#And quite fucking frankly I would still be disabled if you stopped

[bonebabbles]

I keep using the word "frustrating" but I feel like it doesn't capture the anger that's building in me at how it doesn't seem to remember its own goddamn books. Everything with Jagged Peak in particular is incredibly sloppy.

With Clear Sky I get the feeling that they HAVE to misremember previous books, else you encounter the simple truth that he is a fucking monster. If you don't use passive voice religiously as if you're writing a NYTimes article about a cop, you'd have to address that he wanted to kill children after he slaughtered their mother for her land, that he beat an innocent woman to death and blamed it on a fox, and that he's a compulsive liar with a fragile ego. And you can't do that and ALSO say "he was a good mislead boy all along."

So... it's malicious but it's "understandable" on some level. The character they wrote is completely incompatible with the ""redemption"" they're trying to write. So you have to ignore it.

But Jagged Peak...

So Thunder is watching Jag's kittens as they play in deep snow. Jag sees this, freaks out a little, and tells the kids to stop playing because they could get hurt. We get this confrontation;

Those who have been following will remember that it was partially JAGGED PEAK'S fault that Sparrow Fur got mauled by One Eye, by letting her run off into the woods alone because "she was very insistent" about finding her biodad, Tom the Wifebeater.

This teeny little scene feels like they're going to address how Jagged Peak's biggest flaw as a kid was his recklessness, and that his irresponsibility continued into his adulthood because he was coddled. That this, right here, is a sign of character growth... but, the rest of the series doesn't seem to actually think this.

Gray Wing gets scolded for being "unkind" to him as if he's the same as Clear Sky. Jagged Peak's physical ability, like fighting to defend his honor and leading a patrol to get herbs, are what the narrative is fixated on. It's the thing he did back in Blazing Star that made Clear Sky "realize he was wrong about him." It bothers me. Badly.

We are slowly watching Gray Wing die of asthma (except when he needs to do something "cool" like rescue Turtle Tail from Tom the Wifebeater) and every other disabled character dies horribly. But here's Jagged Peak, with a story about how he's "Barely Even Disabled At All" with a little love and encouragement :)

What was behind the choice to make so much of this disabled character focus on his physical ability? In this arc which has THREE "useless" cats exiled for their lack thereof (Jagged, Bumble, Frost)? They say Jagged Peak needed a wife (introduced and then pregnant in the same book) to become his life coach, and that allowed him to overcome his leg... but why?

Why do this, when they obviously COULD have focused on his character traits? This little fucking scene proves it. They COULD have done this instead.

It feels like they're 3 different stories they want to tell about Jagged Peak and none of them are coming together; but the main one they're trying to write is awful.

[stackslip]

the/situation said they find adults who like kid’s cartoons questionable when I followed them a few months ago, they also reblogged a cwc joke back then (some Twitter user finding out cwc retweeted their art and being freaked out about it).

i really just wish they were honest and flat out call adults who watch cartoons the r slur. like. just say out. be honest. just go full kiwifarms, we all know that's your thing anyway. just be fucking honest about what kind of a monster you are! stop pretending to be anything but a fucking kiwifarmer who takes glee in it! just admit it!

also by cwc do you mean chris-chan? there's a lot of things i could say about the treatment of this woman and what happened to her, but all i will say is that is that any human being who would have been put through a tenth of the intense scrutiny, manipulation and abuse she has been the main target of for over a decade would have snapped bc it is not a thing any human being can go through without being severely traumatized, much less an autistic and cognitively disabled trans woman for whom kiwifarms was literally founded in order to continue their mass abuse of her. tens, hundreds of thousands have made it their pasttime to torment her for years on end--far more if you count the morbidly curious who passed by and participated briefly. quite frankly i think she could have shot up a building and i still wouldn't put the blame on her, only her abusers. i'd say this about any human being who's been through this. i have nothing but sheer contempt and loathing for the people who mock her and who participate in said mass abuse, even if only for a couple of days. this includes that user.

[wc-confessions]

It kinda boggles my mind how everyone in the fandom calls the writing misogynistic while the writers are all women-- like I get it, plenty of women are misogynistic, but my mind is still absolutely fucking boggled by how widely accepted it is in the fandom. It is like you say Erin Hunter and in the very next breath the word misogynist is there.

There are so many shitty rude stupid ass male characters (in the newest book!!! Sky!!!) and frankly the only female characters that looked overtly bad were Nightheart's two family members (who are just.... generic cats? I get they had some personality in other books but they're ultimately background characters; at least they're providing a conflict??? Which is needed??? In a story?????) and then of course Uhhh-- Berryheart yeah, Sunbeam's radicalized mother. Who gives me the vibes of a sort of female right wing extremist, of whom there are plenty and can deserve to be mocked a bit.

Squilf was actually shown to be super competent in stepping up in the wake of Bramblestar's depressive episode, who was made into a joke (yay!), and I think her butting heads with Nightheart was entertaining. She acknowledges his youth and is hard on him about it, but it's reasonable too-- of course he's given apprentice tasks, there are no apprentices. How is it fair for others warriors to get extra bedding duty? And of course he shouldn't have gone into ShadowClan territory-- he got lucky that it was Lightleap's boyfriend!! The books make you sympathize with Nightheart as his POV, but I never found Squilf to be disrespected or unreasonable, just hated by him. Maybe I am just a weirdo though! I drink respecting Squilf juice.

I would like less romance plots though. The lack of gay representation in the series is getting so damn distracting! I am too much of a lesbian to understand Frostpaw wanting to stop being a medicine cat and settle down with Splashtail who I barely even fucking know in the span of a few minutes-- Sunbeam rejecting Nightheart would've been interesting, but she's also falling for him, it seems. If Frostpaw really does quit to get with Splashtail I am going to be so disoriented, I CANNOT be reading three het POVs again. I am not strong enough. (I do think Frostpaw finding her resolve to quit after Owlnose did was interesting, though. I cannot blame her for quitting considering the stress she's under. But for the love of god PLEASE STAY)

Anyway in the end I kind of pity the writers who are forced to make up new stories and keep things fresh. Like how do they do anything without it being somehow wrong-- like oops, we wanted to pair these two characters, but it turns out they share a great grandma! At this point we need to kill everyone and start over unless fans of background character #12 get upset that they're ooc because of this one specific line they had in a novella I didn't read. And let's not forget killing a disabled cat being bad despite characters constantly getting culled for no reason. (I would REALLY like some fresh disabled blood though-- like, can we get some more cats losing eyesight and legs here??? It would make the incredibly generic background characters SO much more interesting, God. Like who the fuck is Sneezecloud?? I would respect Sneezecloud more if he was chronically ill but he is just a generic cat named Sneezecloud, OK.)

Anyway this is so badly written I don't even have a point here but this is called warriors confessions and dammit I am going to confess.

[asachuu]

Definitely not rigged one-note voting won. Everything below the cut has been written a week ago or so, and I do not care if it sounds “edgy”, I’m still not in the mood to sanitize this, because I’m definitely not the first person to say anything like this.

Content warning, mentions of suicide.

Before anything, I’ll say this upfront, if you want to know why this’ll sound so angry and way more personal than I’d ever be comfortable with online, this is all written from the POV of someone who would likely be considered disabled by today’s work-related standards, yet currently unable to get official confirmation, and someone who’s watching the well-being of everyone around them go to shit every passing day.

Anyway, I’m so fucking tired of this “everyone does [x] so just get over it” mentality. I’ve just had several consecutive arguments in a row about work, my mental and physical state because of it, plus the mental states of my acquaintances in it, and I wouldn’t wish this type of stupid argument even on my worst enemy. To some, this will all sound exactly like the words of someone who hasn’t stopped being extremely naive, lazy and stupid to believe that complaining about the world order will ever do anything, and to others, it’ll be as obvious as saying the sky is blue, and whichever you are is frankly none of my business, because I’m not here to compromise my stance for anyone.

Putting it simply, I don’t think people as a whole were made to work, and I’m not saying this because I’ve tried to end my life several times just this year thanks to it, I’m saying this because even my coworkers, who don’t have the same struggles, disorders and issues as I do and are the people who’d typically “get over it” and be considered “normal”, are also struggling. I see these people every day, and the two closest ones to me are this one woman who’s endlessly tired and keeps talking about death being the better option for us all, and the other is a guy who eternally complains about conditions and claims he doesn’t have time for anything going on anymore with his personal life nor work life, even though he’s always been quite neutral on showing up and doing his duties until now. Those two aside, I’ve overheard conversations— more and more as time goes on, and a fuck load these days— of people saying they aren’t even capable of focusing for more than one minute any longer, they’re burnt out, unable to do anything, they’re not even registering words spoken to them, they’re extremely tired, no longer sleeping more than 2 hours at times, and I’ve heard even the most adjusted, non-serious of people wish to meet their ends. And this is the norm, “especially” for our type of workplace I have to keep private— nevertheless an extremely common one the vast majority of the population tends to at least once in their life, over 75% where I’m from— this is what everyone supposedly goes through and everyone gets over it.

I am oh so fucking sorry, but I don’t think any of us are supposed to “accept it and move on”. Just because the majority of the population is not actively suicidal or self-destructive doesn’t mean they don’t deserve any breaks, leniency, or just basic compassion and understanding that clearly, if EVERYONE can agree on the fact that people hate this— even someone’s 65 year-old conservative grandfather who screams day and night about the younger generations being lazy as fuck— then there’s just a basic fact of the matter that humans were not supposed to be put into a position where they have to downright endure the mere act of living for some simple joys they can only dream of and hope to achieve in years upon years, and believe it or not, this is the reality for so, so many out there.

I cannot tell you how utterly disgusted I feel knowing that half the people at my work are falling asleep from stress and fatigue, often shouted at to wake up and be active since seven in the fucking morning, and so many of us are addicted to either caffeine, ““legal substances”” or both by now, but there is no leniency for us or our total physical exhaustion (because Heaven forbid the mental one be considered by societal standards)— there’s just a vending machine selling energy drinks and a coffee maker, and that’s not exclusive to our workplace, that’s just the universal “solution” worldwide, apparently. I don’t mean to pull out the word “society” like the most edgy of people, but the fact that this society is built on forcing people to work and their only break or assistance being encouraged legal drugs— mostly caffeine as the most normalized one, but if you want to have fun after work, you can go to a bar and have some drinks, because you’re not exactly supposed to have any time left for some kind of complex hobbies when they don’t bring money nor make you productive— is almost frustrating, if it wasn’t so overshadowed by miserable people who just can’t seem to get up and, at the very fucking least, admit that this isn’t right.

Seriously, personal anecdote here, I come to my house that feels like a hotel shared with insufferable idiots more than anything, I dare to outwardly seem out of energy after my 9, sometimes 10 hour job plus two hour transport, and all I get is either verbal abuse or getting told it “works like this”, and I know damn well I’m not the only one out of everyone I know who can’t afford anything else. I don’t care that “the world works like this”, it might, but if everyone’s burnt out, falling asleep, dreaming of not having to work, having no time for themselves and constantly just “making it to Friday”, and that’s a thing uniting nearly everyone on Earth, I’m sick of hearing it’s normal, so we have to get over it. Who told you that, and why the fuck are you parroting it when even you yourself feel like shit?

And I’m not asking anyone to start a revolution or anything, I’m asking every goddamn person who’s unhappy with this life, with the way it works, with the fact that everyone is forced to get a job only to hope to have a fucking home, food, water, healthcare and basic human needs met regardless of whether their life becomes completely meaningless and grey, just existing to make it to the weekend every single time, to stop telling everyone to get over it. Nobody should, neither should you, and maybe, if enough of us stop being so fucking passive and taking this endless amount of burnout, pressure, stress and complete dullness because “it’s just the way things are for everyone”, someday, something will change, or at the very least, more lives will be spared, because believe me— if I’m lucky, maybe I’ll make it out alive, but regardless of whether I get to find peace and escape this or I’ll be sleeping in a coffin in less than two years’ time, it’s not like I’ll be the only one out of millions of people who downright can’t work— maybe not so much, maybe not at all— winding up hurt or dead when there isn’t a soul to share their feelings, let alone respect or understand them without telling them to just suck it up and go back to being miserable like everyone else, even insisting there’s something wrong with them for not being able to continue like this.

It’s important of me to add that I also acknowledge the fact that there are many people who want to work or enjoy their duties, yet the ones I know of— the same ones who keep drilling into my head that me and everyone who’s able to relate to me are the mentally sick ones who need to be fixed, may I add— openly wish they didn’t have to, and I’d like to make it clear that that’s exactly what I’d strive for, being literally anyone— people would still work, many love their jobs and many would love to have extra money on hand, but they don’t have a choice or say in it as everything stands now, and it’s not that any of us can just take a month off for the sake of our health and well-being when our entire livelihood is at stake. For fucks sake, even if you “enjoy” something, everyone needs to rest, and some people need way, way more than two days per week, maybe weeks, maybe months, maybe years, but we as a world have deemed that “laziness” and a “mental problem”, for some fucking reason.

Besides, I can’t tell you how many times while growing up I’ve heard to get myself a job I’ll enjoy, a job that “won’t feel like a job”, and I just can’t explain to those people that it’ll always feel like a fucking job, even they themselves usually complain about their “great jobs they like”, because there’s absolutely no choice when everything you need to just keep breathing is on the line, and god forbid you hit a rough patch or experience burnout, let alone stand in my position, where you simply are not capable of handling these responsibilities at all partially for actual medical reasons, but almost every institution is dead set on making you into an obeying, working citizen. I’m very well aware that if I type any of the above, someone’s going to come up running to me yet again, dismissing absolutely everything because “but how would YOU fix it all, then—”, and while I have absolutely no clue as I am not an omnipresent, omnipotent being who knows the solution to something as insanely complex as this (nor who’d actually make any difference anyway), maybe, just maybe, we could start some kind of train of thought there instead of biting the bullet, shrugging and going back to our 9-5s or other forms of mandatory work while complaining about how much we hate them, how stressed and tired we are and can’t wait for the weekend.

For fucks sake, our lives aren’t just worth so much more than waiting for 48 hours of some personal freedom before starting an endless cycle all over again and living this half-existence we all complain about before being forced to accept it by other people who complain about it just as much— they’re also worth so much more than having to constantly be centered around work, finding a job, getting hired, getting money, and so on, and so on. There’s so much more out there, but barely anyone gets to have the opportunity to see it, especially not people for whom money is a struggle, and there’s just not enough of those who find any worth in merely keeping this thought alive while being stuck living “normally” while wishing they didn’t have to, or thinking it’s not right either.

Anyway, I could write more, but for the sake of protecting the rest of my privacy, I won’t. I dearly hope this resonates with at least someone out there across the world, because I know for a fact that there are many people who don’t suffer or struggle with anything I do sharing this sentiment. I’m going back to being some fandom account again now, or whenever my burnout leaves me be for one single day, but I need this out there for whoever stumbles upon it, maybe today, tomorrow, or in a decade.

[myazavier]

First of all this is so wild yall this acc is a bastardisation of my deadname (based on some nickname but spelt wrong) but hi ig I'm back to rant.

