smother my embarrassment. "Sorry," I sigh. "I think just being on his radar makes me really nervous."

"You don't have to be," he says, measuring his words for emphasis.

I give him a look. "Let me guess, it's because you've gone to 'great personal lengths' to ensure I'm not a threat to him?"

Thomus doesn't answer me immediately, slowly crossing his arms over his chest again without looking away. "What is it about that phrase that troubles you? Have I not gone to great lengths to protect you? To ensure your safety and well-being?"

My eyebrows push together slightly, meeting his guarded eyes. "But that's not what you said though. Ensuring that I'm not a threat doesn't mean keeping me safe. It doesn't mean protection."

"Is there something specific you're trying to get me to admit?" he asks hesitantly. I desperately hope it's because I've been vague and not because I keep pushing for answers he doesn't want to give.

I pinch my wrist in my lap, trying to dampen the anxiety painfully spreading through my chest. A deep breath kicks in my occlumency and I can bring forth rational thoughts, even if they stumble out of my mouth instead of gracefully stepping down.

"I - I guess I just want to know if you've been bullshitting me this entire time." Oh god, my voice cracked already. I just take another deep breath and keep going, looking out the window. Well, the cracks in the paint on the wooden frame. "With how you make me um… feel, and telling me that I'm important to you - and, and making me believe that I'd still be worth something to you if I wasn't…" I pause, taking a deep breath in through my nose. "If I wasn't a threat that needed to be dealt with." Another, shakier breath and my voice comes out as a whisper. "Is this real? Do you really care about me?"

I finally bring my eyes back to him, so terrified of his reaction. So afraid to be disappointed. To be utterly heartbroken.

I'm not quite sure how to read the face he's making. His eyes are so serious, not in a hard, scary way, but heavy and emotional. His mouth is soft, the right corner tugging upward. My heart pounds in my chest as hope springs forth, so desperate for good news.

"I think I got you for a steal," he admits softly, continuing to gaze at me. "If I cared about you then the way I do now… I would've paid anything, anything…You're worth more than gold to me."

The sincerity in his voice and his face and the tenderness in his eyes makes my lower lip tremble. I can't bare to look away from him even as my vision gets blurry from my tears. His thumb comes up to brush away an escaped tear and I grab his hand and hold it between mine.

I sniffle and clear my throat, but still whisper. "Thank you for defending me at the meeting on New Years. It meant a lot, especially because you didn't know I was there."

He leans forward, twisting in his chair to get as close to me as possible. Thighs and knees pressing together, his other hand slides around my tummy.

"I'm sorry I didn't start doing it sooner," he says. "Especially when I knew you were there."

I shrug a little and give him a small smile. "I understand it's complicated."

"But it's real," he murmurs. "I can't lie about that anymore."

"Well good. I don't want to lie to you either." I say this, knowing full well I'm going to have to lie to him in the near future. I keep a teasing smile on my face even as I feel my heart breaking while thinking about the inevitable doom. At least I'm not lying about this. "Because it's real for me too."

His head tilts and his smile mirrors my own. He pulls my hands toward him to press his lips to the back of them, meeting my eyes.

I go for a shot at levity, needing to forget that we won't get a happy ending. "Since we're being honest," I say, sitting back and looking him up and down. "Wanna fuck?"

He starts laughing and coughing all the while his face turns a super adorable pink.

"Oh, I'll do more than fuck you," he swears hotly.

I pull my hands out of his and stand, failing to keep the grin off my face. "Promises, promises," I tease.

His hands are on me in an instant, one arm securing me by the fupa as his other smacks down hard on my ass cheek. I cry out in surprise at the sting and then moan as that hand slips down to rub over my pussy between my thighs.

The way his lips are all over me, it's a miracle we make it to the bedroom before we're naked.

~*~

I don't get much sleep that night. Our confessions over breakfast left us insatiable in a way I hadn't experienced before. Even now, lying in bed wrapped in his arms, I'm unwilling to peel myself away. Despite getting several rounds of orgasms and enough cum fucked into me today that I wouldn't be surprised if my pH balance is off, I'm not tired of it, of him. It feels like a dream.

We still have the lamp on, casting it's muted yellow glow across his room. He's lying on his back, though his hips twist toward me, our legs intertwined. His arm is my pillow and I have the perfect view of his profile from where I'm tucked into his side.

He's just so handsome and how could someone like him ever feel something real for someone like me? It's superficial, yeah, I know. But he's meant to be with some blond bombshell like Diana, not… me. I can't even imagine what we look like side by side.

I don't know where we're supposed to go from here. How can I have the man of my dreams in a living nightmare? I want to believe he's been slowly changing. I want to believe he's not secretly worse than I fear.

Would he run away with me if I asked? We'd probably have to seek asylum with M.A.C.U.S.A…. Maybe pretend to be No-Majes for a while. Oh god, he'd have to meet my parents.

All terrible ideas, but it means we'd be out of danger, and we'd be together. It means we'd choose each other.

But… I really just can't see that happening. I can't see beyond this. His name is tattooed on my arm as a mark of ownership and I still refuse to ask for freedom.

Yes, he's confessed feelings, but are they strong enough to completely abandon all of this? Turn his back on his family? And what about… what about Bellatrix? He's a man with conviction. Of course those ties of loyalty would be impossible to sever.

Time to overthink and re-evaluate everything. Could I really just… go home? Have I really tried hard enough? Sacrificed enough? I've only destroyed one of his Horcruxes and he's still kicking and Sam is still dead. And fuck… he's only getting stronger. Kyle's plan feels weak in the eyes of the bigger picture. I've already tried so hard and yet the nightmare isn't even close to being over.

I don't know what makes me sadder. Not being able to be with him, or knowing he wouldn't chose me.

The pain of that knowledge consumes my chest until it hurts to breathe. It hurts to think that I was never an option in the first place just because of my blood and I ache for what could be.

As I gaze at his face, trying to commit it to memory, I come to the grim conclusion I have to know what was said between Voldemort and Thomus. If I'm going to come face to face with him one day without anyone there on my side, I need to be ready.

The easiest way I figure to do that is to just go into Thomus' memories. Since he's already asleep and obviously unprepared, I can get in pretty easily.

Before I completely submerge myself in his head, it dawns on me that I'm just another person who's taking advantage of his trust. The shame and regret burns under my skin and it's suddenly too painful to look at his face. I squeeze my eyes shut and hold him tighter to me, my fingers nearly digging into his ribs.

He deserves so much better than me. Someone he won't be bullied for liking, and more importantly, someone who won't betray his trust for their own selfish needs.

Upon swearing no malicious intent, I cross the threshold of his Occlumency walls. He's currently dreaming, which is good because then he's not paying attention when I slip to his memories, searching until Voldemort's face becomes center focus.

We're in what looks like an office in a castle, my best guess would be Hogwarts. The portraits and grandeur signal it could be the headmaster's, though I guess in this case, it's Voldemort's. Since Thomus' consciousness isn't present at the moment, I slow the memory down a bit, and step outside of Thomus' perspective. Standing next to him, I see his beard is about the length it was two weeks ago.

In the focal point of the room, Voldemort sits on a raised dais in a massive chair behind a massive desk. He looks just as creepy and alien-like as the last time I saw him. To Thomus' credit, he doesn't seem nervous at all. I wonder how many times he's had to stare that monster in the face.

"Do you know why, exactly, they're demanding her release?" Voldemort asks.

"Yes, my Lord," Thomus replies smoothly. "They believe that since she's not a citizen of the British Wizarding Ministry, then she should be released to her country of origin."

"Why is this filth of such significance? Because she can do a few tricks without a wand?"

Thomus pauses only briefly. "She is a Wandless Magic Tournament Champion, sir. Two years in a row."

At this news, Voldemort sits up. "That is who your Lot is?"

"I apologize, sir," Thomus says. "I thought you were aware."

"I've heard she cheated," the Dark Lord sniffs. He stands, his long black robes slithering along the floor. Except it's not just his robes slithering about, it's also that giant fucking snake glued to his side.

Thomus chuckles. "Yes, I've heard that theory floating about as well. However, I can assue you she's no different than any of the rest," Thomus says, much to my surprise. Voldemort raises an eyebrow at him, despite not having any. "That scheme is quite advanced for her, I'm afraid."

He says this so easily, so casually, and it's so convincing that I actually take a step back from him.

"Ah," Voldemort hums, circling the room, gazing at the different portraits. Most of them sit empty. Except for Dumbledore's. Dumbledore stares Voldemort head on from his chair, looking seriously unimpressed at the Dark Lord below him. "And what of her abilities? Has she given you any trouble?"

"She has only needed a stronger suppression potion," Thomus replies. "With it, her magic isn't a threat and neither is she. When not suppressed, the abilities she does have are unremarkable. Best not forget she's only a mudblood after all."

Voldemort turns on his heel at that. "Are you quite sure you feel that way, Thomus?" he hisses, starting toward him. "I've recently been made aware that your behavior has been quite unbefitting of a Death Eater of your blood status."

There's a heavy silence and his next words sink me all the way to rock bottom.

"You, of all people, should know better than anyone," Voldemort chides. "It would be a shame to lose you to the same fate."

Thomus swallows. "Yes, sir."

Voldemort sighs, his hand coming down onto Thomus' shoulder. "You are, and have proven yourself to be valuable to me, young man. I will not forget all that you have done in my service. You deserve your pet." His other hand comes to grasp his other shoulder. "But do not let that dirty blooded whore fill your mind with romantic notions. If you must, use it to your advantage. Play into it. Let her believe you care for her. Her loyalty and obedience will be a powerful tool."

Voldemort releases Thomus after a moment and dismisses him with a wave of his arm. "That will be all."

"Of course, sir."

I keep to Thomus' back as he seamlessly turns and leaves the room to descend a spiral staircase. Dazed, I follow Thomus as my head swells with doubt. Is he still pretending? What if he's been fucking with me this whole time? Just like last time.

I'm not sure when I go from following Thomus on the stairs, to trailing behind him in what looks like the Forbidden Forest. The large mossy trees feel both far away and crowded so close an unsettling, panicked feeling creeps across the back of my neck. I can't see my way out of here through the blue mist. All I can do is follow Thomus' ever shrinking form, anxiety spurring my feet faster after him.

My heart pulses in my throat and the moment I lose sight of him, I stupidly call out his name. My voice echoes and he's suddenly in front of me, halting within arm's reach, freezing me entirely. He's breathing heavily, eyes scanning his surroundings.

I open my mouth to say his name again, but another voice beats me to it. It calls for him - sweet, melodic, and eerily familiar. When his name is said again, the voice shocks me to my core… because it sounds like my voice.

My jaw stays dropped as his head snaps in the direction the voice came from. It calls for him again and this time he doesn't hesitate, spinning on his heel and launching into the trees in search of its source.

I follow him through the brush, quickly losing sight of him, but still picking up the sound of his hurried steps. When I emerge into a clearing, I see he's stopped and I have to step around him to find out what he's staring at.

It's a mossy, Roman style gazebo. It's white marble shines like a pearl, giving it an ancient ethereal look, and right in the center, draped on a chaise covered in flowers, is a goddess of some kind.

"Thomus!" the goddess calls, spotting him.

After the encouragement, Thomus' feet carry him across the small clearing in three long strides. He immediately kneels at her feel, burying his face in her lap, hands tightly gripping her hips. My approach is much slower, totally disbelieving what I'm seeing.

The goddess is… me. Well, she certainly looks like me with her bright pink hair curled in abundance around her. She's definitely me at first glance, but the closer I look at her face, the more uncanny it seems. My guess it's probably because it's a dream.

He got the body right though. There's absolutely no hiding it's shape in the dress she's wearing. The dress is white, long, and so sheer every curve is on full display, even the ones that I try not to remember exist. God, even the pink of my nipples is clearly visible.

The goddess runs her fingers through his hair and gazes lovingly down at him. He nestles in closer, rubbing his face up over her fupa and stomach. He says something, but it's too muffled for me to hear. She responds anyway.