I'm just so sick n tired of my parents and I just feel so bad when I see them emotionally neglecting my brother. they've just had another kid n they have just started w the barrage of "shut up idc that you're upset" and he just wants his mum to give him the attention she gave him before. but they won't. and I can't stop feeling guilty for it, as if I can fix anything. I'm still a fucking kid but I have the intense need to make sure he doesn't end up how I did. that he feels loved. they act surprised when he acts the way they raised him to. they've already started the "stop that you're not a child!" as if he isn't a 6 year old. but why is it my fault? why do I have to pick up the slack? this is one of the most important academic years of my fucking life. and I now also feel guilty for not being a pseudo parent

quite frankly I'm just sick and tired. I'm sick of my dad already thinking I've had my 18th birthday. any other birthday I'd not really care. hes never been very present, why would he know how old I am? but he didn't even remember whether his oldest child was a legal adult yet. and then I'm the issue for being upset about it. I'm sick about the fact that I can never say this ever to anyone in school despite literally treating my physics teacher as a pseudo mom figure, because I know the potential safeguarding fallout. I don't even know if I'm a safeguarding issue anymore. am I telling everyone too much? am I too much? ugh that's just my mentally ill thoughts again just I thought I was doing okay.

I really thought I was doing well. but ig nothing can ever change. I'm still fucking traumatised. because when will I ever not be. its not like they're ever going to get better. it's not like I'm not going to be unable to walk and then get told off when I agree to accepting things people offer bc I'm "selfish" for being,,, yknow,,, too disabled to put weight on my leg rn. and then given the things but in a way that still makes me feel awful. and I'm just sick and tired

and they're just fucking sick. who treats a child like this? who decides that this is how you act? I never got a fucking childhood. I didn't know how to talk to people until fucking ages 12 because noone talked to me as a child. I was a fucking cunt. and hurt people. and got hurt. and yknow what, who else can I blame it on? if I got better n treat people better, clearly I just wasn't taught how to act. and whose fault is that? the parents who did the exact same thing they're doing to my brother to me. caring for (rather than 6, 2) and then tossing me aside for the next tiny thing to come along n be loved.

I spose the one good thing about this is that I can feel again. I have the ability to *feel* the traumatic event when it happens. I have the ability to feel my parents slowly chip away at me as a person and deal w it that day. which feels like a backhanded achievement. my brain has decided I'm strong enough to see the reality of where I am. and I hate it

but hey. 1 year to freedom. 1 year til I move out to uni and I can live away from them. they can't hurt me if they can't interact with me, right? it's really the only thing keeping me holding on

[faetyl]

Trans Men: hey we have this cool new term to describe how we have experienced oppression unique to our transness and our experiences. *Everyone in their fucking mother*: HOW DARE YOU SAY TRANS WOMEN AREN”T OPPRESSED

meanwhile people are literally describing trans men being killed at a *lesser rate* to trans women as “whimsical”.

Yall really just out here, misgendering us, calling our deaths whimsical, then going “but yall hate trans women” when that's not at all the definition of the word, or the purpose of the conversation it was created to have.

Transandrophobia is literally the unique oppression of trans men. Trans women can’t really oppress us? They can just commit lateral aggression (assuming ofc all other factors are the same) lateral aggression is still aggression. *Its still harm done no matter who the lateral aggressor is*

Anyway I’m tired of being told my experience as a trans man doesn’t matter because I’m alive. 

I’m tired of the *aggression I’ve experienced for being a trans man is less valid because i’m breathing*

Do yall not realize how *fucked up that is* Because i do.

And as a disabled person, highkey it screams of people who tell me to stop *fighting for my rights to be seen and recognized because i’m not that bad off i’m not visibly crippled yet*

Transandrophobia comes from the same place as any other oppression on an axis. And I quite frankly find the Terms “tme/tma” not very useful when discussing two things. Because trans misogyny is *different* from transandrophobia.

Harm done by hypervisibility (which is what a lot of transmisogyny is) is harm done. But being invisible isn’t a fucking shield. Being invisible just means we’re killed more quietly and swept under the rug.

Cis men are afraid to report crimes because of fear of being emasculated. This statistic does carry over to trans men. Unreported crimes, are still fucking crimes. No one would dare say differently for any other group.

Stop dismissing us. We are part of the fucking conversation. We are here. We are queer. We’ve *been here* we’ve been quietly forced out and erased.

We deserve better. Trans people deserve better.

[prozd]

Bones of the Forgotten

For those unaware, when I was 12 years old, I used to write very gritty Mario fanfiction.  The only reason this exists is because we hit a charity milestone for Extra Life (which by the way you can still donate to here: https://www.extra-life.org/participant/450294)

I decided to write the sort of fanfiction that 12 year old me would've enjoyed writing, so here is my love letter to my youth.

A question block can come in handy in a variety of ways.  You just gotta know how to scrap it down.  Easily done enough with a precision focus Fire Flower blowtorch.  The first thing you gotta do is realize there's nothing bringing that sonuvabitch down; those fuckers float in the air forever no matter how much you push or pull 'em.  Instead, you gotta carve off pieces from it as it's floating up there. Awkward at first, but by the fiftieth time, it's fucking clockwork.

Melt down the pieces and you've got the golden goo perfect for crafting all sorts of nasty tools.  A bat made from question block has just enough lightness for a easy swing, but just enough density to still effectively break a kneecap.  A blade still won't pierce, say, a Chain Chomp, but it can at least pierce most Koopa shells.  Plus, some people just like the gold color; they think it looks sick.

I personally think the best use of question block goo is making bullets out of it.  They're denser than most others and they maintain their speed for longer. The only downside is they stand out if you leave them in a body at a crime scene, but that's irrelevant as long as you're cleaning up your messes properly.  If anyone had the time and resources to search the bottom of the sea near Rogueport Docks, I imagine you'd find a glittering trove of golden bullets scattered among the bones of the forgotten.

One of those bullets dances idly through my fingers as I listen to one of my subordinates, a Craw with the quite frankly unfortunate name of Garf, lament about his recent mistreatment by the Syndicate.

"Ishnail, they just stomped the shit out of us!  Gus and I, we weren't doin' NOTHIN' and those leafy fucks attacked us.  Everyone knows the Plaza's neutral territory, we gotta DO somethin' about this."

Craws get a bad rap, in my opinion.  They get labeled as savage, but I've always found them to be much more thoughtful than people would assume.  Even in this moment, as my eyes gaze upon Garf's tattered, bloodied vest and bandana, and his curved beak squawks in rage, I notice the slightest trace of tears at the very edges of his eyes.  Aw.

"Let me ask you one question, Garf."  Out of respect, Garf immediately goes silent. Again, thoughtful.  "Were you and Gus carrying your spears?"

"I......I mean.....we have to, it's part of Craw culture...."

"I'm well aware, but Garf, I'm sure YOU'RE well aware that no weapons are allowed in the Plaza.  I mean, at the very least, keep a goddamn gun hidden in your pocket, don't wave a fucking SPEAR around.  You're just asking for the Piantas to give you a beating."

I get up from the dingy sofa I've been lounging on and dust myself off.  "But I can't have Don Pianta thinking it's okay to fuck up my guys.  I'll have to have a word with the ol' mustachioed fuck."  I pat Garf on the cheek and wipe a tear away with my thumb.  He nods in appreciation.

I motion to two of my subordinates, a scrappy looking Goomba named Goomfrey and a laidback Hammer Brother named Hamma.  We step outside HQ and into the bustling, grimy streets of Rogueport's east side.  

As long as I've lived in Rogueport, it's always carried the smell of the sea in the air.  It's a welcome scent to me, having grown up in the Seaside Kingdom.  My mom was a Bubblainian; she raised me when my deadbeat Koopa dad left us, and what she gave me was the snail shell on my back and a love for the water.  Merchants shouting and the occasional "STOP, THIEF!" ring out as my muscle and I make our way through the Plaza.  We pass the gallows where the Shadow Queen's corpse was supposedly hung from one thousand years ago.  Fittingly gruesome lore for a city filled with murderous rat-bastards.

A sickly sweet scent starts to mingle with the smell of the sea and garbage I'm used to. It's an indication that we're entering the west side of Rogueport. Sure, it's a much tidier area than where the Robbos and I live; there may be fancy-ass things like "flowers" and "benches," how hoity-toity.  You can put lipstick on a Li'l Oink, but it still smells like shit.

We walk into Westside Goods.  There's no need for the customary password; Peeka, the Boo shopkeeper, knows why I'm here.  She opens up the back door, and we walk up the stairs in the back alley to Don Pianta's office.

"Ishnail, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Don Pianta stands behind his desk; as much as I hate to admit it, his presence is overwhelming.  "And you brought friends, too?" he notes as he sees Goomfrey and Hamma.

If you want to live long in Rogueport, every time you enter a room, you have to mentally gauge 1. the quickest way to escape, 2. who you may need to disable and/or kill to escape, and 3. how easy that's all going to be.  Two giant yellow Pianta in suits stand guard at both sides of the Don's desk. A blue Pianta in a white suit, the Don's underboss Frankie, closes the door behind us.  

Piantas are not easy to injure, let alone kill; I know this from years of tangling with the Don's gang.  The little palm trees and skirts would make you think otherwise, but Piantas are naturally built like fucking dump trucks and hit just as hard.  Hamma's a Glitz Pit fighter, and I've seen what he can do with that hammer.  Goomfrey gets underestimated for his species, but his reputation precedes him; he has bitten off more fingers than your average Rogueportian.  Still, a fight against four Piantas, even with my question block bullets, would be brutal.  It's telling that you never see a Pianta with a weapon because nothing will kill you faster than simply their own fists.

"Your men attacked mine, Don.  And for what, carrying spears?  You and I both know that's bullshit."

"My men....have been on edge.  Your little Bandit friends have been scuttling around, picking too many pockets they shouldn't be.  Keep that shit on the East Side where it belongs, and we'll be fine."

As Don Pianta talks, he habitually cracks his knuckles.  Out of all the Piantas in the syndicate, Don Pianta is truly a mammoth; his muscles are barely contained by the suit he's wearing.  Honestly, if he wasn't my ultimate arch-nemesis in this town, shit, I'd fuck him.  I like my men beefy.

"Alright, Don.  I'll tell my boys to keep their weapons out of the plaza.  You and I both know no one benefits if we fight in the streets.  Bad business for both your establishments and mine.  Let's keep things quiet."

"Agreed," The Don extends a giant hand.  I shake it firmly.

I turn to leave with my muscle in tow.  As I open the door to leave, I hear a whisper.

"Get your slimy shell outta here, you fuck."

I pause.  I give Goomfrey the look, and he smirks.  Goomfrey's eyes quickly dart and I know he's already memorizing every little detail about the yellow Pianta who whispered the insult.  Without another word, I close the door behind me.

---

There's one more use for question block goo I forgot to mention.  It's perfect for weighing things down.  

I breathe in the salty seaport air; it's particularly sweet tonight.  The golden bullet dances between my fingers; I know it's a bad habit, but it's fun to fidget with.  It'll go to good use though.  I load it into my Fire Flower pistol with a few others and carefully attach the silencer.

"Now, listen, uh...what was his name again?"

"Paulie," says Goomfrey, standing to my side with a grin.

"That's right, Paulie.  I'm a pretty patient person, I think most people including your boss would agree, but I've got a real sore spot about the shell, ya know?  It's just, it reminds me of my dear old ma, and I love her to bits.  You understand, right?"

There is no response from Paulie due to his crushed windpipe courtesy of Hamma's hammer.  Quite frankly, I'm impressed he's still conscious from the pain.  He looks up at me from his crouching position eyes filled with hate, his hands and feet encased in reforged golden question blocks.  Piantas are heavy, so four blocks worth is safest.

"I did promise the dear Don that I'd keep things quiet, so let's cut to the chase." I point the gun at his forehead and before he can react, I fire three shots.  There's no need to prolong this shit; I'm not a sadist. Hamma and Goomfrey pick up the body and toss it off the port into the sea.

"For what it's worth, boss," says Hamma in a low, pleasant baritone.  "I like your shell.  Looks good on ya."

"Aww, thanks."

[carriagelamp]

Art of Aardman

I found myself a cheap copy of the Shaun the Sheep movie, so I was rewatching a bunch of Aardman films earlier this month and decided to hunt down some books too. For anyone that doesn’t know, Aardman is a British stop-motion studio that does fantastic work like Wallace and Gromit, Shaun the Sheep, Chicken Run, Early Man… tons of cool stuff. They’re always quirky and funny and warm-hearted. This was just a very nice art book for anyone that’s a fan of Aardman stop motion and wants to see a bit extra; it shows some cool concept art and blows up the neat details in Aardman work, especially in their intricate stuff like The Pirates! In an Adventure with Scientists!

Asterix and the Picts (Asterix and the Chariot Race, and How Obelix Fell Into The Magic Potion)

I decided to try a couple of the new Asterix comics that were done by the new team, just to see if they stand up to the old ones (that and How Obelix Fell Into The Magic Potion cause I’d never read that one before). They were pretty decent! Asterix and the Picts was my favourite of the two though I wouldn’t say either are going to contest for my favourite Asterix comic... but still! The art looks good and the stories felt like what I would expect, they made for a pleasant couple evenings of reading especially since it’s been so long since I’ve read a new Asterix comic. If you’ve never read Asterix it’s one of the biggest name French comic series in North America, as far as I know and very worth the read. It’s about a single Gaulish village that’s holding out against the invading Romans through sheer force of will, slapstick hijinks, and a magical super-strength potion brewed by their druid. Lots of fantastic visuals and cute wordplay, even in the English translations.

Bear

I found out about this bastion of Canadian literature via tumblr post that was losing its collective mind over the fact that some bizarre bear-based erotica novella somehow won the most prestigious literary prize available in Canada. Since I too found this hilarious and unspeakably bizarre I had to give it a read, obviously. And yes, the flat surface level summary is... a librarian moves out into rural Ontario and falls in love with a literal for-real not-supernatural-not-a-joke bear. And I have to say… it is actually worthy of an award, which I was not expecting given that I was there for a laugh. It has beautiful writing, and the subtextual story is pretty interesting… it kind of makes me think of The Haunting of Hill House actually in terms of themes. (Womanhood, personhood, independence, autonomy partially achieved through escaping the male gaze by claiming non-human lovers... listen if I were still in university I would right a paper comparing the two novels).

I dunno man, it’s fucking weird. Actually a well-written book, but sure is about a woman falling in love with a literal bear. Give it a read if you want something bonkers but like… high-brow bonkers.

Hunger Pangs: True Love Bites

Best book I have read in like… a while. A long while. I am not a fast reader, and I consumed 90% of this book over a weekend. It’s not at all like Terry Pratchett, but at the same time it scratched an itch for me that I haven’t had satisfied since Pratchett’s death. A very clever, hilariously funny poly romance between a disabled werewolf, an anxious vampire lord, and an incredibly powerful woman, with heaps of social satire, political commentary, and sinister undertones. The whole thing reads a bit like fanfiction and I say that in the most flattering way possible -- it is so easy to jump right in and be immediately taken over by the characters and the world and the plot, you never feel like you’re fighting to engage even though the world-building is fascinating and expansive. It welcomes you in right away, it was the book equivalent of a quilt and a hug which is something I sorely needed with all this pandemic bullshit. If you read any of the books on this list, go read that one while I sit here in pain waiting for the sequel.