"Yes, my love?"

My love?

I once again stare at them in shock as he takes her hands in his and raises his head back to her eye level. Thomus brings his lips to her fingers before he murmurs, "You are my sun, my moon, my star-lit sky." Then one of his hands dips down to her ankle, slipping fingers beneath the hazy hem to glide slowly up her calf. "Without you, I dwell in darkness."

I'm trying so hard to control my breathing as if it alone can stop this avalanche of emotions. His hand disappears between her thighs and her smile grows as his words continue.

"Your power has enchanted me," he declares sincerely, "and I am helpless against it." When his voice drops in tone she gasps, her full pouted lips parting slowly, in sync with her knees. His arm moves between them and wet noises drift out into the silence around us.

I've never had a more strange out of body experience as this one. And I thought the time-travel was weird enough.

His other hand releases hers, moving to her shoulder where he guides her to lie back along the chaise. Settled, he buries his fingers into her plush form, molding her to his touch.

Her arms reach out for him, able to cup his face and grab his shoulder. "Come to me now," she begs breathlessly. "Let me worship you in my arms."

The rhythm of his arm suddenly intensifies and her back arches in ecstasy as she cries out. His free hand pushes back the flowing dress over her knees so she's suddenly exposed before him.

"I can't stop," he gasps, his lustful gaze jumping from her face to her puss - oh, my god. "The beating of my heart - it pounds like never before."

There's something else the goddess has that I don't. Pubic hair.

And it's bright, fucking, pink.

My hand shoots up to cover my mouth before I spew out a cackle that could possibly wake him up. I silently shake with laughter as the steamy dream continues.

"Death makes the lover's a trivial thing," he whispers as he lowers his face closer between her thighs and to the glistening pussy he's still fingering. He gazes reverently at her body as a hand runs down her inner thigh, and he gives the most malleable bit of flesh near her pussy an appreciateive squeeze.

Before he can dive for her, she cradles his face once more. He fully leans into it, sighing heavily. "Your touch is worth a thousand deaths," he murmurs.

The hand over my mouth goes from holding back laughter, to holding back a pathetic whimper. His declaration has tears flooding my eyes and the air disappearing from my lungs.

I'm not crazy? Of course this is a dream, but this is literally a peek into his sub-conscious. It's proof that he's been telling the truth.

The tidalwave of emotions that come with that realization are far too overwhelming to experience while in someone else's head. So I back out, opening my eyes to shift back to reality. In it, tears have already escaped and pool by my cheek on his shoulder.

I shift onto my elbow, blinking and wiping away any remaining tears. Anxious to know if I've woken him, I stare at his face while my eyes readjust to the lighting. When it seems like I haven't, I slowly roll over until my feet touch the floor. Snatching my hoodie from the foot of the bed, I shrug it on and leave through the bathroom.

Internally I'm already chastising myself for even getting out of bed as my toes nearly freeze before I manage to pull on socks and a pair of undies from my wardrobe.

He loves me and the first thing I do is run from him? What am I doing?

I know I have a clean pair of sweatpants in the dryer, so I grab a laundry basket and silently tip toe downstairs. Setting the basket on the floor, I use Accio to quickly locate my pants. While I shrug them on, I cast a house keeping spell that has my laundry folding itself.

As I sort through the folded clothes, I think I hear a faint meow, so I pause, and when I hear it again I'm already turning towards the kitchen. Peeking out the back door window, I see Caelan staring up at me from the patio.

Why wouldn't he just use the cat door? I tap it with my foot to find it won't budge. Either way, I open the door and he quickly glides past my ankles. By the time I turn around, he's shifted to his less feline self.

He looks exhausted. Dark shadows form around his eyes and look stark compared to his alabaster complexion.

Caelan gives me a half-smile and looks sheepish. "Got time for a Floo call?"

"Yeah, sure," I nod. "With who? Thomus is asleep upstairs."

"Kyle. There's been some news."

I push my eyebrows together. "I'm guessing bad news?"

He shrugs. "I'm not sure, really."

We quietly step into the livingroom. Caelan sets up the fire while I start up the TV and cast Muffliato, hoping both will mask any talking. By the time I'm kneeling next to Caelan, Kyle's face flickers in the green fire.

"Look, I'll just cut to the chase," he starts. "Eric Roosevelt's dead."

"Oh my god, that's awful," I whisper. "I'm so sorry."

"Aye, same here mate. How long ago?"

Kyle takes a deep breath. It's hard to read his expression when it's only peaking through the flames, but it looks like he's pretty shaken up. "A few days. Alder, we found the recipe you wrote him at the Christmas party among his notes."

"Yeah?" I ask. "Why's that important?"

He pauses a moment before saying, "We need you to continue his work."

[lore-of-the-mushroom-kingdom]

Is Yoshi's Crafted World Canon?

So many people have questioned whether or no the Yoshi craft games like Yoshi's Crafted World and Wooly World. The answer is yes and no.

Sooooooo....

In a Nintendo Dream Article titled Yoshi's Crafted World development materials also released! We asked the staff about the behind-the-scenes story we get some details about the crafted games. Masahiro Yamamoto said the following about Yoshi's Crafted World. "When we were first deciding on the worldview, we decided on the theme of 'crafts made by kindergarteners.' In a kindergarten, children are playing with Yoshi dolls among the crafts they made… That's the image we had of the worldview." In addition to saying "Yes. A kindergarten in the world of Mario, where Baby Mario and Baby Peach live. With that in mind, we designed the empty box while thinking about what kind of candy these children are holding. It's just an image for creative purposes."

So the craft games aren't canon because the events of the game didn't happen to the Yoshi's because they are made up in-universe. But at the same time they are canon because canonically in-universe Baby Mario, Luigi, and Peach are all playing out the events of the game in a Kindergarten. This is also why the game has objects like Yoster Cookies and Moo Moo Milk cartons making up the environment, as these are in universe products.

[zmediaoutlet]

fic: troth

a gift for @flownwrong as part of the kris kringle mingle -- have a good year, bud. :)

title: troth pairing: sam/dean length: 3200 tags: established relationship, season 10, truth curses

(read on AO3)

It's a sigil, some weird language neither of them recognize, two inches more-or-less square seared onto Dean's chest under the no-demons-allowed tat, right over his heart. Between that and the fun little gift from Cain, he's starting to feel crowded.

"Why there," Sam says, the jackass. Dean takes in a breath and Sam immediately looks sorry, says, "Wait—"

"Magical sigils tend to follow the ley-fields of the human body," Dean says, "so they can take advantage of belief foci: head, heart, hands, genitals, clusters of veins and nerves. In this case the sigil is inscribed in the place of greatest meaning for the witch who designed it."

His voice rasps. Sam grimaces. Writes it down, too, damn him. Like Dean's a damn wikipedia article he's referencing.

"This is not a question," Sam says, carefully. He ignores Dean's eyeroll. "I wonder how you know this stuff. I mean. I know we've been doing a lot of research but it seems—I don't know. Impossible."

It's not a question and so Dean doesn't know how to contribute. His tongue's felt weighed down, ever since they left that cabin in the mountains. His head hurts, fuzzy like lack of sleep and a hangover headache are warring for which can suck most, but Sam's been in some level of freak-out since yet another who-knows-how-terrible weird mark has imbued itself onto Dean's body and so here they are, at the tables in the library, researching through the night. Dean wants to say, hey, at least this one isn't trying to make me into a murder machine, but he can't seem to speak without being asked for something. Sam probably wouldn't appreciate it, anyway.

The spell leapt from the witch bitch's grimoire as Dean was tossing it into the fire, like it refused to die even as she went down under Sam's bullet. With the grimoire gone they'd probably be up the creek—and yet.

"I'd like you to drink a glass of water," Sam says. Another careful non-question. He sets it in front of Dean. "Your throat sounds like it hurts."

It does. Dean drags his hands over his face, hard, and then drags them over the back of his skull and presses his fingertips brutally into the muscle at the back of his neck that's aching like after a twenty-hour drive. Like trying to shift poured cement. Then he picks up the glass and drains it in cool glugging swallows, until his belly sloshes, and then he leans back in his chair with his eyes closed. Not the worst thing in the world to have Sam coddling him. From Sam, this counts as coddling.

The chair next to him drags out. "Don't hate me," Sam says. That's not a question, either. Dean gives him a sidelong squint and Sam's got his elbows braced on the chair arms, hunched, looking sorry. He's looked sorry a lot, this year. Dean can't say it but he hopes he communicates how dumb he finds the whole attempt is with, whatever, the shape of his ears and the distance apart his knees are set, and closes his eye again. "Yeah, okay," Sam says, quiet. Then: "Why can't you talk of your own volition?"

Dean's mouth opens.

Thing is, he's not saying it. It's like there's some portal that opens somewhere around his voicebox and information pours out from some other place. The answer's something about the witch cursing whoever killed her with knowledge beyond blah blah, but that doesn't mean Dean's got to pay attention to it or knows what it means. His head's killing him, anyway. Sam's writing down something while Dean babbles about a Greek curse originating from Delphi and Dean's just—a speaker, turning in to radio wherever. Crank the volume and listen to him go.

"This is… incredible," Sam says. "Dean, I think—could you tell me anything?"

"Yes," Dean says, and expects more, and nothing comes. Level of detail is all over the place, but whatever it is always seems to be true.

"Huh." A dragging sound: Dean opens his eyes, and Sam's pulled up his laptop, is clicking around. White light washing out his face. "Okay: what website am I looking at right now?"

"Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia," Dean says. When isn't he.

Sam squints at the screen, says, "What's the URL?", and Dean doesn't get to call him an absolute bitch before he starts parroting out: "H T T P S colon slash slash—" although at least Sam looks like he regrets it well before Dean gets to say Oracle.

His throat really does ache by the end and his head hurts bad enough that tears smart at the corners of his eyes. From talking. Somewhere, Sam at age twenty-two is feeling vindicated. The room blurs and he closes his eyes again, grips the table so as not to sway so visibly. "Are—" Sam starts, but luckily he seems to remember to use the massive brain in his massive head and doesn't ask; he touches Dean's arm, instead, gently at first and then squeezing hard. It hurts a little, is warm. Feels good. Dean should get cursed by some kind of dead Big Fat Greek Wedding broad more often.

"Yes or no questions, maybe," Sam says, mostly to himself seems like. Then: "Does answering hurt?"

"Yes," Dean says. Sam is supposed to be the smart one, right? He's testing that now.

"Does… the complexity of the question increase the strain of answering?"

"Yes," Dean says, voice cracking like he's friggin' thirteen, and Sam squeezes his shoulder instead, and then the back of his neck where everything seems to have been replaced by screaming furiously hot steel, and somehow Sam's hand doesn't sear right off so that must be something that Dean's dealing with on the inside. He feels like he should be visibly smoking.

"Hey," Sam says, quiet, and touches Dean's face, and—ah, damn it, the tears have spilled over so his face is all wet. He'd crack a joke about cutting onions but he figures Sam's heard it, and anyway he already got a lecture about autonomic responses to pain when he broke his collarbone, that one summer when they were kids, does Sam remember? None of which he can say but Sam maybe gets it anyway, since he smears his thumb over Dean's cheek and then says, "Stop being a wuss," so Dean can shove vaguely in the direction of Sam's heat, and Sam can grunt on the weak impact and then say, "Okay, c'mon—" and drag Dean to his feet even if he thinks he might faint.

His bedroom. Sinking into the memory foam, his forearm over his eyes. Sam turns on the bedside lamp and Dean flinches, even with the shade, so the lamp goes off again. A few seconds pass before Sam sits on the side of the bed.

"Guess it would've been too good to be true to just get the answers to life, the universe, and everything," Sam says. "Or, I guess we could, but then you'd blow up? What do you think, worth it?" Quiet, although he's just about the one thing that doesn't seem to hurt right now. Dean fumbles a hand down and finds Sam's leg, warm through denim, and flicks him as hard as he can. "Ow." Yeah, that's what he gets.

Sam sits there quiet for a while, Dean's hand tucked in against his thigh. While Dean breathes it feels like the pounding of his head reduces, a little—just a regular high-speed drum solo and not a Keith Moon explosion—and it feels less like he's gonna puke and have a stroke all at the same time.

"One reason we've got to fix this: I don't know how, but somehow I'm missing the crack you'd normally make about me holding your hand." Dean snorts. Sam's fingers move against his pulse. "Maybe later we can try more yes and no stuff. I want to be able to just ask how to get rid of it but I don't want to give you an aneurysm."

Sam's hand moves up his forearm. Dean swallows. Lot of answers they could use.

He expects Sam to get up but he stays. His hand folds over the mark on Dean's arm and stays there. Another pulse point but Dean guesses that's not why. Sam's warm, which is a stupid thing to keep thinking but it just feels so damn good Dean can't give himself too much crap for it—he is warm, and he feels right, and he smells good on top of everything else. Been a long time and everything's been so weird and scary, even scarier than normal which for their lives is really saying something, and he missed Sam, is all. A lot. More than he could say, and now that he wants to say it he can't. His life's a real joke, a lot of the time.

While his pulse slows further he thinks about the last time Sam was in this bed. Six months ago maybe. With Sam hating him and him knowing he deserved it, and how that didn't matter in the face of the dumb physical release they both needed, and how they didn't look at each other and it was dark and for Dean's part at least it wasn't even enjoyable, just—an exercise, muscle being used to its highest straining point and then the relief of dropping the weight, endorphins flooding, making it seem worth the effort. The next-day ache something you didn't think about in the moment. Kind of thing you didn't want to remember in the minutes before you died but it came up in the last flickering montage, the way he'd sat on the edge of the bed feeling loose and nasty and drained and just rotten down through every layer down to the very center where the little kernel he relied on to be himself, to be anyone worth knowing at all, had gotten dislodged and he wasn't quite sure he knew how to find it again. Sam had walked out of the bedroom without saying anything and that had felt right, or at least like the least wrong thing, considering all the wrong that had gone on. On the day he died, that last time, even if getting his lungs perforated hadn't been on the top things he wanted to do that day, that last little fleck of him felt like it got pinned down under the blade—he'd been there, at least, and been able to look at Sam and have Sam see who he was, and all the sorries he'd wanted to say and all the fault he knew was his just bubbled up and evaporated into the dank air and he didn't know, then, how to sum it up. All he should've said to his brother and all he felt and there wasn't time to say sorry for that last time. To apologize for all the times before. To go back, down the years and decades, and say wish I hadn't saddled you with all this, and yet also to say—I'm so glad they saddled you with me, and yet also—you are the best part of me, and yet also—and yet also. How impossible it was to summarize what being Sam's brother had meant and would always mean. Because where would he be, otherwise.

Sam hasn't let go of his arm. His heart beats slow as honey.

"This isn't a question," Sam says. Dean's fingers twitch against his leg. Sam's voice is low, even. "I've been thinking of the crappiest things to ask you. Big stuff, little stuff. Every thing I've wanted to know all my life. Things that happened when I was gone. Stuff I know you lied about. Like whatever happened to the Starburst I was saving in my backpack, that time in fourth grade when I wanted to share them with Laura Harris." It's almost a question but apparently not enough of one, thank god, because Sam really wouldn't like the answer. "I want to know how to get that thing off your arm. I want to know why you did it."

Dean pulls his arm off his face. Sam's looking right at him, in the half-light.

"Thing is, I think I know, but I don't know that I know." He seems like he's about to say something else and bites his lips between his teeth instead. He swallows, and shrugs. "Hard to cut out filler words."

That doesn't make sense but that's not unusual when Sam's thinking out loud.

What Dean can't say:

It was the obvious thing to do. Things were real bad between him and Sam but that wasn't the only reason, or even the main reason, he said yes. There was a huge evil thing that was going to just get huger and more evil and he was presented with the only way to stop it and there wasn't, for him, much more reasoning than that needed to do what was necessary. Maybe if Sam had been with him, Sam would've talked him out of it. Maybe. But more than likely, they would've just argued about which one of them would have to get laid out on the sacrificial altar this time around, and after he'd nearly lost his mind and his heart trying to stop Sam from dying last time, he'd be damned if it was Sam who'd die this time, and—he would've done whatever it took to get the thing on his arm and not Sam's. Including betrayal, as bad or worse than what he'd done to keep Sam alive last time. So, it was just as well. He'd defeated the huge evil thing and all that was lost was himself. Not much of a weight on the scales, really. And Sam would be fine. Sam had proven that, half a dozen times over.

"Your pulse slowed down," Sam says. Dean can't even really nod—that seems to count as communication—but it's obvious, anyway. Sam's cheek sucks in on one side and he looks all over Dean's face. "I guess this might be counterproductive, but—your head still hurt?"

"Moderately," Dean says, and then he makes a face. Who talks like that? It makes a little pulse of pain bloom at the back of his neck where his spine hits his brainstem, but so what.

Sam kinda laughs. "Okay," he says, and then sits there, with his hand big and warm at the crook of Dean's elbow and his eyes still on Dean, and his body there, close. God, has Dean missed that. Six months isn't the longest they've gone but—six months feels like a long time, these days. Knowing how quickly the days can run out.

"Sorry," Sam says, first. Dean sighs and Sam gives him a look. Yeah, Dean's got looks too. Even so, Sam lets go of his arm and then lays his hand heavy on Dean's chest, meets his eyes. "This is a question." Dean raises his eyebrows and Sam holds there, lips parted, like he's really thinking about it. Then: "Do I need you?"

Dean's mouth opens and he says, "No."

If it didn't hurt on a number of levels it'd be kinda funny how Sam's face changes. Full-on blanch, like faced with the nastiest-ever monster. Dean's chest feels like it's been hit with a sledgehammer and he pushes Sam's hand away, struggles up to sitting, only Sam grabs him again by the arm, shaking his head, brow all crumpled, but hell—if they've proven anything in the last dozen hours it's that Dean is a mouthpiece for the truth, the ultimate truth, the truth that's past guesswork and implication and is just actual fact handed down from the universe.

"Wait," Sam says, like Dean's saying any of this crap out loud. Dean twists his arm away and puts his back to the headboard, the wall. Sam lets go with his hands held high, face all sorry. "That's not true, though, Dean. It's not true."

Dean looks at the ceiling, because he can't shrug or shout and he thinks if he tried to leave Sam would just fight him about it. If that's what Dean answers then that's the answer. He just wishes Sam hadn't been enough of a dickhead to prove it to them both.

"God, I can't think how to—" Sam touches his leg, and then the center of his chest, and Dean smacks his hand away but Sam puts his fingers right back, like he's sounding Dean's body for answers. "Do you need me?"

"Yes," Dean says, and really ought to punch Sam in the face for proving the contrast, but as he's grabbing Sam's wrist Sam shakes his head and says, quick, "Do you want me?" and the answer to that is, of course, "Yes," and Dean's just about sick with it. Why is he—

"Do I want you?" Sam says, and then fast while Dean's opening his mouth, "I don't know if that's enough. But I do, Dean. I want you here, and I do need you no matter what—I don't know, maybe not to literally live, but I want you, I want you with me, I want to hunt with you and I want to be here because it's where you are, because—god, do you know why?"

Dean's answers blur from yes to no. Sam holds his jaw, curled in weird on the bed, eyes all over his face again, searching. His hair stupid in the back-light from the hall. No, Dean doesn't know why. "I could make you answer," Sam says, tight, hurt. Dean grips his shirt. "I want you. Do you believe me?"

"I—" Dean says, and his throat stalls. His head hurts but nothing's arriving to fill it.

Sam curls forward, his forehead touching Dean's. "This curse sucks," he says, breath hot on Dean's mouth, and Dean can't argue with that but there's this ringing in his ears that's kind of distracting him. Sam's skin smells so good he can't stand it. "I want you. Is that true?"

Dean nods, the answer whispering out.

Sam's thumb dragging over his cheek, rasping in his stubble. Under his sternum there's the weird panicked feeling of having missed a step down in the dark, where your whole body lurches in unthinking terror, but also this weird tight coil of—of he doesn't even know what. Two true things to hold at the same time and if they're true then how could he not believe them?

Sam's thumb pushes hard under his bottom lip, dents it against his teeth. His head dipping, his temple against Dean's. Dean gets a hand on his shoulder and wants to say—fifty things. Wants to punch him, still. A little. Maybe a lot. Six months, though, and how screwed up they've been. His heart thuds low in his gut and his head hurts but so what. He sits up more and Sam moves with him, his shoulder curving in toward Dean, his other hand sliding down Dean's side.

"I don't want to ask," Sam says, soft against Dean's ear, but he doesn't need to. Never has.

[amelias-calamity-quintet]

Gerudo language and Dirjaani culture! Also who are the Dirjaani?

Endonyms, Gerudo Language, & Dirjaani Culture w/ Saddiqah

Link: "Saddiqah, you grew up in the caravans, right?"

Saddiqah: "So I should answer the question?"

Link: "No- I mean- I thought-"

Saddiqah: "I'm messing with you, Sayre. Calm down. Yes, I grew up in the caravans. I could probably answer most of this. I don't know what an endonym is though."

Zelda: "An endonym is the name a population has for themself. Like Hyrulean for Hyrule or Faronan for Farona."

Saddiqah: "Ah, I see. In that case, Dirjaani is the word, generally, for someone from Rahaal, after the capital, Dirjaan. Some people get particular about it and it varies in Gerudo, but generally that's the word for it."

Zelda: "Briefly, I'll provide the rest. In Lyberic is the Laeryic, Holan is the Holanii, Kohno it's the Kohnoi, Teromac uses Tletactec, and in Naydrana they call themselves the Folk. But as Ms. El Amin pointed out, there are culture groups within each of these nations that may feel more strongly about a more regional title. For instances, many of the Dreeka will identify as Dreeka over their home country. Similarly, with the caravans. Though I will tread on your toes at that point, so I return the floor."

Saddiqah: "Don't you sound like you're ready for the Forum. In any case, that's a pretty broad question. Where do you want to start?"

Link: "How about how Gerudo names work?"

Saddiqah: "I guess that's as good a place as any. The Dirjaani typically have an inverted naming scheme to Hyruleans, being family name and then given name. Like Ayad Al I'Tidal or Dragmire Al Iber."

Link: "So it would be...Dragmire Al Gan-"

Saddiqah: "Don't go inviting the legends, Sayre. And I'd love to see you call him that. No, the connecting article denotes gender. Al would be feminine, Il would be masculine."

Link: "What does El indicate?"

Saddiqah: "It's one of the terms for someone who's neither. I use it because I like it more."

Link: "Wait, is Saddiqah your last name then?"

Saddiqah: "No. My last name is El Amin. I said typically, not everyone. Don't think about it too hard, Sayre, Wisdom's not your affinity. (L: "Thanks.") Don't you worry about it."

Zelda: "I would think you would take it as a compliment, Mr. Sayre. In my experience, the Dirjaani take social sparring as seriously as practical combat. Sharp wit, sharp mind and all that. And only consistently with people they consider close, or would like to be close with."

Link: "Huh. So you like me?"

Saddiqah: "Sayre, did you really think I would agree to help you through this nonsense if I didn't? You know you're not doing a whole lot to disprove my point. Alheri'Din, we're vahana. You should know that by now."

Link: "Vahana?"

Saddiqah: "Siblings."

Link: "Ah. You'd think that would mean sisters, since...you know."

Saddiqah: "You and thinking is dangerous. No, you wouldn't. There aren't only Gerudo women. I know you're aware of at least one exception. And besides, that's a limited way to think of it. We know people who have changed their minds from who they were born as. The Dirjaani are no different."

Link: "True. Oh, you said El was the article for someone who was neither. I know voe and vai, but I've never heard the Gerudo word for someone who was neither."