Kid Paddle

I watched the cartoon of Kid Paddle as a kid and was thinking about it recently, so I decided to hunt down some of the original comics online. They’re fun and weird, with a cute art style and fantastic monsters designs. (My favourites are always about Kid either daydreaming or playing games that involve Midam’s weird warty troll creatures. It’s like a cross between Calvin and Hobbes and Foxtrot with the fun sort of quirks that I love in Belgian comics. Unfortunately, unlike Asterix, I’ve only come across these ones in French, but if you can read French it’s totally worth popping over to The Internet Archive and reading the ones they have available.

The Last Firehawk: The Golden Temple

The lastest Firehawk book. Despite being written for quite young readers, I did enjoy the early books in this series quite a bit. They’re about a young owl and squirrel who found an egg for a magical species that was believed to be extinct. With the newly hatched firehawk, the three of them head off on a mission to find an ancient firehawk magic that could save the entire forest. Very basic adventure story but a good intro to the tropes for children. Unfortunately the quality really feels like it drops with each subsequent book; this will probably be the last one I bother reading.

Lumberjanes: The Moon Is Up

I honestly think I enjoy these Lumberjanes novels even more than the comics just because it really gives time to delve into each story and examine how the camper are really thinking and feeling about everything. (Also I’m always weak for novelizations of anything.) The Moon Is Up is a book that focuses more on Jo, and takes place during the camp’s much anticipated Galaxy Wars, a competition between cabins that goes over several days. While the campers prepare for these challenges though, they also run into a strange little creature with a penchant for cheese and theft. Roanoke cabin needs to keep ahead in Galaxy Wars and somehow deal with the fearsome Moon Pirates that a closing in...

Lumberjanes v4 (Out Of Time)

One of the Lumberjanes comics, a cool, girl-focused, queer comic series. Honestly, this is just a fun series that I never got as into as I should have. My advice is honestly to skip book one because it gets better as it continues, and I’ve really been enjoying the later books now that I’ve given it another go. It follows five campers at Miss Qiunzella Thiskwin Penniquiqul Thistle Crumpet’s Camp for Hardcore Lady Types (Jo, April, Molly, Mal, and Ripley) as they handle all sorts of challenges, from friendship to crushes, camp activities to supernatural horrors, getting badges to not being brutally killed. Great if you liked the vibe of Gravity Falls but want it to be queer-er.

Mooncakes

Another queer graphic novel, but unfortunately not a very good one. It really looked appealing and I had high hopes, but the book itself really didn’t hold up… I actually couldn’t even finish it, the plot was just too… non-existent. The art is fairly mediocre once you actually look at it, especially backgrounds, and it feels very… placid. Not much conflict or excitement or even a very compelling reason to keep reading. If you just want a soft queer supernatural you may get more mileage out of it than me, but it didn’t really do it for me. There’s better queer graphic novels out there.

New Boy In Town

One of the worst books I have ever read. My girlfriend had ordered a very different book online but through a frankly stupendous error was sent this 1980s pulp romance instead. Absolutely nauseating on levels I couldn’t even begin to enumerate here. Naturally we read the whole thing out loud. Probably took us 10 times longer to finish than it warranted because I had to stop every two sentences to lose my mind. If you like bad decisions, baffling hetero courting rituals, built-in cultural Christianity without actually calling it that, and gold panning then boy howdy is this the book for you.

(seriously, you better have patience for gold-panning if you attempt this one, because I sure learn that I don’t)

Piggies

This was a picture book I enjoyed as a kid and had a reason to reread recently. Honestly it’s just very cute and simple, and the art is completely mesmerizing. Wonderful if you know a young child that would enjoy a simple goofy boardbook.

Shaun the Sheep: Tales From Mossy Bottom

Related to my Aardman fascination earlier this month. I tried reading a varieties of Shaun the Sheep books — most of which are mediocre at best — but the Tales From Mossy Bottom Farm series is genuinely good. Just chapter books, of course, but the illustrations match the series’ concept art and each story feels like it could have jumped directly out of an episode. They’re just cute and feel-good! Kinda like Footrot Flats but more for kids, and from the sheep’s perspective moreso than the dog’s.

[maxwell-grant]

Cass wouldn’t even begrudingly tolerate [the Black Bat], because she’s even less lenient than Bruce on killing and far more willing to throw down.' - THANK YOU for remembering that.

Cass is my favorite Batfam member, the only one really that I have an active interest in reading about. I'd be incredibly ignorant to not bring bring up such a crucial aspect of her characterization. And even if I didn't personally care for her, well, last thing I'd want is to be another source of frustration for Cass fans. Lord knows there's enough of those to go around.

mousebrass also asked: On that note, how do you imagine a meeting between Cass and the Shadow going?

Fair warning: This one took me 6 hours to write, and it became a hell of a lot longer than I imagined. I liked Cass a lot, but I never quite realized I had this many feelings regarding her until I was tasked with writing this, and a lot of things clicked for me regarding my plans for The Shadow thanks to this ask. @mousebrass, thank you. I mean it. I think I may have found something here I've spent years looking for. Hope you enjoy the post.

I'm thankful that this scenario is only really taking place in a hypothetical fanon where both characters can get a fair shot, because I wouldn't trust DC with this premise. I don't trust DC with either of them as is.

There's a lot of ways that this crossover could go on about taking place naturally, initially because Cass is already connected to some of Batman's pulpier elements, due to her connections to Lady Shiva and the League of Assassins, and one could connect Cass to Myra Reldon (who really should just be race swapped if ever brought back so she can stand out as the cool character she is, without the yellowface gimmick holding her back). There's two things I think are crucial to making the most of this idea, and the first of which has to do with the subject of killing. I usually don't like to come up with hypothetical team-ups for The Shadow that focus too much on the fact that he kills, because it's far from the most significant aspect of his character to focus on, much of it is written from a wrong understanding of the character, and it never amounts to anything other than perfunctory. But here, not only is it completely unavoidable to discuss, here there is actually a very, very substantial grounding as to why this has to be such a big part of the story.

The first and foremost thing that's gotta be established to everyone reading that doesn't know already is this: Cassandra Cain, more so than Batman, more so than any other DCU hero, has a tolerance towards murder lower than zero, and this is completely non-negotiable. She will throw herself on the path of an assault rifle to stop men trying to kill her from accidentally killing each other. The defining moment of her incredibly grim backstory is that she was trained from birth to be the world's greatest murderer, and her first kill traumatized her so badly that she has pivoted as far away from that as possible. I stress a lot that the Shadow should not be written as the trigger-happy maniac comics made him into and that the pulp version killed mostly to defend himself and others, generally left criminals to the police if possible, offered plenty of second-chances, had stories dedicated to the rehabilitation of criminals and so on, but none of this would matter to Cass.

Cass has literally chosen suicide over the prospect of living with murder on her hands time and time again, and The Shadow kills. When he kills, he does so without remorse, with unshakeable certainty. He hates death, he doesn't want lives to be at risk in the first place. But people will die if he doesn't do anything, and what he can do, what he exists to do, is turn the tools of evil against evil, and murder is the oldest tool of evil there is. He doesn't kill because a war scarred him, he doesn't kill because he's got a demon in his soul, he doesn't kill because he's mentally off balance, he doesn't kill because he's evil or sadistic or arrogant or anything of the sort. He kills because the men he fights chose death when they sought to harm innocents and fire guns at him. He kills because he is Death itself.

Regardless of how compassionate he is or can be, regardless of the fact that he's motivated by a desire to protect people, regardless of how justified he is, he is still dropping corpses and laughing maniacally doing so. Cass's real arch-enemy isn't Shiva or David Cain, it's Death, it's the thing that she's fundamentally most opposed to. And guess what The Shadow gets compared to often enough? Literally the very first line of the very first book where we get to see him, this is how we are introduced to him:

So the premise here is that we are taking a character who is defined by her fundamental opposition to death with every fiber of her being, who understands death on a level no other human being does, who is traumatized and hard-wired to detest death at all costs and to choose suicide over it, and asking her to team up with The Grim Reaper.

Even if he received the most abject lesson conceivable on the sheer wrongness of murder, even if he does put down the guns around Cass out of respect for her, he cannot protect his agents and others if he cannot shoot or kill those who try to harm them, and the protection of the agents is absolutely non-negotiable and not at all something he's willing to fuck around with by trying out gadget kung fu superhero alternatives. The Shadow has chosen to throw his life away for their sake time and time again, and no matter how appaling or disgusting Cass finds his deeds, even if he concedes that she's right and should be right on all accounts and that he is fundamentally a monster who has no right to judge others, he would not concede on his mission and he would make it very clear she would have to put him down violently to stop him from protecting others this way, and death has not stopped him before.

And to be upfront in case there's anyone who doubts it, Cass would kick The Shadow's ass, if they had to fight. She is the strongest fighter in the DCU, she lives and breathes fighting and combat in a way no one else does. And The Shadow's not one of those characters who is supposed to be invincible and the best at everything all the time always, he can and does lose fights and scrapes to people far less adept at it than Cass. He's a great fighter, obviously, he hauls bigger men than him through doors and was disabling people with Vulcan neck pinches decades before Spock, and he would definitely have an edge in other areas, but he's out of his league here. Frankly, I don't see The Shadow raising a finger against Cass unless she's been brainwashed into killing people by bad writing. Not because she's a woman, that doesn't really stop him from dealing with evil. But because, for one, she's practically a child compared to him age-wise. Two, he'd obviously know beforehand of her capabilities and how futile it would be to fight or even provoke her. And three, the Shadow's whole thing is knowing. The Shadow Knows and all that. Knowing comes with understanding.

He'd understand very quickly that there is no way someone this young could grow so quickly into the world's greatest fighter without horrific treatment that no one should ever be subjected to. He'd see the movements too practiced and quick, the self-control, the strength and speed far beyond even the trained warriors he's seen, the places where she's been scarred and is good at covering it up. Assuming he doesn't already know about her life story, any meeting between the two would lead to him very quickly figuring out that there's something much deeper about her opposition to killing than just moral reservations, something deeper than Bruce's own gun trauma.

Denny O'Neil's 2nd Batman and Shadow story was about The Shadow secretly helping Bruce overcome gun trauma, and Bruce rejecting The Shadow's intentions to hand him a gun. And to make it clear, people tend to assume that The Shadow only helps people for utilitarian reasons, which is not true as I've tried to demonstrate many times now. I don't want to convey that he would want to help Cass overcome her trauma just so she could be more efficient or something, absolutely no, he'd help her because he helps people in any way he can. I think a story with The Shadow and Cass might involve a similar premise, The Shadow understanding that she has been traumatized very deeply by death and refuses to accept it on any terms, trying to help her overcome it, only to learn that she does not want to "learn" anything she doesn't already know, that she has weaponized her trauma into a source of strength, and wishes nothing more than to help others with it.

And here's where we get to the part that allows the two to be on less antagonistic terms, because one thing that also very strongly defines Cass, at least the Cass I like reading most, is her stubborn, almost desperate need to believe in the best of people, that people can and will change for the better. Like The Shadow, her strength too is knowing, it's perception, the things that she knows about people that words cannot convey. Just as there are many things The Shadow would grow to understand about her that others would not, there would be many things that The Shadow would not be able to conceal from her. Things that no one but her would figure out. Things that, despite her age and lack of experience compared to him, he would have to defer to her knowledge on, which reverses the usual dynamic The Shadow has with people. And perhaps one aspect of that reversal, it's that maybe it's she who winds up secretly manipulating The Shadow into overcoming a deeper issue.

Cass's perspective on killing is shaped not just through trauma, but from a painfully intimate understanding of not just what happens to someone at the time of death, but the cost of murder upon the human soul, the ways it warps people into things they never should have been. Killing is a deeply, deeply serious matter, much more so than fiction seems ever willing to go into. Of course we suspend disbelief for fiction, there's nothing wrong with that, but if a story starts asking questions, starts poking holes into fantasies, they should not be disregarded.

And so it begs a question: How has it affected The Shadow? Is he really as remorseless as he appears to be? Is the fact that he's only killing evil people really of that much use? What's the cost of living as someone who has to know so much about so much evil in so many hearts? Knowledge never comes without price, and knowing evil is his tagline. When he enlists Harry Vincent, he makes it very clear that he has lost lives as he has saved them. From when is that regret coming from? What lives did he lose then? Is he saving people by damning his soul or merely prolonging the inevitable by piling corpses on another end of the scale?

If there's a character that could meaningfully start bringing these questions forth, who could ever truly get The Shadow to stop and reveal things to the audience he never would otherwise, maybe Cass could be that character. A girl who was raised to be a monster, who is treated as a monster and an aberration in-universe (and even outside of it), and turned that into a strength she uses to help others, who cares about everyone and refuses to let others be dehumanized as she was. Who better to know what lurks in the Shadow's heart?

Sometimes when I get an ask, I bullshit my way through infodump walls of text until I can structure it into something vaguely resembling a point. And sometimes, and I know it sounds crazy, but sometimes I get a very, very clear word on my mind related to it before I start writing, that almost seems to be a beacon pointing where I need to get to, and I work my way into getting there. Once you sent me an ask about crossing over The Shadow with Cassandra Cain, the word that came to mind the very second was Language.

It's an interesting relation the two have with language. Language is of course a very substantial part of Cass's character, who does not process language and linguistic development the way most people do, and instead reads body language to the point of superpower. Many stories revolve around Cass's relation to the concept of language, the help she may require from others in getting around things beyond her upbringing, and ways in which she has mastered beyond anyone's scope. Though she is mute, language is her power, what makes her what she is, and she is someone that Batman freely admits could kick his ass if she ever felt like it.

For The Shadow, language is also his power. He speaks all languages and connects allies all over the world, he is an expert ventriloquist, he is able to project his voice beyond what's physically possible, he can imitate voices perfectly to the point of being able to conduct group conversations single-handedly well enough to fool even the people whose voices he's imitating, much of his presence and terror and manipulation are done through his voice, arguably the very reason he exists in the first place is entirely because a radio actor's voice performance was so good and captivating that it tricked people into thinking the character was a real star and not just a glorified narrator. The man you cannot see, but only hear, the perfect hero for radio. And then of course the laugh, which I have a whole separate post on and which, in many ways, acts as a substitute for language in the novels. He uses the laugh so often as a substitute for statements or words, even to himself, that it's pretty much his own personal language. And language is at the core of how he deals with people, as he knows the right language to use to manipulate and move and help them. He knows what to promise, what to reveal, what to omit. He knows what to say, how to say it, when to say it. Language is the strings by which he puppeteers the world around him (and he can talk to animals, at least of one kind).