Saddiqah: "There are several, but the common term is vyu. And you wouldn't have. Hyruleans get very focused on the voe-vai distinction because of the legends, they don't ask questions about the rest. In Rahaal, regardless of whether you're from a settlement or a city, children are called vehvi. It doesn't denote any identity other than youth. When kids are old enough to develop an affinity, they'll typically be asked a preference then. But because most Hyruleans will only ever meet the Dragmire caravan Gerudo, they tend to assume the word means daughter. They'll make similar assumptions about things like Gerudo not having words for things like father or uncle."

Link: "Huh. Guess...hm."

Saddiqah: "You saw the Trap this time, proud of you."

Link: "Uh huh. What's the difference between caravan and settlement culture?'

Saddiqah: "A lot of things. The two are intertwined in Rahaal. I know it varies per caravan. Some of Gerudo who traveled to Kohno became wayfinders, for example, and I wouldn't know anything about that. The Dragmire caravan travels annually from Dirjaan to just beyond the border in Lyberic, near to Goron City. The journeys themself are important. Gerudo cultures worship Din chief of all because She blessed our people. And worship of Din calls for tests of strengths, proofs of Power, and all. Survival in the caravans was one of those challenges.

"I guess the differences aren't all that off from the two of us. Caravan cultures tend to focus on individual survival, on endurance and your own legacy. Where as settlement cultures began in attempts to prove that no matter the challenge, they could remain standing. It's why education is so important in Rahaal, adaptation is key to enduring."

Link: "You don't use Dirjaani and Gerudo interchangeable."

Saddiqah: "Notice that, did you? That's because there aren't only Gerudo in Rahaal. And some of the caravans feel more connected to Hyrule than to Rahaal too. Dirjaani is for anyone from Rahaal, Gerudo is a lineage, and they are distinct. They are very connected, I'll give you that, but they aren't the same thing."

Link: "Which one do you want me to use?"

Saddiqah: "Don't worry about it, Sayre. Let's focus on getting through this business for the princess."

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

Mark of a Hero (Updates on Tuesdays & Fridays, 1 of 9)

Hyrule is at peace, or so the Royal Family would have its people believe. Something is afoot in the kingdom, and someone needs to do something about it. Least likely would be Marksmen Link Sayre- a mercenary and monster hunter doing his best to get by. Until a job goes wrong, and he gets roped into the secret plans of Hyrule's princess. Now Link must play the part of the Hero to dive deeper into the mystery, and maybe stumble into a legend of his own.

AO3 - Wattpad

[lavantaegi]

"Hollow" (Part One: Awaken)

Synopsis: Twenty-eight year old freelance writer Kim Taehyung takes a job writing an article for a mystery artist's debut art installation. But the on edge writer soon finds himself engulfed in the fiery demanding art world of his newfound obsession.

They made eye contact when he dropped the papers. His head was spinning, his body cringing, hungover and stupid, he looked away. Fuck. Maybe it was the way she stood next to her art, indifferent and stoic, that made him fumble and drop the notepad. She had a sense of prospect and eagerness but her presence was entirely frightening. Dark eyes and light mousy hair. It didn’t make sense. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t take the job for the intricacy of her appearance, but he needed money and he was no better than any other man. 

The papers were strewn across the floor of the art hall. He mumbled faint curses, thinking back to the night before. It was only supposed to be one drink. Wasn’t it always? He told Jimin he had to be up early for some art installation interview but it was never as simple as that. Nonetheless, his head was pounding, and then footsteps. 

“I think you’re missing one.” He looked up. God her eyes were black. She was smiling, deep red lips curled at the edges as if to say I got you. He stood, took the paper and tried to return the smile. His hands were shaking. 

“Uhhh thank you.” He stammered. She shrugged. Done and over with. But it wasn’t, he still had to ask questions and it was getting near the end of the exhibit time. He was late as usual and starting to think that it was her eyes he felt on the back of his neck when he slinked in through the side doors. She started to walk away when he let out a stutter. 

“Umm, uh excuse me.” She turned. “I’m doing an article, would you mind answering some questions?” 

“I didn’t think you were brave enough to ask.” Her arm extended and he shook her hand. It was frigid and soft. An odd sense of urgency engulfed his body but he couldn’t place the panic. The alcohol? The hangover? The deadline for the article? Her? 

“If you want an actual interview you can meet me here after the showing. But for now I suggest you actually look at my work instead of coming in late and dropping papers.” She winked, taking his notepad and writing down an address with the pen he had behind his ear. He blushed. 

The cafe was quiet. Three people total, the distant hum of the coffee roaster buzzed in the background, a good spot he thought. He looked down at his chicken scratch notes, a couple sketches of her work, and scrawled footnotes that didn’t really say anything. It was gruesome. Oil on canvas, gnawed bodies, an eyeball, God, and dead animals. He swallowed the rich art kid bullshit and pushed it to the side for his article. Yes, she definitely put off that impression, but there was something about the paintings that screamed. They screeched and hollered and he found himself stuck at one titled Hollow. It was an 8'x 8' canvas covered in bloodied reds and deep browns. He could make out a crucifix, and a small girl beneath the red holding what looked to be a dead cat. The bottom of the canvas was physically ripped out as if to indicate a grave for the animal, or the girl. It wasn't clear. But that was what he hated about art. The indifference he felt for it was justified. But this time he felt something. He didn't know what. He sketched it and swallowed the bile crawling up his throat before heading over to the coffee shop. 

“You didn’t order anything.” It wasn’t a question, more of an observant statement. He looked up. There were no footsteps, no warning, she was just somehow there. 

“Oh, I didn’t realize. I just-” She waved him off and sat down. 

“So, what’s this for?”

“Oh, well I freelance for the local paper, and I’m doing an article on your showcase. I understand this is your debut exhibit.” He pushed the nerves down, she made him uncomfortable, and collected himself. 

“What’s your name?” She seemed tired. Her eyes averted, hands twitchy, legs restless. Her nails were short, painted the same deep red, and bitten to the quick. He couldn’t help but stare. 

“Taehyung. Uhh Kim Taehyung.” 

“Alright, Kim Taehyung. I’ll make a deal with you.” This piqued his interest, as if he wasn’t already enamored by her strange nature and misleading speech. He nodded. 

“I’ll do your interview, actually, I’ll give you the best interview ever. You can ask anything and everything on one condition.” 

“What’s the condition?” She was flirting with him. But, alarmed and a little on edge he welcomed it. It wasn’t every day the crazy art prodigy with dark eyes and pretty hair was sitting across from him at a coffee shop he had never been to offering a curious proposition. 

“Let me paint you at my studio.” She smirked, and for a moment her eyes lightened. She had him already and he nodded. 

(Auhor's Note: just a little teaser to see where this goes :) lemme know if you want this to continue -Reggie)

[erasure-picnic]

So far, we’ve taken a look at how the “rivalry” started, and examined it from both sides. But what did the fans of Pet Shop Boys and Erasure think of all this? Did they perpetuate the rivalry in their own fanbases? Was it even possible to be a PSB fan AND an Erasure fan?

Let’s start by answering that last question first: yes, it was totally possible. From the beginning, the two bands’ fanbases have crossed over, with plenty of fans of both. In the newsletters for both bands, fans of one duo often mentioned liking the other–for instance, in the “penpals” sections. This makes sense, as the duos offered many of the same things, which attracted fans who were into these aspects: synth-based pop music, fire-and-ice duos, cute English men, a camp aesthetic, the gay elements of their art, and theatrical stage shows. 

From what I’ve been able to find out, their fanbases were mostly friendly to each other in the ‘80s. In fact, in many parts of the world, fans weren’t aware of the “rivalry” between the two bands. They didn’t have access to the magazines, newsletters, and videos that tracked the bands’ comments on each other. In some areas, it wasn’t even easy to find electronic music, which was an underground genre. If you were into that kind of music, you tended to like all the big groups from that genre, Erasure and PSB included.

So how did fans become aware of the “rivalry”? Often, it was through talking with other fans. This was made much easier in the ‘90s, with the new forms of telecommunication that were emerging. In this decade, mailing lists, fansites, and newsgroups were all created for the two bands, allowing fans to chat with each other–and to argue, too. The “rivalry” was indeed perpetuated by fans, and some thought it was also started by them. More on that later.

On media dedicated to Erasure, PSB came up frequently in discussions, as did the reverse. Depending on the platform, the tone of these discussions varied. For instance, on mailing lists, most mentions of the other band tended to be positive or neutral. There was the rare serious argument in favour of one band, but much of the sniping was done in good fun. 

The same was true of fansites. One Erasure fansite, Onge’s Erasure Page, put out polls in 2000 and 2003 asking fans what their other favourite bands were; PSB were the second-most popular choice (the first was Depeche Mode). A PSB fansite, Commentary, put out its own survey in 2003 asking about a collaboration between the two bands. While nearly half voted that they shouldn’t collaborate, half voted that they should. The idea of a collaboration between the two groups had long been talked about in their fandoms. It also came up in Erasure’s Private Ear newsletter in 1997. In a joke article titled “The Future of Erasure”, fans gave their ideas as to what the future of the band could look like - including TWO Pet Shop Boys collaborations, one in 2005 and another in 2025.

However, on newsgroups, it was a different story. Mentions of the other band were more likely to be negative, and there were lots more inflammatory comments. Why was this the case? Newsgroups were much more public than mailing lists or websites, making it easier to start arguments. With mailing lists, they were moderated, and people had to sign up with their emails. But they didn’t need to do that with the band-specific newsgroups. Because these were under the “alt” hierarchy, which had no rules and no moderation, all people needed to do was to connect to Usenet and start posting. This made it incredibly easy for people who weren’t fans to post mean comments to a newsgroup based on a particular band.

By the end of the 2000s, the first social media platforms, like Twitter and Facebook, had started to gain traction with the public. People on these platforms have kept the “rivalry” alive by joking, jibing, and posting memes–and still do to this day. There was an interesting discussion about the fans’ side of the rivalry on Facebook, where some people suggested that it started with fans. Most said they liked both bands and they didn’t feel the need to debate who was better.

In the final segment, we’ll examine the denouement in the late 90s and 2000s, looking at the bands’ comments on the “rivalry” and each other after the animosity had died down.

[ptitolier]

Title: Are We Truly Free in a World Obsessed with Our Data?

A few years ago, I realised that my phone knew my desires better than I did. This isn’t an exaggeration. Every notification, every recommendation seemed perfectly timed. But how? The answer is simple: my data, constantly collected, was feeding invisible algorithms.

This reality disturbed me for a long time. Not just because I hate the idea of being watched, but because I wondered: if my choices are influenced by algorithms, am I still free?

A World of Data, A World of Control?

We live in an era where our data is extracted and monetised by companies we often don’t even know exist. Yes, we’re aware that Google and Facebook collect our information. But few people know about data brokers – these companies that buy, analyse, and resell our digital lives.

Shoshana Zuboff, in The Age of Surveillance Capitalism, describes this phenomenon as a new form of power. She argues that our behaviour has become a raw material, extracted and exploited to anticipate our actions and influence our decisions. What struck me most in her analysis is the idea that digital surveillance is no longer just a tool, but an entire economy.

Can We Talk About Freedom When Everything Is Anticipated?

I grew up believing that freedom meant having choices. But today, every choice I make online is guided by algorithms. When Spotify recommends a song, is it my personal taste or a machine that analysed my past listens? When Netflix suggests a film, is it a free choice or a calculated suggestion designed to keep me on the platform longer?

Byung-Chul Han, a contemporary philosopher, criticises this society of transparency where everything must be visible, measurable, and exploitable. He writes that in this quest for data, we lose our opacity – that space where our individuality could exist without constant scrutiny. And without that opacity, freedom becomes an illusion.

Why Should We Care?

Many might say, “I have nothing to hide, so it doesn’t matter.” But it’s not just about privacy. It’s about control. Every piece of data collected is another brick in a structure where our behaviours are predicted, influenced, and sometimes manipulated.

When data brokers sell our information to advertisers, it’s not just to show us an ad for shoes. It’s to shape our digital environment so that we buy those shoes. Or worse, to influence our political opinions, our relationships, or even our ambitions.

Where Are We Headed?

What troubles me most is how normal this data collection has become. We accept cookies without thinking. We give apps access to our contacts, location, and photos simply because they ask for it. And each time we do, we give away a little more of our freedom.

But not all is lost. The first step is to understand this system. The second is to act. My Medium article dives deeper into how our data is extracted and sold – but more importantly, what it means for our freedom. Because in the end, the question is simple: do we really want to live in a world where our choices are no longer truly ours?

Read the full article here

[studies-in-the-art-of-deduction]

Masterpost!

Masterpost for (almost) everything in this blog, if you're on browser you can find all of these things on the right side of the blog page!

Educational posts

These posts are meant to talk extensively about some specific aspect of deduction. They aren’t fully edited and polished articles (like what you would find in Amateur Deductions) as much as they are my thoughs and explanations about a specific topic, which stem from my overactive mind thinking about said topic for way too long. Enjoy!

How to Deduce Presents (Christmas Post!)

Stop Practicing with Pictures!

Binaries

Binaries Addendum

Chess and Deduction

How to break down information

Changes and Deductions

The Mentality Goal

Memory is not Deduction!

Deduction: Passive or Active

Deduction Exercises

This is an ongoing series of posts detailing different deduction exercises created and tested by me. Enjoy!

Deduction Exercise 1: "At Least One Fact"

Deduction Exercise 2: "Playing Police"

Deduction Exercise 3: "Passing By"

Deduction Exercise 4: Hound

Deduction Tips

Deduction Tips #1

Deduction Tips #2

Deduction Tips #3

Deduction Tips #4

Deduction Tips #5

Deduction Tips #6

Deduction Tips #7

Deduction Tips #8

Deduction Tips #9

Deduction Tips #10

Deduction Tips #11

Deduction Tips #12

Deductions

These are all my posts dedicated specifically to showcase a deduction or deductions i have made, this includes my ongoing series of Deductions meant as active training for myself (Deduction #1, Deduction #2, etc), as well as any more casual and quick deductions i’ve posted. Enjoy!

More Airport Deductions!

Casual Deductions

Deduction #2

Deduction #2 Process

The Game is Afoot! (Deduction Battle including @a-study-in-sepia’s deductions as well as my own. Other deductions can also be found in the comments)

Deduction #1

Deduction #1 Process

Questions

These are all the asks i’ve been sent, feel free to look through them for answers to any questions you may have, or send your own! I answer every question i’m sent, they’re all posted in bulk every Monday. Enjoy!

Did you have any experience or did you learn any knowledge that helped you to improve your deduction skills extermely in a short time or immediately?

I was wandering if there is a way to differentiate between self implied injury and normal injury?

What do you think about Maria Konnikova's book "Mastermind: How to think like Sherlock Holmes" book?

Hi bro, how do I improve my observation skills to intimidate level

In which field do you study/work and do you take advantage of your deduction skills in your occupation? if yes how?

Do you know of any books or trainings that could help out a beginner who’s trying to understand and learn about micro expressions, body language and deduction?

What caused to wrinkles by making love? (referring to my post on Changes)

Who are you, 3 sentences or less

I'm a person who, as soon as I talk to people outside my comfort zone, shuts down (social anxiety yeahh) and I can't concentrate on the details of the person infront of me. Do you have any tips to prevent this or to improve myself?

I really enjoyed the way you shape more information from the given clue. Can you tell me more about it?

I was wondering how do you see the world when you observe? What do you see? How is your perspective?

Hello. Do you have any advice for daily observation and deduction? An exercise or a mindset maybe?

How do you learn how to deduce people? If possible, could you do an explanation for one of the ones you did on Reddit?

Can you share specific information for clothes? It could be about style and person's personality or aging etc.

Hi Damian, I made a video of my proudest case in deduction. I'd appreciate you checking it out! It is a YouTube video titled "I Deduced a Family’s Story From a Note in an Empty House"

How do you approach to deduction and situational awareness in a crowded place? Do you use any categorization?

How do you work on scents? Do you have a specific training for that? Also, how could you differentiate between an expensive perfume and a cheap one?

What you think about the book (in case you've read it) "How to Instantly Size-Up Strangers Like Sherlock Holmes" by Mark A. Williams, Sr.

I'm having a problem in converting my observations into complete deductions. So, can you please suggest some techniques for me to "deduce" from my observations?

Useful Reblogs

This is a compilation of any reblogs i've made where either the original post have some useful content for deduction purposes or where i add comments and observations that could be useful for learning deduction. This does not include any reblogs from my other blog (Amateur Deductions), since there are already many links that take you there and the content is also written by me. Enjoy!

Take pride in your "silly" observations. (by Parrotsplayground)

"Sounding" like Sherlock Holmes (by Parrotsplayground and some notes by me)

Signs of heatstroke and heat exhaustion (by Obaewankenope)

Interview with Damian Valens (by Parrotsplayground )

How to go use statistics and probability in deduction (original question by Nyktor, original answer by Deducter, and some notes by me)

Learn to see the bigger picture. (by Parrotsplayground)

Manual decoding of DTMF (by A Study In Sepia)

Basics of Deduction (By The Deduction Page)

Deductions in the car (by Froogboi)

Deduction of a nurse (by Froogboi)

Advice on body language (by Froogboi, and some notes by me)

Reflections on training and studying habits (by Big Brother)

Deductions in debates (by Froogboi)

Signs of Iron-Deficiency Anemia (by Biomedicool, and some notes by me)

Advice and examples for practicing deduction (by Big Brother)

Deductions while working with kids (by Froogboi)

Topics related to deduction (By Deduction Journal)

Facial Action Coding System (By Ramblings of a Deductionist)

Viginere Squares (By Ramblings of a Deductionist)

The Study of "Snoop" (By Parrotsplayground, and some notes by me)

Present Deductions 2023 (By A Study in Sepia)

[softpine]

@bb-enablefreebuild LITERALLYYYYYYY i even have this exact image saved in my asa & finn web weaving folder jfksjds it's so them, even the hands 😭

@forgotten-pixels oh yeah he definitely has a wikipedia page!! his first single was a pretty big hit and even though his other work hasn't been as mainstream, he's contributed to a bunch of other artists' work so he's still well known in certain circles. i also think he's JUST famous enough to get those weird AI generated articles written about him, like "remember the guy who sang [song title from 15 years ago]? this is him now!!" because he's not well known enough for people to realize it's false / clickbait lmao. (btw you never have to apologize for asking questions!! i love them at any time 🥺)

asa has a regular phone but he may as well not have one at all because he quite literally never charges it or brings it anywhere fjkjsds stevie is the one who's always switching out her phone case & never gets around to putting a screen protector on so her screen is definitely cracked, i think elaine probably loses her phone the most on accident, and jada will say she lost her phone even when it's ringing in her hand because she just doesn't want to answer. if we still had texting limits stevie would use that shit up in half an hour, if that!!

his intentions were good...... his execution however..... leaves a lot to be desired

i'm so sorry my brain cannot even think about april fools right now without the dan and phil brainrot fully taking over 😭😭😭 no other pranks exist in my brain at the moment i can't even think of any sjksjd i could definitely see mikaela & danny pranking each other though

HELPPP this is so funny but i'm gonna have to say casper, there is no way he knows what that is

thank you for the idea!! i'm trying to avoid sending people a patreon link for written work; even if it's free (and it would be), there's still a connotation that it would cost money and i'm afraid no one would even click the link to read it (plus i've already used my patreon for cc so i'm afraid i would annoy the people who followed me for that content). ughhhh but thank you for trying :(

i'm really bummed about substack because it looked like the easiest way to accomplish what i want to accomplish but i'm sure i'll find something eventually. thanks for the interest 🥺

i would love to, but tumblr has a 30 pic limit and also i need to cut myself off at some point because otherwise i could literally spend months on 1 single post lmao 😭

you were right :P :P

i forgot about that too!! iirc wasn't it just dependent on the number of sims you have & their ages? asa bounces between caroline's and danny's houses so he would change the difficulty, but the mayfields would always have the highest rating because they also have sadie & the farm animals to take care of!

yes definitely!! just please credit the original mesh creator if applicable (i always list them) 💝

i forgot to answer this when you sent it, but i did read it right away and it made me smile, so thank you 💖💖

it really is the most attractive trait a person can have to me fjkjsds did you ever hear from that guy btw?? 💕

THANK YOUUU kisses you back one thousand times 💖💖💖

@minamill ILYYY 💞

@morrigan-sims thank you!!!! 🥺

[athenamgh]

Ma'am

a/n: Myanna, Myanna, Myanna... paring/s: Myanna Buring x fem!bodyguard!Reader summary: reader is the bodyguard for one and only Myanna Buring.. that's.. that's all I can say... oh and Tony totally made up persona warning/s: sexual tension, a cute moment too I guess, and slight mention of the accident word count: 2.3k

Myanna Buring MASTERLIST

Myanna and Tony sat in one of the dressing rooms, three floors below the penthouse where in around 30 minutes, the actress was supposed to appear as an honored guest.

"Do we still have to do this?" she asked out of the blue.

"Do what?" Tony said looking up from his papers.

She gestured to the super-secured room around her. "So keep you safe, you mean?" he re-asked.

"No, take such huge security precautions. I am not royalty, you know..." hints of frustration could be heard in her voice.

Tony sighed looking back at his papers, they had this conversation way too many times over the last month, "At this point, it'd be safer if you were...". He didn't even need to look up from the contract, that he was reading, to know that she rolled her eyes at his answer.

"Do not give me this attitude. Did you forget what happened three months ago, or your memory needs refreshing?" From the pile of papers laying in his lap, he took out a printed news article with a big red title on the front and placed it on the table. "You almost died that night, all of you in that damn building almost did."

He noticed as Myanna shook her shoulder uncomfortably as the flashbacks of that night crossed her mind. "Besides, you are not the only one with such security, all of your costars are," Tony pointed out.

"Yeah, but barely any of them, have an ex-navy bodyguard sweeping every room they enter, do they?" Myanna gave him a look.

"They should..." he said under his breath, but she heard it, she always hears it.

"Ahh..." she groaned, turning back to look through the window that was overlooking the city drowning in the moonlight.

"Listen, as your agent, it is my duty to protect you. After all, three months already passed, didn't you get used to the "black cat" following you around? Don't you like them? They seem qualified and actually quite nice. Is something wrong? Do I need to change-" before Tony could even finish his list of questions, she suspiciously cut him off.

"No, it's not that. I just wish things could go back to normal," Myanna sadly sighed looking back at him.

"It will, you just have to wait it out," he could only imagine what it was like for her after that eventful night.

Suddenly rhythmical but too difficult-to-be random knocks on the door echoed in the room.

Tony laughed lightly, "Speak of the devil,"

"And she will appear... Yes?" She said turning back to the mirror to continue her paused activity.

As you heard confirmation you entered the room closing the doors behind you, "The perimeter is clear," you reported looking at Myanna's reflection in the mirror, she avoided your gaze. But as your lips slipped the additional word, "Ma'am", her eyes narrowed at you in the reflective glass and her jaw clenched.

"Thank you, Y/n," Tony said standing up.

"Of course, sir," you broke the eye contact bringing your attention to the man in a suit.

"Okay, I'd better be going and leave you to your last 30 minutes of 'me time'. See you in there," he addressed Myanna.

"Do not flirt too much," she teased.

"Ohh, please there can be some attractive lawyers... Also, you are the one to talk to," Tony pointed out.

He approached you, standing next to the doors, and whispered, "Do not let this flirt slip your eyes and keep her safe."

"Never do and always do sir," you answered his two statements.

He laughed, "I know that's why I like you''.

You opened the doors for him to leave. You were about to follow his lead, leaving her with the last moments of peace before the event. It was like a routine for her. You had a gut feeling that this habit developed after the accident.

But before you could take a step into the corridor you heard her voice. "Wait," she said still looking at the mirror adding the last touches to her make-up.