The Shadow and Cassandra Cain have mastered two different types of Language as throughly as anyone can possibly master them. The Shadow can talk a group of hardened criminals into killing themselves, Cassandra can punch a heart into stopping without killing it. The Shadow echoes his voice "through everywhere and nowhere at once" to whip crowds of thugs into frenzies, Cassandra outraces missiles and was tanking bullets as a child. The Shadow can lie and usurp lives so masterfully to fool even the families of those he's passing off as, Cassandra is a living lie detector who gleams inner conversations from miniscule reactions. The Shadow can speak every language known, Cassandra is the greatest master of the world's most universal language other than music. The two are supposedly human, but every now and then, something comes along to call that into question because of the things they can achieve. They cannot hide secrets from each other the way they do to everyone else. They are driven by a deep desire to help others, to make something out of the circumstances of their lives. To weaponize that which dictates they should be evil and monstrous into a relentless force of good.

Language is the root of understanding. And if nothing else, as impossible as a conciliation of their approaches to crimefighting may be, I think there could be an unique understanding between the two. Perhaps, and this is a bit crazier a concept but one that seems to be where I might have been heading towards all along, even Cassandra Cain finding a calling away from the frayed dynamics of the Batfamily, away from the Bat's looming presence, to become The Shadow's successor, swearing to uphold a mission of justice through non-lethal tactics while he stays on the backseat guiding her. If The Shadow could trust the safety of his agents and the protection of the innocent at the hands of someone as capable and selfless and good-natured as Cassandra, I think he'd be all too happy to be able to trust someone in such a manner, to no longer be the Master of Darkness, but instead to serve the next generation that's weaponized darkness without submerging in it. To achieve, and perhaps return, to his strongest, highest self: A disembodied voice heard, but not seen. Once again the narrator, not the star.

It's a concept I've thought about very extensively for the years I've been a Shadow fan, but now it occurs to me that, if I had to appoint a successor of The Shadow, someone who could take up the mission but shine on their own right, even improve it with the right guidance and circumstances, it would be Cassandra Cain. The Orphan, The Shadow of the Batgirl. Daughter of the greatest assassins, meant to be the world's most lethal murderer, instead pivoted to being one of it's greatest heroes, but never allowed to shine as she should. But in the darker, less restrictive and wilder world of pulp heroes, in The Shadow's world, a beacon would shine all the harder. Perfect strengths attached to perfect opposites, joined together for a greater good, unstoppable after together having weaponized that which most take for granted: the power of language to move worlds.

[avintagekiss24]

SUNBEAMS & RHYTHMS || STEVE ROGERS; BUCKY BARNES

pairing: Steve Rogers x blind!black!reader x Bucky Barnes || word count: 5,414 || warnings: mentions of depression, mentions of anxiety, mentions of insomnia, mentions of suicidal/dark thoughts, mentions of surgery/side effects of surgery (seizures/medications), smut, sex, threesome (m/m/f), polyandry/polyamory || challenge: @jbbarnesnnoble​​ mental health awareness month writing challenge - “the warmth of the sun fell over you like a blanket in the middle of winter.”

author’s note: this was such a great challenge, but please heed the warnings! we’re dealing with some sensitive issues in this one. I hope you guys like, and I also hope that I’ve handled this correctly! this is my first time writing a disabled reader. let me know what you think please :) and thank you all so much for all of the love since I've been back from my little hiatus! major inspiration from this post. I’m also getting used to a new laptop, so if there’s any weirdness in this post that’s why, lmaooo. okay, I'm done talking, enjoy!

The room is shrouded in darkness - but not that you’d notice anyway. Your body is covered by the thick duvet thrown over the bed, your face buried in your hands. A splitting headache forces your eyes closed, but you’re used to them. The headaches. They started a few years ago, out of nowhere - you just thought it was stress, or, maybe not getting enough sleep at night. You didn’t pay them any attention at first.

They got worse. They got to the point where you couldn’t get out of bed. Your vision would get blurry. Steve suggested a doctor - you said no, it’s just a migraine. You’d be fine. He insisted after a few more months went by, and your headaches got worse, your vision worse.

You still remember it like it was yesterday. You sat there, stunned into silence. Your whole body numb. Steve grabbed your left hand, Bucky your right, as the room started to spin - the doctor's voice fading away as she spoke. Brain tumor. It was so large now that it was pressing on your optic nerves, making you slowly go blind. Within months, purples and greens and blues and pinks were all replaced by nothing. Not even black - it was just nothing.

The last clear thing you remember seeing were the tears in Steve’s eyes and Bucky’s metal arm thrown over your hip as he held you tight. You had to squint to make everything out, but Steve’s eyes were shiny - cloudy - as the emotion trickled down his cheeks. You wiped them away slowly with your thumb as you tried to etch his face in your mind so you’d never forget it. You wanted each line, each crinkle, each little freckle to be ingrained in you. You’d already spent hours staring at Bucky, doing the same.

You made them smile - soft ones, toothy ones, lopsided ones, just so you could remember them. Both men obliged, although Steve clearly couldn’t stuff his grief and anger down as well as Bucky could. Bucky was angry with him at first - telling him to stay strong for you. Surgery wasn’t going to be easy, mentally, emotionally, physically - they needed to stay strong for you. You told him not to be so hard on Steve. You were all dealing with the death - of the person you were, your relationship as it was - he was allowed to grieve.

You woke up from the surgery a few days later, tumor free, but almost completely blind.

Everything was just different from that point on. The medication after the surgery did a number on you. The steroids made you irrationally angry and agitated. Insomnia kicked in, you couldn’t sleep for days on end, so they prescribed you a sleeping aid. You couldn’t tell if it were day or night, so on top of the insomnia, your circadian rhythm was fucked - more medication. Your balance was off, you were confused more times than you weren’t, you had a seizure or two - bad ones.

That’s when the depression seeped in. You missed who you used to be. You were fun. You were wild - that’s how you ended up in a relationship with two men in the first place. You had a great laugh. You couldn’t hold your liquor for shit, and you had a great sense of style. You loved everything and everyone and now, you’re just a shell of that person. You end up laying in bed most of the day, days on end, as dark thoughts swarm around you, consuming the last spots of light you have left.

You’re a burden to them, Steve and Bucky. They’ve both had to leave the team, not wanting to be far from you in case something happened. Steve turned his shield over to Sam immediately upon hearing the news. Bucky stayed on for a while longer but wouldn’t leave the country, until even that was too much for him. He’s been home full time for a few weeks now.

The headaches now are from the new crippling anxiety and stress that you live with constantly. You don’t bother to put on anything but old t-shirts and sweats because, what’s the point? You can’t even remember what your favorite clothes look like. One afternoon, in a fit of rage, you pulled every article of clothing from the hanger and made Bucky tell you what color it was before you threw it away. You could only imagine him standing there, his hands on his hips, his head down, his voice low as he rattled them off - red, pink, yellow with white polka dots, navy blue and white stripes.

Between the irrational anger, the headaches, the insomnia, the feeling that your floundering - sinking just below the endless, dark water - you just want to give up. You just want to close your eyes and float away. Make it all end.

You hear the door slide across the carpet as it opens, and then heavy steps before a massive weight presses into the mattress. The duvet starts to shift but you grab it, stopping it from sliding off of your head and groan loudly.

“Bucky,” you whine, “Please don’t.”

He chuckles, “How d’you know it was me?”

His body wash. You used to laugh at the differences between the two of them - like day and night almost; but their juxtaposition is what made them, them. Bucky always went for earthy tones; rich - scents and colors alike. Naturally, his preferred body wash was heavier than Steve’s, distinctly masculine. Steve always liked a hint of sweet.

“Baby,” Bucky’s voice is soft and airy, “You gotta get up.” You don’t respond. You draw your knees into your chest as you feel him shift behind you, “Come on baby. We have a surprise for you.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

You can sense the smile on his face. He shifts again and suddenly you feel those metal digits slide up your spine. Slowly, slowly, slowly, they creep along your back and up to the back of your neck where he scratches at your hairline. You hate how short it is, your hair. You were natural before, took the utmost care of it. Steve helped you shave it off before surgery. Now, between the medication making it brittle and quite frankly, the lack of care you have, Steve helps you keep it short.

You let out a breath as Bucky’s large hand sweeps over your head, cupping it underneath the duvet before his digits find your ear to pull gently, playfully on the lobe, “Please? For me?”

You sigh. You let him pull the duvet away from your face. You start to blink quickly; jump slightly when you suddenly feel his lips on your cheek. You’re still not used to it yet, your senses aren’t - they’re getting stronger, you just have to trust them. You can hear your therapist's words like she’s sitting in the room with you. You relax though, when his cheek rubs against yours as he wraps your body up in a tight hug. You even smile a little as he kisses down your neck and along your shoulder as he rubs your hip.

You reach for him, finding his chin with your fingers. The short hair that grows along the bottom half of his face is prickly - sharp. You walk your fingers along his jawline and cup his cheek as he moans into the crook of your neck.

“Where’s Steve?” You ask softly.

“Packing up the car.”

You roll slightly onto your back, blinking at the nothingness as your fingers still move along Bucky’s face. You raise your second hand, sliding it along his left cheek, feeling him. You push your fingers over his lips, tracing them as you try and figure out what he’s feeling. Your hands move upward, over his nose, up to his eyes where you feel the crinkles on either side of them. He’s smiling; it’s a big one.

“Steve is really excited.” He says.

You picture an excited Steve. The light that fills his brilliant, blue eyes, the whiteness of his toothy grin. God, you miss his face, “Where are we going?” You ask after a moment.

There’s another kiss pressed to your cheek before he sits up, gently pulling your arms with him, “That’s the surprise.”

You let him pull you up to your feet. There’s footsteps again, coming down the hall, “Buck,” Steve says.

“She’s up.”

You turn your head in the direction of the door, dropping your chin to your shoulder, listening as the steps draw nearer. You close your eyes again and let another small smile spread on your lips when you feel soft fingers, Steve’s fingers, start to massage your shoulders. He kisses the back of your head and then your temple.

“Feelin’ better?” He whispers.

“Not really,” you answer honestly. You’ve never lied to them, there’s no use in starting now.

Silence drops over the room. You’re sure that they’re exchanging a quiet conversation, their eyes bouncing back and forth between each other, “Guys?”

“Still here,” Bucky answers, “Hands up, let’s get you dressed.”

You oblige, lifting your arms over your head as he pulls his old t-shirt away from your body, “I can dress myself.”

“Just let us help you.” Steve says gently, his hands slipping into the sides of your sweats to push them down your legs, “You know we’ve always liked pampering you.”

That they have. It’s been a long time since you’ve let them. Their hands feel familiar but yet different - you weren’t really paying attention to the feel of them before. Now that it’s all you have, the feel, you notice the difference between the two of them. Steve’s hands are a little softer than Bucky’s, but he hasn’t worked in over a year, that’s what you suppose anyway. Punching people and gripping various guns and knives are killer on the hands.

Once you’re stripped naked, Bucky places your arms back by your sides. You feel Bucky’s hands (his are calloused still) on yours within seconds, then, a slick material against your fingers.

You squint, “Is that a bathing suit?”

“It is. Your favorite one. Remember what it looks like?”

“The blue one?”

“With the polka dots.” He presses it into your palm, letting you feel it, “The strapless one, that sinches in the middle of your chest.”

You smile a little as you run your fingers over it. The stomach is cut out, the waist high. You liked it because it made your ass and your boobs look incredible, “I love this one.”

He kneels in front of you, grabbing your hand and placing it on his shoulder as Steve places his hands on your hips - steadying you, in more ways than one. Bucky lifts your left leg by your ankle and helps you step into your bathing suit, then moves to the right foot, sliding the soft material up your legs. Once his hands reach your waist, Steve takes over, grabbing the suit and pulling it up the rest of the way, up over your chest. He kisses your neck as you adjust the top over your breasts.

“Thank you.” You offer gently.

Steve pushes your hands above your head again and slips something soft down your arms and over your head. Bucky grabs it and pulls it down your body, adjusting it slightly as you place your hands on your chest - feeling it. It’s a cover up, the white one you think; the one you got on your vacation in Maui. It has a stain on it. Steve knocked over the bottle of red wine the three of you were enjoying as the two of you danced on the patio of your ocean front room, Bucky watching you with a small, happy smile on his face.

“I like this one,” you say more to yourself than to them, “It makes my legs look long.”

“Your legs are long.” Steve chuckles, “Come on, shoes now.”

Once you're fully dressed, Steve takes your hand, starting to guide you towards the door. You slip out of his grasp, taking a breath, “I can do it.”

It’s thirty seven steps from here to the kitchen. That’s when you make a right and take fifteen more steps to make it to the garage door. From there, it’s five steps to the car, unless it’s backed out into the driveway - then it's between twenty two and twenty seven steps, depending on just where it’s parked. You’re getting the hang of things, no matter how much you hate it.

You feel them hovering behind you as you walk but they both respect your boundaries, letting you navigate the house without intervention. You slide your hands along the side of the car to the door handle and pull, the old door creaking just a little. Bucky isn’t much of a car guy, but Steve? This 1967 Chevy Impala was the only thing he and Tony could talk about without fighting. Steve gushed over it every time the three of you had dinner with Tony and Pepper. Then, one day, it was parked in front of the house with a simple note from Tony shoved underneath the windshield wipers - Capsicle, much like your face, I can’t stand to look at this any longer. Enjoy.

You slide into the seat and within seconds feel their thick bodies enveloping you, squeezing you between the two of them. The seat rumbles against your back as the car comes to life, the engine and mufflers loud as… you lift your hand to the shoulder on your left and run it the length of his arm, down to his wrist, gripping slightly as you go. It’s Steve, his arms are just a tad longer than Bucky’s you’re coming to find; more vascular.

You squint as the car backs down the driveway and the sun hits your face. You lift your hand, blocking the rays as you start to fumble around in front of you. You’re surprised at how sensitive your eyes have become to the UV rays. There’s a hand on yours, then your glasses pressed into your palm, the fingers not pulling away until you unfold them and slip them onto your face.

“Good?” Bucky asks.

You nod, “Good.”

The windows are down, the warm breeze whipping around you, caressing your skin. The radio is turned up - Dreams by Fleetwood Mac - as you drive. Bucky hums softly, his metal fingers linking with yours, his lips pressing against your temple every now and again. Steve taps along to the beat with his fingers against your bare, exposed knee before he squeezes it gently. You smile as you start to relax, Steve’s words coming back to you. Just let us help you. You know we’ve always liked pampering you.

You drive for a while, over an hour maybe. Then, the car slows as you turn and stays slow, creeping almost, like Steve’s looking for something. The car turns again and comes to a stop a second or two later. The engine dies, the two buff bodies shift away from you as the doors pop open. There’s a tap on your right shoulder. You reach out and feel on the forearm until you find a hand, Bucky, before he grabs tightly and helps you out.

“I’m gonna help you, okay?” His voice is soft as he rubs his chin against your shoulder.

“Okay.” You answer. You turn your head to your left and blink quickly, anxiety starting to rush through your veins from the unfamiliarity of your surroundings, “Steve?”

“Right here, baby.” His voice is soft too. You feel his fingertips brush along the inside of your left wrist, just to assure you he’s close, “You’re okay. I had to get the bags.”