"Is something wrong, ma'am?" you wondered.

You saw how her jaw clenched a little once again as her eyes shut closed, "Yes, we need to go over some ground rules. Again."

You narrowed your eyebrows but closed the doors behind you, ready to hear her out.

She finally stood up from the table, and for the first time tonight, you saw Myanna in all her glory. You couldn't help but glue your eyes to her presence: her long dress that contrasted with her hair enchantingly, her eyes that you couldn't decide the colour of because they seemed to change every time you got lost in them, stuck between the green and the blue, and her lips, oh those devilishly tempting soft lips.

She looked stunning and the worst part of it was that you let yourself admire her for far too long, knowing well enough that your staring will get you in trouble.

Suddenly two of your eyes connected and you quickly turned your attention to the wall, pretending like it was the most interesting thing in this entire world. In hopes that she would just brush it off, but from the corner of your eye, you could see that she was smirking at your behaviour. You got caught.

Myanna approached and you felt how her perfume invaded your space. It took everything in you to keep staring straight into the empty wall, standing there as still as a rock with hands behind your back, face emotionless.

But not the eyes, no your eyes could never lie or hide what you were really feeling as much as you wished they would. Not even years spent in the Navy could teach you that.

She seemed to know it as she whispered to you, "Look at me".

You took a deep breath clenching your jaw. You knew better than to obey what she asked for. But her standing so close to you was nearly impossible to resist.

Myanna didn't seem to have much patience tonight to see you fight yourself in your own head as she wrapped her fingers around your black tie and tugged you gently down making you slowly lower your gaze to meet her, tonight, watercolour eyes.

"You are truly irresistible in this suit, Y/n" she said dropping her eyes down for a moment to finally really take in the sight of you, but not letting the grip on you ease up.

You stayed silent, trying to concentrate on staying neutral, and professional, like you were taught to be. But your eyes betrayed you staying glued to her presence.

That was a mistake because then her gaze flickered back to your face, you saw her lips spread a mischievous smile and all you could do was drily gulp.

"What did I tell you about calling me 'ma'am', hmm?" Myanna innocently asked tugging you down even closer to her face, trying to even out the difference between your heights.

Another wave of her delightful perfume hit your nose and your lips were now inches apart. "Sorry ma'am," was all you said.

Myanna chucked at your answer, "No, no, no..." she shook her head disapprovingly. You saw how her eyes glinted devilishly before she ghostingly dragged her soft lips through the length of your jaw.

"Say it," her words sank into the whisper against your ear, still holding you by the tie. Her other hand slipped up your shoulder and wrapped around your neck, nails lightly digging into your skin as she seductively demanded, "Say it like I know You like it," the hot air hitting your skin made you shiver.

To your surprise, she leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes and whisper once again, "Like you know I like it," Myanna's lips spread the most irresistible smile and with that, your heart skipped a beat.

You closed your eyes, clenching your jaw, trying to control your heartbeat, the buzzing in your ears and the fog that was clouding your judgment, but all she had to do was mutter, "Do it for me, please" and your defence broke.

From the way her lips parted, when you finally opened your eyes, and her hand tensed around your neck, you could tell that your look was dark and filled with desire. The desire for her and only her.

"Myanna.." your lips slowly parted, as your gaze dropped down reminding her about the device attached to your shirt's collar that was restricting you from what she really wanted you to say.

This listening device was constructed to record all-day conversations and surrounding sounds wherever the security agent went with his client to uncertain, unpredictable places such as events, places surrounded by crowds and etc. Its recordings were stored for around 30 days, breathly reviewed every week or so to make sure nobody interfered with sensitive information or raised any suspicions about possible danger to the client or the agent.

Since Tony had some great connections and was able to pull some strings, he got the security company to agree to record only the bodyguard's voice, movements and radio conversations in order to save his client's privacy as much as possible.

It wasn't exactly the safest opinion on security matters so in order to fill this gap they assigned their top security agent to Tony's client. They hired you.

A mischievous smile spread Myanna's lips as she covered the device with her palm, hiding it in her grip, which dulled the sensitivity of the microphone enough for your movements and voice to not be picked up.

"It's been too long since I heard you say my name too," was all she said and with that, the hand secured on your neck dug into your hair and she pulled you into a longing kiss.

Your interlocked hands broke free from behind your back due the mere sensation of her soft lips against yours. She tasted what you thought heaven would taste like. The pressure against the back of your scalp and her intoxicating scent numbed your thoughts and knees and made the desire to have her in your arms win. So you wrapped your arms around her waist pulling her as close as possible to you.

Myanna smiled against your lips at your final involvement. She gently bit your bottom lip just to let it go as she pulled away. Releasing her grip on you and the microphone she reached around her torso to unshackle your strong arms from behind her back. But you resisted to budge, she looked up at you giving you a soft look, "I am sorry, love, but we cannot have this dress wrinkled if we do not want suspicion to arise," you groaned not wanting to let her go.

She was right it was too long, you missed her terribly.

To your own disappointment, you obeyed releasing your grip on her. But not before stealing one more kiss from that absolutely stunning woman in your arms making her chuckle and enchantingly smile at your act. As you were about to bring your hands back to were they supposed to be, she stopped you by catching them by the wrists.

"Your leaving was sudden, too sudden for my likening," she said interlocking your fingers together.

You smiled, enjoying the warmth of her touch. Taking a second to think what to say as the listening device was no longer covered, ''Had a family emergency." Her eyebrows narrowed worryingly at you, "It was resolved," you assured her as you set free one of your arms and brushed the back of your hand against her soft cheek for a moment, "But I personally assigned agent Hale to your house security, you were left in great hands while I was gone," you reported the reason for your five-day absence.

"Hmm yes, but it wasn't you... and I missed you," she gave you a longing look. You squeezed her hand confirming that you felt the exact same way.

"I am here now, ma'am," you said the last word on purpose this time making your lips slip a smirk.

You saw how Myanna's gaze darkened, she bit her lip seductively at you, making your heartbeat quicken. You remembered this devilish look of hers and the thoughts that probably were running in her head right now.

"I wanted to have you all to myself all day today," she stated looking deep into your eyes, "And after this event, I'll get you to go back to my place," she gripped your chin making sure she had you exactly where and how she wanted, "And remind you what happens when you neglect our ground rules," she said the last word brushing your lips with her own perfectly knowing that you couldn't kiss her without risking it possibly leaking into the recording.

Myanna took a couple of steps back from you, smoothing her dress with her palms, making sure she looked presentable. You thought she looked flawless and intact as you just stared at her trying to get your cloudy mind to work again.

You finally cleared your throat, "Ready?" you stretched your arm for her to take, to safely, maybe too securely, escort her to the penthouse.

She took your hand happily looking up at you, "Wait," she reached with her free hand brushing her thumb through your bottom lip cleaning off the traces of her lipstick. "Am I decent?" she asked referring to the possible smudged lipstick on her.

"You look perfect, Myanna Buring," you assured her making her slightly blush which swirled your heart with warmth in a way it shouldn't have.

"Then I am ready," she said and both of you stepped out of the hotel room.

[inneedofsupervision]

An Enemy? A Friend? No, just your friendly neighborhood Spiderman.

Chapter 3: Of Food Preferences and Rooftop Meetings

Summary:

"Come on, Parker, say something. But don't make it embarrassing," thinks Peter. "Those are your childhood heroes, and they want something from you. Just say hi like a normal person." "Good evening, Mr. Barton, Sir. Mr. Wilson, Sir." "How do you know our names," asks Clint, sounding genuinely curious. "You have a Wikipedia page!" blurts Peter out before wincing inwardly. There goes his plan for a non-embarrassing first impression. "You've read our Wikipedia pages?" asks Sam slowly, as if saying the words slowly would let them make more sense. "Twice, actually." ________________________________ Are the Avengers a Team? Yes. Are they on good terms? Not necessarily. Has the public caught up on that? Maybe a little. When Fury sends the team on the mission to investigate the identity of New York's favorite vigilante, they have to learn to work as a team and not damage their already battered image. Or, the story of how the Avengers have to earn the public's trust back with the help of a certain crime fighting Spider.

Chapter Summary: While regretting several life choices, Sam has to deal with Clint Barton as his partner on the search for a spider-themed vigilante. Meanwhile, Spider-Man strolls through Queens, looking out for the citizens of his hometown.

Chapter: 1, 2, 4, 5

Read on Ao3.

"For someone claiming he hates Barnes, you two share an uncanny similar constipated expression."

Barton is unbothered by the glare sent his way for the comment. 

The archer doesn't break eye contact with Sam as he bends over, too lazy to pull the glass closer to drink, the corner of his lips turned upwards. 

A bypassing waitress shoots the pair a strange look, caught off guard by the blond man who forces the last bits of his caramel-toffee shake through the purple plastic straw, creating an obnoxious noise. 

Clint does not let his eyes stray, staring straight ahead at Sam, their knees uncomfortably bumping against each other under the too-small, sloppily cleaned dinner table. 

Sam's left eyelid twitches. 

Being the bigger person, not only by height, he swallows back the remark sitting on the tip of his tongue and gives a small sigh instead, allowing himself a moment to wallow in self-pity. 

What good did saving the world do if you end up forced to sit at a diner in the middle of Queens on a Monday afternoon with an arrow-shooting idiot, waiting for the AI of an eccentric billionaire to hopefully inform you of an unknown vigilante in spandex to pull up? 

Speaking of said AI, Sam glances down at the Stark Phone its inventor had thrust into his hand before throwing him out of the building. 

"I'll let Friday know you're not allowed back in until you bought useful intel on the Spiderling." Sam hadn't made the mistake of questioning if Stark was joking. 

He most likely wouldn't like the answer.

Sam eyes Barton, scrolling on his mobile phone, having done nothing the last forty minutes than share unuseful information about Spider-Man, the archer found on the web. Does Barton believe the people wouldn't lie for clout, sporting anything about the vigilante without proof? Sam had looked the vigilante up, too. It wasn't hard to notice a pattern. Anything with Spider-Man in the title got unrivaled attention, positive and negative. Although most news articles and posts about "your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man"- Barton had let out an amused snort when Sam read out the name - were praising him, there are exceptions, sharing a near identical standing as SHIELD and the higher authorities about the person behind the mask. To them, Spider-Man is another vigilante who pulls through his take on justice, neither caring about hindering the NYPD from doing their work nor abiding by the law. Those articles don't stunt the citizens of New York to adore the web-slinger. Especially Queens seem to love their new-won vigilante. Every day, new posts about an encounter with the mysterious spider-themed man appear on the internet or even make it into the news headlines, talking about another act of sometimes reckless heroism. 

Sam lets out a tired sigh, ignoring the minuscule rise of Clint's eyebrow at the sound. They have been waiting there, receiving stares and sometimes cautious questions for an autograph despite trying to blend in for two hours without a hint of Spider-Man. Sam pressed his thumbs against his temples as he felt the tale-telling sign of a headache coming. He reloads the search engine in the hope that maybe there had been a sighting of Spider-Man that Stark's AI somehow had missed, only to find out that not even a Stark Phone was immune to getting caught in a filter bubble. He blankly stares at the headline of a new post, "Do you share the same ice cream taste as Spider-Man? Check out now!". Shaking his head, Sam turns the device off. Watching the rain pour down outside, he was ready to write off their chances for today in getting a hold of the vigilante. Sam's involuntary partner for this mission continues scrolling, unbothered by Sam's internal struggle on his own Stark Phone. A knee bumps against Sam's leg, causing him to glance at the archer.

"According to this fan blog, Spidey has a thing for churros, pizza Hawaii, and Delmar's sandwiches," says Barton as he points at the phone, a hint of bewilderment on his face. "That's weirdly specific. Do they know our food preferences, too?"

Sam deliberately ignores the question, frowning at the information. Fury did say that the vigilante was famous around Queens, but now people even post what the vigilante eats? He couldn't decide on what he found weirder, Spider-Man's food preferences, that people make blog posts about them, or that Clint found more information about the spider through random stories the citizens of New York decided to share on the internet than from SHIELD within two hours. Sam throws Clint an unimpressed look.

"With that specific type of information, we will find and convince him to come to the tower in a second." 

Sam finds a spark of satisfaction as he catches Barton rolling his eyes. The feeling does not last long as Clint pulls out the straw after finishing his drink, pointing at Sam. Sam eyes the beige-colored milkshake droplets flying all over the table at the action, eyebrows drawing together in suppressed annoyance at the mess. The archer smirks at him. 

"If we get Spidey to talk to us through offering him Churros, the joke's on you."

Sam chucks a napkin at him.

__________________________________________

The subway grows louder as it comes to a halt, electric doors opening a second after it stands still, letting out a flood of people who quickly make their way across the station. Peter skillfully avoids getting hit in the back of his knee by masses of language trolleys as he steps out of the metro, walking past a large group of tourists blocking half of the station with their presence. His head bops slightly to the beat of the music playing from his navy-colored earphones. It wasn't his color of choice, but when Ned told him he got new ones for his birthday and was about to throw them out, Peter took the chance and asked if he could have them instead. Ned had asked if he was sure. His earphones were pretty old, but Peter insisted he didn't mind. 

"I don't get where you take the patience to mess around with broken-down electronics. It's impressive, man."

"It's fun, I guess."

Peter shrugged his shoulders with a lopsided grin as he held his newly obtained earphones, his hands itching to modify them. Messing with the noise canceling feature was a well-thought-out choice as the teen walks unbothered by loud chatter and the incoming and bypassing subway cars towards the stairs. Concentrating on the rhythm of the bass drumming in his ears makes the noise of the subway station more endurable. He does an excellent job at focusing his senses compared to after the bite but using the modified earphones did help, especially if he was tired after a turbulent school day. Peter doesn't bother waiting for the people on the stairs to move. He slips past the businessmen and women in a zigzag motion, the adults not bothering to glance at the mob of brown curls brushing past. Peter presses himself along his worn-out schoolbag through the masses of commuters, finally reaching the top of the stairs. His pupils draw together as the sun hits his face, a few rays of sunshine breaking through a dark blanket of clouds, causing him to squint.

He takes a deep breath. The scent of summer rain lies in the air. 

By the time the teen arrives at the apartment, the shallow rain has colored his shirt a dark blue. Stepping inside, his hand reaches for the light switch while pulling one arm out of the soaked clothing. Passing the mirror in the hall on his way to the bathroom, he notices in relief how the bruise on his lower back had vanished, and that just in time for tomorrow's gym class. It had stayed surprisingly long, but maybe that's just a thing when a rusty fire escape comes crashing down and threatens to hit the nice man around the corner selling hot dogs. No hot dogs or people got harmed, thanks to Spider-Man being at the right time at the right place, and the vigilante even got a free snack out of it. While his back had taken a nasty hit, Peter is glad no one got seriously hurt. 

Stepping into the kitchen, Peter finds a note on the dinner table telling him May won't be home until ten. He checks where his aunt left her purse, estimating with a glance how much they had before taking a bill and shoving it inside his pant pocket. The sleeves of the raincoat are a tick too short, and Peter shoves his hands into his pockets while walking through the growing downpour, heading to the grocery store down the street. It's a little warm under the raincoat, but getting bitten by a radioactive spider and gaining enhanced abilities doesn't give one immunity to sickness. Not even Spider-Man can escape the hold of a mean summer cold. He greets the cashier with a nod, the blond teenage girl behind the counter giving him a bored look before she's back on her mobile phone, paying her new customer no further attention. Peter wanders down the aisles, stopping as he squints at the price of the protein bars. 

"Could have been nice," mutters the teen but walks further, collecting what he knew was essential. He takes his items and goes up to the register. The cashier doesn't acknowledge the teen awkwardly hovering in front of the counter, busy retieying her hair into a semi-neat ponytail. He watches her until their eyes meet, and she raises an eyebrow at him. Peter's ears burn as he hastily places the items onto the countertop. The girl pushes her mobile phone to the side, not bothering to shut the device off as she begins scanning the groceries. In his hurry, Peter knocks over a soda. The canned drink slowly rolls forward, threatening to fall over the edge. Peter catches it swiftly, a smile of relief crossing his face. The girl holds out a hand, and it takes Peter five incredibly long seconds to register that she wants him to hand over the soda.

"That's 9,56$. Do you have a card?"

"Uhm,"

She sighed, cutting off anything he was about to answer before pulling a card from under the counter. "Buy something above ten dollars five times, and you can get a protein bar for free."

Peter's ears grew red as she fumbled for the money. Had he been that obvious? The girl doesn't spare him a further look as he hurries and stuffed the groceries into his backpack. When he reaches out for the card, something catches his attention. His eyes wander up from the two stamps on the paper. The girl wasn't looking at him, back on her phone already, but he smiled at her anyway. 

"Thank you. Have a nice day."

"Yeah, whatever."

Pushing the card into his back pocket, Peter leaves the grocery store in a good mood. The rain was still pouring down from above. The boy tries to bypass several large puddles that have begun collecting on the sidewalks. 

"Help! Someone, please, help me!"

The hairs on his neck stand up as a well-known shiver runs down his back. Peter pulls the hood off his head to get a better listen. He closes his eyes, focusing on the panicked voice. It is faint, but after getting past the all-surrounding patter of the rain, filtering out the noise of cars passing by, he can hear it more clearly. The teen takes off into the nearest alley. Changing into the suit doesn't take more than a moment. With practiced movements, Peter pulls the mask over his head and attaches his backpack under the bottom of an aircon, preventing it from getting taken. Alternating between running and leaping from rooftop to rooftop, swinging over wider gaps between the buildings, Spider-Man makes his way toward the call for help in a hurry.

An all too familiar sight awaits him. A young woman is getting cornered by two large men, the latter hovering over her as she presses her back against the wall in an attempt to put as much space as possible between them. One of the men has her wrist in a tight hold, promising to leave a bruise. The woman looks terrified as the other man grabs her jeans jacket, forcing it off her shoulders. She tries batting his hands away, opening her mouth to scream for help again when the man holding her wrist lifts his free hand. 

"Shut up, or not even your mother will recognize your pretty face if I get angry, you understand? Just keep quiet and do what we tell you."

While he speaks, the man steps forward, his hand settling down onto the woman's shoulder, thumb slipping under the loose strap of her top. 

"Who knows, maybe you even like it, hm?" he asks, with a suggestive voice, grinning at her, his hand traveling further while not only rain starts dripping down the woman's face. The woman shuts her eyes, trying to avoid the man's gaze, standing like turned into stone in front of them. A small panicked scream escapes her as the hand around her wrists suddenly pulls her forward, sending her stumbling. She tears her eyes open, hands reaching out to stop her fall, when she feels the hold growing slack. The woman blinks in stunned silence, taking in the red filling her vision. In front of her stands a person with their back to her. The red belongs to their suit, if you can call it a suit. It is a strange get-up of mismatches of red and blue textiles, but even if she had never seen them in person, she, as a citizen of Queens, knew at an instant who had come to her rescue. 

"You freak will regret this as soon as I get my hands on yo-ompf!"

"Tell that someone who cares. Or better, don't say anything at all," with those words, Spider-Man shoots another web at the guy's head, leaving the criminal completely immobile. The vigilante turns around, his eyes hidden behind some goggles directed at the shivering woman.

"Hey, are you alright?"

The sound of a voice filled with genuine worry and care coaxes a sob out of the woman, her knees bucking as the tension leaves her body. 

"Woah, careful!"

Spider-Man steps closer, arms hovering an inch from her shoulders before he glances around. He lets out a hum of triumph as he bends to collect her jacket and carefully drops it over the woman's shoulders, asking her again if she's alright. 

"I'm okay, thank you." She stutters a bit as her breath hitches from a sob. Spider-Man stares at her with his emotionless eyes, tilting his head.

"Do you mind calling the police? Or hand me your phone. I contact them for you."

She wordlessly hands over her mobile phone and listens silently as the vigilante calmly explains the situation to the person on the other line. She feels numb at the ease the man talks to the police, his answer sounding almost practiced as if he had done this hundreds of times already, causing a sick drop to settle in her stomach. How many girls and women did Spider-Man have to save from this? She draws the wet jacket closer around her body as a shiver runs down her back.

"Do you want to come wait outside?"

Spider-Man nods towards the entrance of the alley leading towards the main street. Catching her glance at the webbed-up men, the vigilante steps between her and them in a protective manner. 

"They cannot hurt you anymore. The webs won't dissolve within the next two hours, and the police are on their way. Would you like me to wait with you until they arrive?"

"Yes, please."

Spider-Man nods and gently guides her out, not touching her but standing near in case she stumbles. She leans against the wall next to the alley, sniffling a bit and absentmindedly rubbing at her eyes. Spider-Man waits next to her on the other side of the corner, eyes on the criminals and keeping himself out of the limelight.

"Are you going to be good by yourself? The police will be here in a minute."

"Do you think they will be upset with you? You saved me. I'll talk to them to not bother you."

"Thank you, but that isn't necessary. I don't want to keep the police up longer than I need to. I'll be up on the roof."

"Wait a moment!"

The woman's eyes widen as she looks around the corner to see the vigilante hanging with only one hand and one foot set against the wall, on his way to crawl to the top when he stopped after she called for him.

"I want to thank you. You saved me. I don't know if- what these men-, what would have done if you wouldn't come. Thank you."

The vigilante stays silent for a moment before sending her a small salute. 

"I'm happy I could help, ma'am. Stay safe."

True to his words, the vigilante stays on the roof until the sound of police sirens draws near. He listens to an officer asking the woman if she needs to be brought to a hospital while another group goes into the alley to deal with the men. He paces on the roof until the police car with the woman drives off, taking her home safely before he quickly swings back to collect his stuff. Peter grimaces as he pulls off the wet suit. He changes into his dry clothes, not risking swinging home and climbing into the apartment in his suit during the daytime. This little excursus outside his regular patrol time had been risky enough and only possible because he is paranoid and takes his suit everywhere. 

The next time Peter steps out as Spider-Man is several hours after his aunt comes home from work. May looked ready to fall asleep on her feet when he peered out of the kitchen to greet her. At the sight of dinner already prepared, the woman pulled her nephew close to place a soft kiss on the side of his head.

"That's very nice of you. It looks good, sweetie."

He smiles at her, not bothered he has to cook for them. He liked preparing meals if he got the time, and that's not only because of an ulterior motive like not wanting to eat May's cooking. Not at all. He doesn't mind slightly burnt and bland food. It goes well with orange juice. 

Peter tilts his head to the side, observing four men clad in black surrounding the wall next to a bank, a suspicious jeep parked right next to a stopping prohibited sign. When the men begin to attach something to the wall next to the automat, the vigilante decides it is the right time to show himself.  

"Uhm, excuse me. Are you seriously trying to break that ATM out of the wall? You know that's about 1557 lbs. If that falls on you, you end up a pancake."

"Shit, it's the spider guy!"

"Didn't I tell you to watch out?"

"You said watch out for the police!"

"That spider freak and the police are equally bad, you moron!"

The vigilante winces in sympathy as one of the men slaps the other against the back of the head before he stands up. 

He had been crouching on top of a lamppost, watching what the group was up to, wanting to get an overview of the situation. The vigilante takes a step back. Spinning midair, Peter swiftly lands on his feet before casually walking up to the four men. One of them steps forward, holding something that looks like a taser.

"Stop right there, spider freak!"

The vigilante stops in his tracks, head tilted to the side.

"It's Spider-Man to you, Sir."

He gives a short cough into his fist before straightening up, trying to make himself look taller. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against- hey! Watch out where you are throwing that thing!"

It doesn't take a genius to recognize the object thrown his way to be explosive. Spider-Man flicks his wrist forward and shoots a web at the bomb. He tightens his hold on the web in his hand and rotates his body, spinning twice to build up more strength. Using the momentum, Peter cuts the web at the right time and sends the bomb flying soaring into the air. Two seconds later, the bomb goes off with a loud explosion, the sound ringing painfully in Peter's ears. The alarm of several cars starts going off. 