Bucky slips his arm around your waist and keeps your hand in his as he guides you. You count each step. Bucky narrates every move - that you are in a garage, just about to enter a house. You’re in a small hallway, seven steps before a left turn, then you’re in the kitchen. There’s an island to your left, a kitchen table with four chairs on your right and if you keep walking straight, you’re in the living room. He lets you feel your way, reaching out to touch the walls, the backs of the chairs, the island, as he talks.

You stop when Bucky stops, and then hear something slide open before the sounds of water crashing fills your ears. You’re back outside, the warmth of the sun falling over you like a blanket in the middle of winter. A hand slips down your calf and wraps around your ankle before your foot is lifted and your shoe removed. A broad smile covers your face. You haven’t been to the beach since the diagnosis.

You take a step forward once you’re barefoot, one of them grabbing your wrist quickly, “There’s steps, babe.” Bucky says.

“How many?”

“Six.” Steve answers, “Here let me-”

“I got it.” You say dancing your fingers over the railing and taking small, cautious steps until you feel the first step, “I got it.”

They’re hovering again. You can’t see it, but Steve has both hands extending out on either side of you, ready to catch you if you stumble. Bucky jumps the railing entirely, landing softly in the sand and rushes to the bottom step, his eyes on you as you move down them slowly.  When you step into the hot sand, your smile grows - if that’s even possible. You wiggle your toes as the grains slip between them and the waves continue to crash not far from where you stand.

Steve and Bucky keep their small distance from you as you walk towards the ocean’s edge, knowing you're close when the sand changes from loose and dry to stiff and wet. The water washes up over your feet, the smell of salt fills your nostrils, the random calls of seagulls both near and far ring in your ears. You grab the hem of your cover up and pull it over your head, discarding it onto the ground without a care as you move deeper into the water - a new purpose, new life flowing through your veins.

You don’t feel them hovering anymore. You guess they’ve both stopped at the water’s edge, soft smiles on their faces as they watch a wave crash into you, making you stumble. You laugh, loud and carefree, as you fall on your butt, the strength of the water pushing you around slightly. You don’t know it, but Bucky’s smile widens and Steve’s chin trembles as they watch you find a meaning again.

Tilting your head to the sky, you run your wet hands over your head before you wrap them around your legs, bringing them into your chest. You let the sun beat down on you. You let the water wash over you. You let the tears come. You let them slide down your cheeks and fall into the water. You let the ocean carry all of your tears, sadness, anxiety, and depression away from you and out into the abyss. You don’t want it back.

You lay out underneath the sun for hours, making peace with yourself, becoming one with the sand, water, and sun. Steve and Bucky keep a watchful eye until you call for them. Then, and only then do they approach, hands and fingers and lips all over your damp skin. They lay with you, staring up into the sky and calling out the shapes of the clouds. They play with you, splashing water in your face and pinching and tickling your sides as the three of you laugh loudly. Wildly.

You feel like yourself again.

When the sun sets, and the breeze rolling off of the water turns chilly, making chills run through you and bumps pop up on your skin, the three of you head back inside. Door dash brings you a quick dinner, which you all inhale before heading back into the bedroom to bathe. Bathtubs are rarely big enough for the three of you, but you always make it work - sitting in Bucky’s lap, your back to his chest, Steve at the other end.

Steve shaves your legs slowly, dropping kisses on the inside of your ankle as Bucky massages the shampoo into your short hair. Bucky taps underneath your chin before he pushes his index finger into it softly, tilting your head back. He pours warm water over your hair, sweeping his hand through it to push the suds away. Just let us help you. You know we’ve always liked pampering you.

You stay in the tub with your boys until the water runs cold. You’re wrapped up in a warm, fluffy towel, Bucky rubbing his hands up and down your arms trying to warm you up as you shiver and laugh at yourself. A song starts to play from somewhere in the house, slightly muffled as the sound passes through the walls and down the halls. Dream A Little Dream Of Me. The duet between Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes were long replaced by Captain America and The Winter Soldier by the time this version came out, but they love it all the same. It reminds them of home, they tell you.

You’re suddenly crushed against one of them - Steve. You know this because you run your hands along his chest to his shoulder, not feeling the jagged, deep scar where Bucky’s flesh meets metal. He grabs your small hand and places it to his chest as he sways with you, back and forth, turning in slow circles as Louis croons.

Stars fading, but I linger on, dear

Still craving your kiss

I'm longing to linger till dawn, dear

Just saying this

Steve spins you away from him and Bucky finds you, wrapping you up in his arms - an arm slung around your waist, fingers spread against your naked back as he holds your hand. You melt into him, humming softly as your toes brush against his, the soft sounds of your feet pushing along the hardwood floor beneath you adding a natural soundtrack.

Steve’s hands find your shoulders from behind. He presses his thumbs into your flesh as he squeezes and rubs slowly, his lips peppering your jaw and down your neck, “You’re so tense, baby.” He whispers.

“Depression will do that to you,” you chuckle, your new humor darker than what either one of them are used to. You feel them both stiffen at your words, hear a sad sigh from behind you, “Sorry. It was just a joke.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Bucky says, “We want to know what you're feeling, good, bad or indifferent. You don’t have to joke with us.”

You take a breath. You rest your head on his chest and start to chew on your bottom lip, “I know.” Your voice is small.

Defense mechanism.

You fight the urge to cry. Your eyes start to water, your skin starts to flush with heat, your jaw gets tight. Steve grabs the back of your neck gently as he kisses your shoulder blade gently, just wanting you to feel him. Bucky keeps dancing with you as the tears start to fall, cupping the back of your head in his large hand as he pushes his lips to your forehead.

What is it your therapist says? You aren’t in this alone, or something like that. You never believed her, or those words - until right now. Right in this moment. It’s been a year of self imposed loneliness. Dark thoughts accompanied by even darker impulsions of wanting to slip underneath the water and never resurface. Fear and anxiety telling you that you need to push away - they’ll both leave you one day for a resemblance of normalcy again.

They haven’t.

They won’t.

The days have turned into weeks, have turned into months - and here they are. Slow dancing with you in the moonlight as Ella Fitzgerald plays through the walls. Bucky wipes at your cheek with his thumb, pushing the emotion away. He nuzzles his cheek against yours as you reach up and scratch at the nape of his neck to calm yourself, “We aren’t going anywhere, doll.” He whispers.

“We promise.” Steve adds on.

You let out a breath that you didn’t know you were holding. Bucky tilts your head towards his and without a warning, his lips cover yours. Soft. Commanding. His velvet tongue massaging yours as Steve bites down on your shoulder.

The sheets of the bed are soon mangled and twisted, pillows cast to the floor as you writhe beneath Bucky’s heavy body. Your leg is thrown over his hip, your fingernails dig into his thick flesh, the tips of his long, soft, dark hair brushing over your face. You have your other arm draped over his neck as his hips push into yours, driving himself deeper and deeper into you. Your mouth hangs, as does his - lips brushing against each other, hot breath washing over each other's skin as you push your foreheads together.

Steve waits patiently, although his fingers dance over your breasts, his palms brushing over your nipples before he palms your skin. He squeezes and gropes before he sends his hand down your stomach and to your clit to rub gentle circles against it as Bucky pummels you. He’s on his side, his nose and forehead pressed against the side of your face, his bottom lip between his teeth before he nips at your jaw and chin.

He tears your hand away from Bucky’s body to grab his hard length, dragging your palm with his, down his shaft. He’s so warm. His tip wet from his arousal.

It’s been a long while since the three of you have made love. It’s been a long while since you’ve felt beautiful enough too. You hadn’t realized how much of your self esteem was wrapped up in your hair until you had to shave it off. You also weren’t sure if you’d like it the way you used to - handle it with the same confidence you once had. Not being able to see them - see their hard muscles and their strained faces while in the throws of passion. That’s what turned you on.

Not anymore.

It’s the way you can tell them apart without having to see them. It’s the feel of their bodies now, not the sight of them. How rough and dominant Bucky’s hips are in your darkness, how sweet and loving Steve’s touch is. Their sounds; both deep and desperate for you. How the sounds vibrate against your ear drums and skin, moving through you - the illicit response your body has to them - the sounds.

You slam your head back into the pillow as Bucky pulls out of you. You pant and moan as you arch your back from the mattress as they shift around. Steve’s lips, you know their Steve’s because they’re rushed; always rushing, rushing, rushing like he’s still a man running out of time, push against your stomach, light kisses moving down to your sex. He bends your legs back, your feet dangling by his ears as he nibbles on the inside of your thigh.

Bucky grabs your hand just as Steve pushes his nose through your folds and sucks you into his mouth. Bucky moves your hand down his hard stomach to his pulsing hips. You wrap your hand around his warmth and feel him pump up into it, a little grunt falling from his lips at the same time.

Steve hums as his tongue swirls around you, flicking and lapping at you as his index and middle fingers push into your cunt. You buck your hips into his face, using all of him, his chin, his lips, his nose to cop a feel as he sucks on you. He releases your flesh with a loud smack - then drags his wet mouth the length of your thigh, up to your knee, and along your calf as he sits up on his knees. He extends your leg, resting it against his chest and shoulder as he sucks your manicured toes into his mouth, his large hand caressing your calf.

Bucky growls as he sucks your taut nipple into his mouth and wraps his metal fingers around your throat. He then kisses your mouth, hard and desperate, moaning into you as he continues to push his hips into your warm hand and against your side. He squeezes, gently, slowly, causing you to gasp just as Steve pushes into your wet, slick, swollen cunt.

You groan into Bucky’s hot mouth as Steve starts to move. His thrusts are softer, gentler than Bucky’s - always have been. He keeps your leg curled over his shoulder, his lips peppering kisses along your ankle and calf, his other hand and fingers gripping your thigh. The cool metal of Bucky’s fingers skip over your hot skin, down between your breasts and to your stomach before he flattens his palm against you, pushing down to add some pressure.

Bucky bites your bottom lip, pulling softly before he lets go. He nuzzles back into the side of your face, the stubble on his cheek cutting across your skin. He wraps his hand around yours that still pumps his cock and glides it slowly up and down, up and down, up and down as he moans into your ear; heavy, hot breath caressing your neck and the side of your face.

Steve hits a spot; your toes curl. Your hips jerk - your muscles tense. Fingers begin to massage your clit, slow, slow, slow circles to draw out the sensation. Teeth nibble at your ear lobe. Fingers glance across your skin. Mouths and lips take turns on yours. Steve drives his hips harder and faster - pushing, pulling, pushing, pulling. Bucky breaths fire laced words, provoking you, prodding you, coercing you to just let it all go…

You shatter. It consumes every bit of you. Physically. Emotionally. Their hands and fingers are everywhere, gripping, pinching, holding as you come. Steve pulls out of you - he always liked to watch you come, how your sticky, swollen sex convulses with each contraction from your orgasm, your clit jumping. He pushes his fingers back through your folds as he pushes his cock inside of you again, also loving the squeeze.

You feel hot, quick bursts of silk, over and over, splash against your stomach. Bucky groans with each, right up against your ear, the sound vibrating through your entire body.

Heat then blooms inside of you - Steve. Your muscles constrict around him, pulling each warm, thick ribbon of cum from him, coating your walls. He pushes deep and grabs your hand, placing it right in the middle of his chest so you can feel his muscles tense and flex as he comes. Feel the soft rumble of the grunts that vibrate through his chest. Feel his heart.

He collapses beside you, your body bouncing against the mattress as his weight pushes against it. The three of you are nothing but heavy breaths and balmy skin. Eyelashes resting against your cheeks as your eyes close with the recession of your lust. A head rests on your chest. You lift your hand and slip your fingers through the tresses, finding them short and kind of wispy - Steve.

Metal fingers curl within yours, a sturdy leg thrown over your thighs. A hand splays across your chest. Lips connect with your shoulders and jaw - fingers massage and scratch at your scalp softly. It’s all a blur. The haze won’t let your brain try and figure out who is who; but maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s what you need. You don’t need to know. You can let go some of the control that you’ve been so desperately searching for.

You inhale deeply; and let out the breath you’ve been holding for over a year.

Your delicate fingers are lifted and pressed against hot lips - each digit receiving a kiss before being placed on a chest. The thump thump thump of a heart beat drums against them. You let out another breath as you nuzzle into their heavy bodies, soft I love you’s passing back and forth. There’s a faint skip of the record player down the hall. The soft whoosh of the breeze playing with the open curtains that cover the windows. Three bodies huddled in the center of the bed; just breathing.

In and out.

In and out.

In and out.

[thepoodlepack]

What's wrong with goldenpoodles? I'm genuinely curious because almost all of my dogs are mixed breeds and behave fine. So I'm curious if there's something else I'm missing

jeez this feels like bait but u kno what, you got me

alright, so it goes like this. the doodle really began with a guy in australia being like i need the temperament of a lab for a guide dog but these ppl are allergic to dogs, so i need a poodle bc they have hair, not fur. so he bred em together. years later he’s like damn that was a mistake.

now, why, exactly? alright so first of all he only needed that mix bc labs on average tend to adapt better to situations that are largely exclusive to service dog work than poodles do. i can go into what this means at a later date, but that’s basically how it is. but either way, people jumped on this creation and it kinda spiraled out of control. soon, poodles were being bred by everyone and every breed. suddenly, they were a marketing scam more then they were a dog breed.

oh theyre hypoallergenic! all of them, all the time cause zero allergies! look theyre so much better than poodles! theyre friendly and easy to train, not like poodles of course, just like labs! they’re better than labs bc none of them shed, ever! they’re super healthy bc breeding labs and poodles together wipes out all their health problems, of course!

lies, lies lies. the aussie guy, whose name i’m not going to look up bc i’m lazy but who you can find if you google creator of doodles, straight up says that even the first litter(s) of labradoodles he bred had puppies that the people he bred them for were allergic to. he very carefully tested the litter and the reaction the person had before placing a puppy that was not going to hurt them.

think of the punnet squares we all learned about in 5th grade science class. you draw the squares and one parent has two fur genes and the other parent has two hair genes and what do you get? well if you have four puppies, one might have hairhair and the next one might have hairfur and the next one might have furhair and the next one might have furfur. and so guess what? only hairhair pup is going to be the best choice for allergic people. additionally, you can see why the non-shedding thing can be bullshit, and that in particular is also a guessing game. you may be able to test allergy sufferers against the pups, but that does not necessarily mean they won’t shed. hairfur, for example, may be a good choice for some allergic people, but perhaps they’ve got just enough fur to shed anyway. also, lets look at salukis (and frankly, most long-haired sighthounds). salukis are still considered dogs with fur, not hair. they also still shed, even though it’s just a little. and yet they’re still considered good for allergy sufferers.