"You idiot, we needed that!"

"With him here, we couldn't get the money anyway. We have to get going!"

"You can't leave the party without cleaning up afterward, guys," Peter pauses for a moment, "does that make sense? Anyway, I cannot let you go like this."

"Does he always talk that much?" asks one of them, looking at the man standing closest to the ATM and whom Peter gathered is their leader.  

"How is that important now?" asks the leader, fury lacing his voice as he shoves the other harshly towards the vehicle.

"Move, you idiot!"

The vigilante raises an eyebrow under the mask as the men hurry towards the car while the one with the weapon takes a hesitant step in his direction, holding the device with a shaking arm in front of himself. 

"You should get some new friends, dude. They just abandoned you. I don't know if it makes you feel better that sacrificing you won't help them, but maybe you guys should talk it out in your holding cell." 

Provoked by the words, the man charges at him, but Peter side-steps swiftly, avoiding the stun gun aimed at his side. A sudden ringing in the back of his head has Peter leaning back, just in time as a knife stabs into the air where his chest just had been. "Not cool, dude. That could go into someone's eye."

He leans back, contorting and performing a bridge before pulling his legs up and kicking the knife out of the man's hand. With his feet back onto the ground, Peter crouches down and swiftly kicks the man's legs from under him, sending him to the ground. He forces the stun gun out of the man's other hand and webs his arm against his chest, leaving the man on the ground for now. He looks down at the man.

"Don't take it personally. I'm just not a fan of pointy things."

Spider-Man's eyes squint together at the sight of the other criminals trying to flee with the jeep. A web hits the man, about to climb into the driver's seat, pinning his hand against the door handle. Peter turns around and shoots another web against the man's back, whom he had sent to the floor, and tugs again, a little harsher than before. It sends the man flying against the car, the impact bending the side of the vehicle. His partner, who got hit in the process, lets out a pained grunt.

"Oops. Sorry," calls Spider-Man, not sounding that sorry, before quickly shooting two more webs, covering the whole side of the car and the two men attached to it in the sticky threads. The leader pulls out a gun, but before he can aim at the vigilante, the weapon is shot out of his hand and safely discarded by sticking high up against the side of the building. 

"Explosives, tasers, knives, guns, where do you guys even keep all that stuff?" mutters the vigilante under his breath as he webs the man against the wall of the bank. Turning his back to the cursing man, Peter reaches for the side door where the last criminal had climbed in during the chaos unfolding. Peter's spidey sense sets his body on alert as he opens the door. Something soars in the direction of his head, aiming for the place between his eyes. His hand shoots up instinctively, catching the object with ease. He glances at it, eyebrows raising in surprise before facing the man, who stares at him angrily.

"Did you just  throw  brass knuckles at me? Do you even know how to use these? I'm pretty sure throwing doesn't fall into that category", questions the teen, sounding dumbfounded. The criminal uses the short moment of bafflement to shut the door in Peter's face, the lock clicking in. Peter narrows his eyes, grabbing the handle a second time. He opens the door again, this time with a little more force than strictly necessary, a crack indicating the lock and probably something else, too, has broken under his power. The throwing of brass knuckles should have been a hint of the criminals growing desperate in their attempt to flee, but Spider-Man couldn't help yelping in surprise at the new weapon flying at his head as soon as the door broke open.

"A baseball bat? You serious?"

Peter grabs the bat and merely rips it out of the man's hold, throwing it over his shoulder and barely missing the leader stuck to the wall. 

"Let's finish this, alright."

The man's eyes grow comically wide as a red gloves-covered hand grabs him by the collar. He gets dragged out of the vehicle and pushed against the slanting car door, where he gets stuck with a layer of webs. Spider-Man walks over to the discarded baseball bat and shakes his head at the sound of protests from his attacker. 

"Don't worry,  I  don't use stuff like that," Peter says, breaking the bat in half like a stick before he collects the taser, brass knuckles, and lastly, the gun, which he easily tears out of the webbing. He throws the weapons into a pile on the ground before webbing them into a ball that he sticks onto the car seats. He then walks up to the leader and pulls the man with one hand from the wall before attaching him to the jeep. 

"So," draws Peter out, sitting crosslegged on top of the jeep while waiting for the police to arrive, criminals all sticking in various angles against the car, "I kinda  bombed  your party, huh?"

"For the love of god, if you don't shut up.-" he cuts the man off with a web shot against his mouth, muffling the rest of his protest.

"Well, at least I had a  blast  catching you guys."

"I swear if he makes one more pun about this-"

"Hey hey hey, cool down." Peter jumps down from the jeep to stand in front of the leader, who, despite pinned against the car, holds a good two heads of height on him. 

"It's not my fault this thing  blew up  on you."

"You annoying little-"

"Hey, look! It's your ride," interrupts the teen with a cheerful voice, gesturing towards the police cars arriving under the sound of sirens. He is about to turn back to the man, another quip on his lips as the hairs of his neck raise, his spidey sense buzzing in the back of his mind. 

"Where is your last accomplice?"

The man throws him an annoyed look. "There is none, and even if there is, I wouldn't tell you piece of-"

"Yeah, yeah," Peter rolls his eyes, shutting the man off with a web to his mouth. That starts to become a habit. Despite the man's words, the young vigilante jumps back onto the jeep, glancing around the street, searching for anything that could have sent his sixth sense off. His eyes dart around, foot tapping a little restless on top of the roof as the buzzing doesn't stop, but he cannot pinpoint where the supposed threat is coming from. 

"Spider-Man, care to explain what happened?"

Peter glances down at the officer who had stepped out of the police car while two additional cars came driving around the corner of the street. 

"They tried to break open the ATM, Sir," answers Peter, gesturing towards the man stuck to the car. "I collected their weapons, but they still could have some on them or in the car," he explains further without stepping down from the vehicle. While the police officer seems not fazed or apprehensive of Spider-Man being on the scene, Peter had enough experience through his short time as a vigilante to be aware that not all of NYPD liked him. The officer nods at his words and surprises Peter by thanking him for catching the criminals and, additionally, keeping the damage while restraining them to a minimum. That has always been something Peter worked on while patrolling. Maybe it is ingrained in his brain to create as little of a mess as he can, but whenever he sees something break or someone getting seriously hurt, he feels like he could have avoided that. To have someone acknowledge his efforts causes a little grin to spread under the mask. Peter gives the officer a small salute before jumping out of the car.

"Always happy to help, Sir," he says before breaking into a run and swinging into the night. The rest of his patrol would have been relatively uneventful if there wasn't the buzzing reminding him steadily that he should watch out. The unease from before wouldn't lessen, and although Peter is proud to have avoided two muggings, he couldn't feel much joy as the constant sense of  something  being wrong sits in the back of his subconsciousness. Flicking his pupils around but still not sensing anything suspicious, Peter climbs to the roof of an office building. In two, of the fifty bureaus under him, there is still light burning. Peter wonders which poor soul is up at two a.m. doing office work. That couldn't be fun. He stifles a yawn. 

"You're hard to find, Spider-Man."

Peter freezes, nearly choking on his spit. He suppresses a cough that tickles the back of his throat.

He knew that voice. 

He had heard that voice more than once, had seen the press conferences, had watched the interviews, had sat together in Ned's room, his best friend and him listening in awe. 

The teen slowly stands up, ears picking up on the electric whir that's drawing closer. A moment later, he can feel the presence of a second person behind him. The sound of metal clicking together accompanies the vigilante as he turns around, wishing he could clear his throat but not wanting to embarrass himself. His Adam's apple bops as he gulps involuntarily, and Peter has to force his fingers open, not wanting to show how uneasy he is but failing miserably. He stands stiff as a board, staring at the two men standing at the other end of the roof.

Once again, Spider-Man's mask saves the day. Neither of the men could depict any information from the vigilante, and Peter couldn't be more thankful for it as he could take a vague guess that he probably looked like a deer caught in headlights. Hyperaware of his surroundings, Peter's heads shift towards Falcon. Falcon moves from one foot to the other, and Peter almost guesses that the man is nervous. Staring at the hero he worshipped since elementary school without making a single noise, emotionless masked eyes directed at him, Peter couldn't think of a reason for the man to be uncomfortable. He should be the one who could sink into the ground with awkwardness and tension surrounding them as neither of the three says a word. Peter silently stares at Hawkeye and Falcon, standing eerily still, simply observing them, and - Oh. Okay, maybe he had found the reason why Falcon feels uncomfortable. 

"Come on, Parker, say something. But don't make it embarrassing,"  thinks Peter.  "Those are your childhood heroes, and they want something from you. Just say hi like a normal person."

"Good evening, Mr. Barton, Sir. Mr. Wilson, Sir."

"How do you know our names," asks Clint, sounding genuinely curious, used to people addressing them by their hero names. 

"You have a Wikipedia page!" blurts Peter out before wincing inwardly at the eyebrows raised at his words. There goes his plan for a non-embarrassing first impression.

"You've read our Wikipedia pages?" asks Sam slowly, as if saying the words slowly would let them make more sense.

"Twice, actually."

Peter wants to yeet himself over the roof. Mr. Wilson doesn't try to conceal his weirded-out expression while Mr. Barton seems a little amused, but Peter isn't sure if he can trust the expression of a trained spy slash hero after telling them he read their Wikipedia page not once but twice like a creep. With his face burning behind the mask, Peter takes a small breath before gathering himself.

"Ehm, you have been searching for me?"

Barton nods in confirmation before pointing his thumb over his shoulder towards the exit. "We need you to come with us."

The vigilante tilts his head at Hawkeye's words. 

"And you need me for?" Peter draws the last word out as he eyes the two men, feeling the tension sink back tenfold. Two of the Avengers come out in the middle of the night to ask him to come with them? He shifts slightly, feeling the edge digging into his feet. Peter blames his nerves for the need to flee but suppresses the instinct to bolt even though he undoubtedly feels like it. These are the Avengers. Whatever they want, it couldn't be harmful. He shoves the thoughts of them wanting to know who he is in the back of his mind. He is a part-time vigilante, barely worth mentioning. There is no way the Avengers needed him for something that led to him revealing his identity or something. 

But what do the Avengers need a small-fry vigilante like him for? 

"Tomorrow at 09:30 p.m., the second conference room on level 64, Avengers Tower. We will await you." Peter blinks at the words, completely thrown off by Falcon's commanding tone. He breaks out of his stupor when the two men nearly reach the roof's exit.

"Wait! I can't at 09:30."

Falcon raises an eyebrow.

"You are declining a meeting with the Avengers?"

"No," Peter clears his throat, ears flushing at the crack of his voice. "No, I don't want to decline. I can't make it then, I have cl-, uhm, I mean, I can only the evening. If that's possible?"

Peter draws his shoulders together at the sound of Mr. Wilson sighing.

"Tomorrow noon at seven, same location."

"I'll be there, Mr, Wilson, Falcon, Sir!"

"I hope so," mutters the man under his breath, not going unnoticed by Peter, who picks the words up effortlessly with his enhanced hearing. 

"Yeah, well. See you then. Bye, Mr. Wilson and Mr. Barton, I have to leave now." The spider-themed vigilante leans back, letting himself fall from the roof, shocking both heroes, who run up to look over the edge. Clint tilts his head as his eyes follow the small figure, skillfully swinging through the air by shooting webs from building to building. 

Sam frowns before glancing at the archer. "Didn't Spider-Man act weird just now?"

The blond shrugs his shoulder. "We found him, that's all that matters. I'm going to sleep now. Tomorrow is going to be fun."

Sam glares at the archer, who clamps a hand on his shoulder, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. Of course, Barton gets amused by the weird spider guy. 

Sam heaves a sigh. Something about the vigilante was off, and although he could care less to find out what it was, it still irked him not to know. He can only hope the others knew what they signed up for. 

Working with Spider-Man was going to be a pain. 

Sam was sure of it.