(ps poodles do actually shed. but they shed like humans shed. your hair comes out, doesn’t it? like, esp folks with long hair, aren’t people always complaining how you clog the shower drain? yeah, like that. ALSO obviously the situation is more complicated then super simple punnet squares and as an ex-groomer i have something to say about doodle coats but i’m going to save that for later, put a pin in it.)

oh and wait a hot minute there. i said best choice, didn’t i, not hypoallergenic. well, that’s because no dog is hypoallergenic. poodles, and a few other dog breeds, they have hair, like we do. but the thing is both humans and breeds with hair still produce the dander, though they’re different kinds. breeds with hair happen to produce the least amount possible that dogs can produce, which is why they’re a better choice for allergy sufferers, but that’s still not a guarantee. my roommate Dakota is allergic to dogs. if i don’t wash my dogs for an extended period of time (which has never happened, ever, in my life, idk what ur talking about), thus giving the chance for the dander my dogs still produce, he will have a very, very mild reaction when touching them. it can be countered by him washing his hands after touching them and also me just giving them a fucking bath, i need to stop forgetting, but still, there you go. ALSO people might not be allergic to dogs bc of their dander. they might be allergic to the saliva of dogs, which poodles or any other breed with hair still produces about the same as other dogs. so, yeah, not hypoallergenic, not at all.

the people who taut their hypoallergenic dogs for sale largely don’t do the testing required to check if they’re actually providing a dog to someone who won’t react to it. not acceptable at all.

so, labs are friendly and easy to train right? not at all like poodles, right? no. absolutely incorrect. some labs are friendly and easy to train. some labs, a lot of them when they’re puppies, are nightmare fuel. personally, i have a theory that everyone’s vision of labs in their heads are either a) service dogs or b) those old labs who are slightly pudgy (or morbidly obsess, which is a different topic) and who are graying in the face and just want to lounge around because they’re seniors now. alright, so here’s why thats bad. labs are a working breed. a retrieving breed. they’re supposed to be bulky and strong and driven. service dogs are highly trained, to a point that most pet dogs will never see, and if you see them with their actual disabled handler, they’ll probably be around 2.5 yrs of age and out of their most wild days. old labs are well. old. sleepy. maybe a bit achey. and well out of their most wild days. oh, and it’s the same type of thing with goldens by the way, the other most popular doodle type. poodles are also easy to train, especially if their parents have a decent temperament. they’re all about equal if you actually start training them when they’re puppies and just pay for some training classes, like everyone should. in the puppy classes i’m in right now, Euphoria is leaps and bounds ahead of doodles, goldens, and labs that are her age or older. I train her properly and she’s got amazing parents. that’s it, that’s the trick. not breed, not necessarily, and def not in this case.

I am once again going to say that labs and goldens are more often used as service dogs than poodles because of their adaptability, but it’s the ability to adapt to situations that most pet dogs will never have to worry about.

jeez this is a long post. i’ve still got more to cover too. alright, on to super healthy, or “hybrid vigor” as the nerds call it. uhh, it’s bullshit. thank u for ur time.

okay, but actually why on gods green earth would breeding two completely different breeds with little to no research make them super healthy? now i want to preface this with i’m (generally) pro-outcross projects. Euphoria’s dad is half mini poodle and half standard poodle, which isn’t technically an outcross bc all the variations are of the same breed, but if we’re going by genetic diversity alone minis and standards are different enough to actually be different breeds.

so, to be clear, outcrosses, given the proper thought and planning: good, results in healthier dogs (see: lua dals). randomly breeding two very different breeds together with no planning other than to sell the puppies to randos who won’t continue the outcross: bad. especially when you’re doing it to cash in and don’t health test at all, or don’t health test the major health problems with both breeds (if you’re doing an f2 breeding or anything like that). no the poodle’s health problems don’t get canceled out by the goldens or labs or whatever the other party’s health problems are, and vice versa. and yeah, i’ve looked at a lot of doodle breeder’s websites and yeah, most of them don’t health test at all, or at least don’t health test properly. do you know i own one doodle and currently live with another? yeah, i got them both from breeders and do you know how much health testing their parents got? if your answer is none, good job, you’ve been paying attention. in my defense, i was like 13, i didn’t know what i was doing.

alright, so those are the big points. this is kinda gonna be just... a mix of my other complaints. here we go, hope you’re ready for more. argument the first: i feel like it’s pretty disrespectful to reputable breeders. now, i actually have two reasons why that is. reason one: most reputable poodle breeders don’t want their breeding stock bred with other breeds, for various reasons. i’ve even met a few who used to be okay with it and then as the doodle scam got bigger and more out of control, they stopped being okay with it, even to the breeders who they had been fine with it in the past. that means a lot of doodle breeders out there have their breeding stock because they scammed poodle breeders into giving them pet quality, not breeding quality, dogs or because they’re getting their stock from non-reputable breeders. i also feel it’s disrespectful to breeders who are actually trying to create new breeds. quite frankly, a breed with the size, strength, and adaptability of a lab or golden that doesn’t shed and that has the train-ability of a poodle, lab, or golden sounds pretty interesting to me. did you know you can actually make that breed? and it wouldn’t be a cross with unpredictable... well, everything. it would actually be a true dog breed.

Look at Silken Windhounds and Biewer Terriers who began both development in the 1980s. Biewer Terriers were recognized by the AKC this year, and Silken Windhounds still haven’t been. And yeah, that’s the problem isn’t it? Making a real new breed takes a lot of time, planning, and care. People would rather just cash in. I think it’s sad and I think it’s disrespectful to the breeders who do work so hard to make actual new breeds.

and finally, unpin being an ex-groomer goddamnit. guess what? doodles are awful to groom! they’re terrible on the grooming tables because people want to have in both ways: they want a dog that doesnt shed at all and they want a dog who doesn’t need to be groomed. well guess what, that dog doesn’t exist and you can have it only one way. and also, bring back the goddamn punnet squares because a lot of doodles have awful coats. if you have hairfur and furhair over there, guess what, their coat fucking sucks bc it’s not meant to be like that. it wants to mat bc hair but also it wants the mats to slide out bc short-ish fur but its too thick for the mats to slide out bc thick hair. and yes its more complicated then this and that means its often more awful then this. its awful, it makes me want to cry. and maybe it’s slightly easier to get away with it with a shorthaired dog like a lab, or, you know what, even a golden, okay, even a slightly long haired dog like a golden but people are doodling akitas? border collies? bernese fucking mountain dogs? i am crying. i am crying right now as i type this.

lets do a sum up to this disaster of a post. look, i don’t go out there attacking or yelling at every doodle or every doodle owner i see, alright? or any of them really. i might engage in conversation to one that’s interested, but that’s it. i love my doodly Isis, okay? shes tiny and she’s adorable and I love her more than life and i will never, ever get another doodle. i don’t like the way they’ve gotten so prolific, i don’t like the reasons they’re now widespread, and i don’t like almost all of the people that create them, including the ones i’ve literally given my (parents) money to in the past. i wish they were better but i just cannot approve of them, especially not in the environment they exist in now. that said, i do support them in their original use case as assistance dogs, and i do not care about them if they’re shelter dogs.

[neproxrezi]

Are you participating in the proposed dbd boycott to get them to do a game health update?

yeah, i wasn't sure at first caus "dont play the video game for a brief period" isn't going to work but "this company has put all its eggs in one basket and they are frankly quite neglectful of said basket, everyone stop buying anything ingame for 3 months" has me interested

more than 'fix the bugs' or anything else like that what i want to see out of the game is them being less god damn stingy with cosmetics (you should not have to pay $10 for ONE FUCKING COSMETIC) and addressing the grind. holy shit the grind in this game is so rough and it could be fixed fairly simply (i'm in favour of removing perk tiers, to cut a long post short)

hold on im gonna complain about dbd under a cut caus itll get long, i love this game so much but oh boy it has issues

it's been said a million times already but dbd's grind made more sense when there were like 4 or 5 characters per side, there are now over 20 and each new one introduces 3 perks to each side

I want to write about the grind in this game for a moment. There are 95 survivor perks in DBD. Every perk has three tiers. Some of them are great, and many are kind of pointless. Realistically, I'd bet you're only going to see about 15 of those perks in action in most of your games. However, if you unlock a perk to be taught to other survivors (which I tend to do even if I don't particularly want it, out of a mix of completionism and a 'may as well get it out of the way' kind of thing), you can't get rid of it. It's in your bloodwebs forever. 95 perks. 285 perk tiers. Let's talk about how long that takes to claim.

You buy a new character in the next chapter. You have every teachable perk unlocked. The new chapter really excited you, and you want to claim every perk on the new character (who I am going to name... Doug), so you saved a lot of bloodpoints in advance. In fact, you played for days and days and saved the cap, which is a million bloodpoints. You buy Doug, after much excited testing him out in the PTB. You spend all million points on Doug. Doug is now about level 35 to 40, out of 50. Hm. Well, time to keep playing. The bloodwebs kind of gave you a bunch of crap stuff on Doug, and you don't feel like running Power Struggle, Ace in the Hole, Babysitter and Breakdown, so you can't play Doug yet. You go play someone else.

Solo queuing as survivor is a mixed bag, and your games range from getting 10,000 bloodpoints (pretty rough game where everyone got wiped) to 27,000 (a great match, maybe with a bloodpoint offering). You save enough to get Doug to level 50. In the later levels, you start being able to get two perks a level instead of one. Let's say from level 1 to 50, you collect a total of 65 perks, because I don't remember exactly when it starts offering 2 per level. Okay, there are 220 perk levels left. Because of the game's propensity for giving you the same perk over and over to get you lots of perks at level 2 out of 3, of those 65 perk tiers you've probably got something like 20 to 25 actual perks. You're missing like, 70. Best case scenario, the ones you picked up include a lot of what you want. Most likely, you've got like half a good build and some gimmicky crap to slot in alongside it. Worst case scenario, which has happened to me plenty of times, you have like maybe one good perk and a pile of gimmicky crap. So. How long is it going to take you to get what you want?

There are 220 perk levels to go. After level 50, the webs are all the same size. It costs about 50,000 points to level up, and you get two perk levels per bloodweb. That's going to be 110 webs to get everything for Doug. Which is 5.5 million bloodpoints. Oh no. How many points were you earning per game again?

If you play with friends, you're probably going to do better. I find this to be true even if me and my friends are playing without voice comms or anything, because I just sort of know these people a bit better. I know my friend who mains Lisa Garland is a hook-diving bastard, so I don't need to go rescue anyone. Ace, god bless him, makes batshit altruistic plays, so I certainly don't need to go protect my teammates when he's out there doing things like this. I think I'm just going to sit on generators in the distance, think about our final gen spread, and try get us out of here. I'd say if I'm playing well, and accounting for offerings and WGLF stacks, with friends I average 30,000 a match and by myself I average 20,000. Playing killer I average more like 60,000, but playing killer is a bit stressful sometimes and I'm very indecisive about actually queuing up for it, so I probably actually get bp faster as survivor. I'm going to call the average per match across everything 25,000, because for every good game there are plenty where you underperform, or things just go drastically wrong. To earn 5.5 million points like that, you're going to have to play 220 matches. A game, including queue times and whatnot, can take ten to twenty minutes. That's... that's going to take a while. And that's ONE CHARACTER.

Now, on the survivor side you only really need to do this once. They're all just reskins of the same gameplay loop. On the killer side, you need to re-earn those perks for every new character you want to try out, because they're all different. Miiiiillions and millions of points. Hundreds of games. I have no problem with the game having a grind, but at this point it's absolute insanity.

In my opinion, removing perk tiers would cut the grind down to a reasonable level. There'd still be a grind, which I'm completely comfortable with existing, but it wouldn't be excruciatingly long, and you wouldn't have to spend as long dealing with bad perks.

HOWEVER, on top of that is the fact that they just. Holy shit the game updates slowly. I don't want to blame them for that in a way of like "these developers are incompetent and lazy", I really do love DBD to bits and I'm sure they do work very hard on it. That said, its update cycle is really slow. Reeaally slow. I wish they either had a bigger team, made balance updates faster (a handful of perk adjustments once every six weeks is... very very slow) or something to just try make the changes faster. Even when things do change it always feels so anxious and tentative, I wish they'd experiment more often. The time they disabled bloodlust to see what happened was really cool!

Yeah in short I just hope the grind gets addressed more than anything else, caus that's the part I actually think there's a relatively straightforward solution to. Also, I never got to play the older events where you could do shit like earn cosmetics, but they sounded way fucking cooler than the new ones. The halloween one last year was absolute shit, it's weird that their special events would get worse over time rather than better.

Buuut I agree with Scott Jund that the Resident Evil chapter was bad news for DBD's long term health because the one thing that would really give BHVR a kick up the ass is competition, and every time they land an amazing licensed chapter they become harder to compete with. They have an absolute monopoly on asymmetrical horror, and I honestly think the game would be in a better state right now if they had some competition >:[

[weebsinstash]

Lol sorry for the unsolicited advice but have you thought about learning to program? You'd probably only have to do a year or two of study and then you'd be well set up to get a job that pays more and has better working conditions. Just a thought :)

Yeah, I've thought about learning coding or something since those jobs are always hiring! I dont know if I would be competent at it though since I dunno, im shitty at math and sometimes my memory can be kind of poor

Though I'm going to be honest and say that for many years I have only planned on living for a temporary amount of time and I've been thinking that way since like uhhhhhhh early elementary school and. I still feel that way all these years later. so. sometimes it's like 'why are you worrying about a career? You're gonna die, bitch!"

It's kind of a comfort, really. It's hard to explain. It's easier for me to think "when things get hard i can just kill myself and be done with it forever" rather than worry about what I'm gonna do in the future, do for food, do for work. Everything is broken anyways. I was on disability and they took it away during Covid because "oh you have a job and you're working now so we feel like you've improved!" even though I would wake up sobbing about not wanting to go to work and contemplating suicide every other week and I only went because I literally had to. You have to fight to prove how sick you are so they'll reluctantly help you and the second they decide you don't deserve that help anymore, they're happy to take it away

I dunno. Maybe I'm just in a funk and I'm all gloom and doom because I'm an addict and I'm out of weed and I've been drinking. I constantly sway back and forth between "well I'm going to die anyways" to "well I guess I'll just keep on keeping on" but it's been a very very long time since I have actually wanted to be alive so. It's kind of hard to know what to do with that. My therapist doesn't really know anymore, and I don't think my new medicine is making a difference and I kind of just stopped taking it anyways

I dunno, I'm sorry to turn this into something majorly depressing. That's just how it is. We're born to work and pay bills and pay taxes and then we die. We fight like hell to try and elect people we think may make our country and our lives better and someone is always taking bribes and handouts and it's all about money. Why save the planet when Big Motor needs us to keep buying cars and oil and our entire society is built on constantly throwing away plastic and we spent a trillion dollars terrorizing the middle east and it turns out the afghan military was literally just sitting back and doing heroin while American soldiers killed thousands of civilians and the whole war was really just an excuse to feed money to the military industrial complex by buying their surplus of weapons which are now in the hands of the actual fucking taliban and even an American Supreme Court recently ruled that hey Nestlé you aren't even liable for using slave labor for your chocolate because the slavery isn't in the US and that's ok!

And it may seem like I'm just rattling off a bunch of random bullshit and I kind of am but. It's all broken. Our planet is dying. Our society is collapsing. Homelessness and poverty is increasing. Coronavirus was basically used as eugenics to kill off loads of poor and disadvantaged people and while the capitalists scoop up the ruins of the empty real estate that used to be a mom and pop store to turn them into Walmarts and Home Depots we just get told "if you're struggling, it's something YOURE doing wrong!"

I just don't want to be here anymore quite frankly. I'm just gonna sink back into my escapism and try and forget where I have my vicodin and muscle relaxants hidden

[theotherace]

Hi Der! I saw the art you made for Bumi (adorable, btw) and I was curious about the change to his story.

Since he's born without his arm, how does that affect Aang and Toph (if at all) since he's their first baby? Do they (or Katara) know he's going to be born without it? What things about his story/personality change since he's born without his arm instead of losing it?

Hey, Stitch!

Nobody knows Bumi's going to be born with a limb difference. They know when they see him, and then it's like: "Well, this isn't quite the disability we were prepared for ...", because obviously they've talked about the possibility of the kid being blind. They'd be worried until someone (Katara) checks him out, about him maybe being in pain, about something being wrong, but once it's clear he's fine (just ... missing a hand), the worry would ease a bit.

Aang is painfully careful with the baby, anyway. I had him be a terribly worried, nervous new dad before deciding on this change in backstory, so that doesn't change too much. And Toph would go: "Is this because of his arm?", and he would go: "It's because he's fucking tiny. He's all floppy and new and breakable. Frankly, I'm glad I have a hand less to worry about, because he keeps sticking things in his mouth with the other one, and what if he chokes and and and-" So for him, adjusting to the baby goes about the same.

Toph is ... a little different? She's also a very nervous new parent, though a bit less headless than Aang is in the early days (man doesn't sleep), but she was worried about things going wrong throughout the whole pregnancy, and ... well, things turned out alright. Bumi's a happy baby, he doesn't fuss much, he's easily soothed, but he also has a disability that will affect his life. The same way she does. Except not at all, because it isn't the same, and she wasn't prepared for this. And what if it's her fault, what if she could've done something differently, handled herself differently, ate different food, would he have been abled, then? Would she want him to be? She remembers her mother putting a similar blame on herself, though, before she falls to deep into those thoughts. And she remembers that it was useless blame, and that it made her feel bad, because there was nothing about her that could be changed, and it often felt like her parents wanted to change a lot about her. She doesn't want to change her kid; he's perfect the way he is. And she never wants him to feel bad about himself for something he can't change, for something that's just ... him. Doesn't make the thoughts go away, but does stop her from letting them take control, and helps to work through them.

They're a bit closer, I think, in this version. Toph and Bumi, I mean. He's always been close to both his parents, but him and Aang share a lot of philosophies and a similar outlook on life, so that makes them close. Toph didn't face the exact challenges he did, but she still understands certain things better than Aang does now.

Personality-wise, I don't think too much about him changes. He's still Bumi, open-minded, easy-going but responsible, quick to make friends and a terrific older brother. He learns a little sooner that kids can be dicks. He learns a little sooner not too care to much about opinions nobody asked for, even if they do sting and he does need an extra hug sometimes, and that he doesn't owe anyone an explanation for anything. He has less trouble with his prosthetic when he gets it, even if he doesn't like it too much until he figures out how to bend it. He's in less pain as he gets older, because he doesn't have a giant scar. (Though I might still give him some scars.) He doesn't have to re-learn and re-adjust, there's no trauma involved, he doesn't lose anything this time around. Takes a lot of angst out of his late teens, honestly. Puts a little bit of it into his early years, but nothing so overwhelming.

So yeah. Less drama in his life story right now, but I'm sure I'll come up with more at some point in the future.

In the grand scheme of things, this changes very little, honestly. He still grows up to be himself, a traveller, a kind man, he still marries the same woman and ends up being a kind-of prince. The change is in the small things (that might eventually become big things), and those, I haven't thought all the way through yet. I've got nothing but time, though, so we'll see.

Thank you very much for the ask, because these are things I need to consider, anyway, if I ever do get back to wrting the most important mark. Might still take a while, though, lol, because I'm just ... always tired right now. Once that changes, I'm back to my favourite stupid, little story.

[alfredosauce50]

What makes me human [Cyberpunk! America x reader] 11

Wordcount: 5,150 Rating: M for strong language, ideologically sensitive and mature themes, gore “In a society that normalizes cybernetic enhancements, many forget what it is to be human. He never did.” Chapter synopsis: Allen and Arthur race to find you both, but it proves to be harder without knowing your whereabouts. Meanwhile, you've successfully helped Alfred find the chip. Before leaving, you have a long-awaited conversation with your father to realize he's more insane than you thought. The reader is referred to as she/her.

Songs to listen to while you read (in order as found in playlist): Cyberninja,  Trouble finds trouble, Tower Lockdown, Me!Me!Me!, Pt. 2, Him & I (with Halsey), Atlantis. I have indented song titles throughout the chapter so you can change accordingly. Starting now:

Cyberninja

Before Arthur could even buckle himself in, Allen rammed his foot into the gas pedal. He was thrown back in a violent manner, and hit his head against the headrest. But the mechanic never complained. He looked stressed enough as is, continually scanning the road while murmuring to himself as if he’d really gone mad. “Hell, that motherfucker could be anywhere in the whole fucking city right now.” He hissed, pulling out of the driveway and into the main road.

“We can’t call him. Track him. Nothing. Same goes for (F/N). They’re off the map.” Turning to his companion numerous times in distress, he sped through the streets, though he had no particular destination in mind.

The indicator clicked. Allen cursed at the car in front of them, but never made a move to overtake. As Arthur became overwhelmed by these stimulants, he opened his mouth, defeated. “If you’re in such a hurry, why--why bother following traffic rules? You never have before, so why now?” He asked with a shake of the head, earning a loud scoff from the other.

The car windows glowed with a flurry of pinks and purples as they moved closer to the commercial district. They were near their first stop.

“Trust me, I wouldn’t give a damn if I didn’t have to.” The whites of his eyes reflected a mosaic of color as he never looked away from the road. “But that was when I was working for my boss. I had protection. I could do a hit and run if I wanted, and without the running part.” The redhead breathed. Then, he stuck his head out of the window with a huff. Immediately, he was choked by the city smog, and deafened by the blaring of car horns.

“Friggen’ prick...” He flipped off the driver in front of him. Sitting back into his seat, he flashed Arthur a grin, though the man couldn’t return the energy.

“Did you get fired? Or did you quit?” This wasn’t the best time to ask about the past, but he had been dying to know why he wound up half-dead on his doorstep. So what better a time to do it than now?

“I quit.” Allen answered point-blank. “Old man didn’t take it well. Decided to kill me. Didn’t.” Slowing the vehicle, they arrived at a parking-lot surrounded by backdoors of multiple piss-poor establishments. One of which was illuminated by a flickering red neon sign that read ‘no-tell motel’.

“He thinks I’m dead, so the rest of the city has to think that too.”

Arthur gawked at him. “That makes you no better than a fugitive! And it’s not just anybody after you--Allen, he’ll kill you when he finds out you’re still alive!”

“And that’s why he won’t find out.” Tapping the side of his neck for a flap to open, the said man slotted a small disk inside. “Disables cybernetic upgrades in a twenty foot radius. Means I can’t use mine, but it stops other people from figuring out who I am.” He dug through one of the compartments for a muffler, which he wrapped around the bottom half of his face.

What he did next was alarming, however. Sticking his hand further in, he pulled out a gun and cocked it.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! What the hell are you doing--!?” Arthur exclaimed, fumbling with a face mask Allen tossed his way. He didn’t see a silencer anywhere either. “If I can call the police without any upgrades, so can everyone else!”

His statement couldn’t ring any truer, and yet, it never slowed down the other’s movements as he climbed out of the car. Unsatisfied by his silence, he wound up getting out to follow him. “Oi, say something! At least let me know you’re not gonna shoot up a restaurant!” Whispering that part out, he had to speed up a few steps to catch up with the man, now marching to the backdoor of a motel.

“Put the mask on.” Allen murmured without sparing him a single glance. But he paused briefly to process what he said. “... A motel, you mean. But I’m hoping we won’t have to resort to that.”

Arthur’s eyes went round. “You were considering--”

He could share the desperation to save Alfred’s life, but he had a hard time following how. Shooting up a motel? What was he thinking?

“Yes.” Attaching his hand to the door, it creaked open. Before Allen took another step, he faced him with a serious glower. “Now when we get inside, I want you to walk up to the receptionist. He’s programmed to greet you. Ask him for a room, and while you do, I’ll approach him from behind and deactivate him. Kapeesh?”

But then again, he was in the dark here. Arthur hadn’t the slightest clue on what Alfred’s circumstances were, as mysterious as the man was, so he had no idea how he was on the verge of dying.

So naturally, he wouldn’t know how to save him either.

But he trusted Allen to know what to do.

“... Alright. You better not make me regret this, you tyke.” 

“You can call me anything you want, just not that. I’m not a kid anymore.” Those words would become apparent as they walked inside, where their plan went by without a hitch. They heard the automated voice of superficial kindness, which stopped abruptly to the sound of an android powering off. Its body fell to the ground to reveal Allen standing behind. Without wasting a second, he leaned over and typed furiously on the keyboard of the computer.

Trouble finds trouble

“Lemme see if this has a log of everybody who came by...” A few moments later, he started nodding at what he saw. “Bingo...” On their private encrypted server, stored the history of all the guests who booked a night. “Well, what do you know... Alfred checked out two days ago. But he’s on the move.” Pulling away to stand up straight, he jogged over to the exit.

“Even if someone tried to look for him in one a’ these places, he’d have to get behind the reception and do exactly what I did.” This someone referred to Matsumoto, but death already followed Alfred wherever he went. Not that Alfred knew that. “The perks of a no-tell motel. Even if they reek of piss, so long as there’s crime, they’ll never go out of business.” He beckoned Arthur to follow him with a tilt of the head. 

“One down, twenty-seven more to go. And that’s only in the direction he’s going... And under the assumption he’s only staying at these motels. So, uh, let’s hope he didn’t try to be too unpredictable.” 

The Brit huffed. This wasn’t going to be easy. 

“I think he’d be predictable to do that if you asked me.” He murmured. “But you call the shots. I’ll just be... Moral support.” 

Allen already disappeared out the door, but his head poked into the doorframe at that. “Nah. You have the most important job outta’ the both of us.” 

That was right. He didn’t tell him yet. He really should’ve a while ago, but he got caught up in the chase. 

“Whether you remove a chip from his head or not will determine if he lives or not.” 

Arthur paled. 

“He’s the guy my boss wanted me to kill. Remember the dude I told you about? The one who tried to steal a prototype chip three years ago?” Now that he mentioned it, he recalled the conversation a few weeks ago. But wait a minute. 

The mechanic felt his face scrunch up as he was hit with a major epiphany. That was Alfred? The terrorist Allen had been updating him about? He was the man who tore up three floors of the headquarters of Matsumoto Optics, and simultaneously, the same customer he had been serving for the last few years.

Before he could even process his shock, he was presented with even more appalling information. 

“He stole it this time. That’s what he and (F/N) disappeared to do. But now that it’s in his head, it’ll overwrite his consciousness until he’s a fucking vegetable.” 

Arthur was horrified. “Then why would he even--” 

“Because he doesn’t know.” Allen cut in with a grim expression. “He thought the chip was supposed to give him immortality, so he wanted to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. Like my boss. But no. It’s the opposite. It was all a ploy to kill him.” At this point, the blonde was at loss for words. As a doctor and mechanic, he was quite frankly terrified of how devilishly clever Matsumoto was. But he couldn’t expect any less from him, could he?

They made it back to the car, and he could only stare aimlessly out the windshield, paralyzed. 

“That’s why we need you.” He heard him say. Turning to the man, albeit slowly, he felt a hand slap down on his shoulder. Allen gave him a lopsided grin. “You’re the smartest guy I know, second to my boss. You were always great at fixing stuff. Cars, enhancements, people--so what’s a mixture of all three?”

Arthur dug a hand through his hair stressfully. “... You’re kidding.” And yet, he already knew he was on board. “... Are you calling him a car?” 

The other flattened his lips. “... He technically could be.” 

“Just to be clear, I fucking hate you.” 

Allen laughed. “Sure.”

“But otherwise, we’re wasting time.” He couldn’t believe the words falling from his lips. This was really happening, wasn’t it? After taking him in as an apprentice for his auto shop, the roles were finally reversed. He no longer took charge as the teacher. Or rather, he became the student caught up in the most difficult assignment yet. Having a taste of Allen’s work. 

“That’s what I’m talking about!” 

***

Tower Lockdown

You had all the reasons in the world to be anxious coming home. 

On top of worrying over Alfred, who had hundreds of trained assassins coming at him all at once, during every minute of the heist, you had to face an aspect of reality you avoided until now. You were in the building, and he had already stolen the chip. It was slotted comfortably in his head, ready to leave the premises.

 How come your father never appeared? Was he really just going to let you go just like that?

But the real question was this--should you stay or leave? 

Yes, you hardly approved of anything he’d done. Done to the world like Alfred always mentioned, and to Alfred himself. But you weren’t prepared to abandon him yet. He was still your father, and the only family you had. If you had to make a decision, you needed some closure. If not, a discussion. 

And you expected him to give it to you as the least he could do. 

As Alfred stood among a pile of dead bodies bathing in red, his mantis blades trembled against a katana blade. Even with his hands full, he made the time to check on you. “(F/N)! Stay away from walls! Just hang on for a second longer!” He shouted, turning to you briefly before diverting his attention back to his opponent. “We’re nearly home free!” 

Pulling away to give him a swift jab in the chest, blood sprayed onto his face, but he wasn’t fazed.

What did, however, was the sight of you being thrown over the shoulder of one of the bodyguards. Color drained from his face and he burst into a sprint. 

“(F/N)! No!” Watching you disappear into an elevator, he slammed right into the closing metal doors. “Fuck!” He slammed his fist against them to hear a loud bang. Before he could linger too long, he hastily made his way to a door adjacent. The emergency stairs would take a hell lot longer, but as if he’d wait for the elevator to come back down. 

Even if he needed to climb up a hundred flights to get to you, he would--all the way to the penthouse where Matsumoto was. 

When those men approached you, there was no struggle on your end. You knew where they were going to take you. And you wanted them to. It could even be said you were relieved, because that meant your father was thinking of you. After a minute or so, the soft whirring fell silent, followed by a soft ‘ding’. 

They moved outside the elevator, and after a few steps, they set you down on your feet. Right in the middle of your father’s office. At the very end behind a desk sat the man himself, and he was eyeing you with an unreadable expression. Upon returning his stare, came an onslaught of emotions. But the most prominent was incapacitating anxiety.

Even as his daughter, you could never see through him. He was impossible to read. So you had no idea what to expect. 

“Dad... We need to talk.” You began, walking up to him warily. This was what you wished for at the start, cried for, even. To return home. And yet, the nervous pounding in your chest seemed to worsen with every step you took. It was jarring to confront how much had changed since then. So while you barely managed any words, you were already overwhelmed, struggling to choke back tears. 

“For once, I need to know what you’re thinking.” 

He inhaled deeply before responding. “I was under the same impression that we’d have this conversation.” Standing up from his chair, he furrowed his brows at the sight of you clenching the fabric of your pants. “Don’t look so nervous, child. You haven’t done anything to anger or disappoint me.” Reaching out to your head, he settled a hand on it. 

“... Really?” You whispered out. Hearing his assurances calmed you down a touch. But when you saw the forlorn gaze he cast down at you, your heart was crushed. “... Dad?”

Me!Me!Me!, Pt.2

Any existing contempt for him melted away just like that, but you weren’t upset at yourself for it. Your father hardly expressed any emotion besides calm indifference. And when he did, it always felt like the world was ending. 

“I’m the one who deserves your anger.” He clarified, lowering his hands to your shoulders. “I’ve left you by yourself for far too long, (F/N). I hope you don’t hold it against me that you had to come home yourself.” You hung your head, unable to meet his saddened gray eyes. If you were to hold a grudge at him for it, you’d start by avoiding his gaze. “And I understand why you would’ve wanted to help him. He has a way with words, and a naïve sense of justice. But it’s a warped perception of reality.”  

You’d hate to admit it, but no matter how cruel he seemed to be, there was a method to his madness. 

And you were perhaps the only person in the world to know it. 

That was why you were so torn. Torn between hating him and understanding him. After all, you couldn’t have both. “You can’t blame him after what you did to him.” Glancing up at that, you felt bile rise in your throat. Then, your vision blurred. “I don’t know what you’re aiming for--for this company, and this world. But you can’t expect him to accept this world you created when you stole him from his. He had a life!” 

Staring at him through hot tears, he breathed out a soft sigh before rubbing them away with a swipe of the thumb. “I’m not asking for your forgiveness. And I won’t expect you to forgive me even after telling you the reasons for my actions.”  

He pulled away from you to begin walking back to his desk, but not to sit down. Instead, he stood by the window to watch the blinking lights of skyscrapers and small moving dots of cars on the streets. “In a society that normalizes cybernetic enhancements, many forget what it is to be human. He never did. So of course, he would reject the idea of immortality. The destruction of the most human quality there is.” 

He paused briefly to scan the landscape.

“Mortality. One’s inevitable end gives everything they do meaning.” 

Wrinkles creased between your brows. It was confusing to hear him speak so highly of death, frustrating, even. Wasn’t he the one investing billions into correcting it like a flaw? “If that’s what you really think, then why? Why would you make something that would take that all away?” 

He held his hands behind his back. “To serve the greater good. A sacrifice, if you will.” The man turned to you, this time with a serious glower. “Alfred thinks I would commercialize it. Sell it to the public. But he’s wrong. Immortality will only be available to the leaders of the world.”

By leaders, you could only assume he meant people like him. Not politicians, but business men and women. Company owners. The most powerful forces of the present. “The inability to die is a curse. You never move on because you’re still breathing. But that may be just what the world needs. Stagnation. An absence of change.” 

It was daunting to know this man was your father. You couldn’t say you were born with half as many of these attributes he had. Intelligence was easily passed down, but there was something else written in his genes you could never dream of having. “With every passing year, decade, and century, humanity frays like a rope. Society continues to deteriorate... All until self-destruction becomes a matter of time.” Facing the window again, he scanned the impressive architecture he was proud to call his own. And it looked as pristine as it did yesterday. 

“The only way to stop this was to take control of it myself. And that’s how I came to found this company. I’ve found a way to govern the people. To invest in science as the world’s last and only hope. But it’s a job that will last eons, so I was prepared to do it until the end of time.” 

He was right in saying that society was inevitably doomed with the direction it was heading. That technology was the only solution, along with a world government. Matsumoto Optics. A cosmocracy with jurisdiction over the whole planet. There would be no wars. No conflict. And with only one state to call the shots, things could be done so much faster on a global scale. 

It was a radical concept to grasp, but you couldn’t say there was no logic to it. “Alfred was meant to do it with me. To reincarnate again and again as my closest aide on my quest to preserve the world. But he ended up being the opposite. My foil.” Matsumoto shook his head. “Alfred is a nostalgic soul. He’s too attached to the past. But the way of the old can never last with how fast it makes the world burn. Even if he realized that, he would want to exact revenge on me after what I’ve done to him.” 

“So before he destroys everything I’ve created, I have to destroy him first.” 

Him & I (with Halsey)

You tensed up all over, but before you could ask him what he meant by destroy, the doors burst open. The very subject of the conversation had appeared, and just in time for the conclusion of it. His arrival caught you completely off guard, successfully derailing your train of thought, but your father merely acknowledged his arrival. “Ah. Speak of the devil.” 

“Speak for yourself, you fucking demon.” He spat, marching over to your side to pull you into his chest. Immediately putting his hands all over your face, he was riddled with concern as he inspected you. “You okay? I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you in time. What are you still doing here? C’mon, let’s go.” While he reached down to your hand to lead you away, you stayed put. 

As relieved as you were to see him here, you couldn’t follow him out yet. You gave his hand a squeeze, then a soft smile of reassurance. Then, you turned to your father. 

This time, you held him in a firm stare. 

“Even if everyone thinks you’re crazy, I always knew you’d have some kind of justification for everything.” You started. Little did you know, you would take back this statement in the very near future. “But I can’t forgive you for what you did to Alfred. He never ended up doing anything you wanted him to, so giving him all those adjustments was pointless for you. But not for him. If you wanted to get rid of him, it wouldn't be easy.”

Matsumoto closed his eyes as if to agree. That was what you interpreted it as, at least. But unbeknownst to you, he was doing anything but. “I wouldn’t know what’s best for this world.” 

“But what I do know is that I won’t let you hurt him.” 

You spoke those words with a conviction so strong, Alfred’s eyes widened when he heard it. It wasn’t news you cared deeply for him, but to hear you say it to your father like that, and Matsumoto, no less, it made his mechanical heart pound more than he could fathom. You were actively disobeying him, a man you previously revolved your life around, for his sake. To say he was infatuated would be an understatement. 

You felt his grip on you tighten. 

“Say what you will, and I’ll respect your conviction. But I will come for him.” The bearded man murmured in a foreboding tone. A sinister light glinted in his dark gray irises. “And in the most unexpected way he could ever imagine. You will never want to see me again when that happens.” 

“If.” Your voice was a little strained. As much as you wanted to hate him and move on, you couldn’t. Every single fiber of your being was urging you to find a reason, any reason, to not despise the man who raised you. “If, dad. Because if you did, I really will never forgive you. I’ll hate you forever.” 

A grim expression contorted at his face. In his many decades on the planet, he’d never felt more dread. But one had to wonder if that was the right word. The regret had already arrived, because he’d already done something unforgivable. It was only a matter of time before you’d find out. “I’ve already done something to earn your unconditional hatred, child.” 

That was right. He’d killed Allen, your best friend and only other semblance of family in your life. And perhaps, the person you held the closest to your heart. “Soon, you will learn what it is. So I’ll let you leave today because you will never want to come back. I’d imagine that to be more… Convenient for you.” 

It was only your ignorance that blessed him this last moment. The last moment where you’d see him as your father with eyes unclouded by hatred. But it was short-lived. 

It didn’t take long for you to put two and two together, and in your short silence, you came to remember someone that had been gone for a while. Allen. 

Atlantis

You woke up in a cold sweat. For just one measly second as you oriented yourself, you weren’t tortured by a fury. Betrayal. Disgust. But it all came rushing back to you like the memories of that Godforsaken day you met with your father.

Sitting up with a deep frown, you felt heat build up around your face. It would be etched in your mind forever. The memory of Allen laying in the dump. Tossed out like a broken toy. Then, the stench of blood and rust as he was left for dead. 

You always knew your father was mad, but he kept on surprising you with how mad he was. Turning to the figure beside you, tears only overwhelmed your waterline to see his chest rise and fall steadily. 

He was still here. Alive and well. You could only hope the same for Allen.

It had been ten days since the heist. There hadn’t been a single sign of Matsumoto or his men, meaning Alfred really did do his research on the best places to hide. Climbing onto his form, you wound up laying on his chest. Then, you peered down at his sleeping face. 

As you got comfortable, you felt a smile creep onto your lips. If the you from a few months ago saw what you were doing, she’d be flabbergasted. Since when did you like him this much? 

Your cheeks grew a little rosy as you became self-aware of the position you were in. Full-on embarrassment hit you when he began to stir, but before you could get off of him, his eyes fluttered open. Uh oh. Now this warranted an explanation. 

For a second, he was confused, but when he saw that it was just you, he grinned lazily. “Morning, babe. Care to tell me why you’re not sleeping on your side of the bed?” 

He’d totally cornered you. And did he just call you babe? “Um... I, well... I woke up on you, so don’t get the wrong idea. I was just about to get off.” Sliding yourself off of him at that, you tried your damndest to simmer down. But he never gave you the chance. Rolling over to face you, he pulled you in around your waist much to your surprise. “Hey!” 

You never got around to pointing out that pet name, either. 

He caught you in a serious stare. “Don’t be so shy. We’re close, aren’t we?” Alfred was never one to beat around the bush. You knew that better than anyone, but that didn’t mean you were used to it. Lowering your head at that, you fixated on his chest. 

“... I guess so. That doesn’t mean I can sleep on you like that, though. And plus, it must’ve been uncomfortable.” 

“Nah. You’re light as hell.” He hummed. Sitting up with you on his lap, his statement became more apparent in how effortless he made it seem. “You’re like a few grapes, really. So don’t worry about it.” 

Why he chose to focus on that part of your argument was beyond you. Did he really not see anything wrong with what you were doing? Or maybe he did, and didn’t want to mention it. He’d been hugging you a lot lately the past week, but that wasn’t as deserving of your attention as spooning you while he slept. 

Wasn’t he pushing the envelope? It would make sense he was just trying to comfort you after your run-in with your father, and your discovery that he was the one who attempted to off your best friend. But wasn’t this a bit much? 

He wrapped his arms around your neck. There was nothing between you both, and yet, he was holding you like there was. Like you were his. 

"...” It was in his smile. It was different to how he always looked at you, as if there was finally something behind those electric blue irises. Something alive. Something hot. As you played around with the idea, you lit up like a Christmas tree and pushed his mouth away. “Don’t look at me like that.” 

Almost as if he read your mind, he relented. But only reluctantly. Picking you up from under your arms, he set you onto the mattress so he could get out of bed. Looking back at you over his shoulder, he gave your cheek an affectionate pinch. “Whatever you say. I’ll be back after a piss.” 

When he left the room, you were left to your own devices. As you brought your knees to your chest, you came to realize how tight it was. He’d only left for a few seconds, and you were already waiting for him to return. It was ridiculous to think about, but it was almost as if you missed him. Already.

Did spending all this time with him give you some kind of separation anxiety? 

Or was it something more? 

You couldn’t tell. 

The fact that he mentioned ‘I’ll be back’ suggested he was aware of your attachment to him. You buried your face into your knees. 

Turns out, you weren’t the only one having a hard time processing your feelings. 

When he disappeared into the bathroom, he pressed his back against the wall. Reaching up to his chest, he scrunched up a part of his shirt as the pounding in his heart subsided--his metaphorical one. Alfred didn’t think it was weird to find you on top of him like that, let alone dislike it. In fact, he loved it. It gave him a shred of hope that maybe, you did like him the way he liked you. 

But that didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t be with you. 

This was the fifth motel he’d been to after the heist. There was no saying he’d be dead by the end of the day. Not when your father was after his head. So he wasn’t about to start anything. That would be too selfish, even for him--though one had to wonder if ‘selfish’ could even describe him anymore. He was anything but. At least, for you he wasn’t. 

Alfred would only be proven right when he took a step towards the toilet. His vision started to glitch. Then, he lost his balance, falling over the sink and slamming his head against the mirror. “Fuck--!” Stumbling back onto his feet, he was engulfed in black for a few seconds. What the hell was going on? 

His bout of disorientation lasted for far too long to be normal.

Before he would start accepting the prospect of going blind, his vision returned. He thought he would celebrate that moment, but he forgot what he was even fussing about. What happened? Lowering his gaze to his hands, he stared at them for a while before looking back up. What was he doing here? Where was he? 

That was right. He was in a motel. With you. Running away from uncertain death. It took a minute or so to recall all of these things, and that was what alarmed him. It seemed like his body wasn’t accepting the chip very well. 

Temporary memory loss and blindness was just apart of the transition, right? 

Little did he know, it was anything but. 

Outside that very district sat two men in a car. Bags hung under their dull eyes as they scanned the streets as vigilantly as their sleep deprivation let them. It had been two days since they slept, but they wouldn’t rest until they found him. There were only four days until the damage was done.

If they didn’t get to the man before then, he would be as good as dead. 

[all-ive-ever-known-were-holes]

Ight guys I’m about to say thoughts !

This is my vent blog . This is a detailed vent post , please read triggers !

CW ;: Identity issues , derealisation and depersonalisation mentions , gender crisis , mentions of being unsure about reality and my own existence. ALSO ! mentions of wanting to d*e and dehumanising myself (in a voidpunk way) mentions of aro and ace phobia!! brief mentions of ableism ! also the use capital letters to portray anger !

stay safe

I don’t understand how I’m expected to have an identity . How man ? How ? I’m not even sure I exist most of the time and people have the NERVE to ask me “what defines you?” “What makes you YOU?” “What’s your goal?” FUCK IF I KNOW . I am so genuinely confused how anyone can POSSIBLY have a grasp on who they are as a person . maybe it’s a Teen thingTM but if not being sure you exist , starring in the mirror being SURE that that isn’t your body or feeling so wrong even existing is a normal human experience then i would quite frankly like to either die or stop being human .

I don’t even want to be human . I’ve seen so many people say people like me aren’t human , or imply it by saying those who don’t experience much or any sexual attraction aren’t human . Since apparently sex makes us human . (It’s actually cooking that makes us human btw /srs /gen , like no other species cooks in the way we do.) same goes for romantic love however I’m personally not aromatic so I can’t comment there . I’m Demi leaning towards having no sexual attraction , so that’s why I’m talking about sexual attraction .

Listen man , identity is hard . Reality feels fake . I feel fake . I can’t even keep a consistent personality and my goals change daily .

When I find things that make me happy I get so obsessed it annoys my family the point of getting genuinely mad at me because I can’t stfu about the Magnus Archives or whatever I’m adoring at that point (tma brainrot go BRRR am I right lads) .

I am so fucking angry about the fact I didn’t ask to exist and now I have to do it . And I’m on the younger end of being a minor , which some argue means it’s just part of growing up TM but sorry mate if I have to do this for more then 5 more years I’m not guaranteeing my life .

I don’t want to be human . It’s not like the wider world has ever really seen me as it nor have I ever really seen myself as human . (I could’ve had it SO much worse dehumanisation wise . I’m still white afab and not physically disabled , I’m not trying to say I have it the worst yall I’m really not)

But when I try to reclaim these feelings and use it/its pronouns people don’t like that ? Make up your mind mate .

God I hate it here ! Bye guys gonna become the distortion !